Stella

“You sure you got those sprinkler heads hooked up right? Grass is supposed to be green, honey.”

I laughed and waved at Old Phil as he took a heaving side-step off his front porch. He held an unlit pipe between his lips and grumbled with each step, favoring his bad right hip as he made his way over to me. Phil Pulaski was a relic. In his mid-eighties, he was a holdover from when the Old North End thrived the first time around. He knew everyone and everything. Everyone called him either Old Phil or The Mayor. He owned the house next door and had been a wealth of information about the history of the Victorian-era Tudor home I’d just moved into. I’d rent for the first year, but was saving up for the down payment to buy it outright at the end of the term. If I still could, that is. I swallowed past a lump in my throat that came up every time I thought about my current job prospects.

“Good evening, Phil.” I waved as I turned the nozzle off on the sprayer after I finished watering the last hanging pot of pink geraniums on the porch. “Sorry if I woke you. I was just about to go to bed and realized I forgot to give these ladies a drink. They’ll be brown and wilted by morning if I don’t.”

“Smell those peonies!” Old Phil sucked in a breath and rubbed his protruding belly. He stood in front of four great big bushes of pink-and-white flowers. His pride and joy, except for the ants that covered them. Phil said it helped them bloom. He had a habit of walking around shirtless with denim shorts and suspenders that gave him a permanent tanline of vertical stripes across his front and a criss-cross in the back.

“You want me to come over there and water them for you?” I asked. Old Phil’s arthritis and bad hip made it hard for him to do some of the most mundane aspects of his yard upkeep.

“Nah,” he said. “Philly’s coming over in the morning.” Philly was also known locally as Young Phil, his sixtyish-year-old son who lived across the street. Their bickering was another part of the neighborhood charm. They argued about everything from the proper way to pound a nail to their time in the service. Navy men, both of them. Old Phil served in WWII, Young Phil in Vietnam.

“Okay, well, you just let me know. I’d be glad to do it.”

“Though I wouldn’t mind you taking that hose to that black cat I’ve seen scampering around here at night. Damn nuisance. It ate my gardenias.”

“Do cats eat flowers?”

“No. The little shit did it just for spite.”

I smiled wide and set the hose down on the ground. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“I’m gonna get my pellet gun one of these nights.” He’d do it too. My luck he’d shoot the thing and it would crawl under my porch to die and smell for a week.

“How’s the job search going, honey?” he asked. My heart clenched. I hadn’t told anyone about the Collingwood job and what went wrong. The principal still wouldn’t answer my calls and I’d gotten nowhere with the State Police. I should have pressed Mitch about it. But I just hadn’t realized how much seeing him again would affect me. It affected him too and that was almost worse. I’d figure this out. I had to. It was all a horrible, ridiculous mistake.

“It’s going.” I gave Old Phil a non-answer.

“Pretty girl like you, and smart as you are. You could be a model. Or go to New York City.”

Phil made me smile. He reminded me a little of my grandfather. They’d known each other way back. My parents too. But then again, Old Phil knew everyone. Still, I liked feeling connected to that part of my past. My grandparents were long gone and my folks moved to Fort Myers, Florida years ago. They’d been bugging me to come down for a visit. If things didn’t improve in Northpointe, I might not have a choice. Still, crashing on my parents’ couch at thirty-two years old held no appeal for me. I loved them. They loved me. But they’d had me later in life and I was an only child. We were happiest leading separate lives.

Old Phil and I shot the breeze for a little while longer. I’d learned to always have an exit strategy with him or he’d talk my ear off. Actually, that was good advice from Young Phil the very first day I moved in three months ago. Three months. In all that time I’d managed to avoid everyone connected to Brian. Then yesterday, it all bombarded me at once.

“Goodnight, Phil,” I finally said, waving to him from my front door. He always waited to make sure I got inside if it was dark out. A regular gentleman. Even though I’d only walked two feet across my own porch, I flicked the lights on and off to let him know everything was okay. He answered with a lilting whistle that made me smile.

After checking all the locks on the doors, I finally headed upstairs to my bedroom. My steps creaked on the solid oak floorboards. I’d made those my first project. Previous owners had criminally carpeted every square inch. I’d restored them and polished them to a shine. I almost didn’t want to move furniture in to cover them even that much.

