House Wrecking Read online

  Another Visit to the New Haven Police Department

  Steven and Emily followed Whitney Avenue directly to the police station. Except for a few strands of gray hair and an extra ten pounds around the middle, Office Deen hadn’t changed much over the many years since Emily had seen him last. He sat in the plain wooden chair, behind the same wooden desk in the police station as if he hadn’t left since the last time she’d been in.

  “Miss Emily, how lovely to see you. How have you been? I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” Officer Deen said.

  “Thank you, Officer Deen. Unfortunately, I am not well. We are here to report a missing child,” Emily said.

  “Another one? Yes, of course. Very unfortunate business. And who is this, may I ask?” Officer Deen said, gesturing toward Steven.

  “Steven Jackson.” Steven said, offering his hand.

  Officer Deen ignored Steven’s hand. “What is your relationship to Miss Emily here?” he asked.

  “I’m her um….” Steven stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at Emily for help.

  “He’s my companion and the father of the missing child.”

  “I see,” Office Deen replied. “What is your relationship to the missing child?”

  “I’m her mother.”

  “I had no idea. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How old is the child?”

  “Five,” Emily replied.

  “And when was the last time you saw her?”

  “Well, let me see - must have been Friday. Yes, Friday at East Rock Park.”

  “A five year old has been missing for three days and you’re reporting it now? When was the last time you saw her, Mr. Jackson.”

  Steven hesitated before responding. “Actually, I’ve never seen her. I’ve been away for a while.”

  “And where have you been, may I ask?”

  Again he eyed Emily before responding. “Doing time in Bathe.”

  “I see. For what?

  “Manslaughter.”

  “Did this manslaughter involve a child?”

  Emily rushed in, “Oh no Officer Deen, Steven had nothing to do with Mary’s disappearance. He didn’t know she existed until yesterday,” as if that explained everything.

  Officer Deen raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps we should back up. You last saw the child in East Rock park on Friday. What happened then?”

  Now it was Emily’s turn to hesitate. “Well, nothing happened. She went with her caregiver’s children to the home where she’s been staying.”

  “Ah – she was with a caregiver, like a babysitter?”

  “Not exactly. She’d been living with her,” Emily said.

  “For how long?”

  “Five years,” Emily said.

  “That’s her whole life.”

  “Yes, but let me explain. I couldn’t care for her when she was born, with mother sick and Steven away. Dorothy agreed to care for her until I was able. Today we went to get Mary and Dorothy wasn’t there. She took Mary and the rest of her family and vanished. They left no forwarding address.”

  “When was the last time you communicated with Dorothy?”

  A flush spread across Emily’s face. “I used to send money…”

  “How long?”

  “Four and a half years ago.”

  Officer Deen dropped his pencil and leaned back in his chair. Emily and Steven looked at each other.

  Officer Deen sat forward again in his chair. “Do you have a birth certificate for Mary, or a photograph?”

  Emily shook her head.

  Still leaning forward, Office Deen asked, “What hospital did you have her in?”

  Emily hung her head and whispered, “She was born at home.”

  “Any witnesses to her birth?”

  Emily shook her head. “Just Dorothy and me.”

  Officer Deen leaned back in his chair again and silence again filled the room.

  Although Emily didn't actually hear the clink of the crumbled report hit the metal trash pail, she was sure it ended up there. When they left the police station, the sky opened up and rain poured down on them. They trudged home, not bothering to cover their heads from the rain or brace themselves against the accompanying wind, the heaviness of their loss weighing them down further with each step away from town. When they arrived home Steven closed the door to Mary's room and it remained that way until the workmen came fifty years later and tossed everything in the dumpster.

  Mr. Jackson

  Sandy dropped the pile of nursing home charts in front of Lauren – five in total. “Sorry,” she said. “Dr. Levy’s away and your boss volunteered you to cover his patients.

