__________________________________
Memory in Blue
By Stephanie Kemp
Memory in Blue
By Stephanie Kemp
I got the day, month, year wrong.
No-one remembers the Picasso.
And Beth was a new friend, not a new girl.
If only the rest of it was wrong.
Names have been changed, except for Jesus.
And this will always be a work in progress.
______________
My mom always says it is the details that make life beautiful. Even if the details on their own are not.
I imagine a movie montage here:
Flashes of lake, sky, parkas, blue ribbons, a blue AMC Gremlin with white stripes and white walls, a boy in a blue sweatshirt, a blue door, a blue waiting room at the dentist’s office, a teacher wearing a blue pantsuit writing on a chalkboard, close up of blue eyes
It is also the details that can make life unbearable.
I imagine the same flashes - seen now through a different, terrifying lens and from a very different movie:
Flashes of lake, sky, parkas, blue ribbons, a blue AMC Gremlin with white stripes and white walls, a boy in a blue sweatshirt, a blue door, a blue waiting room at the dentist’s office, a teacher wearing a blue pantsuit writing on a chalkboard, close up of blue eyes
…can you see it?
These details can make people become unhinged.
Imagine sirens, crying, crime tape, a skateboard upside down - wheels spinning in a ditch
Some people.
I will never unsee Beth’s sketch of Picasso’s inmate.
Other people get stronger.
…Maybe they were the strong ones to begin with.
A flash of faces we will come to know, ending on Mary
Those people should always win.
But they don’t.
That year everything was blue.
Everyone thinks they remember the day.
______________
It was a perfect December Friday. The last snow had melted and the next one had yet to come. The sky was an uncut vibrant blue, with only the occasional jet stream breaking the peace, undoubtedly ferrying Mighiganders to Florida. Every year this was the winter sky equivalent of the Summer Friday traffic jams on I-75 North. Jesus checked in on every trip, making sure we were on the right road as we all made our way to a lake, whether we were Dixie Baptists or not.
Most of us were not.
______________
I loved that my state was shaped like a mitten.
I loved my hometown.
But I no longer believed that Jesus had everything under control.
______________
The streets hummed with over-sugared, parka clad kids on bikes, foot, or seasonally challenged skateboards, while parents with bags of holiday surprises, wine jugs and cartons of cigarettes made last minute pot luck plans.
Little people were excited about co-ed cookie parties and dreaming about presents.
Big people were excited about cocktail parties and feeling like anything might happen, while (mostly) knowing it wouldn’t. (This is what my older sister told me. She was in 5th grade, but old for her year.)
My 4th grade friends and I fell squarely into the “you have to believe to receive” Santa category that year, but we were hoping for the best.
And doing Secret Santas, just in case.
Just before recess on this day, the boy that I loved gave me a gold ring with a heart cut out of the middle. Even though it had already started to turn a silvery green in the box, I loved it. And him. It was the best day ever. I unwittingly put it on my ring finger and by the end of recess it was more green than gold and already cutting off my circulation. I couldn’t get it off and was pretty sure it was actually my boyfriend’s best friend that I truly loved.
It was the worst day ever.
Teachers were happy that day possibly because they loved their students, but definitely because they knew they would soon be off for two weeks. My teacher, Miss S, wore her light blue pantsuit with matching shoes and eye shadow that day. She was extra happy because her tiny dogs had just won first prize at another dog show. She always brought their trophies to show us. Some kids made fun of her, but I loved hearing about Jim and Jane. I watched Miss S’s mouth move while she told the familiar story of how they came from behind for the win, even though I don’t remember hearing any of the words she actually said.
On this morning, she asked me to help her bring the latest trophies and blue ribbons in from her car (a very cool blue Gremlin with white stripes and white walls, which she always kept immaculate). When I asked her if she would need help reloading them after school (I had to leave early for a dentist’s appointment before I got my new kitten - worst and best day ever again!) she said no - she wanted to keep them in the classroom because she thought they would remind us that anything is possible if you work hard and do your best.
