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Karen (Al & Karen) Saturday a.m.
It was interesting to watch each person in our little group go at the task we’d set for ourselves, like Ron and his slot-car idea, and Al with some World War II movie. I tried to approach each target at a neutral place, in the laundry room or during the informal street gatherings that happen daily around the park. I’d start a conversation and then steer it toward what Springsteen calls “Glory Days.” It was kind of interesting, and I learned a lot about men I barely knew. Some had been in the military that year, some in college, and some settled in with a wife and a kid or two. As soon as I was able to, I zeroed in on July 7th, saying Al and I had visited a cousin of his in Nashville and the date stuck with me because of a double murder that happened nearby.
Nobody batted an eye. Not one guy shifted his feet or put up a hand to cover his mouth, which I understand is a sign a person is lying. I got nothing but polite interest.
Because it was dependent on “accidental” meetings and trips down Memory Lane, my method was slow. Out of my first three tries, one response was specific enough for me to rule the guy out—again, if he’d told the truth and if my powers of discernment were correct.
Julie’s approach was more direct. She told the men on her list that she and Ron had had an argument about whether couples meet by fate or by accident. To prove her contention that it was fate, she’d chosen a number of men at random from the park directory, intending to find out where they were on the night she and Ron first met.
I didn’t find that particularly believable, but Julie contends she’s done stranger things to prove a point. “When Ron and I disagreed on how much our son should charge for lawn work, I spent two weeks asking everyone who came into the library what a minor child should get paid for an hour of mowing. I added the numbers up and took an average, and it came out a whole lot closer to my figure than Ron’s.” Picking up her list, she got back to business. “Guys laugh about this fate thing, but not one has refused to answer, at least not outright.”
“What does that mean?”
“One guy claimed he couldn’t remember, and another said he was somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic States. He was a surveyor’s apprentice, so they moved every few days.”
“Then those two need to be re-interviewed by someone else.”
She sighed. “I hope it doesn’t become too obvious that we’re all asking about one date and one place. You know how everything that happens at B-Bird gets commented on.”
“And analyzed and questioned. We aren’t going to get away with our little stories for long.”
“They can speculate all they want. In a week or so, we’ll be done and there’ll be new gossip to discuss.” She put down her pen. “I like my story, and I’m refining it as I go so it gets more believable each time.”
I let it go at that. When it comes to skullduggery, to each her own.
