Children Lost on The Darkest Of Nights:
The Legend of Peg Powler
(A Sewing Box Mystery)
Chapter 1: Friday, November 1, 1991, 1:51 am
Chapter 2: Saturday October 29, 2011, 11:37 am
Chapter 3: Sunday October 30, 2011, 10:30 am
Chapter 4, Monday, October 31, 2012, 8:01 am, Halloween
Jean felt her heart stop.
She immediately went on the defensive. “What do you mean?” Her tone was harsh, much harsher than she meant. Yes, she was upset, but it was important to keep things on an even keel. She felt her forehead break out in perspiration. What the hell was Dorie up to now? Damn this kid, always causing trouble.
Dorie rolled her elaborately made-up eyes and continued to stare petulantly at her mother, her head cocked to one side, as if daring Jean to challenge her. “Home. I’ve come to take her home. With me.” Her tone of entitlement did little to endear. It was all Jean could do not to run screaming from the room. Reassessing, she decided to play it low-key.
“Home? What home?”
Her daughter sat up straight, a smug little smile on her crimson lips. “Paulo wants Missy to join us in Buenos Aires. He’s grown… comfortable… with the idea of a family.”
Jean didn’t know what to make of that. Comfortable? That didn’t exactly sound too eager. “Buenos Aires? You can’t take her to Buenos Aires. She doesn’t have a passport. And what about schools? She doesn’t speak Spanish!” Jean felt her panic rise. She snatched up her cup of tea and took a sip. She had to fight the urge to fling it in Dorie’s direction.
With half-lidded eyes, and a tone of veiled contempt, Dorie explained, “Portuguese. They speak Portuguese in Brazil. But that’s not important. There are English-language private schools we can put her in. I’m sure Paulo will be willing to pay for it.”
“And just who is this Paulo? Your husband? Are you married?”
Dorie frowned. These kinds of discussions were always difficult for the two of them. Jean simply refused to accept the idea of any relationship between a man and a woman that did not involve a trip down the aisle. “Paulo is my friend. We’ve been together for over a year now. I live with him.”
“So, you’re sleeping with him.”
“Yes, Mother. I’m an adult. He’s an adult. That’s what adults do.” Cutting her off, before Jean could ask another question, Dorie rose. “You know what? I… I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Where is Missy? Is she up?” She moved toward the living room.
Jean followed, and did her best to keep her voice as flat as possible. “She’s at a friend’s house. Stayed overnight for a slumber party.”
Poised to go upstairs, Dorie turned back and looked at Jean. “Well, why don’t you go fetch her, and while you’re doing that, I’ll run up and pack her things.”
Fetch? The word lit a fire in Jean’s brain. “I’ll do no such thing.” Again, she felt the panic rise in her throat, but this time she was powerless to stop it, no matter how irrational it made her sound and appear. “Missy isn’t going anywhere. Not with you.”
“But… I’m her Mother.”
Jean couldn’t believe her ears. “Dorie! She hasn’t seen you in over a year. In over two years! You can’t just waltz in here and start making demands. You can’t rip her out of the ground like a flower you’ve suddenly taken a fancy to.”
“She’s MY daughter! I’ll do whatever I want with her.”
“No, you won’t.” Jean stood with her legs wide, her arms crossed over her chest. “Who do you think’s raised her while you’ve been sleeping your way around the world? Huh?”
Dorie shook her head as she walked over to retrieve her purse from the sofa. “I was afraid you were going to react like this. I should have brought a lawyer.”
“A lawyer!” Was it really going to come to that? Jean pressed in on her daughter. “What is going on in that head of yours? Know what you should have brought with you? A present? Did you ever think of that? Of Missy? You missed Christmas. And her birthday. Being a mother is a full-time thing, Dorie, not something you do when it’s convenient for you.”
“I brought her a present.” Dorie opened the clutch and pulled out a small black velvet box. “Here”, she thrust it towards Jean. “Here’s her present.”
Meeting her daughter’s contemptuous gaze, Jean took the posh box and opened it. It was a bracelet; a diamond tennis bracelet. Based on the quality of the box, Jean presumed it to be the real deal. Holding the box out for Dorie to take, Jean asked, “Do you really think this is an appropriate present for a twelve-year-old girl?”