I loved Miss S mostly because she had tricked me into loving books again. My parents got divorced at the beginning of the year and I suddenly hated all books. I was furious that I couldn’t even focus on the 1st grade books that my little sister would leave in the breakfast room with eggs smeared on them (this carelessness also made me furious). 4th grade was the year we had to start doing book reports once a month but it was already December and I hadn’t done any. My parents had conferences with Miss S, so I was given “extra time” to do them. This infuriated my cousin, who was in my class and had to do all of the reports just because his mom and dad weren’t getting divorced.
In a clever move, Miss S told me about a book series called “The Great Brain.” She said she thought I would love it, since I had so much in common with the main character, Tom. He (with the great brain of the title) was a middle child who swindled his siblings and friends while never getting in real trouble and always getting away with it. (He was also a Mormon boy who lived in Utah in the late 1800’s with brothers and no sisters, but I liked that my teacher focused only on our similarities.)
After telling me about the book, Miss S pulled another fast one by saying she didn’t know if I’d be able to finish the book, given that “it was long and might be a better fit for more advanced readers.” She added, “Your sister might like it,” and told me I could take it home for the weekend.
I finished the book that night.
______________
But back to the day we all still think we remember…
Even though I couldn’t wait to get my new kitten, I didn’t want to leave early to go to the dentist again (I had been grinding my teeth) because I was afraid I would miss the picture lady.
Each month, a different class mom would bring in a print of a famous piece of art, tell us about it, and then leave it sitting on the chalk ledge until the next month when a new picture lady mom would swap it out.
I was lucky on this Friday, because the picture lady came early. It was the new girl, Beth’s mom. She was beautiful. This month the picture was from “Picasso’s Blue Period: ‘Femme Aux Bras Croises'.” It was a painting of a sad lady with her arms crossed, “looking at nothing.” I wondered if Beth’s mom had dressed like Picasso’s lady on purpose, as part of her picture lady show. She explained that art scholars believe that the lady with crossed arms “may have been an inmate at a Paris prison.” I had several questions but didn’t raise my hand because the boys were already making dumb jokes like, “She doesn’t even need a bra!” Everyone was laughing except me and Beth’s mom. Beth wasn’t laughing either, but she was busy sketching the painting. I suddenly wanted to know what it must be like to live at their house, and hoped that one of them might invite me over so that I could ask my questions and see what kind of snacks they had.
Miss S ended our art lesson early, saying that she wanted to make sure we had time to decorate our gingerbread men but I think she was really worrying about the Parisian inmate and what else Beth’s mom might have to say about her. As I packed up my stuff to go to the dentist, I looked at the painting again and decided I didn’t like it after all. I wanted it to be more hopeful like last month’s jazzy Matisse.
I wanted to be more hopeful.
And grateful.
At least I was grateful it wasn’t sugar cookies I would be missing.
______________
I had been to the dentist 4 times that fall because of the grinding. Dr. Morton usually just looked at my teeth and then I got to pick a plastic prize from his secret drawer. We had an established pattern: Dr. Morton would gently reprimand me and warn me of all that could happen if I didn’t relax my jaw, and his receptionist, Mary, would wink at me and sneak me an extra prize. This always made me feel good, not just because I got an extra prize, but because Mary was a very serious lady and didn’t wink at just anyone.
Today was no different, except that I was getting a kitten and my mom was late picking me up after her grocery shopping. I didn’t care because I was sitting across the waiting room from a boy I was sure I was going to marry. He was older than me, but I could tell he liked me, too. We both had on blue Pumas and he was wearing brown Levi corduroys, sitting with his legs crossed, man style. He had a haircut like my old boyfriend from earlier in the day. I hoped he didn’t notice the green ring still stuck on my swollen ring finger, or my staring.
When my mom finally arrived, my legs were fully asleep from the way I had been sitting in my chair. As my mom signed paperwork with Mary behind her sliding window, I tried to stand up not realizing my legs were numb as I fell head first into my someday husband’s crotch. It was even worse than it sounds. I couldn’t breathe or get fully out of his crotch because only my arms worked and all they had accomplished was putting me closer to my now never to be husband’s face.
As my mom rushed over to help me, Mary saved my life. She apologized for not warning me “about some of the possible side effects of the medication that had been prescribed” for me. “Dizziness is common!”
I thanked her with all of my eyes and eventually walked away with a tiny yoyo (my selection) and a blue whistle (courtesy of Mary).
