The Light from Maggie’S View

By Cheryl Nugent

In the summer of 1958, best friends Veronica Ricky Cooper and Ann Sympson spend their days swimming, watching movies on TV and exploring the safe neighborhoods in the borough of Kentbury, a small New Jersey town, rich in history and romantic legends. But only two days after they visit the beautiful estate of Maggies View, the body of a murdered girl is found there and the town is sent reeling. Before they know it, Ricky and Ann are embroiled in the mystery, learning new words like circumstantial, embezzle and incest. In spite of the loving friends and family who surround them, darkness and betrayal creep into their lives, chipping away at their innocence.

The doors of Maggies View open for Ricky and Ann as they glimpse a world they thought only existed in the movies. They make new friends at the historic mansion, including the engaging Mrs. Tutbury; a mysterious Englishwoman; and a witty detective from Brooklyn who will add his own expertise to the murder investigation. But another girl will die; the murder count rises and Ricky and Ann could be next, when they naively walk into the murderers web of treachery.

Set in the Rolling Hills of Hunterdon County, Kentbury is a fictional town created from the authors intimate knowledge of that notable area. Come along and enjoy gentle history lessons, meet colorful personalities, delve into local politics and discover the evil that can exist, even in a quiet little country town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475926330

Cheryl Nugent

After traveling the world with her US diplomat husband, Cheryl Nugent now makes her home in South Carolina. She is the author of the award-nominated novel The Light from Maggie’s View and is at work on the third book in the Kentbury Mystery series. She and her husband have a son, a daughter, and two grandchildren.

Book preview

The Light from

Maggie’s View

The Kentbury Mysteries

Cheryl Nugent

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Light from Maggie’s View

Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Nugent.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-2635-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2634-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2633-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909040

iUniverse rev. date: 06/01/2012

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

SIXTY-FOUR

For my husband, Allen, mentor and dearest friend

Special thanks and warm alohas to Teresa Webber, Patricia Subbe, Jean McRae, Sylvia Boone, Marianne DeMaio, Jeanne Figurelli, Will Nugent, Dara Oden, Darlene Berry and fondly remembered, Josie Dukes.

For their time and expertise, sincere thanks to Joe Connors and George McDaniel

ONE

Far away voices were echoing my name. It was the dream again. I knew it was a dream but I could not escape. I knew when it would end, like the pop of a balloon and I would awaken, safe in my bed. The murderer was unknown in the dream, but he had that dreadful, evil power to control me, control the whole town. It was that time we were held hostage by breathless fear; the time of locked doors and shocking betrayal. Now I was climbing up a hill. There she was. There was the girl who would help me wake up, help me flee the nightmare. I call out to her. Wait up! Stopping, she turns toward me. You’re Ricky Cooper, aren’t you? she asks. Pop! Awake! Safe!

____________________

I turned ten the summer I found Ann or, I should say, the summer we found each other. Ann was almost eleven, a fifth grader, living worlds away on the other side of town. But during Easter vacation, when we had a whole week without school, Ann moved to The Hill and into my life.

The natural elevation we called The Hill, was most likely a well worn trail begun by our Native American ancestors when the whole area was nothing but dense, rich forest. The hilly trail grew to a large path and eventually a steep macadam road with the official name of Prescott Avenue. At the top of the hill where I lived, Prescott quietly turned into a county road, going to other towns and hamlets, each with their own offerings and personalities.

My mother liked to say, "All journeys start from right where you are." To me, that meant I could go down the sharp, winding hill from home, over the railroad crossing to Main Street and past the many shops, down to Rosemary’s Corner which then became U.S. Route 69, which led to Route 22, that would take you to the airport, or all the way to New York City and the world.

Just before Rosemary’s Corner, a green and white sign proclaimed, Borough of Kentbury, 1722, pop. 2,741. I always wondered who the one was.

____________________

Up Prescott was a nice place to live, with lawns and gardens, dogs and cats, swing sets and sandboxes. Dads worked long hours and moms in house dresses and calico aprons cooked and cleaned and were always there. Summers brought informal visits as neighbors met in yards that ran together, the only fence a row of flowers, lilacs and forsythia or an old apple tree, a reminder that our whole neighborhood was once rich farmland. With no stores on The Hill, we did basic shopping downtown or made trips to larger towns or even into the city for a special purchase.

