Beginner's Luck Read online

  Ms. Olivia eventually senses my presence. Without glancing up, she begins talking to me, her nimble fingers still gently doing their work while the sunlight that manages to sneak through the blinds paints distorted cracks across their bodies like rivers on a map. As if she's reading my mind, she says, "It's not as bad as it seems, dear. I have my memories to comfort me. That's the part you can't see. And sometimes the most essential things, the ones that make all the difference, are the ones we can never see."

  She looks up at me before moving on to the next finger. "Have you ever read Peter Pan?"

  "Yeah." I nod my head affirmatively because I know the story, though on second thought I've probably only seen the movie.

  "The man who so famously created the boy who wouldn't grow up was a well-known Scottish dramatist back at the turn of the last century. He once wrote that God gave us memory so we might have roses in December. A lovely thought, isn't it?"

  Ms. Olivia carefully completes her manicuring and returns the Judge's hand to his lap and smiles warmly up at him. "Now do make me a cup of Darjeeling tea, please—it's in the blue-and-gray tin with the picture of Mount Everest on the front."

  I have the table laid by the time Ms. Olivia enters the dining room and takes the chair across from me at the lace-covered mahogany table. She carefully administers a heaping spoonful of sugar to her aromatic tea. There's a large oval-shaped walnut table in the kitchen, but Mr. Bernard has it completely covered with his Cuisinart attachments, an industrial-size blender, shiny aluminum mixing bowls, a knife sharpener, espresso maker, old copies of Bon Appetit magazine, about ten cookbooks, and lots of loose recipes clipped from newspapers. It's more of a storage area than a place for casual dining.

  "Surely Bernard suggested you persuade me into calling off my Havana excursion," she states rather than asks. But before I can determine how to play this one without betraying either side, Ms. Olivia announces that she isn't traveling to Cuba after all.

  "I'm meeting Ottavio in Orlando at the end of October and we're going to motor down to Vero Beach. If the trip goes well, I may invite him to visit after the holidays."

  "Oh well, uh, then why.. ."

  "It gives Bertie an opportunity to vent. It's difficult for him to let his father go. That's the problem with being an only child—once you let go of your parents you're suddenly alone in the world. I'll always have Bernard, God willing, but he won't always have me." She gently rotates her spoon in her teacup and sighs. "At the time I thought I was being socially conscious—zero population growth and all that. Though in retrospect perhaps it was selfish of me not to have more children."

  However, Ms. Olivia looks up and brightens, as if she's decided not to worry about all of that anymore. "So, do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?" she inquires.

  I almost choke on a chunk of pepper. A girlfriend! "No!" I cough up a hunk of green and put my hand up to my mouth in case it decides to take flight.

  Uh-oh, I don't want her to think that I think it would be wrong to have a girlfriend, seeing as her son obviously has a boyfriend.

  "I have friends who are girls. And then there's this guy Craig Larkin who I made out with at a party over the summer."

  Did I just tell a sixty-something-year-old lady that I "made out" with a guy? My parents don't even know that I've ever held hands with a boy.

  "Then why aren't you entertaining his offer of romance? You must have experiences if you're going to be a great artist." Her voice soars on the word experiences.

  "There was this thing with some money I owed him. I mean, I paid it back. Maybe once things settle down with school. I wouldn't want to get him into trouble."

  "But it's a braver thing to love knowing that disaster may strike at any time, to love what death can take away at any moment." Her eyes sparkle briefly while conjuring up the possibility of a doomed romance. "Seeing as you brought up your state of affairs, I think you should be aware that what's-his-name, that quisling-education-bureaucrat Mr. Presumed Ignorant, paid a call on me yesterday in order to enlist my services in this conspiracy to repatriate you to their youth indoctrination compound."

  I take it that she means Just Call Me Dick and the school.