It was time to get my kitten.
I had no way of knowing that the whistle would come to torture me.
______________
We were getting our kitten from our mom’s friend who lived walking distance from my dentist’s office, but we drove because we had to pick up my sisters, much to my dismay.
There were 2 kittens to choose from. One was all black and the other was black with little white paws and a white mustache and whiskers.
It was a big day for us. And for the kids of the friend who was giving them away. They wanted to keep them. Obviously, they would want to keep them. I was thinking what a good thing it was that we didn’t go to the same school as these kids since I was sure they would no longer like us. I also remember thinking it was a good thing that my parents got divorced because my dad was allergic to cats.
We picked the one with the white paws. I was in love, but my sisters left me and our new kitten to play with the neighborhood kids while our mom was in her friend’s kitchen learning how to take care of a kitten.
I was sitting in the way back of our open station wagon, trying to make the kitten less scared and deciding between the names Whiskers and Boots. A boy on a skateboard that I’d never met before came up to the car and hung out with me while I tried to get the kitten to play. She was still crying tiny meows for her mom. He was nice. He said that the kitten would like me the most because I was the one who stayed with her while she was scared. I hoped this was right. He said he thought Whiskers was a better name and then rolled off on his skateboard, saying that he’d be right back. I hoped he would come back, even though I wasn’t sure he was my type. While he was gone (and just in case), I was finally able to get the ring off from what now felt like a lifetime ago. I put it in my pocket, next to my yoyo and whistle. It had been a bountiful day.
When he did come back, he had a tiny flashlight. “Look,” he said, “Kittens love to chase the beam.” We used the light to make the kitten happy, and watched as she jumped around the back of the wagon, maniacally waving her little paws to try and snag the light. She stopped crying. We didn’t talk anymore until the boy said he had to go home. He let me keep the flashlight even though I said I had one at my house. “Yeah, but you’re not home yet and she’s still scared. Don’t worry. I can get another one at the drugstore.” I offered to trade him my blue whistle (I liked the yoyo) but he didn’t want it.
______________
A boy was kidnapped from our local drugstore.
His parents went out for dinner at a restaurant right across the street.
His sister told him she would leave the door unlocked so he could get back in.
She lent him money for candy.
He rode his skateboard to the drugstore.
I didn’t know if it was him.
But I knew that it looked like him from the black and white photo they showed on the news.
I prayed that it wasn’t.
And if it was I prayed that he didn’t go to the drugstore because he needed to replace a tiny flashlight.
I couldn’t bear the thought of the boy being scared and crying for his mom.
I couldn’t bear the thought of his mom.
______________
I remember all of the blues of that December Friday as being the same color.
I remember that I was glad when it was my dad’s weekend because it felt like a whole different world with my dad. I wanted to live in a different world even though I was always sad to leave my kitten with my mom.
I remember that we weren’t allowed to watch the news after that first broadcast.
I remember that my mom tried not to let us see when she cried.
I remember that before it was over, 2 boys and 2 girls were murdered.
I remember a lot of families who moved away, including Beth and her Mom.
I remember that the week before they left I got to go to their house. It was a rainy day and the first time I had toast with honey. There was a whole book of Picasso on the coffee table. I no longer wanted to ask any questions.
I remember that we didn’t have any more picture ladies that year and were left being held with the Parisian inmate. The boys didn’t tell any more jokes.
I remember having all of my monthly book reports done for the whole year before we came back after Christmas. I read the entire Great Brain series because I loved them, but also because I hoped to learn from Tom how to save the boy from my town who had been kidnapped.
I remember Miss S got called in for questioning by the police because her blue gremlin with white stripes and white walls matched a description of a car from the drugstore that night.
I remember that she kept teaching at our school but never brought in another dog trophy after that. I missed hearing about Jim and Jane, but still found myself staring at her moving mouth without hearing any words.
I remember thinking that nothing worse could happen to a teacher, being questioned for something like this when you didn’t do it. I held onto this thought for 35 years until my former 6th grade teacher, Mr. B, was gunned down in a murder suicide by a former student.
I remember being shocked to find out 40 years later that my cousin, (the one who had to do his book reports on time), had been friends with the boy but we had never discussed it.