Exhausted, I crawled into bed and pulled the white eyelet covers up to my chin. But sleep wouldn’t come. When I closed my eyes, I saw Brian’s face smiling back at me. When we were happiest. Before the Police Academy. I’d met him my sophomore year in college at Central Michigan. He’d been a senior and already friends with Mitch. Actually, I’d met Mitch first. He was in my music appreciation class. It was part of the general education curriculum that he’d put off until the last minute. I developed a giant crush on him when he asked me to tutor him. But he had a girlfriend already and introduced me to Brian. Where Mitch was loud, sometimes brutish, telling off-color jokes, Brian was quiet, more circumspect. And he’d fallen in love with me so hard and fast it almost made me dizzy. I used to wonder what would have happened if Mitch hadn’t been with someone. Or if Brian hadn’t loved me so hard. Or if we hadn’t argued that last night before he left for his shift. And none of it made any difference anymore for any of us. So I did what I always did and pushed those thoughts away.

I’d almost fallen asleep when something made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Headlights flashed across my window and an engine idled. I don’t know why it gave me pause, but I threw off the covers and padded over to the window.

A red Ford Edge rounded the corner. I couldn’t see the driver but he slowed in front of my house then came to a stop. My heart skipped a beat as I clutched the window frame. I hugged myself. A cool breeze blew in sending gooseflesh across my bare arms. I wore nothing but a tank top and underwear.

Old Phil’s porch lights came on. The car sped up and drove away. I waited, not knowing what made me do it. One minute. Two. Five. Then the Edge circled back around and pulled into my driveway.

My breath hitched and I fumbled for my robe. I still couldn’t see who was behind the wheel. At least, not his face. But as I stabbed my arms through the sleeves of my terrycloth robe, I saw his hands gripping the wheel. Why should I recognize them after all this time? I didn’t really. He was too far away. Still, I knew who it was. And I did remember what his hands looked like. Strong hands. Hitchhiker’s thumbs curved backward as he rubbed his palms against the steering wheel. I pressed a palm against the glass, took a breath, and waited.

What would I do if he came to the door? Did I want him too? I did. God, I did. And yet, it scared me just as much. As he sat in the driveway I imagined the same thoughts running through his own head. He wondered if he’d made a mistake coming here just as I did the other day in his office.

Then the choice was out of my hands. Mitch never put the car in park. Just as I drew the courage to go downstairs and open the front door, he backed out and drove away. My breath fogged the glass. I exhaled, pushed myself away from the window, and crawled back into bed.

* * *

“You had a visitor last night,” Old Phil said as he walked up to my car the next morning. He had a rolled-up newspaper under one arm and a cup of coffee in his free hand. He leaned down and peered inside the window.

“I did?” I played dumb.

“Yep. Circled the block and pulled into your driveway. I got the make and model and a partial plate. You want it?”

“What? Oh. I’m sure it was nothing. Probably somebody got lost and just needed to turn around.” I don’t know why I lied. But maybe it was true. Maybe it had just been wishful thinking on my part.

“I don’t think so. I saw the guy. He was staring pretty hard at your house. I think he knew exactly where he wanted to be. You got a boyfriend you haven’t told me about, honey?”

Normally I appreciated Old Phil’s grandfatherly concern. This morning though, I just wanted to make a clean getaway.

“Nope,” I answered and crossed my heart with my index finger. “Promise, you’ll be the first to know if I do.”

“Leave her alone, Pops,” Young Phil bellowed from across the street. I caught him waving in my rearview mirror and waved back. “You’re worse than an old lady. Let Stella be on her way. She doesn’t need you snooping around in her business.”

“It’s all right,” I yelled out the window.

“No, it’s not. You’re just being polite.”

“I really do have to get going,” I told the Phils.

“Another job interview?”

I smiled wider than necessary and hoped Old Phil couldn’t read me. My prospects had dried up since word probably got out about my phony criminal record to the other schools in the district.

“Another client,” I said. Doing home-care visits for private clients was just supposed to tide me over until the job at Collingwood started in the fall. Now it might have to be how I survived for a while until I could clear things up with the background check. “I’ll be gone most of the day, so don’t wait up.” I gave Old Phil a wink.

“Oh? Someplace nice, I hope. You know it’s still pretty shitty on the east side of town. You’re not going there, are you?”

“Nope. This one’s on the up and up, Phil. Out of town though. A very rich client in Royal Oak. Don’t wait up for me.” I blew Old Phil a kiss as he pounded on the top of my car and shot me a thumbs up. Young Phil yelled something off color at his father and I waved back at him too.

The drive did me good. Cleared my head. Plus, I was headed to one of my favorite jobs on the planet. Tyler Smith. Tyler was just about to enter the seventh grade, junior high in his school district. He had a severe case of dyslexia and his parents hired me to work with him with language therapy through the summer on the recommendation of one of his teachers. Tyler was sweet, shy, and eager to learn. He was also one of the hardest-working kids I’d ever helped. Still, he had an uphill battle ahead of him come fall. Algebra would be a killer.

