“Patch!” I called, going outside. “Captain Patch, no!”
He stopped digging for a second, his eye-patch eye turning to face me. “Arf, arf!” he barked, happy as a pig in slop. Then he wagged his tail and yippy-yowled like, Come on, join the fun! and went back to spraying dirt in the air behind him.
I raced over and pulled him up by the collar. “Patch, no!” I wagged a stern finger at him. “No, no, no!”
“Arf, arf, arf, yip, yip, yip, aroooooo!”
He yanked free and dove back in.
Mrs. Willawago was outside now with the leash. “Here! Use this,” she said, handing it over.
A minute later Mrs. Stone's head popped over the top of the fence. “Look at the size of that hole! He's nearly clear under!”
“I don't know why he's been doing this,” Mrs. Willawago said. “Are you putting anything different in your compost heap?”
“No!” Mrs. Stone snapped. “Just grass cuttings and vegetable peels, same as we've always done.”
I clipped the leash to Captain Patch and strained to see over the fence. The compost heap didn't look like much of anything—basically, it was like a big sandbox of leaves and grass clippings—but the truth is, it did sort of smell.
“Have you been rotating it?” Mrs. Willawago asked. “Or perhaps you've got too much water on it.” Her eyes got wide. “Merciful God! I hope it's not attracting vermin. Compost heaps can do that, you know. Maybe Captain Patch sensed a rat!”
Now, it's funny—if someone had told me my yard stank and was attracting rats, I'd probably get a little defensive. But Mrs. Stone just went, “Hmmm,” then said, “I'll make sure to rotate it more.” She shook her head and tisked. “Rats is about the last thing I want around here. Gophers are bad enough. I'll have Marty set a few traps and see what we catch.”
Then I noticed that her vegetable garden was about twice the size it had been the last time I'd looked over the fence. “Wow!” I said. “Your garden's looking great.”
“Thank you! Which is why I don't want that dog diggin' his way over.”
Mrs. Willawago nodded and said, “Well, since Captain Patch seems to be digging in the same spot every time, maybe Marty could put some cement in the hole?”
“You know he can't do that with his bad back!” Mrs. Stone snapped. “And it's not our problem, it's yours!”
“Good heavens, Teri,” Mrs. Willawago said to her.
Mrs. Stone took a deep breath as she held a hand to her forehead. Then she let the breath out and said, “I'm sorry. That meetin' last night completely fried my nerves. I can't lose this house.”
“Praise the Lord you feel that way,” Mrs. Willawago said. Then she added, “The truth is, I'm more than a little surprised. You've cursed having to live here for years.”
Mrs. Stone looked down. “I know it probably seems strange to you, but … but things do change.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Willawago said in a real wise, supportive way. “How is Marty, anyway?”
Mrs. Stone's eyes darted up, then away. “He's … he's in pain a lot.”
Very gently Mrs. Willawago said, “I wasn't referring to his back, Teri. I was referring to his cancer.”
Now, at this point I've retreated from the fence and am ruffling Captain Patch behind the ears, pretending not to listen. But I can hear just fine as Mrs. Stone says, “Who … who told you he had cancer?”
“Why, no one had to tell me. I've seen firsthand what cancer can do. Frank's cancer was different, of course, but it does change a person.” She shrugged. “Marty used to be quite … vocal? But lately he's been very subdued. And with the way he's been shielding himself from the sun, why, I can read the signs.”
Mrs. Stone looked over her shoulder to her house, then whispered frantically to Mrs. Willawago, “Please don't say nothin' to him about it. He's a real private person and insists on keepin' it to himself.”
“But, Teri, talking can be very therapeutic. That's why I go to confession. And surely Marty didn't go through that other substantial change without help.”
Now the way she said “that other substantial change” was like she was talking in code. But Mrs. Stone wasn't deciphering it, either, and finally just asked, “What other change?”
“Oh, you sweet angel.” She dropped her voice. “Why, the drinking, of course.”