I remember trading my heart ring later that year to a friend for her tiny Gund bear that I put in a blue plastic box from Cargo Hold.
I remember wishing years later that I’d kept the bear and a friendship with the boy who gave me the ring.
I remember that the grown ups whispered about blue gremlins and the boy’s poor parents and stopped talking if they noticed kids around.
I remember that I could never bring myself to think about the boy’s family. His parents who were having dinner across the street or his sister who let him go to the drugstore.
I remember wishing that the boy who gave me his flashlight that day had taken my blue whistle, whether he was the boy who died or not.
______________
The last time I saw Dr. Morton was when he had to fix my front tooth after I broke it bowling while on a bad date during my freshman year in college.
As always, I was was gently reprimanded but then happy to see Mary and grateful for her kindness and gracious humor. She listened (or at least pretended to listen) to the story of my most recent romantic exploits, but did not offer me an extra prize. I was 18, but remember feeling slightly sad.
I didn’t find out that Mary was the kidnapped boy's mom until I was 50. A friend told me, shocked that I’d never made the connection (we all went to the same dentist). I confirmed it by finally looking at the news from those days online. There was a video of the press conference where the boy’s dad filled his son in on how his baseball team was doing (and how his coach and teammates couldn’t wait to see him on the field when he got back) and his mom told him that she couldn’t wait to make him his favorite dinner when he came home.
It was Mary.
The plastic whistle that she had given me that day was the same one that I wished I had given to a boy I still think was her son so that he might not have been kidnapped from our local drugstore. So he might not have been murdered and left in a winter ditch next to his skateboard in a nearby town after having been fed his favorite meal.
I was so grateful that I never knew it was Mary.
I am grateful because, for all of those years I was able to see Mary as a whole person. I can think that there was at least some part of her life where something else could define her, at least while she was behind that desk and sliding window - taking care of all the kids in her waiting room - anxious about whatever might be bringing them to the dentist outside of a regular cleaning and the promise of a plastic prize.
She wasn’t just the mom whose son was taken away forever, she was also a warm, strong, kind, intact human being. I would never have seen any of these things if I’d known then that she was his mom.
I need to believe that she was also those other things because how could she have survived if she was only his mom?
I need to believe that you can still be those other things when bad things happen. When the worst things happen.
The worst things will happen.
______________
I haven’t lived in that Michigan town for over 30 years.
I still think of it as home although I no longer hold my hand up like a mitten (fingers together, thumb apart) to point out where I am from.
People still fight over the details of that day because we all thought we knew him. And in most cases, and somehow, we all did.
We all have stories about that time because it still lives in us.
We are all forever connected by that terrible time when at least 4 kids were murdered.
It is also the details that can make life unbearable.
To this day, I have a tortured relationship with details, although I do begrudgingly share my mom’s faith in their power, if not always, or reliably, their beauty.
I think that I (like everyone else in our town), just want to believe that there could’ve been a different ending, if only we could still rearrange the details.
Or if Jesus could have kept us all on the right road after all.
I imagine a movie scene here:
From a camera high in the sky, we see a boy in a blue sweatshirt skateboarding down a tree-lined neighborhood street. Snow falls lightly. The camera makes its way down to him and follows him from behind as he arrives back at his house. His beautiful mom, Mary, holds the door open for him, telling him to take off his shoes and not eat his candy from the drugstore until after dinner. There has been a change of plans and she has made fried chicken. As the boy hugs her and enters the house, she notices he is holding a blue whistle that looks familiar and makes her smile, as she puts together all the details of this day that must have come together for him to have it now - in his hand - and no longer in hers. It is his, her, their life happening.
This is the movie I would still like to see.
Or be able to make.
______________
ps. My sisters don’t remember me playing with our kitten in the back of our car, but they both remembered that the boy’s sister worked with our mom as a preschool teacher’s assistant at the time of the kidnapping. She came to work the next day crying and our mom told her she needed to go home and be with her family. I vaguely remembered this once they told me, but couldn’t - or wouldn’t - let it in.
pps. I may (or may not) reach out to our childhood family friend who is now an attorney for the boy’s family (the killer has never been caught). Mary has passed away, but at the time of this writing, his dad and sister are still fighting for their son and brother.