Mrs. Smith waited on the front porch, talking on her cell, when I pulled into their gated community. The Smith’s house had a huge circular drive and they liked me to park behind the house. She didn’t like cars blocking the view. At least, that’s what she said. The truth was, she didn’t care for the looks of my older Ford Taurus. But I couldn’t very well afford a silver Mercedes like hers on per diem.

“Good morning!” I waved as I stepped out of the car. I caught Tyler peeking out of the front window. He darted back toward the kitchen as I approached.

“Good luck,” Judy Smith said, holding her hand over the speaker on her phone. “Ty was a pistol this morning. Couldn’t get him to sit still to practice piano.”

Tyler also had attention deficit issues, not at all uncommon for kids like him with reading disabilities. It was kind of a chicken-and-egg proposition. Either he had trouble focusing because it was so hard for him to process words, or it was hard to read because he couldn’t focus. The Smiths tended to try every latest fad with him. This month she had him on a special diet he hated.

“Well, I’ll take it easy on him then.”

“Oh no, you won’t. That’s not what we’re paying you for, Stella.”

I cringed as I walked past her. I knew she meant well, but Judy Smith could be a bit of a stone-cold bitch.

“Ty?” I walked into the kitchen, heaving my messenger bag over my shoulder. “Hey, buddy!”

Tyler sat with his hands folded at the kitchen table. He kept his upper body perfectly still, but tapped his feet wildly. I shot a glance behind me. Judy Smith had moved off toward her rose garden, phone still in hand. I pulled out the small rubber disk I kept in my bag just for Tyler. His wiggle seat. It was a small, rotating disk that allowed him to shift his weight around in the seat while more or less staying still. Without it, our lessons took twice as long because he needed to get up and move. I didn’t mind, but Judy Smith had the kid overscheduled and this helped us stay on task. The seat was really designed for younger kids and Mrs. Smith hated it, but it helped whether she liked it or not.

“I brought more of those math games you liked so much last time. Let’s see how many we can get through.” Tyler’s face lit up. We were working on multiple-step equations. His Achilles’ heel. He had problems tracking from left to right and memorizing numbers so we worked on strategies to help him break things down more simply. Tyler worked quietly throughout the morning, but I could tell something was bothering him. He kept pulling at a patch of hair on his left temple.

“What’s up, buddy?” I finally asked him after he finished my first worksheet. “You’re doing awesome. What’s got you stressed?”

He put his pencil down. “Miss Terry, we had orientation yesterday. At the junior high.”

“That’s right! Exciting. Did you get to meet your teachers?”

“Yeah. They seemed cool.” Tyler’s face fell and his fingers curled back in his hair.

I nudged him with my shoulder. “But what? Do you have any of your friends in your classes?”

He raised a brow and sighed. “I’m in Resource Room for everything. It’s the same kids every year.”

“Right. So what gives? Last time we talked you were super stoked about starting school.”

He put his head down on the table and looked up at me, his wide brown eyes blinking furiously. “Lockers,” he finally said.

“What, too small? Do you have to share again?”

“No.” Tyler smashed his forehead against the table. With no other options, I rested my head on the table next to his and tapped his shoulder.

“Spit it out, buddy. What’s got you stressed?”

“They had us try those combination locks. I was the only kid who couldn’t open mine. Some of the kids laughed at me and said I’m going to flunk seventh grade if I don’t know my left from my right. But I do. I just don’t get it. I kept forgetting which side the thirty-seven was from the thirty-five. Why can’t they just put numbers on those things instead of all those little lines?”

I rubbed his back. “Well, let’s add that to the list of things to practice. We’ve got six weeks. And I’ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeve.”

I’d worked with another kid with similar deficits as Tyler’s. We’d come up with a relatively easy fix that only slightly defaced school property. As it happened, I had a combination lock in my messenger bag along with a change of gym clothes.

“Find me a Sharpie,” I told him. “Any color.”

Tyler raised a brow and went to the kitchen. He smacked a red Sharpie into my outstretched hand like it was a surgeon’s scalpel. I marked the stopping points on the combo lock by filling in the lines with the red Sharpie, then I wrote down the combination. “Give that a try. I’m guessing your eyes are playing tricks on you. It can be hard to remember what those little lines mean on either side of the numbers for anybody.”

Tyler’s forehead creased as he concentrated on opening the lock. His first two attempts didn’t work, but the third one did. Big smile. My heart just about burst. Screw math problems. This was a breakthrough.

