* * * * *
"I need to speak to the chief," Lillian Carter demanded. At the Brandenberg Police Station, Benjamin sat on a chair near a corkboard with a collection of black and white photos of grubby looking men and a handful of equally uncouth females, while his mother spoke to the officer manning the front desk. After a brief exchange, Mrs. Carter disappeared down a hallway into an adjoining room. Ten minutes later she returned and sat down on the chair next to him. Benjamin looked at his mother. She was studying the collection of mug shots stapled to the corkboard. Another few minutes passed in silence. "What are we doing?"
"Waiting," Mrs. Carter replied.
“For what?"
"For Mr. Jacobson to collect his belongings and join us here in the lobby." Another five minutes passed. Benjamin had lost all interest in the unflattering photos. There were too many and, after a while, they all looked the same. Not that the felons looked alike. There were Hispanics, Negroes, a couple of Asians and a still larger collection of white faces - an army of lost souls. Lost and clueless. Finally, Mr. Jacobson appeared in the hallway and came out to join them.
"Hey, I know you!" He ran his bony fingers through Benjamin's hair and flashed a good-natured smile.
"Let's get out of here." Mrs. Carter muttered. Benjamin took one last look at the cork board. Was the Brandenberg Police Department planning to put Mr. Jacobson's picture up on the board of shame? And, if so, would he be allowed to wear the Cuban link bracelet and Figarucci chain?
On the ride home the boy sat in the back. "You could sue the family for libel," Mrs. Carter spoke without taking her eyes off the road. "Character assassination."
"At my age?" Mrs. Jacobson laughed making a dry cackling sound. He didn't seem angry in the least. "That Officer Murphy's a nice guy. I don't think he realized…" The old man didn't bother finishing the sentence.
"Yes," Mrs. Carter agreed, "he just got caught in the middle." Benjamin was still trying to figure out what exactly Officer Murphy didn’t realize and why, as they were leaving the police station, he came out in the parking lot and apologized to the older man.
After dropping Mr. Jacobson off, Mrs. Carter swiveled in her seat to face her son. "How’re you doing?"
"Good," Benjamin replied. Their neighbor, who worked at Balfour Jewelry for thirty-three years, was arrested but then, just as quickly, released and sent home. Officer Murphy and Mr. Jacobson were back on friendly terms. Everything was returning to normal.
Mrs. Carter pulled the car over to the side of the road and slid the shift in park. She sat staring at the dashboard for several minutes. When another car pulled up behind her, the woman promptly rolled the window down and waved the driver past. From where he was sitting in the backseat, Benjamin could see the right side of his mother's face. Walled up in some private reverie, the hazel eye never blinked. "What's wrong?" he finally asked.
"Mitzi got Mr. Jacobson in trouble." His mother spoke so softly, he could barely make out the words. "For no good reason… from shear spitefulness."
"Yes, I figured as much." Benjamin felt a wave of despair. The boy thought he got the better of the obnoxious troll when he shambled over to Mr. Jacobson on Mitzi's dare, but that only heightened her vindictiveness. Benjamin could picture the slobby girl grinning with orgasmic glee when she learned of Mr. Jacobson's arrest. Normal people didn't revel in other people's misery, but Mitzi Singleton was an eight year old grotesque - a sadistic monstrosity through and through. "What now?"
Mrs. Carter ran a tongue over her lips. "I'm wondering what Junie B. Jones might do in a similar situation."
It was the same question that came to mind when Mitzi goaded him at the baseball field. "Junie's just a stupid kid," Benjamin shot back. "She can just barely tie her shoe laces much less solve the world's problems."
"A grownup Junie B. Jones," Mrs. Carter amended her previous remark. "How would she handle preadolescent crimes against humanity?"
Benjamin didn't like where this was going. The trip to the police station was bad enough, but falling back on a fictional character from a children's book series as a role model didn't seem like such a great idea. "Junie does lots of dumb things."
"Yeah," his mother replied, "but they always turn out right in the end."
"I suppose so," Benjamin mumbled half-heartedly.
Mrs. Carter put the car back in gear. "One last bit of unfinished business." She drove to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned the car around. Three streets down, she pulled over in front of a blue house with white shutters. "This won't take long."
Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot, I tell you. Wait till you hear this! Junie B Jones had a dozen and one nifty catchphrases, but none could adequately describe what Benjamin's mother did over at the Brookfields. Mrs. Carter rang the doorbell. Mitzi's mother, a short dumpy woman with a mottled complexion similar to her daughter’s, cracked the door open. She wouldn't let Benjamin's mother in, but listened with a constipated expression, her eyes compressed to tiny slits and lips pinched so tight that the crow's feet on the side of her head stood out in bold relief. When Benjamin's mother finished speaking her mind, Mrs. Brookfield shouted, "Get the hell off my property!" But Mrs. Carter didn't budge. Mitzi's mother started yelling and hollering all the louder, but the squat woman didn't seem to be making a whole lot of sense that Benjamin could wrap his eight year old brain around. Mrs. Brookfield was just like the daughter. Or was it the other way around?
The dumpy woman made a motion to slam the door shut, but Mrs. Carter, who had a firm grasp on the doorknob, positioned her right leg against the molding and, using the foot for leverage, muscled the door wide open. Mrs. Brookfield collapsed in a heap, sprawling backwards on the living room rug. Stepping over the threshold into the home, the uninvited guest shut the door behind her. "Aw crap!" Benjamin muttered.
Five minutes passed. Things got very quiet. The front door opened and Mrs. Carter emerged. Before his mother reached the car, Benjamin could hear Mrs. Brookfield screaming hysterically. She let loose with an endless barrage of profanities, and then a second, childish voice began sobbing inconsolably, bellowing and begging for mercy.
"Every blade of grass has its own angel," Mrs. Carter leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. "Such a lovely metaphor!" The bedlam at the Brookfield residence continued unabated. Mrs. Carter turned the ignition key and put the car in gear. "Every blade of grass,” she repeated like a soothing mantra, “has its own angel who leans over it and whispers, 'Grow!' Grow!'" At the end of the street, the woman pulled up at a stop sign and looked both ways. "For the next ten years or so, I'm going to be your personal angel. How's that sound?"
Benjamin nodded his head vigorously. "Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot!"
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