Black Chokeberry, page 23
Just then, Joey Serentino and Sammy Cordova came wrestling each other around the corner, pushing and shoving, shouting about knocking each other’s teeth out, falling down in the street just near the bus stop bench. They were only six feet away from her now. Joey Serentino struggled to his knees holding his mouth, blood oozing out, as the street light came on. Ellen was stunned as she watched him trying to catch the blood with his bare hands. Sammy looked right at Ellen just before he turned and kicked Joey hard in the head. Joey fell over in the snow bank, moaning, his ear bleeding now, blood all over the place.
Sammy slid onto the bus bench, exhausted, and looked straight at Ellen one more time. He never said a word, but for weeks afterward, Ellen lived in terror as she waited for Sammy to come and get her. She was the witness, the little girl who could get him in trouble. But he never came. In time Ellen understood that Sammy didn’t have a clue about who she was, or where she lived. He was a teenager and she was ten. They were worlds apart. She had had bad dreams about that fight for years. The loud sounds of an argument and the sight of blood terrified her to this day.
The shouts from the Walpole front porch seemed to have peaked. Easing around the tree to take a look, Ellen knew it was time to make a move. Henry couldn’t stay put much longer. He started to bark. Oh, no. What if they saw her? What if Mario recognized her? Shushing Henry, she wondered why none of the neighbors, or someone inside the Walpole house hadn’t come out to stop this? Surely they could hear as well as she could? Oh, damn it all to next Tuesday. It was up to her. She pulled out her cell phone and started to dial.
Just as she was hitting 911, she heard the police siren wailing down West Fifth, the car’s blue and red lights flashing. She straightened up to see a police officer pull into the Walpoles’ driveway.
He grunted as he propelled himself out of the car, jogging across the front lawn, yelling at the older boy, “Get your hands off of him; get the hell off of him right now. I mean it, Mario, stop it now or I’ll have to taser you.” The officer struggled to untangle them, but the boys were too engaged, too wrapped up with each other, legs twisted together, hands and arms flailing in the air, the younger boy screaming with each punch, the older boy snorting and wheezing as he pummeled him over and over.
“I am gonna tell you one more time, Mario. Get off your brother right now! All right, it’s your choice! Here it comes.”
Ellen watched intently as the officer aimed the taser gun at the older boy just as he looked up. She’d never seen one used before, except on TV. The officer shouted once more for him to get off his brother, but the boy didn’t move. The laser beam must have hit him in the right place because the boy yelped and fell over instantly, like a half-cooked soufflé. The officer sprinted over and pushed him on his stomach, handcuffing him easily.
Ellen couldn’t tell if the younger boy was moving. How in the world does this kind of thing happen on West Fifth? Right here in little Oswego, New York, for Pete’s sake. Hot bile bubbled up into her throat and she spit it out, coughing. Henry pulled at the leash, wanting to go back to the scene, the smell of blood and tissue begging him to go and have a good look around. She wasn’t having any of that.
“Move it, Henry, right now.” Startled by her aggressiveness, he put his ears down, his tail between his legs, and moved steadily alongside her. She picked up speed, wanting nothing more than to get home and disappear into that upstairs bedroom where she could hole up in peace. As they passed familiar houses, lights coming on all along the block, she realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out in one big whoosh. Her chest felt as if someone had put a match to it. A wad of poker-hot bile rocketed into her mouth and she leaned over and hurled it out, bathing the exposed roots of Ina Schmidt’s horse chestnut tree in vomit.
What a mess. What a horrible, big, fat, sour-milk mess.
Moving like a rusty old wagon behind Henry, Ellen knew it would be days before the images of that scene would fade and weeks before she could close her eyes at night and not see that young boy and his brother tearing each other apart, young bones snapping to pieces, terrible things being said, old memories melding into new terrors. Two boys settling things with their fists, just like before.
At least I know these boys didn’t see me. They have no idea who I am. I can put that fear away. I will not let this get to me. I am a grown woman who knows those boys can’t hurt me. What was that? The wind was picking up. It was nothing. Get a grip.
She took the porch steps two at a time, eager to get into the house, out of the dark.