Mrs. Stone's face went blank, her eyes just staring at Mrs. Willawago.
“It's okay,” Mrs. Willawago said. “Praise God, he tackled it! It must have helped a lot with … other things.”
Mrs. Stone's face was still blank, her eyes still stared, but out of her mouth came, “How'd you know he'd stopped?”
“Well! It's been much quieter and I can see your recycle bags through my kitchen window. Used to be piles of beer cans, and now?” She smiled at her. “None!”
Mrs. Stone looked over her shoulder again, then whispered, “Please, Annie. If Marty knew I was talkin' to you about any of this, he'd be so mad.” Then she said, “I … I've got to go now,” and made a beeline to her house.
“Wow,” I said when she was gone. “She seems really afraid of him.”
Mrs. Willawago frowned for a moment, then said, “With good reason.” Then she added, “We all have the potential to fall into sin, but Marty Stone has a devilish cruel streak. Exacerbated, I'm afraid, by alcohol.”
“He just seems like a middle-aged loner to me.”
“He's that, too. In all the years they've lived there, he's said hello to me but a dozen times. Frank and I used to invite them over for Bible meetings, but it was always no, no, no.” She took a deep breath. “For years I prayed that he would learn to walk with God but saw no signs of redemption.” She chuckled. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn't he? Strike a man with cancer and watch him mend his ways.”
“But why's she still so afraid of him?”
“Rome wasn't built in a day, you know! This is enormous progress. Why, a few months ago he wouldn't allow her to talk to me at all.” Then under her breath she muttered, “Probably afraid I'd see the bruises on her.”
I cringed. “Did you ever call the police?”
“In the beginning. I'd hear screaming … Lord a'mighty. But Teri always denied he'd hurt her. What can you do but turn the matter over to God?” She straightened her posture and said, “But I shall keep my tongue from evil, as the words of a talebearer are as wounds!”
So she led Captain Patch to the gate, saying, “On to a different kettle of fish. Have you heard what happened at the council meeting last night?”
I followed along. “No …”
“Well, they went through the motions of hearing both sides, but it was all just a farce. They've already made up their minds—they see this land as theirs.”
“Was Leland Hawking there?”
She stopped and faced me. “Yes! And he gave a very spirited argument against the project. He was very articulate and, praise God, made what I thought was a very strong case.”
“That's exactly what Coralee told him to do!”
She unlatched the side gate and said, “But why? And honestly, Coralee gave no indication whatsoever that she knew him. I watched her very carefully.”
“But … you do believe me, don't you? About seeing her in that lawyer's kitchen?”
She hesitated long enough for me to know she didn't.
“Mrs. Willawago! I know what I saw. I know what I heard!”
She stopped again. “But it doesn't make any sense, lamb. There must be some mistake.”
“A mistake? No, you don't understand! I'm positive.”
“I'm sorry, angel, I know you mean well, but as I said, there must be some mistake.”
What she was saying, of course, was that I had made a mistake. And maybe I was being overly sensitive, because this sort of thing seems to happen to me a lot, but her not believing me totally ticked me off. I mean, why do adults automatically assume that they know more than you do? Are their ears better? No! Is their eyesight better? No! Do they mo
ve around quick and eavesdrop under windows?
No and no!
Mrs. Willawago, though, was oblivious, saying, “I'll have you know I have come up with a plan, and Teri's on board with it.”
Goody, goody.
She chattered on. “The city council voted to continue the meeting to next Monday, so I don't have much time, but Lord willing I'm going to get community support behind us, starting with the Santa Martina Times.” She checked her watch. “The reporter's supposed to be here any minute, so would you be an angel and take the Captain on a really long walk? I want him good and worn out when the reporter's here.”
I did say, “Sure,” but inside I'm going, Yeah, great. I'm good enough to walk your dog for free but not good enough to believe.
I took off with Patch, thinking someone had made a mistake all right and it sure wasn't me.