  Lauren scooped up her brown curls and secured the mass in a loose ponytail behind her head. It had grown a few inches in the last year- Ben liked her hair long and she was still very much interested doing what Ben what he liked.

  She grimaced at Sandy. She liked going to Saint Regis and making her monthly rounds on the elderly patients, but she wasn’t prepared to add five to today’s caseload. She glanced at the industrial clock at the back of the nurses’ station. She would have to hustle to get through all her patients and get to school on time to pick up Brian and Claire. She began with her regular patients, the ones she’d been following for years. Mr. Bloom, who’d had a stroke in his fifties which left him unable to speak and paralyzed on the right; Mrs. Chalyloss with her seeping legs that Lauren couldn’t keep under control, despite the constant dosing of antibiotics and diuretics; Ms. Penderman, who had nothing physically wrong with her, but kept scratching at her skin until she drew blood and a host of infected cuts. She greeted them all with a smile, asked them routine history questions, many of which they didn’t understand. She conducted her physical exams, ordered new medications, labs and diagnostics tests and documented in their charts. When her usual patients were done, she went to the cafeteria for coffee and a granola bar before starting on Dr. Levy’s patients.

  She flipped open the heavy plastic cover of the blue chart to review the demographic information about her first new patient. Normally, she skipped the address since the patients had long since relocated from their homes to the nursing home, but this one caught her eye because it was the same as her own. She examined it again, thinking it was a mistake. She forced her eyes to read the name above the address - Steven Jackson. The rest of the form revealed that he was admitted in 1995, the admission note stated: 95 year old black male admitted for long-term care through DSS after the death of his companion and eviction from the home they shared. Lauren slammed the plastic cover closed, swept the chart under her arm, glancing at the room number on the spine. She grabbed her bag and made record time to room 411W.

  Steven Jackson lay propped up against two pillows in the bed by the window. Although it was mid-morning, remnants of his breakfast lingered on the tray in front of him and down the front of his pajamas. He didn’t seem to hear her enter the room.

  “Mr. Jackson?” she whispered, not wanting to startle him.

  His eyes flickered open, revealing opaque brown pupils surrounded by blood shot corneas.

  Lauren stepped closer. “Mr. Jackson, I’m Lauren, the nurse practitioner who is covering for Dr. Levy.”

  Steven nodded.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, ok?”

  “Fine by me,” Steven croaked.

  She’d planned to launch right in with her questions about Emily and the house, but realized how unprofessional that might be. She began her review of symptoms and physical exam. When she was done, she said, “you seem to be doing pretty well, Mr. Jackson. Is there anything I can help you with.”

  “Not bad for a 98 year old – huh?” he said.

  “Not bad at all.”

  There was no professional reason to stay, but Lauren lingered. “Mr. Jackson, when I was reviewing your chart, I noticed your last address was where I live now.”

  Steven’s eyes brightened and the redness seemed to clear. “No kidding –
you live in the old Marvin house?” he said.

  “Yes, we bought it a couple of years ago.”

  “Hum. Glad to hear the old place is still standing and a nice young person like you lives there. You got a family?”

  “Yes, I was married… I have two children.”

  “Good, the place is good for kids.”

  “How long did you live there?” Lauren asked.

  “Bout seventy years on and off.”

  “You must’ve known Emily Marvin?”

  Steven snapped in Lauren’s direction and she was forced to look him in his moistened eyes. “Yes, I knew Emily. I knew her well. She was my…well my companion.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” Lauren said.

  “You didn’t do nothing. I miss her is all.”

  Lauren hesitated, wondering if she should go further. “What was she like?”

  "She was the kindest and sweetest woman you'd ever meet. She'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. He smiled, as if lost in her memory. "Funny too - told it like it was; no sugar coating for Emily.

  “She sounds great.”

  “She was.”

  “I have a picture of her,” Lauren said, fishing in her bag for the photo, she handed it to Steven.

  He took it with gnarled, shaking fingers and brought it close to his eyes. “Who’s this woman with her?”