Ruby heard Ellen come in the front door. That was strange. Ellen always took Henry through the kitchen door so that she could hang up his leash and her coat in the mudroom.
“You all right?” she called out.
“Yes, Ruby, I’m all right,” Ellen said. “Just give me a minute and I’ll come in and see you, OK?”
Frances got up to see what was happening. Like Ruby, she recognized something was amiss for Ellen to come through the front door. She walked gingerly back to the kitchen to investigate. She found Ellen hunched over the kitchen sink, either hiccupping or retching, she couldn’t tell which exactly.
“Is something wrong, dear? Why, you’re shaking! What’s happened to you?”
Ellen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and straightened up. She turned to look at Frances, the lovely, kind, sweet Frances who now lived five doors down from a violence so raw it made her heart want to split open.
“Oh, Frances, it was horrible. Ugly and horrible. I was walking Henry when I heard voices, angry voices, and then two boys, teenagers I’m guessing, got into the most brutal fight on the Walpoles’ front porch. They were shoving and punching each other until they both fell down the porch steps. Terrific screams came out of the younger boy. There was blood everywhere. Then I realized it was Mario who was the aggressor. Our Mario, the boy who does our yard work. He was brutal. Then the policeman came and used a taser on Mario to make him stop. I couldn’t stop watching. I was terrified. Then we snuck away. I was so afraid. I threw up all over Ina Schmidt’s tree.”
Frances hugged her, lightly squeezing Ellen’s limp arms.
“What a ghastly experience for you to endure, my darlin’ Ellen. I surely do wish you’d never even had a glimpse of such an awful scene. But you’re home now, and safe. It can’t follow you here.”
Ellen lifted her head, her swollen eyes barely open. She squinted at Frances, trying to focus.
“Follow me here? But of course it’s followed me here. Don’t you see? It’s inside me now, Frances. It always will be.”
Frances didn’t reply. Instead, she put her arm around Ellen and guided her to the back stairs, telling her she’d be up in a few minutes to help her with a good hot bath. Ellen looked like a frightened child as she let go of Frances’s hand.
“You will come up, for sure?” she asked.
“Yes, dear, of course. I just want to speak one little minute with Ruby, to let her know what’s happened. She’ll be wantin’ to know you’re all right. Go on upstairs now. I’ll be along shortly. You just draw the water for a nice hot bubble bath, and I’ll come along in just a bit.”
While Ellen and Henry headed upstairs, Ruby listened to Frances intently. She was shocked by the news.
“Well, for one thing, it’s not the Walpole house anymore,” she said. “But I know the one Ellen means. The Walpoles retired to Florida three years ago and sold the house to Tony Russo. He turned it over to his daughter, Angelina. She lives there with her two sons, Angelo and Mario. They seem like nice kids. Something must have gotten into them to fight like that. I wonder if Angelina was home. She must not have been, or she would have put a stop to it.”
Ruby told Frances that Mario, the elder brother, was just out of high school. He had delivered groceries for Garafolo’s last winter.
“He is always polite, always well spoken. In fact, I had him come in for a cup of coffee several times on his run. I offered him hot cocoa but Mario said he didn’t drink ‘that baby stuff.’ Black coffee was what he wanted.” Ruby said Mario’s brother was probably a couple of years younger.
“I remember when Jack Simonson married their mother. Angelina was an Italian beauty with her black hair and shapely figure. A big smile on her dimpled cheeks all the time. A very nice girl, too, everyone said. Jack was the catch of the season with his blond hair, blue eyes, and six feet of charm. He had the most beautiful strong white teeth.” Stretching to take a look toward the Walpole house, Ruby said the marriage had failed.
“It’s hard to mix a strong Italian Catholic family like the Russos with a Lutheran Scandinavian like Jack. We all wondered how long it would last,” she said, adding, “We hoped for the best, of course.”
Within a year of their wedding Angelina gave birth to Mario. A couple of years later, Angelo was born.
“We were quite surprised when Jack upped and moved to Boston three years ago. Angelina’s an Oswego girl from start to finish, but Jack wanted to see more of the world, I guess. At least that’s the story Angelina told people when their divorce came through.”