I went the opposite direction than I'd gone the day before—past Andy and his appliance graveyard over to ol' Esquire's office.
No Council Queen car.
Big whoop.
I kept on trucking, and since Mrs. Willawago wanted me to take Captain Patch out for a long walk—and, I could tell, a good long time—I had the perfect excuse to go blow some steam at someone I knew would understand.
Hudson Graham.
“Say…!” he said when he saw me coming up his walk-way. He swung his boots off his porch railing. “And who's this happy creature?”
“Not me,” I grumbled. But it sounded so pathetic that it actually made me laugh. “His name's Captain Patch,” I said, holding him back. “Or just Captain. Or just Patch. Or the Captain. He belongs to Mrs. Willawago. You probably know her 'cause she goes to St. Mary's.”
“Sure I do,” he said.
I moved closer to the porch, looking around for Rommel, Hudson's ancient wiener dog.
“He's sleeping inside,” Hudson said. “And too old to care.” He patted his leg for Captain Patch to come closer, saying, “So why are you walking Annie's dog?”
“She had foot surgery. I've been doing it every day for three weeks. Grams calls it heaven insurance, but as of today I think I'm canceling my policy.”
Hudson didn't miss the serious grumble in my voice. He nodded and said, “Feeling taken advantage of ?”
I plopped in a chair. “Yeah, and ticked off.”
“Because …?”
“Because I heard and saw something that may not make sense, but I heard and saw it, okay? And instead of trying to figure out a way to make it make sense, they figure I'm just a kid who doesn't know what she heard and saw!”
“They being…?”
“Mrs. Willawago and her natched-out neighbor, Mrs. Stone.”
He stifled a grin. “She's got a natched-out neighbor, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, earthy. She grows her own vegetables, has a compost heap, wears Birkenstock sandals with socks, if you can believe that.”
“Ah,” he said, then asked, “So what is it you heard and saw?”
I flopped back and let out a real dramatic sigh. But right away I sat up a little and laughed because the sigh was so, you know, teen-tantrum. Then I shook my head and said, “It's so convoluted. Involves lawyers and the Council Queen and eminent domain.”
“The Council Queen? Eminent domain?” He got up and headed inside the house, saying, “Stay put. This is going to take some refreshments.”
“You know what eminent domain is?” I called after him.
“Sure!” His head poked back out through the door. “I also know that you saw what you saw and you heard what you heard … and I want to hear all about it.” Then he disappeared inside.
Good ol' Hudson. I already felt a ton better. Captain Patch seemed to like visiting Hudson, too, because he let out a big, contented snort and got comfy under my chair. When Hudson returned with a tray of iced tea and double-decker brownies, he said, “Eminent domain is how the Town Center Mall got built, you know.”
I sat up straight. “You're kidding!”
He poured me some tea and handed it over. “This shocks you?”
“Yes!” I took a sip. “Are you telling me there used to be houses where the mall is?”
He nodded. “The mall, the parking lots, the lawyers' offices…that whole area used to be houses.”
“And what? They kicked all those people out of their homes? For a mall ?”
“They were bought out, but yes, quite a few were forced out against their will.”
“But … why didn't all those people get together and say forget it!”
“They tried.”
“So?”
“So in the end it comes down to the law, and the law states that so long as the government pays just compensation, it can acquire properties for public use. There's usually not much you can do about it except sue for greater compensation.”
“I can't believe that!”
Hudson nodded. “Originally it was designed for use in national emergencies or for building railroads … that sort of thing. So instead of jogging a railroad track around privately owned parcels, they could run straight through them. Unfortunately, governments now exercise eminent domain for things like malls and parking lots.”
“That absolutely stinks.”
He nodded and took a sip of tea. “Goldie Danali would agree with you.”
“Goldie Danali? Who's that?”
“A woman who used to live on the corner of Cook and Miller. She had a cute little place, white picket fence, flowers … the kind of house you get a real warm feeling from just walking by.”