  “She’s my grandmother, Dorothy. You didn’t know her?”

  The tears pooling in his eyes began to stream down his cheeks and his chest began to heave.

  Lauren’s pulse raced. This wasn’t her patient and she’d crossed a line and upset this poor man, but she couldn’t stop herself. She checked the bed by the door and found the elderly man sleeping, his feeding tube, clicking away at his side. She closed the door to the room and returned to Steven, handing him a tissue. After a few moments he seemed calmer.

  “I never met her, but I knew of her. Was Dorothy your mother’s mother, or your father’s?”

  “My mother’s. She died almost a year ago.”

  “Hum,” was all Steven said at first. After a deep breath that seemed to well from deep inside him, he asked, “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Beverly.” Lauren said. “She was adopted, supposedly at birth after her parents died during the war. We recently found out this wasn’t true.”

  The tears began to fall in earnest and Steven’s chest heaving took on a spastic quality. Lauren glanced at the door again, but it remained shut. She sat at the edge of his bed, close enough to touch her thigh to his bony leg lying beneath the blankets. She rested a hand on his left arm.

  It seemed to take forever for him to calm. When Steven’s breathing became steadier, he tried again to speak. “Is she..?”

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “She’s very much alive.”

  When she felt he was stable, Lauren left Steven to call Beverly from the nurses’ station. “Mom, I think there's someone here you should meet.”

  Epilogue

  Charles, July, 1904

  Charles covered the short distance from his house in the Westville section of New Haven to the city’s shoreline in record time. He was anxious to get to his destination and enjoy a few hours out on the open seas before he needed to return to the house for supper and to work further with Thomas. He hummed a little tune to keep pace with his step.

  He’d walked an eighth of a mile when a hulking figure appeared on the road ahead of him. It was hot and there weren’t too many people walking the sun-filled streets. Anyone who had any sense had chosen to spend a sedentary afternoon fanning themselves amidst a cool drink in the summer shade. The figure stood out both for its uniqueness against the empty landscape and its familiarity. They walked a few steps closer to each other before Charles recognized the figure to be his son Thomas. Thomas didn’t notice Charles until he stepped directly in front of him.

  “Thomas, where are you going? Why aren’t you in school? Charles questioned the boy.

  Thomas shrugged before replying, “I wanted to play with your horse game.”

  Charles smiled at the boy’s sentiment remembering their session of the night before. He fired a few more questions at Thomas, but still could not understand why the boy had left school early. He toyed with the idea of sending the boy back to school. But recalling his resolution to keep the boy with him to prepare him to be a man, Charles resigned himself to the company of his son for the afternoon.

  “Thomas. I was on my way for a short sail on the New Haven sound. Join me and we will continue our Chess game after our evening meal.” Charles took Thomas by the shoulders, and the two men headed toward the Sound.

  By the time they arrived, the sky had darkened and the wind picked up. Charles considered abandoning his sail, but his anticipation of an afternoon on the water propelled him to consider the variability of New England weather. The clouds would pass and it would brighten soon. He instructed Thomas on how they should carry the boat to the water and praised the boy for his strength. They climbed inside and Charles showed Thomas how to paddle before lifting the sail. The boy had trouble understanding the mechanics of rowing, but they persevered until they’d cleared the docks. Charles raised the sail which caught the wind and off they went at a speedy clip, heading out to the open seas.

  With a few more directions from Charles, he left Thomas holding the line to direct the sail and settled into the front of the boat to relax. Charles exhaled with satisfaction, realizing he got his much anticipated sail, but was also presented with the unexpected opportunity to further tutor his son in the ways of sailing. Charles glanced over at Thomas, who seemed content to hold the line, awaiting further instruction from Charles. Charles closed his eyes.

  Charles was awoken by the sudden release of the sail flying past, missing his head by inches. He struggled to get his bearings while he took in the darkening sky. The wind had picked up. Thomas was cowering on the seat where he’d left him. “I couldn’t hold it,” he said.