  Ms. Olivia thrusts her right hand upward as if to trap a fly ball in a catcher's mitt. "Not that I have anything against schools, mind you. In general, that is. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to remind him that children are human beings protected under the constitution, and not government chattel, and that it's obvious that you do not want to participate in his Marionette Dance."

  "Marionette Dance?" Homecoming is over and the prom isn't until spring.

  "Expectations, my dear. They don't want a freethinking person in their establishment. No, absolutely not. They want blocks of soft, malleable clay that they can carve and shape into their own images. People have a child and then set about tugging the strings to make that child dance to their own tune—become what they've envisioned a child of theirs should be. I said to him, 'Mr. Collier, with all due respect, one of your trained seals has risen up from the man-made pool and spat in the eye of the zookeeper.' "

  "Do you think I should go back there?" I honestly believe that if Ms. Olivia told me to return to school then I would. Because although I won't admit it, this situation has gotten way out of hand and I have no idea what my next move should be. I never dreamed it would get this crazy, with half the town involved. The owner of the local Chevy dealership wrote an editorial in the newspaper about me, saying that if we let social problems get out of control now it's just going to cost the American taxpayer more money to deal with them later. Surely he was using me as an example of a social problem as opposed to that of an American taxpayer.

  Ms. Olivia is the first person to articulate anything close to expressing how I really feel. Suddenly I experience this surge of relief, because if she doesn't think I'm crazy then maybe I'm not. Sort of like the bombardier in Catch-22. But then a lot of people in this town, including her own son, seem to think that Ms. Olivia is crazy. And I occasionally wonder the same thing. I mean—poetry and pornography and Druid Circles and aromatherapy. And if she is crazy, then it doesn't help that she thinks I'm not crazy. In fact, it probably makes things worse. If a crazy person thinks I'm not crazy, then for sure I most likely am crazy. It's all so confusing.

  "Do I think you should go back?" Ms. Olivia repeats my words. "Oh, Hallie, it doesn't matter what I think. You must follow the beat of your own heart."

  Wouldn't you know it—the one time I decide to take advice from a grown-up, the well all of a sudden dries up. And instead I get some funky answer right out of The Wizard of Oz. The Flying Monkeys are probably waiting for me inside the summerhouse along with a message in the sky written in black smoke saying "Surrender Hallie!"

  "And now what about that garage door?" Ms. Olivia inquires with gusto, as if tourists are going to be lined up around the block to see this so-called collage and we'll be able to charge admission. "Have you settled upon a motif yet? Every great work of art must have a theme—you know, destruction, despair, reckless abundance."

  "Actually, I was just about to ride over to the library to search for some ideas."

  "There's an entire wall of art books in the den. Why don't you glance through those for inspiration when you have a moment?"

  That's another thing I enjoy about the Stocktons and Mr. Gil. They treat a sixteen-year-old as if she has meetings to attend and a busy schedule and always add "when you get a chance" or "if it's convenient," even though I'm an employee and only a teenager. Even when assigning my yard duties Mr. Bernard will often ask me to do such and such when I can "see my way clear."

  Upon finishing my lunch I say that I'd better get back to stripping the garage door.

  "Ottavio wrote me the loveliest poem. Would you like to hear it?"

  "Sure," I say. But I decide that if it's pornographic I'm going to be awfully embarrassed, like when my art teacher put up the Titian slides and the entire drawing and painting class snickered. Ms.
Olivia removes a folded-up paper from her dress pocket and carefully smooths it out. It's a computer printout, so I assume he sent it to her via E-mail. "He wrote it in Italian and so I've tried my best to translate."

  Rose Moon

  The moon has lost its luster and the stars have dimmed their lights

  Because my lover and I cannot share the Salerno night sky.

  Absence is the breeze that fans the flame of burning passion

  Or else snuffs the embers out.

  That's how it must be for my lover and me.

  And though you remain in my soul after we say good-bye,

  When it's time to part, oh how my heart does sigh.

  "He wrote that for you?" I ask when she finishes.