We were on a first name basis with the deliverymen who brought us bread, took our dry cleaning and brought milk in glass bottles from local dairies. I remember a man called Cheap John coming in a red panel truck to sell his wares to bargain-hunting moms looking for a cotton blouse, an odd pot or pan and more calico aprons. There was excitement when the junkman came around, bells jangling on his old truck, sending neighbors scrambling for useless things that might bring a little money for the cookie jar. People who were supposed to be gypsies came in the summer to sell heavy Adirondack furniture, but with no gold earrings, bandannas or tambourines, I didn’t know how you could tell they were gypsies.

On weekends, dads got to join the summer socializing, borrow tools, exchange stories and tell jokes we were not allowed to hear. My father was the station master at the small but bustling railroad office at the very end of Main Street. He knew everyone and was a font of information about the goings on in Kentbury.

A large woods adjoined our property and beyond that a field of tall grasses and, miraculously, wild strawberries that drew the moms on sunny mornings, toddlers in tow, to pick and gossip and laugh. One of my earliest memories is the sun, warm and comforting, the smell of ripe strawberries, and chatter and laughter from a chorus of ladies in cotton dresses.

Ann’s mother died when Ann was a week old. Her father lived in another town, with another wife and children Ann would never know. I was adopted. I always knew it and was told it made me special. But in a remote, hidden part of me, I knew I had been an orphan, like my new friend. Ann’s grandmother raised her, and Eliza Miller was like no grandmother I had ever known.

____________________

Our small town revolved around the Tyler-Sykes Iron and Steel Works, or The Mill, with a two hundred year history, condensed by most school children into one sentence—Tyler-Sykes made cannonballs for The Revolution. Said with swagger, it conjured up an image of General Washington himself firing a town-made missile that surely won our independence. It was here that Ann’s grandmother found the livelihood she needed to survive and support her granddaughter.

It was the war, of course. World War II created jobs for women to fill slots left by men gone to battle. Eliza Miller worked in the foundry, sweating and toiling alongside men who grudgingly gave her their hard-won respect. The war ended and most women relinquished their jobs to returning veterans, but Eliza was a widow with a granddaughter to raise. She worked the three to midnight shift, the money was better, and now she and her granddaughter moved into my world; not to the very top where our neighborhood began, but just below, on the crest of the steep rise.

Ann called Eliza Mom, rarely talking about the mother she never knew. She was one of the original latchkey kids before there was such a term, and I envied her independence before I understood her loneliness.

Houses dotted The Hill going into town, but there were no neighbors in calling distance to Ann’s, no well-worn paths through the woods to a friend’s house or familiar shortcuts for her daily trek to school where so much of our time was spent.

Kentbury Public School was a three-storey brick building, square and strong and safe, educating generations of townsfolk, kindergarten through high school in small, orderly classes. Everyone knew everyone, but Ann and I were not generations in the town. Her grandmother came from the city as did my dad, and my mother from a fascinating place called San Francisco. We were just that different and found another reason to be friends.

We took the rugged climb up Prescott Avenue for granted, but having a friend along made it seem effortless. In a few years hence, we would be whisked up and down in hot rods and convertibles, and then our own precious cars as that right of passage came, with the long walks up and down our hill all but forgotten. Yet for now, there were miles and miles ahead of climbing and learning and friendship.

TWO

With only a few more weeks of school before summer vacation, Ann and I met every day to share the climb to the crest of the hill. Shouting a goodbye at the foot of her steps, I rushed home, returning within the hour. Ann’s old colonial house stood in the trees, a long inviting porch looking down on the road below, providing us with first class seats and hours of entertainment as we observed the sparse but steady traffic.

The two-storey stucco home Ann shared with her grandmother was rented. That was a strange concept, renting, not owning. Friendship with Ann promised all sorts of new experiences. When I could time it right, we met to walk to school and I finally got her to break Eliza’s rule about taking the shortcut through the commons, just across from her new home. To me, the commons was a peaceful field with a narrow path that saved at least ten minutes getting to school. It was public land with an old iron mine and remnants of pig iron furnaces from colonial days, but for Ann, it was forbidden terrain.