They must be the strongest people in the world, in addition to everything else that I (still) believe they are and (unfairly?) need them to be.
No-one remembers the Picasso.
And Beth was a new friend, not a new girl.
If only the rest of it was wrong.
Names have been changed, except for Jesus.
And this will always be a work in progress.
______________
My mom always says it is the details that make life beautiful. Even if the details on their own are not.
I imagine a movie montage here:
Flashes of lake, sky, parkas, blue ribbons, a blue AMC Gremlin with white stripes and white walls, a boy in a blue sweatshirt, a blue door, a blue waiting room at the dentist’s office, a teacher wearing a blue pantsuit writing on a chalkboard, close up of blue eyes
It is also the details that can make life unbearable.
I imagine the same flashes - seen now through a different, terrifying lens and from a very different movie:
Flashes of lake, sky, parkas, blue ribbons, a blue AMC Gremlin with white stripes and white walls, a boy in a blue sweatshirt, a blue door, a blue waiting room at the dentist’s office, a teacher wearing a blue pantsuit writing on a chalkboard, close up of blue eyes
…can you see it?
These details can make people become unhinged.
Imagine sirens, crying, crime tape, a skateboard upside down - wheels spinning in a ditch
Some people.
I will never unsee Beth’s sketch of Picasso’s inmate.
Other people get stronger.
…Maybe they were the strong ones to begin with.
A flash of faces we will come to know, ending on Mary
Those people should always win.
But they don’t.
That year everything was blue.
Everyone thinks they remember the day.
______________
It was a perfect December Friday. The last snow had melted and the next one had yet to come. The sky was an uncut vibrant blue, with only the occasional jet stream breaking the peace, undoubtedly ferrying Mighiganders to Florida. Every year this was the winter sky equivalent of the Summer Friday traffic jams on I-75 North. Jesus checked in on every trip, making sure we were on the right road as we all made our way to a lake, whether we were Dixie Baptists or not.
Most of us were not.
______________
I loved that my state was shaped like a mitten.
I loved my hometown.
But I no longer believed that Jesus had everything under control.
______________
The streets hummed with over-sugared, parka clad kids on bikes, foot, or seasonally challenged skateboards, while parents with bags of holiday surprises, wine jugs and cartons of cigarettes made last minute pot luck plans.
Little people were excited about co-ed cookie parties and dreaming about presents.
Big people were excited about cocktail parties and feeling like anything might happen, while (mostly) knowing it wouldn’t. (This is what my older sister told me. She was in 5th grade, but old for her year.)
My 4th grade friends and I fell squarely into the “you have to believe to receive” Santa category that year, but we were hoping for the best.
And doing Secret Santas, just in case.
Just before recess on this day, the boy that I loved gave me a gold ring with a heart cut out of the middle. Even though it had already started to turn a silvery green in the box, I loved it. And him. It was the best day ever. I unwittingly put it on my ring finger and by the end of recess it was more green than gold and already cutting off my circulation. I couldn’t get it off and was pretty sure it was actually my boyfriend’s best friend that I truly loved.
It was the worst day ever.
Teachers were happy that day possibly because they loved their students, but definitely because they knew they would soon be off for two weeks. My teacher, Miss S, wore her light blue pantsuit with matching shoes and eye shadow that day. She was extra happy because her tiny dogs had just won first prize at another dog show. She always brought their trophies to show us. Some kids made fun of her, but I loved hearing about Jim and Jane. I watched Miss S’s mouth move while she told the familiar story of how they came from behind for the win, even though I don’t remember hearing any of the words she actually said.
On this morning, she asked me to help her bring the latest trophies and blue ribbons in from her car (a very cool blue Gremlin with white stripes and white walls, which she always kept immaculate). When I asked her if she would need help reloading them after school (I had to leave early for a dentist’s appointment before I got my new kitten - worst and best day ever again!) she said no - she wanted to keep them in the classroom because she thought they would remind us that anything is possible if you work hard and do your best.
I loved Miss S mostly because she had tricked me into loving books again. My parents got divorced at the beginning of the year and I suddenly hated all books. I was furious that I couldn’t even focus on the 1st grade books that my little sister would leave in the breakfast room with eggs smeared on them (this carelessness also made me furious). 4th grade was the year we had to start doing book reports once a month but it was already December and I hadn’t done any. My parents had conferences with Miss S, so I was given “extra time” to do them. This infuriated my cousin, who was in my class and had to do all of the reports just because his mom and dad weren’t getting divorced.