A derisive sound escaped Dorie’s lips. “What difference does it make to you? Why is nothing I ever do good enough for you?”
“How did you pay for it?” Jean challenged.
“I didn’t. Paulo did.”
Mother and daughter were now at a standoff. Jean kept her outward armor in place, but inside she was beginning to quiver, fearful of how this might all end.
Her chin raised in defiance, Dorie asked, “What time will Missy be home?”
Matching her daughter’s tone, Jean replied, “Tracie’s mother usually feeds them lunch before sending them home.”
“All right then,” Dorie picked up her coat from the couch and flung it over her arm. “I’ll be back then. Perhaps by then you’ll have come to your senses.”
Silently, Jean watched as her daughter walked out the front door. She had no desire to stop her. Once gone, Jean’s first thought was to call Jeanette. She’d be able to help. But there was no answer. She glanced at the clock. Jean had to get dressed. She had to be ready. Ready? For what? Befuddled, she slowly moved back into the kitchen, placing her half-finished cup of tea in the sink. So much for 'Steep Time'. She turned around, leaning the small of her back against the edge of the Formica counter. Now what? Her eyes drifted over to the kitchen clock. She really needed to get a move on if she wanted to be at her best when Dorie returned. What if she came back with a lawyer? Or the police?
The figure of the kitchen witch caught her eye; its tiny, raisin-like eyes drilling into her own. Was it mocking her? Did that thing bring this into her life? No. Jean shook her head. Nonsense. This was simply Dorie. Dorie being Dorie.
At that moment, a small doubt crept in. If she’d done such a horrible job of raising Dorie, then what made her think she would do any better with Missy? No. She couldn’t think like that. Jean laughed aloud. That was absurd. As if Dorie could ever be a better choice?
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It was a little past midnight. Jean was decompressing in the living room, the television providing the only light. The sound was on, low, but Jean wasn’t listening. Instead, she replayed the day’s events.
Dorie.
The mother and child reunion had gone well. It was almost as if Missy held no resentment against her mother. Dorie would bring this point home each time she met Jean’s eyes, as if to say ‘see, told you’. Jean had to admit she’d experienced a moment of pure jealousy when Dorie presented Missy with the tennis bracelet. Something so extravagant; unlike anything Jean could ever afford to give her granddaughter. Jealous, and then hurt, when Missy seemed so excited by the notion of having ‘real’ diamonds.
Before Dorie was allowed to see Missy, Jean got her to agree not to mention Buenos Aries, or the possibility of living there. Missy wasn’t to hear of it until they - Dorie and Jean - had an opportunity to discuss it further. She was stalling. Jean kept trying to get ahold of Jeanette, but so far, no answer. Maybe she was out of town? Jeanette, who normally spent at least a few hours every weekend with her niece, knew that Missy had a slumber party, so perhaps she’d made other plans. Jean would keep trying. She was certain that her middle daughter would know what to do.
Dorie wanted to take Missy out for some ice cream, alone. Jean’s instinct was to say no, but how could she? It made for a long, painful, anguished afternoon. She tried to keep busy, but her anxiety kept getting the best of her. She’d find herself frozen in the middle of doing some tiny task, her mind working overtime, contemplating all of the possible outcomes. Finally, she took refuge in the kitchen, seated at the table with a cup of tea, clipping coupons for items she knew she would never purchase. The items, things she would never consider buying under normal circumstances, would prove too expensive, even with the coupons. Still, it kept her hands busy.
Later, Jean made some Hamburger Helper. It was one of Missy’s favorites. But the usual hour for dinner came and went, and the pasta dish cooled and congealed on the stovetop as Jean made frequent trips into the living room to stare out the front window, waiting for Dorie’s car to reappear. It reminded Jean of the many, many nights she’d spent waiting for Dorie, during her youngest daughter’s prolonged, troubled adolescence. It was common for them, back then, to find themselves eyeing each other warily at two a.m., and on school nights, no less.