“So she didn't want to move and they made her anyway?”
“More than that. She had a job at the courthouse, which as you know is right across the street. And since she had problems with her legs, she went everywhere in a little motorized golf cart.”
“Oh, you've got to be kidding.”
“About the golf cart?”
“No! About them making a lady who's basically in a wheelchair move! How could they do that?”
Hudson gave me a wry smile. “They ‘relocated’ her in the name of the community. The community, they said, needed a mall. The irony is, they can't seem to rent the offices on the spot where Goldie Danali's house was.” He grinned. “Rumor is they're haunted.”
“No! By Goldie?”
“That's right. She died shortly after they forced her out.”
“Aw, come on. You're making this up…”
He put up a hand like he was taking an oath. “On my honor.”
I thought about it a minute, then said, “Well, it would serve them right if it's haunted. But still. If they kicked a lady in a wheelchair out of her house, there's no way they're going to let Mrs. Willawago keep hers.”
He nodded. “I figured this had to do with the proposed rec center.” He took the newspaper out from under his chair and flipped it open to the community section. Beneath the heading NEW REC CENTER GAINS SUPPORT was a picture of Coralee in her patriotic suit watching attentively as a man held a pointer to a drawing. There was also a picture of Leland Hawking giving a “spirited rebuttal,” and to the side of the article was a diagram of the “proposed improvements”: batting cages, café, and rec center.
I studied it and couldn't help thinking, Wow…these proposed improvements look great! And then there it was again, that voice in my ear. Yeah, it whispered. You and Marissa would use this a lot. And what do you care if ol' Willy-whaddya-know has to move? You try to help her and she doesn't believe you! She practically called you a liar…
From the base of my neck, halfway down my back, and then around my chest, I felt a core-chilling shiver. Like my brain had touched something very cold and was sending it down to cage my heart.
It was a frightening feeling. My heart began beating faster—like it was banging against the cage, trying to break free. So I shook off the voice and tried to get my mind back on track. “So explain this,” I said to Hudson. “Why would Coralee Lyon hold a clandestine meeting in the kitchen of Leland Hawking, Esquire'
s office, telling him to speak out against the rec center at the city council meeting?”
Hudson's bushy white eyebrows shot up. “Is that what you heard and saw?” He pointed to the newspaper. “This councilwoman told this lawyer to argue against the takeover?”
“That's right.”
He took a brownie and sat back. “All right. I need details.”
I felt the fear of the chill start to lift from my heart as I threw myself into telling the story of how I'd been walking Captain Patch and noticed Coralee's car and figured out the license plate and started sniffing around. And let me tell you, I gathered a good head of steam telling him how ol' Fanny Flag told Esquire Eyes that it was a good thing that the Stones didn't want to sell and how he started worrying and she started insisting. By the time I was describing how she'd snuck out the back door to get to her car, my mouth was like a runaway train, and when I finally put the brakes on and quit talking, I didn't feel the chill at all anymore.
I felt good.
Hudson, though, just sat there chewing endlessly on a bite of brownie.
So finally, I said, “See? It doesn't make any sense. But I heard what I heard and I saw what I saw, and it wasn't out of context or anything else, in case that's what you're wondering.”
“No, no. I'm not wondering that.” He shook his head, and for the first time since I'd met him, he looked stumped. “I'm wondering why she would say that when the more expensive the project becomes to the taxpayer, the worse the project — and Ms. Lyon — looks to the community.”
“What do you mean, the more expensive it becomes?”
“Well, when the city was acquiring land for the mall, some of the homeowners didn't like the amount of money they were being offered. So the homeowners sued, and a lot of them wound up with substantially more money.”
“So … so the only reason you'd want to fight city hall is if you owned property on Hopper Street.”
He shrugged. “Or if you didn't want the development going in next to your property, or if…,” but then he got what I was saying. He faced me, his eyes opened wide.