Eliza had lots of rules for her granddaughter. Some were rules we all had, like not talking to strangers, others seemed unreasonable and even harsh. Ann had an unlisted telephone number. I had never heard of such a thing and felt positively burdened with the knowledge when she got permission to give it to me. Three weeks into our friendship, I finally saw the inside of Ann’s house and got to meet Eliza.

Two decades ahead of her time, Eliza had entered a man’s world and never left. I picture her in dark slacks and a cotton blouse, the clothes of her trade. Eliza was a pretty woman in a rough sort of way, with wavy dark hair, lively eyes and an almost shy smile that sparkled with a gold eye tooth. Small gold earrings adorned her pierced ears, a thing you never saw from the ladies on The Hill. She was the first woman I met who I would think of as tough. Eliza was to be obeyed, no matter what. Fear mingled with admiration in my young mind, but I liked her a lot.

I eventually convinced Eliza that Ann would be safe at my house if she came to visit and, yes, we would stick to the road and not take any of my precious shortcuts through the woods. Yes, I understood Ann had to clean, do the ironing and do her homework before any visiting took place. Maybe we could go to a movie on the weekend. Eliza would drive us. Eliza worked hard, indulged her granddaughter in all the latest fads, fashion and 45-records. I was even the recipient of her generosity, which I appreciated from this unusual woman. But, like the victim of a sudden summer storm, I could also be the recipient of her wrath. Ann, as in the dark as I was about our latest transgression, listened to a barrage of swearwords even my father didn’t use. Interestingly enough, the effect Eliza’s colorful speech had on Ann was to make her a stickler for politeness and ladylike language.

You go home, Ricky! Ann can’t see you anymore! And I don’t want you comin’ around here either, or I’ll call your mother. Goddamn kids. The door slammed, I rushed home in tears and while I would eventually become immune to Eliza’s outbursts, the first few were painful. My mother comforted me, unconcerned that somehow her daughter had become an unsuitable friend for Ann Sympson. Then, after a few days, Ann walked the quarter mile to our house to casually inform us that all was back to normal, at least normal for Ann.

That’s how our first summer went—seeing each other day after day, usually in the fascinating world of a house all to ourselves; a rare treat for me and for Ann, company. We were silly together. We still are. But at ten and eleven, we giggled, told stories about our families, speculated about everyone we knew, dreamed of meeting Elvis and wondered if we would ever have boyfriends, go to a prom or get married to a list of prospective husbands drawn up from the town’s eligibles, aged twelve through fourteen. Our sights were not very high back then. They reached as far as the town lines.

THREE

Thanks to Vera Bigley, our fifth grade teacher, we were well-versed in Kentbury’s history. We eagerly learned that the Leni-Lenape were the Native American people who inhabited not only Kentbury, but what became the states of New Jersey, New York, Delaware, and eastern Pennsylvania. Leni-Lenape, in the Algonquian language, meant original people, and Mrs. Bigley vigorously ensured that we appreciated their culture and contribution to our fledgling colonies. Long before the early settlers came from Europe, the Leni-Lenape were mining the County’s mineral-rich hills, and local iron ore played a minor role in the area’s economy. Early forges still existed, now part of the Tyler-Sykes Mill. Although just a small local company, new and innovative things were being done that assured Kentbuy’s future as an industrial town surrounded by farming communities.

During the American Revolution, Hessian soldiers were imprisoned in several houses near Lake Raynard. It was a mandatory field trip for Mrs. Bigley’s class to visit these wonderful old homes and imagine our town so long ago. A boy in my class lived in one of the historic houses, and I loved the stories he told about saber marks on the floor and movable fireplace stones where secret messages were stored.