“Will they let me do that at school?”

I shrugged. “Worst-case scenario, what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em. Just find a wing man. Somebody you trust to stand in front of you while you mark up your locker. And if it’s a problem, you call me. We’ll figure it out.”

Tyler hugged me. I laughed and smoothed a hand down his back.

“All right, buddy, don’t get soft on me now. That could have been beginner’s luck. I’ll bring a couple more of those next week and see how you do.”

“Is time up already?”

“Afraid so. And you’ve got a piano lesson after lunch, haven’t you?”

“I fucking hate piano.” Tyler’s eyes went wide and it took everything in me not to burst out laughing.

I put a finger up to my lips. “Easy. I’ll let you off with a warning on that one.” I reached out and messed with his hair. “I better get going. I’m late for another appointment. You can keep that lock. Work with it this week and we’ll see what’s what.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Judy Smith appeared in the hallway tapping her foot. She didn’t like Tyler going even a minute over schedule. It was good for him, even though he hated it. I packed up my supplies and gave her a smile as I passed her in the hallway. She didn’t return it but just held a check out in front of my face. I gritted my teeth as I took it and headed out the door.

Judy Smith’s resting bitch face notwithstanding, I was in a damn good mood. Seeing Tyler’s face light up would be enough to keep me going for a long time. Working with kids like him was usually a one-step-up-two-steps-sideways proposition. It wasn’t every day we could claim a solid, legitimate breakthrough. But when they did happen, I felt like I could conquer the world and I knew he did too.

Maybe I got a little overzealous. I opened the window and sang to the latest Tory Kelly song at the top of my lungs. I’d forgotten where I was for a second and maybe hit the gas a little too hard. I made the turn onto the main road heading into town. After passing the second streetlight, a siren bleeped behind me.

A patrol car pulled in behind me and flashed his headlights twice. Shit. I looked at my odometer. I was doing fifty. What was it? Forty-five? I waved my hand and pulled to the curb.

Waiting with my hands on the steering wheel, I took a deep breath and blew it out. Had I remembered to put my current registration in the glove box? My insurance card was in my wallet along with my driver’s license. I hit the window button as the officer approached. He was big, solid like a bodybuilder. He peered down into my window.

“You know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”

“Was I going too fast?”

“You’re in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. Did you know that? You were twenty over.”

Dammit. It was so careless of me. I gave him a weak smile and motioned toward my messenger bag. He let me get out my wallet and I handed him my identification.

“Sit tight,” he said as he walked back to his vehicle.

So much for everything I’d told Mitch about driving like an old lady. I deserved a ticket if he gave me one, but I was hoping maybe this guy would let me off with a warning. Points on my license was the last thing I needed. I was trying to cut my monthly bills, not add to them.

It seemed to take forever as he punched my information into his dashboard computer. Finally, he started walking back. His posture was different. Straighter. From my side mirror I saw him put his hand over his weapon.

“Ma’am,” he said, taking a wide stance at my window. “I’m going to need you to step out of your vehicle and put your hands behind your head. Now.”

“ hat?” My heart thundered in my chest. How the hell fast had I been going?

“Out of your vehicle. Hands on your head.”

A mistake. Just like the letter from the Collingwood principal. Had he pulled the false record the same way the State Police did?

“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent …”

The staccato beat of the pulse in my ears drowned out the rest of his words. The ground in front of me seemed to wave from side to side as if I were looking at it from underwater. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t me.

He got to the end and asked me if I understood. I nodded stupidly and tried to turn. The officer’s hands came up and he pushed me against the hood of the car. He didn’t hurt me, but moved quickly and put my wrists in handcuffs. In some back corner of my brain I knew how important it was for him to keep me secure. I could be anyone. Except I wasn’t. I was me. This was happening to me. He put a hand on my shoulder and helped me upright. He called for backup into the radio on his shoulder.

Arrest. He was placing me under arrest?

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He put a firm hand on my upper arm and started walking me back to his patrol car. He was going to put me in that thing? Cars slowed as they passed us. Gawkers. Fingers pointing. I tried to look away. Oh God. What must all of these people think? I’ll admit it. I’ve done something similar a thousand times. You pass by as you see a car pulled over. Drugs? Were they speeding? Thank God that’s not me. Except this time it was.

And then Judy Smith’s silver Mercedes slowed to a crawl as she passed by. Tyler was in the front seat beside her. His eyes went wide as he recognized me. Judy’s did too. I shook my head then looked down. But it was too late. Both Judy and Tyler Smith watched as the officer placed a hand over my head and put me in the back of his patrol car. They saw everything. Handcuffs and all.