  Charles raced around the vessel trying to grab the line and lower the sail, but he couldn’t get hold of it. The sail was whipping back and forth caught in a wind for which two men were no match. He tried to tame the sail as a ten-foot ocean swell approached the vessel. He glanced briefly at Thomas, but there was no time, Charles knew they would be swept overboard.

  The wave was upon them within seconds, capsizing the boat and knocking both Charles and Thomas into the sound. Charles had learned to swim in his Aunt Rosemary’s pond years earlier and rose to the surface. He searched anxiously for Thomas, realizing that he’d never taught the boy how to swim. The sky was dark by now and the rain was beating down hard on him. Charles had to find the boy. He dove under the water, but could see nothing. He reached out, hoping to locate Thomas with his hands. He continued diving and coming up for air, without success. On his fifth or sixth dive, he swept under the capsized boat sinking steadily to the bottom of the sound, feeling his way from stern to bow. There he felt the boy, solid in his hands. He wrapped his arms under the boy’s shoulders and attempted to pull him out from under the boat, but panicking Thomas fought against him. His foot was tangled in the line from the sail. He tried to untie it, felt he almost had him loose, if he could just get…he tried again.

  Charles continued unsuccessfully to untangle the line engulfing the boy who was never his. The oxygen to his brain diminished without him realizing and peacefulness overtook him. As Charles descended into unconsciousness, his mind settled on the lines from A Child’s Fancy, the poem about the sailboat that he and his mother had read many times.

  Ah! She strikes on unseen rocks;

  Quivers-plunges- then goes down;

  Every surging wave doth hold

  Blooms of silver or of gold

  On its ripples thrown.

  Gone her captain, far away

  Doth her faithless pilot flee;

  Only ‘mid the waters dark

  Gleams once more the glow-worm spark

  Then-sinks
’neath the sea.

  Where are all my treasures gone?

  Woe is me! For now they sleep,

  And Charles slept.

  When Thomas felt Charles go limp, he knew he was on his own. Without his father’s opposing underwater actions, the line slackened sufficiently to allow Thomas to kick his way to the surface. There he attached himself to a part of the broken mast and allowed the calming seas to wash him toward the shore. He kept glancing back to the indistinct place from which he had risen, looking for Charles. In waist deep water, he abandoned the mast and with one final glance out to sea, stepped onto the miniaturized sandy beach.

  He tried to retrace his steps back home, but the streets were lined with fallen trees and objects out of place. He stepped over a bicycle in his path and dodged a mangled baby stroller rolling toward him. Nothing seemed familiar. The sun, now full in the sky as if it had been there all day, finally set. Thomas stumbled upon a barn at the edge of town and settled into the hay loft for the night. He slept, fully intent on leaving first thing in the morning to find home. The farmer found him there the next day and peppered him with questions about who he was and where he had come from over a breakfast of sausage and eggs. Thomas didn’t know his address, but tried to describe his house and its surroundings with his limited language. The farmer and his wife just looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “I’ll bring him to the police after we get cleaned up around here,” the farmer explained to her. “Come on boy, everyone around here works for their keep.” Thomas gathered fallen branches and debris into a pile as instructed. His work impressed the farmer and his wife sufficiently to put off the police station visit for that day, and the next.

  On the third day after the storm, Thomas awoke in his new farmhouse bedroom and slipped out the back door. He still didn’t know which way was home, but by then the streets had resumed much of their former appearance and one familiar landmark, a house, a sign, a store, propelled him toward the next. It was the hottest part of the day when he finally spotted the Queen Anne at the top of the hill. Sarah, Emily and Mary had moved their grief for Charles and worry about Thomas to the shade of the Magnolia tree in the rear. Thomas slipped in through the unlocked front door and released the latch to open the secret cellar room. Once inside, he closed the door as Charles had shown him and immediately returned to the Chess table. He’d been thinking about his strategy and busied himself playing both sides.