Wars were good for Kentbury and the mill. The US-Mexican War and the westward expansion boosted the demand for iron products. In the 1850’s, the Jersey Central Railroad came to Kentbury, adding to the town’s prosperity. In the waves of immigrants coming from Europe, some found their way to Kentbury to mine the ore and work for The Mill and the Jersey Central. There was an Irish town, later a Polish area and eventually Italians, Russians, Puerto Ricans. The English, Germans and Dutch had been in place for generations before, as well as two Jewish families who had stores we all frequented and by the time Ann and I were in school, we were all just kids from Kentbury, more divided by loyalty to the New York Yankees or the Brooklyn Dodgers, than any ethnic differences. There were no African Americans. I’m not sure why, even now, but for whatever reason, naive in the ways of the world, we got to grow up unencumbered by bigotry. There was no one to hate. When we were older, and I did learn that some people in Kentbury were ready to condemn others for the color of their skin or the church they went to, it was too late. We had skipped that lesson, thank God.

_______________________

Eliza hit Ann with a mop. Accusing us of some vague transgression, Eliza was convinced I was a bad influence on her innocent granddaughter. I was banished. Ann was alone again, but I had other friends and outlets. I rode my bike and went swimming in local pools and creeks, and on weekends got my father to take me to the lake or to the next town where I could ride Tony, an old bay gelding I thought as wonderful as Trigger or any Hollywood stallion. Ann couldn’t ride a bike or swim and didn’t know any horses. But when school started again, Eliza accepted me back into their lives and I got to ooh and ah over the array of sweater sets, felt skirts, crinolines and, admire from afar, white bucks which Ann had to start her year in sixth grade. I never went without and felt quite good about my wardrobe for school, but Ann always had the most and the latest. She also had a new father. Captain Sam came to live with them that fall. Again, Sam Cantwaller was like no one I had ever met.

Hell, they’re not married as far as I know. You know him, Charlotte. He used to live with that woman over in Germantown, the one who kept bees. That damn limp he has is from when he was in the First War. I don’t know about any Captain, but I know he was in the war. Dusty Blumburg was in the same outfit. He’s all right, don’t worry about it. I knew my father was reassuring my mother about this new person in Ann’s life and consequently in my life too. My father never could whisper and even if he could, I had a gift for listening.

All right, Vernon, I do remember him now. Big fellow, snow white hair, always wore a sailor cap. Whatever happened to the Bee Woman, Hilda something? My mother usually agreed with my father, rarely judging people too harshly. My father was her second husband. She was widowed in California, came east with friends, then met and married my father, Vernon Cooper. I sensed, and later learned, that she had come from a bigger world and that her life had sorrows, but to me she was comfort, good food, knowledge and good stories. I did not think our home was very different from anyone else’s, except Ann’s.

FOUR

It was the first time I was going to stay overnight at Ann’s. The house would be all ours until Eliza and Capt. Sam got home at midnight. With Capt. Sam working the same shift at the mill as Eliza, Ann’s routine had changed little, but Eliza herself seemed happier. Ann had yet to stay over at my house, but the day was coming. It was a new year. We all had a good Christmas, lots of snow, plenty of presents and Ann had a puppy. Tuffy. Tuffy the Chihuahua who did not live up to a small dog’s reputation of being yappy or high strung. He was a sweet pup and a breakthrough for Ann who would have settled for a kitten. Capt. Sam got her a dog instead. Tuffy curled up at the end of our bed as we snuggled together for warmth, listened to the house noises and told scary stories. When the novelty of that wore off, we talked about sex.

Do your parents still do it? Ann asked.

No! They’re too old. They have twin beds, I said, sure in my knowledge that two and two were four and sex between parents was a rare and distasteful thing.

In the next room was the bed Eliza shared with Capt. Sam. Everyone knew they weren’t really married, so of course they still did it.

Do you ever hear anything? I couldn’t resist asking.

Noooo, came a rather indignant reply but, getting out of bed, Ann ushered me to a small closet in Eliza’s room and carefully removed an innocent looking book hidden under stacks of towels. Just looking at the plain blue cover made Ann hear noises to convince her Eliza was coming home early, but reassuring ourselves, I became privy to The Book. It was probably Ann’s primary source of knowledge on the subject of love and reproduction, but our exchange of information only seemed to create more questions. The Book was full of black and white photographs of men in long johns and women in elaborate costumes, alone and together, exposing certain parts of their bodies and engaging in very athletic-looking acts that could only be sex. It was absolutely fascinating and deliciously forbidden. Ann limited my access to The Book, however, assuring me that I was weird and definitely on the way to being a slut if I did not curb my ways.

