The Labyrinth of Blue Towers: The Disappearance of Jack Arneson, Chapter 5

  

The Labyrinth of Blue Towers:

The Disappearance of Jack Arneson

(A Sewing Box Mystery)

Chapter 1: Friday, June 10, 2011, 7:21 pm

Chapter 2: Saturday, June 11, 2011, 8:38 am

Chapter 3: Thursday, June 28, 1984, 10:10 am

Chapter 4: Thursday, June 28, 1984, 7:46 pm

Chapter 5: Friday, June 29, 1984, 7:24 am 

The Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, Apostles and Martyrs

The day hadn’t even really begun and Jean was already feeling the strain. She felt out of sorts and her body ached; the results of a restless night. Maybe she should see her doctor.

When was the last time she’d gone? Her brain felt all fuzzy. A cup of coffee might help clear the cob webs, but the ancient Norelco, a birthday gift from Tom, always took forever to deliver the goods. Jean made a mental note to run some vinegar through it. At least she thought that’s what she was supposed to use. Wasn’t that what her friend, Terri, had recommended? She’d have to ask this afternoon.

Jean’s thoughts were jumping about, the fog of early morning still working as a sift through which very little was flowing. Her eyes fell on the bottle of Anacin which sat on the sill of the kitchen window above the sink. Too early? Probably. She was pretty sure that once she got a little caffeine in her veins she'd feel more human. It had been a bad night. Although she slept deeply, she had not slept soundly. Waking up was the worst part. It was like tearing her body out of some sticky, moist abyss. Rising up through the thick layers of sleep had been physically painful and seemed to take forever. There was still a part of her that felt trapped there.

With a final hiss, the gurgling of the ancient coffeemaker came to a halt. Jean moved in rigid spasms toward the Pyrex pot, jerking it from its cradle. Her coffee cup was still in the dish drainer. It was the same one she had used the day before and the day before that. Oh, well, thought Jean, repetition does have its advantages, especially on mornings when life feels a little shaky.

Based on the way she felt, one would think it was she, Jean, whom had been out all night drinking and not Dorie. Dorie sat in the chair across from her mother's, her head resting on the table. Jean wondered what time her youngest had come home. She would have liked to ask, but was afraid of the answer and the tone of the response. Instead, Jean concentrated on getting the coffee from the carafe into her cup. That was all she could handle at the moment. She thought about pouring a cup for Dorie, but that would require reaching up and opening a cupboard in order to retrieve a cup. She thought better of it: too much work, maybe after the first cup.

Shuffling back to her place, Jean returned the coffee pot to its heating unit before plunking herself down. As she brought the steaming cup to her lips she began a litany of things to accomplish that day: Missy’s dentist appointment, groceries, laundry...

The first sip had barely graced the back of her throat when Hurricane Missy came barreling through the kitchen, rounding the table in one fell swoop, acting as if a man-eating tiger was hot on her heels. This threw Jean even further off her game and it took all the control she could muster not to bark at the child. On Missy’s second go around Jean spotted the source of all that energy; a box of obscenely hued, sugar-coated cereal. The cartoon characters on the front of the box seemed to be taunting her, their bright careless smiles a slap in the face given her dour mood. Third time around something snapped inside and Jean found her hand flying out to snatch the offending box from Missy’s grasp. Missy stopped abruptly, her eyes going wide with fear. Jean ignored her and demonstrating a fluidity of motion that defied the way she was physically feeling, stood up, reached across the table, and slammed the box of cereal right next to Dorie’s head. It got the desired effect. Dorie’s head shot up like someone had just fired a gun. “What the hell?” she spat, pulling strands of chemically-treated hair away from her mouth with her fingers.

Jean suddenly felt much stronger and fully awake. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and, crossing her arms, looked down on her befuddled daughter. “Dorie!” She spoke deliberately and distinctly, like a judge laying down the letter of the law. “You have got to stop feeding Missy this crap. It’s nothing but sugar and it winds her up like a spinning top with no where to go. I can’t take a whole summer of this.”

Dorie’s eyes blinked several times before focusing on the box set before her. Like a sullen teenager, she began to speak, her voice taking on just the slightest hint of a whine. “But you told me I was responsible for getting her breakfast every morning. This...” she said, gesturing towards the box, “... is breakfast.”

Exasperated, Jean stood her ground “On what planet? Planet Dorie?”

Dorie gave her mother the evil eye. The two women sized each other up like warriors who'd done battle before. Dorie’s upper lip contorted like Elvis Presley's and then, with great defiance, she picked up the box of cereal, jammed her right hand in the box, and pulled out a handful of the neon-colored, crystalline crunchies. Shoving them into her mouth, she began to chew and talk at the same time Cagily, she said “I don’t see the problem, Ma It's part of a balanced breakfast and it’s fortified with vitamins, says so on the box. Besides,” and with this, Dorie rose to her feet, as if to go toe to toe with her mother, “it’s her favorite cereal.” After a moment's pause she added for emphasis, as if to indicate that the subject was closed, “In the whole wide world.”