In a clever move, Miss S told me about a book series called “The Great Brain.” She said she thought I would love it, since I had so much in common with the main character, Tom. He (with the great brain of the title) was a middle child who swindled his siblings and friends while never getting in real trouble and always getting away with it. (He was also a Mormon boy who lived in Utah in the late 1800’s with brothers and no sisters, but I liked that my teacher focused only on our similarities.)
After telling me about the book, Miss S pulled another fast one by saying she didn’t know if I’d be able to finish the book, given that “it was long and might be a better fit for more advanced readers.” She added, “Your sister might like it,” and told me I could take it home for the weekend.
I finished the book that night.
______________
But back to the day we all still think we remember…
Even though I couldn’t wait to get my new kitten, I didn’t want to leave early to go to the dentist again (I had been grinding my teeth) because I was afraid I would miss the picture lady.
Each month, a different class mom would bring in a print of a famous piece of art, tell us about it, and then leave it sitting on the chalk ledge until the next month when a new picture lady mom would swap it out.
I was lucky on this Friday, because the picture lady came early. It was the new girl, Beth’s mom. She was beautiful. This month the picture was from “Picasso’s Blue Period: ‘Femme Aux Bras Croises'.” It was a painting of a sad lady with her arms crossed, “looking at nothing.” I wondered if Beth’s mom had dressed like Picasso’s lady on purpose, as part of her picture lady show. She explained that art scholars believe that the lady with crossed arms “may have been an inmate at a Paris prison.” I had several questions but didn’t raise my hand because the boys were already making dumb jokes like, “She doesn’t even need a bra!” Everyone was laughing except me and Beth’s mom. Beth wasn’t laughing either, but she was busy sketching the painting. I suddenly wanted to know what it must be like to live at their house, and hoped that one of them might invite me over so that I could ask my questions and see what kind of snacks they had.
Miss S ended our art lesson early, saying that she wanted to make sure we had time to decorate our gingerbread men but I think she was really worrying about the Parisian inmate and what else Beth’s mom might have to say about her. As I packed up my stuff to go to the dentist, I looked at the painting again and decided I didn’t like it after all. I wanted it to be more hopeful like last month’s jazzy Matisse.
I wanted to be more hopeful.
And grateful.
At least I was grateful it wasn’t sugar cookies I would be missing.
______________
I had been to the dentist 4 times that fall because of the grinding. Dr. Morton usually just looked at my teeth and then I got to pick a plastic prize from his secret drawer. We had an established pattern: Dr. Morton would gently reprimand me and warn me of all that could happen if I didn’t relax my jaw, and his receptionist, Mary, would wink at me and sneak me an extra prize. This always made me feel good, not just because I got an extra prize, but because Mary was a very serious lady and didn’t wink at just anyone.
Today was no different, except that I was getting a kitten and my mom was late picking me up after her grocery shopping. I didn’t care because I was sitting across the waiting room from a boy I was sure I was going to marry. He was older than me, but I could tell he liked me, too. We both had on blue Pumas and he was wearing brown Levi corduroys, sitting with his legs crossed, man style. He had a haircut like my old boyfriend from earlier in the day. I hoped he didn’t notice the green ring still stuck on my swollen ring finger, or my staring.
When my mom finally arrived, my legs were fully asleep from the way I had been sitting in my chair. As my mom signed paperwork with Mary behind her sliding window, I tried to stand up not realizing my legs were numb as I fell head first into my someday husband’s crotch. It was even worse than it sounds. I couldn’t breathe or get fully out of his crotch because only my arms worked and all they had accomplished was putting me closer to my now never to be husband’s face.
As my mom rushed over to help me, Mary saved my life. She apologized for not warning me “about some of the possible side effects of the medication that had been prescribed” for me. “Dizziness is common!”
I thanked her with all of my eyes and eventually walked away with a tiny yoyo (my selection) and a blue whistle (courtesy of Mary).
It was time to get my kitten.
I had no way of knowing that the whistle would come to torture me.