  "Yes. I'm not so sure about the rhyme scheme or the meter, but it's the thought that counts." Ms. Olivia looks like a schoolgirl who's just stolen her first kiss. I guess this love thing can afflict people of all ages.

  "Cool. I can't imagine someone writing a poem for me."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Hallie. You'll be the object of many a heart's desire. Especially with your capabilities in math and operating power tools and lawn mowers. And you'll write love letters, too," she adds.

  Somehow I doubt that. I can barely put the bibliographies and footnotes together for a simple book report.

  On the way back outside I poke around the garage. Perhaps I could do something with all those wooden spools. Wouldn't Mr. Gil be relieved? Though I think he'd truly be ecstatic if I could find a way to incorporate that dining room set with the twelve chairs so that he could park his nice white Land Rover in the garage instead of under the cherry tree.

  Chapter 23

  Down and Dirty ♥

  While scraping the garage door all sorts of thoughts run through my head about Ms. Olivia and love and poetry and the realization that I won't be sixteen forever. Eventually I'm going to grow up and have experiences, and I start to consider what kind of experiences I'd like to have.

  It's in this state of artistic dreaminess that Officer Rich finds me when he pulls into the circular driveway. At first I think Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil are returning from their travels early, but I immediately recognize the old blue Ford pickup. He must be off duty. I wonder if it's something to do with Monday's poker game.

  Officer Rich studies me chiseling away and then scrutinizes the rest of the house and grounds in that coplike way, as if counterfeit presses are hidden in the bushes.

  I put down my scraper and sit on the top rung of the ladder. "Resting, roosting, or just nesting?"

  He has to look up to see me. "I think you and I had better have a little talk down at the station." Urgency underscores his woolly voice.

  "What's wrong with right here?" I ask.

  "What's wrong with down at the station?" he counters and glances around to see if anyone is in earshot.

  "You don't have a warrant for my arrest. And besides, only Ms. Olivia and the Judge are here, and they're inside."

  "All right. But come sit in the cab of the truck. I'm not yelling up a ladder."

  The front seat houses mostly paperwork and stained coffee cups. The only ornamentation aside from his PBA stickers and a twisted wire hanger for opening car door locks is a sun-faded plastic St. Christopher statue stuck onto the dashboard.

  "Did you stop in at Jerry Exner's store on Saturday morning?"

  I have to think for a second, because the name Exner doesn't even ring a bell without cheap and old preceding it. "Oh, you mean Cheap Old Mr. Exner, at the sporting goods store. No, I didn't."

  But Officer Rich only scowls at the steering wheel. "Well, cheap old Mr. Exner is also the treasurer for the annual charity golf tournament and raffle to raise money to help build a new hospital at the edge of town. And it so happens that on Saturday morning Mrs. Shaeffer, the chairwoman of the event, dropped nineteen hundred dollars off with Mr. Exner, so he could deposit the money at the bank on Monday morning. Only the money was stolen."

  "So, what's that got to do with me?"

  "Hallie, you were the only one in the store between the money being dropped off and disappearing."

  "Says who?" I ask.

  "Says Mrs. Shaeffer. She saw you go into the store."

  I become indignant. "She should get glasses because ..." But I hesitate, because I suddenly remember that I did stop by the store on Saturday morning. "Well, I did ride my bike over there and look in the window to see if Jane was working. But she wasn't and so I left without going inside."

  "That's not what Mrs. Shaeffer said."

  "Even if I did go in, which I didn't, that doesn't prove anything." But Officer Rich just turns down his mouth as if he's already decided to doubt anything I might have to say. And of course it just makes matters worse that the whole town, including Mr. Exner, Mrs. Shaeffer, and even Officer Rich, know that I'm a homeless gambler and therefore assume I am in desperate need of currency. Or else that as a result of being associated with gambling I must automatically be in possession of a criminal underbelly.