It wasn’t that Jean didn’t want Dorie to have a life with her daughter. Missy deserved time with her mother. But Dorie’s track record? Jean simply didn’t trust her. And Buenos Aries? It was so far away. Jean had hauled out a volume of the old Encyclopedia Britannica which sat in Jeanette’s former bedroom and read about the city. It had so much to offer and seemed like such a wonderful opportunity. How could Jean deny her granddaughter that?
Finally, a little after seven, Dorie dropped Missy off. Her daughter didn’t even bother to come in. Instead, she whisked off to her hotel, leaving Missy, laden with shopping bags full of new clothes and CDs, and to tell her grandmother that Dorie would drop by in the morning to talk to her. Jean couldn’t be sure, for Missy wouldn’t let on, but she was fairly certain that Dorie had spilled the beans already.
Missy was now in bed; her new clothes hung on hangers in her closet, an expensive looking Walkman Disc player glued to her ears. Jean said ‘good-night’ but wasn’t sure Missy heard her. She had to play all this so carefully to avoid getting weepy in front of Missy.
She was about to head to bed when the sound of sirens blaring grew ever closer. Had there been a car accident? They sounded close by. She stuck her head out the screen door. The unmistakable odor of smoke greeted her nostrils. In her robe and nightie, she stepped out into the cool of the night. From her concrete front stoop, she could see that the fire trucks were now parked about two blocks down, their cherry-tops setting the night sky ablaze. Other than the slamming of vehicle doors and a few barked orders, there were no other sounds to be heard. No screaming. That’s good, thought Jean. As she watched the scene unfold, the firefighters began moving about swiftly and with great purpose.
And then it occurred to her. It was… it was Terri’s house!
Jean felt her knees go weak, and yet at the same time, they propelled her down the steps. Her worn slippers flapped noisily against the sidewalk, offering little in the way of support. Her feet hurt, but she couldn’t stop running. People from neighboring houses were now gathering in the street. A police officer was barking at them to move back to the other sidewalk on the other side of the street. Everyone else was also dressed as if ready for bed, so Jean didn’t feel self-conscious at all as she stood gawking with the others. The fire appeared to be on the backside of the house. There was smoke, but Jean couldn’t see any flame. It was hard to see around the trucks. Jean moved back down the street, toward her own home, in an effort to get a clear view of the front of Terri’s house. She had to step into the street in order to see, but it was far enough away from Terri’s house that the police officers corralling the other on-lookers paid her no attention. She could see Terri, seated on the bottom step of her front stoop. Paramedics were checking her blood pressure and she had an oxygen mask over her face, which she kept removing in order to talk. Every time she took the mask off, the man would press it back onto her face. It was all Jean could do to keep from running up to the house in order to find out if her friend was all right. Then, her heart stopped for the second time that day.
She didn’t see Terri’s husband, Paul.
Of its own volition, her body began moving swiftly forward. Mouth agape, she knew she had to get to Terri. ‘Oh, my God’, thought Jean. What if? A little voice began to build deep inside… no, no, no, no… and it kept building, until it became sound and poured forth from her mouth. Building to a crescendo, Jean could sense the eyes of others swerving her direction, but she could not help herself. A group of firemen on the side of the house moved apart.
She stopped short.
There was Paul. He looked disheveled, but fine, standing on his own two feet, scratching his head in bewilderment. He hadn’t heard her. But Teri had. She turned to face her friend. Their eyes locked. Jean felt the first tear of relief pour forth. Tearing the oxygen mask from her face, Terri’s mouth broke into an anguished grimace and she, too, broke into tears. The women embraced. Jean couldn’t tell Terri why she’d been running toward the house, for it seemed so silly now. Terri and Paul were both safe, and that was all that mattered.
A police officer came over and tried to break the two women apart and one of the paramedics kept insisting that Terri return to the front stoop and put her oxygen mask back on. Big mistake. Terri gave them both a good dressing down, so much so that both men retreated, feeling the heat. Terri then assured Jean that everything was going to be fine, that everything was going to be okay. She promised to call if she or Paul needed anything.
Spent, Jean headed back home. She desperately wanted to share with Terri what had transpired with Dorie earlier in the day, but knew that now was not the time.
What a day.
How was she ever going to sleep?
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