______________
We were getting our kitten from our mom’s friend who lived walking distance from my dentist’s office, but we drove because we had to pick up my sisters, much to my dismay.
There were 2 kittens to choose from. One was all black and the other was black with little white paws and a white mustache and whiskers.
It was a big day for us. And for the kids of the friend who was giving them away. They wanted to keep them. Obviously, they would want to keep them. I was thinking what a good thing it was that we didn’t go to the same school as these kids since I was sure they would no longer like us. I also remember thinking it was a good thing that my parents got divorced because my dad was allergic to cats.
We picked the one with the white paws. I was in love, but my sisters left me and our new kitten to play with the neighborhood kids while our mom was in her friend’s kitchen learning how to take care of a kitten.
I was sitting in the way back of our open station wagon, trying to make the kitten less scared and deciding between the names Whiskers and Boots. A boy on a skateboard that I’d never met before came up to the car and hung out with me while I tried to get the kitten to play. She was still crying tiny meows for her mom. He was nice. He said that the kitten would like me the most because I was the one who stayed with her while she was scared. I hoped this was right. He said he thought Whiskers was a better name and then rolled off on his skateboard, saying that he’d be right back. I hoped he would come back, even though I wasn’t sure he was my type. While he was gone (and just in case), I was finally able to get the ring off from what now felt like a lifetime ago. I put it in my pocket, next to my yoyo and whistle. It had been a bountiful day.
When he did come back, he had a tiny flashlight. “Look,” he said, “Kittens love to chase the beam.” We used the light to make the kitten happy, and watched as she jumped around the back of the wagon, maniacally waving her little paws to try and snag the light. She stopped crying. We didn’t talk anymore until the boy said he had to go home. He let me keep the flashlight even though I said I had one at my house. “Yeah, but you’re not home yet and she’s still scared. Don’t worry. I can get another one at the drugstore.” I offered to trade him my blue whistle (I liked the yoyo) but he didn’t want it.
______________
A boy was kidnapped from our local drugstore.
His parents went out for dinner at a restaurant right across the street.
His sister told him she would leave the door unlocked so he could get back in.
She lent him money for candy.
He rode his skateboard to the drugstore.
I didn’t know if it was him.
But I knew that it looked like him from the black and white photo they showed on the news.
I prayed that it wasn’t.
And if it was I prayed that he didn’t go to the drugstore because he needed to replace a tiny flashlight.
I couldn’t bear the thought of the boy being scared and crying for his mom.
I couldn’t bear the thought of his mom.
______________
I remember all of the blues of that December Friday as being the same color.
I remember that I was glad when it was my dad’s weekend because it felt like a whole different world with my dad. I wanted to live in a different world even though I was always sad to leave my kitten with my mom.
I remember that we weren’t allowed to watch the news after that first broadcast.
I remember that my mom tried not to let us see when she cried.
I remember that before it was over, 2 boys and 2 girls were murdered.
I remember a lot of families who moved away, including Beth and her Mom.
I remember that the week before they left I got to go to their house. It was a rainy day and the first time I had toast with honey. There was a whole book of Picasso on the coffee table. I no longer wanted to ask any questions.
I remember that we didn’t have any more picture ladies that year and were left being held with the Parisian inmate. The boys didn’t tell any more jokes.
I remember having all of my monthly book reports done for the whole year before we came back after Christmas. I read the entire Great Brain series because I loved them, but also because I hoped to learn from Tom how to save the boy from my town who had been kidnapped.
I remember Miss S got called in for questioning by the police because her blue gremlin with white stripes and white walls matched a description of a car from the drugstore that night.
I remember that she kept teaching at our school but never brought in another dog trophy after that. I missed hearing about Jim and Jane, but still found myself staring at her moving mouth without hearing any words.
I remember thinking that nothing worse could happen to a teacher, being questioned for something like this when you didn’t do it. I held onto this thought for 35 years until my former 6th grade teacher, Mr. B, was gunned down in a murder suicide by a former student.
I remember being shocked to find out 40 years later that my cousin, (the one who had to do his book reports on time), had been friends with the boy but we had never discussed it.
I remember trading my heart ring later that year to a friend for her tiny Gund bear that I put in a blue plastic box from Cargo Hold.