Frances said she hoped the boys were all right after their awful melee. She started toward the front hallway.
“I am so deeply sorry for Ellen,” she said. “What a terrible thing to experience. I need to get up to her now, to help settle her down. You’ll be all right, won’t you, my dear?”
“I don’t like the idea of your going upstairs, Frances. You haven’t attempted those stairs in weeks. You don’t know what you can and cannot do on that staircase. I think you should let Ellen get herself bathed, then come down here so we can see that she’s all right. We don’t need you falling.”
Frances’s shoulders drooped at the mention of falling. “Of all the sweet things to say Ruby. I am so appreciative of your thinkin’ of me and my tender state. You are exactly right. I probably have no business climbing those stairs this evenin’. I’ll call up to Ellen and let her know. Oh, what a distressing business. I am simply flabbergasted by it all.”
Ruby hated the upset the fistfight had caused for Ellen and now Frances. She’d have to find out what prompted Mario to knock his brother around like that. He must have had a good reason. She liked Mario. He was a hard-working kid who got a bad break when his father left. Just when Mario needed him most, she suspected. On the sunny side, she could use this unhappy scene to her advantage. When Ellen was finished bathing, both women would be ready for a nice strong scotch and soda, followed by a good night’s sleep. Ruby would happily prepare their nightcap. She’d make the drinks good and strong, adding to her chance for an uninterrupted escape tonight. Tonight was the night.
Rod Stewart, sing me home.
She could hear Frances at the bottom of the staircase calling loudly up to Ellen, explaining it was as far as she could go. Ellen seemed to be all right, lightly shouting back that she was in the bath, and that she’d come down to the parlor when she was finished.
Ruby shifted herself off the bed, a sense of control sliding down her spine. Settling into her scooter chair, she motored over to the bar in the butler’s pantry and set up the scotch and soda tray. She drove out to the kitchen and filled the ice bucket, then made three trips from the pantry to the parlor, setting up the drinks table by the fireplace. She felt like Bette Davis on a mission, all strong and in charge. “Fasten your seatbelts, ladies. It’s going to be a bum-py night.”
This was working out perfectly. Thank you, Mario.
Ruby lay wide awake listening for the sounds of snoring. It was just before two in the morning, the ideal time to make her escape. The house was coffin-still, the rich mantle of sleep settled over her friends. At least she hoped so. Frances usually fell asleep within thirty minutes, and tonight had been no exception. Ellen was another matter. Since she was upstairs with Henry in the front bedroom, it was difficult to detect snoring, much less heavy breathing. Still, she knew that once Ellen settled down, she would sleep through the night. Ruby decided to go with the history and assume Ellen was deep into a dream state by now.
When the digital clock hit 2:00 a.m. she slid carefully off the bed and, in one turnaround, landed squarely in her scooter chair. Her biggest issue would be getting the chair up and down two sets of porch steps. She had gone over and over the logistics in her mind, devising what she hoped was a doable plan. It had to work. Step by step, she’d make it work.
First of all, she didn’t intend to take much with her tonight. Once the ladies realized she was back home, they would bring everything to her. At the foot of her bed she tugged hard, her muscles not as tight as they could be, until she managed to pull off the Hudson Bay blanket. It was bitterly cold out, and while her good winter coat and hat were in the hall closet, every door opening and closing brought the chance for discovery. This blanket would serve her well; she would keep things simple. Standing up, she bundled herself in it, then plopped down to wrap her left ankle tightly with the Ace bandage. The swelling was nearly gone today, and the extra support felt good as she rolled her wool sock back over it. She stepped her feet into thick lambskin slippers. With their nonskid soles, those slippers were ideal for the trip across the street.
She put two bottles of medicine in the side pocket of her scooter along with her house keys and the latest issue of Star magazine. The magazine had been coming to her in the mail every Monday for eighteen years. Normally she couldn’t wait to take it to bed just after supper and read it cover to cover. She had been too distracted to read it tonight; it would be a nice reward tomorrow. She reached into the nightstand drawer and took out a white envelope and laid it on the bed pillow. Reaching in again, all the way to the back, she put her fingers around the Swiss Army knife, easing it into the scooter’s small inside front key-pocket. She had everything she needed. Now all she wanted was a little luck.