_____________________

Ann was now in Junior High. She was schooled on the upper floors and got to change classes, while I was still in the basement. We sometimes accepted rides to school from our neighbor when the weather was bad, but our hikes up The Hill slacked off in winter, to pick up again in the spring. Still, we talked on the phone, kept up on the latest news, and most weekends saw us going shopping or to the movies together.

By our third summer of friendship, Ann was enjoying a certain freedom, due largely to Capt. Sam. The big man matched Eliza in the swearing department, but there was a gentleness and humor about him that spilled over to Ann’s grandmother. Ann told me Sam was good to her, she never felt afraid of him and, more importantly, he was good to Eliza.

What about your real father?

His name is Simpson. My mother changed the i to a y so the spelling would be different.

According to Ann, her father was usually unemployed and lived a wretched existence with a horrible wife in a house full of unruly kids. I don’t think she actually knew this, but it was Eliza’s lore and possibly her way of making Ann appreciate the life she had.

She used to worry he would come around and bother me, or just take me away to live with him, but he never has, Ann said.

Is that why your phone is unlisted? I asked.

Yes. And that’s why I can never go downtown by myself, and why I have to call the minute I get to your house. When I was little she had me convinced that my father was waiting for me in places like the commons. I still hate to walk through there, even with you, she confessed. For someone who went wherever she pleased, rode her bike on back roads for miles, walked the woods, visited the lake and popped in on neighbors blocks away, it was hard for me to imagine such a restricted existence.

The summer I became friends with Ann, I rode over two miles down Red Hill Road to visit the old farm where my Sunday school teacher lived. I wandered where I pleased, usually in the company of my little terrier. Mom had a golden cocker, Penny, Dad had funny, old wire-haired Gus, there was Buttons, the family cat, and I had Debbie. My father found her on the railroad tracks the winter I was eight. I marveled that he brought her home to me, but the sight of a little brown pup, cold and starving, eating a discarded apple, must have been enough to get to even his practical heart. She was the best present he ever gave me. So I had freedom galore and at least one good friend wherever I went. Ann had very strict boundaries but at least now she had Tuffy for company.

______________________

I had five dollars to spend from my birthday gifts. Ann had seven. Ann always had more, earning her money in what I considered slave labor. We persuaded Eliza to let us walk into town where we could shop at the Five ’N Dime and have a soda at the drug store. We were not allowed to have a soda at JJ’s where Eliza was convinced nice girls did not go. Even though I told her it was just where the high school kids hung out, she assured me it would put Ann at risk of becoming a town whore, and that I should be even more cautious; apparently I was in greater danger than Ann, my nature being against me. This was all normal to me now. Eliza saw sin everywhere and, even though Ann and I relished observing it whenever possible, we were still innocent enough to desire no first-hand knowledge of the subject.

Oh My God, that’s Carla Boyd, Ann said to me in a frantic whisper.

Oh My God, I shot back. How do you know her?

My mother told me. Of course, Eliza.

Even though our school was small, the elementary school and high school maintained a long-established separate existence. The girl did look familiar and I wondered how I ever could have missed her.

Carla Boyd had the reddest hair and the shortest shorts I had ever seen, and a reputation even a sixth grader knew about. Her long white legs looked whiter still against black cotton shorts. A pink sleeveless blouse was tucked into a very small waist and I thought she might have been pretty underneath the ton of eye makeup and bright red lipstick. White plastic orbs dangling from her ears completed the slut look. She did it well. She was in the same class as my neighbor, and I wondered how Janet Whitcomb could even be the same age as this wicked looking woman.

Get your own damn rubbers, you jerk! I ain’t spendin’ my money to get laid by you, you freak. The object of Carla’s anger was Danny Penski. Danny worked in Schuler’s Garage on Main Street. In the summer it was a Mecca for boys to work on cars. The garage drew the boys and the boys drew the girls, some girls. No one I knew went there, but life was different on The Hill. Down here, Main Street, with its small businesses, Town Hall, bank, shops and stores, gave way to more hills going down again, across the tracks, to the other world of East Kentbury and The Mill. Rows of old factory houses and small cottages lined narrow streets, and no less than three taverns enjoyed a steady patronage from the mill workers. Nearby were the well-kept fire station and the all-important baseball field. From here, people went Uptown. At the end of the road by the mill, hills again climbed to a neighborhood of large and elegant homes, a few picturesque farms, and the tree-lined road going around to the lake. Carla Boyd was stuck in the middle. Ann was born in the middle but, thanks to Eliza, got out.