In the silence that ensued, Dorie grabbed another handful of cereal, popped it in her mouth, and stared defiantly at her mother. Jean felt her lips pull into a tight pucker. This was not the way to start the day. Regret began to seep in around the edges of her thoughts. Oh, how she wished she could start the day over again. She wouldn’t say anything and then there wouldn’t be any anger. Now, she was in the middle of something and if she backed down...

Dorie turned her back on Jean to grab a coffee mug out of the cupboard by the sink.

That was when Jean really took note of exactly how her twenty-five year old daughter was dressed. Dorie’s hair was teased and sprayed in a wild fashion with a headband made of lace threaded through it in an off-handed manner. Her make-up was coarse and kewpie-dollish; she'd even painted a fake mole on her cheek. She was such a pretty girl, why did she have to do that to herself? And the clothes! They only made things worse; they seemed haphazard and bizarre, like a gypsy sprite. Why all the layers? They didn't cover anything up. And what was with all those bracelets? Everything looked like it had been purchased at a rag shop. And the tights and the boots? Dorie used to take such pride in her appearance. Jean feared that her daughter was depressed. Or mad. Then Jean spotted something that made her own blood boil.

“That better not be the rosary my mother gave you for graduation. Is it? Let me see!” Jean moved swiftly towards her daughter, who leaned against the counter, striking a pose of defiance. Jean’s hand reached out and took the crucifix in her hand. She exhaled through her nose sharply before quietly, but firmly ordering, "Take it off. That is not a necklace.”

Filled mug in hand, Dorie turned away from her mother to return to her chair. “It is now. It's mine and I can do whatever I like with it, besides,” she added, as she sat down, “...everybody's wearing them. It's fashion, Ma. Not religion.”

Jean felt totally put out. She sank quickly onto her chair, her back rigid. Her hands formed tightly around the cup of coffee in front of her as she began to regroup her thoughts.

Suddenly, Missy, who’d witnessed the entire exchange, spoke up. “Grandma.” Her voice was serious, her manner, direct. Jean turned her head slightly. Just the sight of her granddaughter caused her to soften. “What, hon?”

Missy climbed onto Jean’s lap, as if knowing intuitively, that this act alone was sufficient to diffuse the tension in the room. Then, looking Jean directly in the eyes, she solemnly said, “Just do what Frankie says, Grandma. Frankie says ‘relax’.”

Dorie’s hand immediately flew to her mouth in order to stifle her laughter. Jean was confused. “Who is Frankie, Missy? Where did you meet him?”

Missy looked at her grandmother as if she were from another planet. “On the M-T-V.” Jean shook her head, indicating she didn’t understand. Missy tried again, speaking louder this time as if that would help, “On the M-T-V. On the M-T-V, Frankie says..." With that, both Missy and Dorie began to shout/sing some song that made absolutely no sense to Jean, but it seemed to make mother and daughter very happy. Well, Jean reasoned, at least the two of them shared something. Missy climbed off Jean’s lap to join Dorie on the other side of the table. The two continued to sing and then began to dance. It was loud and boisterous, too much so for that hour of the morning. Rising from her chair, Jean decided to let the two of them have their fun and retreated to the relative sanity of the living room.

The television, which was on from the moment Missy got up in the morning until Jean went to bed at night, was blaring away. Jean couldn’t help but notice, with just a tad bit of resentment, that the cartoon playing featured the same characters that graced the cover of the divisive, objectionable cereal - Missy’s favorite, in the whole wide world. Just as she was leaning in to turn volume down on the set, the program shifted over to a news break. It was a live feed with a reporter in a rural setting who was talking about organized crews combing the fields, ditches and wooded areas surrounding Jasper, MN. The camera panned out to capture a line of people linked arm in arm, walking slowly forward through what looked to be a field of recently mown straw. Then, the photo of the missing boy, Jack Arneson, sprang onto the screen. Suddenly Jean felt as if she was being pulled very slowly through a narrow tunnel.

Everything around her seemed to fade away, growing pale and insignificant. All that remained was the picture of the boy; his smile, his eyes... and Jean’s dream.

As it surged through her, flooding her mind with pictures and images, Jean backed up unsteadily to sit in the armchair. She felt faint, light-headed, as if all the oxygen in her body was being sucked out of her, replaced with something heavy, something she could not define.

The next thing Jean knew, Missy was standing at the side of her chair, staring at her. Missy’s eyes were filled with concern. “Grandma? Are you all right?”

Jean stared at the child. She wasn’t sure how to respond.

Was she okay?

--- ---

And that's all for now.

Next week: Chapter 6

Relax - Frankie Goes To Hollywood