  "Officer Rich," I say and give him my best I am not bluffing stare, "I did not steal any money. Jesus, I stopped to see if Jane found this envelope of donut money ..." But this only makes it sound even more like I need money, that I went in, saw the cash, and couldn't believe my luck.

  "Hallie, I just came from your folks' house." He gazes out the front windshield rather than at me. "They said the amount they recently declined to front you for a car was two thousand dollars."

  This is unbelievable. My life will not stop going downhill. It's as if a spell has been cast on me. At every turn the problem has to do with money, and somehow my name is attached to it.

  "Officer Rich, I swear to you that I didn't take that money. Besides, if I had two thousand bucks you can bet I wouldn't be sitting here right now." I deny the crime using several different phrasings. "I can't believe I'm being accused in the first place. There's no videotape. There aren't any fingerprints. And it's not like Cheap Old Mr. Exner even has an alarm system. Anyone could have walked in there during the night or after the store closed and stolen that money."

  But Officer Rich claims that the locks weren't jimmied and there are no signs of an intruder. And nothing else is missing.

  Well it doesn't take long for me to develop a theory. Whoever took the money must have a key, unless Mr. Exner just misplaced the dough, which isn't entirely out of the question since he must be pushing seventy, or pulling eighty is probably more like it. However, I happen to know there's another person with a key. And that person is my best friend Jane. That's because Mr. Exner is too cheap to keep his store closed on Sunday when all the business guys head out to the golf course. Only he's a Fundamentalist, which means he can't work on Sunday morning, and so he has Jane operate the store from seven until noon. But would Jane steal money? Could she be that desperate to pay back the donut money she lost? Oh shit.

  When Officer Rich sees the look of consternation on my face as I put all this together, he probably thinks it just confirms that I did indeed swipe the dough. I vaguely hear him say stuff like "No hard evidence ... The proprietor has agreed not to press charges ... Simply return the funds."

  Then I realize that the worst thing about all this, aside from the possibility that one of my best friends is a criminal, is that Officer Rich, who has stood up for me until now, believes I'm guilty!

  I rack my brain to think of another scenario that could explain the missing money. Because even if I can prove that I didn't do it, then they're going to get to Jane pretty soon. Maybe Cheap Old Mr. Exner is trying to frame her and keep the money himself? Since the new outlet center went up, his store doesn't do much business. Or did he just misplace it?

  "And what if I didn't take the money?" I ask.

  "Then I'd of course be interested in hearing your theory on where it went," Officer Rich replies. "You'd need some sort of evidence to corroborate your story. And it's pretty serious to accuse someone of a crime that they didn't commit." He stares down at his coff
ee-colored arms and sighs as if he knows a thing or two about assumptions made based upon a person's looks.

  "Yeah, no shit," I concur.

  I can tell that Officer Rich is disappointed I won't just confess and return the money. And I can't help but wonder if my parents also believe I carried out the dirty deed and presume that I have once and for all turned to a life of crime.

  "All right," Officer Rich eventually says when I don't respond to his plea bargain. "I was hoping we could just settle this quietly, between the two of us. Why don't you take a day to think about it, Hallie? Because believe me, you don't want this to go any further than it already has. And I'm serious about that."

  I turn away from him and stare out the side window.

  "And I don't think you'd better come to the poker game," he says. The final insult.

  Officer Rich departs, and of course I can no longer concentrate on the garage. My first instinct is to ride to my parents' house and proclaim my innocence. However, on the heels of Officer Rich's visit a cameo appearance at this moment may very well be counterproductive.

  Instead I hop on my bike and ride to Jane's house. I can tell by the tense and phony friendliness that her mother is wary of my arrival, as if I'm a bad influence. God only knows what stories she's heard by now.

  After Jane learns what's happened, she swears up and down that she didn't take the charity funds. "Besides, I had a cold the past few days and didn't even go to the store."

  "It's not that I really thought you stole it," I say apologetically. "But with the donut money missing ..."