I remember wishing years later that I’d kept the bear and a friendship with the boy who gave me the ring.
I remember that the grown ups whispered about blue gremlins and the boy’s poor parents and stopped talking if they noticed kids around.
I remember that I could never bring myself to think about the boy’s family. His parents who were having dinner across the street or his sister who let him go to the drugstore.
I remember wishing that the boy who gave me his flashlight that day had taken my blue whistle, whether he was the boy who died or not.
______________
The last time I saw Dr. Morton was when he had to fix my front tooth after I broke it bowling while on a bad date during my freshman year in college.
As always, I was was gently reprimanded but then happy to see Mary and grateful for her kindness and gracious humor. She listened (or at least pretended to listen) to the story of my most recent romantic exploits, but did not offer me an extra prize. I was 18, but remember feeling slightly sad.
I didn’t find out that Mary was the kidnapped boy's mom until I was 50. A friend told me, shocked that I’d never made the connection (we all went to the same dentist). I confirmed it by finally looking at the news from those days online. There was a video of the press conference where the boy’s dad filled his son in on how his baseball team was doing (and how his coach and teammates couldn’t wait to see him on the field when he got back) and his mom told him that she couldn’t wait to make him his favorite dinner when he came home.
It was Mary.
The plastic whistle that she had given me that day was the same one that I wished I had given to a boy I still think was her son so that he might not have been kidnapped from our local drugstore. So he might not have been murdered and left in a winter ditch next to his skateboard in a nearby town after having been fed his favorite meal.
I was so grateful that I never knew it was Mary.
I am grateful because, for all of those years I was able to see Mary as a whole person. I can think that there was at least some part of her life where something else could define her, at least while she was behind that desk and sliding window - taking care of all the kids in her waiting room - anxious about whatever might be bringing them to the dentist outside of a regular cleaning and the promise of a plastic prize.
She wasn’t just the mom whose son was taken away forever, she was also a warm, strong, kind, intact human being. I would never have seen any of these things if I’d known then that she was his mom.
I need to believe that she was also those other things because how could she have survived if she was only his mom?
I need to believe that you can still be those other things when bad things happen. When the worst things happen.
The worst things will happen.
______________
I haven’t lived in that Michigan town for over 30 years.
I still think of it as home although I no longer hold my hand up like a mitten (fingers together, thumb apart) to point out where I am from.
People still fight over the details of that day because we all thought we knew him. And in most cases, and somehow, we all did.
We all have stories about that time because it still lives in us.
We are all forever connected by that terrible time when at least 4 kids were murdered.
It is also the details that can make life unbearable.
To this day, I have a tortured relationship with details, although I do begrudgingly share my mom’s faith in their power, if not always, or reliably, their beauty.
I think that I (like everyone else in our town), just want to believe that there could’ve been a different ending, if only we could still rearrange the details.
Or if Jesus could have kept us all on the right road after all.
I imagine a movie scene here:
From a camera high in the sky, we see a boy in a blue sweatshirt skateboarding down a tree-lined neighborhood street. Snow falls lightly. The camera makes its way down to him and follows him from behind as he arrives back at his house. His beautiful mom, Mary, holds the door open for him, telling him to take off his shoes and not eat his candy from the drugstore until after dinner. There has been a change of plans and she has made fried chicken. As the boy hugs her and enters the house, she notices he is holding a blue whistle that looks familiar and makes her smile, as she puts together all the details of this day that must have come together for him to have it now - in his hand - and no longer in hers. It is his, her, their life happening.
This is the movie I would still like to see.
Or be able to make.
______________
ps. My sisters don’t remember me playing with our kitten in the back of our car, but they both remembered that the boy’s sister worked with our mom as a preschool teacher’s assistant at the time of the kidnapping. She came to work the next day crying and our mom told her she needed to go home and be with her family. I vaguely remembered this once they told me, but couldn’t - or wouldn’t - let it in.
pps. I may (or may not) reach out to our childhood family friend who is now an attorney for the boy’s family (the killer has never been caught). Mary has passed away, but at the time of this writing, his dad and sister are still fighting for their son and brother.
They must be the strongest people in the world, in addition to everything else that I (still) believe they are and (unfairly?) need them to be.