The scooter hummed quietly down the front hallway. She steered it carefully, determined not to bump into the walls. Her escape route would be through the back door, not the front, because she wanted to maximize the distance between her and the ladies. Easing through the kitchen, she faced the first of several hurdles: the three steps down into the mudroom. Stopping the scooter close to the door, she stood up and gripped the doorframe before sitting down quickly on the top step. Her ankle didn’t seem to mind the weight she was putting on it. Good things were happening.
She twisted around and brought the scooter behind her and went down the first two steps on her fanny, sliding as lightly as she could. Reaching back, she grabbed the scooter and pulled it toward her with both hands. It bounced down slowly at first, then picked up speed, landing nosily on the mudroom floor. She was sweating in the blanket, the stress and physical exertion already taking its toll, the scooter heavier than she thought, its loud landing capable of giving her away. She sat still to listen for sounds of movement in the house. She heard none.
She took a deep breath and pulled herself up, shuffling over to the back door. Unlocking it carefully, she pulled it toward her all the way, then pushed it halfway to the wall. She opened the storm door and dragged the scooter behind her as she went out onto the back porch, still on her fanny. Six long steps to go down. She pulled the two porch doors closed behind her. She didn’t like leaving them unlocked, but it was only a few more hours until daylight. Besides, this was Oswego, for heaven’s sake. It was still the safest place on earth, despite the events of the past week.
She went down a step at a time, standing after each one to lift and pull the scooter along behind her, holding it tight. She managed not to fall despite her precarious balance on the narrow steps; she stopped several times to catch her breath. The weatherman had been right for once. The frost was heavy tonight. Within seconds she was shivering. A sharp wind slapped her in the face; another blast lifted her hair, shooting cold air into her ears. She’d have a good old earache tomorrow. She sat herself down in the scooter chair, the blanket around her shoulders. She tented the blanket over her head, tucking it in at her waist, and took a deep breath, relief spreading over her. Step one had been successful.
Keep going, Ruby.
Although she hadn’t spent much time in Frances’s backyard, the back porch light gave enough illumination for her to find her way around the side of the house and down the driveway. Moving steadily, she noticed the front porch light wasn’t on at her house. Oh well, she hadn’t intended to go in the front anyway; too much exposure and too many steps. Coming to a dead stop at the end of Frances’s driveway, she checked for cars. At this hour West Fifth Street was quiet, not a car in sight. She hoped none of her neighbors was having a sleepless night. She could only imagine what they’d think if they saw her scooting into the road, the blanket over her head, her bulky slippers sitting in the foot carrier, the scooter moving in high gear at a nutty five miles an hour. Thankfully, the little engine managed to jump up over the worn curb of her driveway and push her on her way. She patted the scooter like a much-loved pet.
Chugging up the driveway her heart quickened. Yes! The back porch light was on. It was a small light, just an inexpensive forty-watt bulb; it was good enough for the porch. She had no interest in lighting the whole backyard as some of her neighbors did now.
Landscape lighting, my foot. What a waste of perfectly good money.
Ina Schmidt had thrown a special party last summer just to show off her new lights. She said she wanted to create a special backyard ambience. Ina needed a good trip to France; when she saw how those French people treated Americans, she’d be done with her ambience. Besides, who wanted to sit outside with lights on all over the place, attracting every mosquito for miles around, every stagnant pond from Minetto to Fruit Valley loaded with larvae in the summer drought? Ina had an answer for that, too. She installed electric mosquito killers so they could all sit and listen while hundreds of bugs sizzled to death. It certainly wasn’t Ruby’s idea of a fun summer evening.
Moving forward again, Ruby eyed the five steps leading up to the back porch door. She slowed down, hesitating, then stopped. What was that? She turned her head, tilting it like a dog listening to a coyote howl, head forward, intent, not moving a hair. Something wasn’t right back there. Behind the garage? Turning around, she went to investigate.