Mesmerized, standing like mannequins in the shade of the drug store awning, we were the only audience to the real life drama before us. The smell of melting tar dripped in the air and heat from the sidewalk crawled up our peddle pushers. A car rolled by, a dog was barking somewhere, and the signal at the railroad crossing began to clang. Before we knew it, Carla was right in front of us.

What are you little creeps lookin’ at? she yelled into our shocked faces. Riveted to the spot, we watched in stunned silence as she stomped away down the street, the smell of sweat and baby powder left in her wake.

Tears welled up in my eyes as Ann pulled me into the drugstore where we could drown our humiliation in chocolate and whipped cream. Danny Penski did look like a freak. He never said a word.

If you’re a whore does that mean you have to do it with everybody? I queried of my older and possibly wiser friend.

I don’t know, Ann replied, I think it means you get paid to do it. But if you like it you can do it for free.

Well, how much do you get paid? I couldn’t help but wonder.

I heard she did it for a quarter sometimes, Ann said.

A quarter! I was outraged.

Then we laughed, giggled into our ice cream sodas, and decided poor Carla Boyd wasn’t so much a whore as she was stupid.

FIVE

My family never went on vacation. Vacation to me was no school, swimming where and when I could, days spent in endless play, staying up late to watch old movies, maybe a picnic or a church outing. Actually going somewhere and staying overnight never happened.

Ricky! Eliza had a way of yelling at me, then laughing at my face as I anticipated the worst. Eliza’s Ricky! yell was the same if I were in trouble or not, so I never knew. This time there was her hearty, infectious laugh.

Ask your mother if you can go with us next week to the shore. We’re rentin’ a place for the whole week.

But, Mom, Eliza said it was really nice. Call her. Please! I was begging. I thought Ann was in prison but now I wondered why going somewhere was such a big deal. My mother used to live in a city. I lived in this little town and couldn’t even go to Seaside Heights with my best friend.

There were a few phone calls and Eliza actually came to our house to plead her case. It worked. We had five days to plan, pack and anticipate. I even got to buy a new bathing suit.

The Jersey Shore. It meant beaches, the ocean, seafood. Everyone had favorite spots that were familiar in our vocabulary, even if you had never been there in your life. Sandy Hook, Long Beach Island, Asbury Park and Atlantic City when everyone knew it for hosting The Miss America Pageant, but casinos were only in Las Vegas.

Two days before we left on our great adventure, we made another trip downtown. Ann needed shampoo and I was going to buy a lipstick. Baby Doll Pink seemed the perfect choice at 79 cents. Ann said Eliza would call me a whore. I promised not to wear it around Eliza, at which point Ann said maybe we could share it. For now, the gleaming gold case was safe in my purse, giving off an aura of sophistication just by being there. Somehow I felt older. Then we saw Carla Boyd getting into a red convertible and I hoped Eliza wasn’t right. I certainly didn’t want to wind up like her.

___________________

Church Street had not one, but two churches; a lovely stone Dutch Reformed where I was baptized and my father and I occasionally attended, and farther down the tree-lined street, the simple, white Methodist Church. Ann’s church, St. Michael’s, was on Main Street. I attended all three over the years, claiming membership in the Dutch Reformed and settling on the Methodist where I could sing in the choir with friends from school. Catholicism appeared to involve a lot of work, but I did like the ritual and handsome Father Carlyle.

It must have been the heat that kept everyone locked inside their houses, fans whirling, shades drawn to keep out the sun but, once again, Ann and I were the only ones about that day in late July. Looking back, I wonder that there was not some terrible warning, some outrage from the birds, or why God could let something so terrible happen to someone so young on such a fine day. But we heard nothing. Yet, on beautiful Church Street, with its imposing Colonial and Victorian homes, just before we turned