Pressing News
“How was your evening?” Valerie paces in front of the living room window, jostling Miren and patting her back in a rhythm mothers instinctively know.
“Here, give her to me and go get your coffee.”
Valerie hands me little Flopsy and shuffles off in the bunny slippers I got her for a joke. It’s chilly this morning. I wish I’d gotten a pair for myself. When she returns, I’m sitting on the couch, my right ankle resting across my left knee to form a cradle for Miren so I can jiggle her and read the paper at the same time. I was at the top of the driveway when the paperboy came by with the Chronicle. Halfway through the first section, I haven’t seen a story about the ETA yet. Maybe I overreacted, but the morning news generally picks up what the TV has broadcast the night before. Or maybe it’s the other way around and I missed the story in yesterday’s paper. If the story already ran, maybe nobody made the connection between Domeka and Danel. I’m deep into maybes when Valerie sets her coffee on the teak table and falls into the couch beside me.
“This table is going to have to go.” She traces the sharp corner with her finger. “So, how was your evening?”
“Good. Fine.”
Valerie frowns.
“I’m sorry. I have something on my mind. A lot of things, actually.” I tell her Roger’s news about the business Yoshi is helping the boys start.
“Wow, Mom; that’s terrific. Hewlett-Packard started in a garage. Maybe they’ll hit the big time.”
I work the knot that has formed in my neck with tired fingers.
“Hey, it could happen.”
“Well it could...but do we need this kind of attention right now?”
“What do you mean? Because of, of the...” Valerie reaches for words we’ve all been reaching for since Scott’s body was discovered. The accident? The murder? The...what? When will we know?
“Yes, that. But there is something else. This invention, it has some kind of a military application.”
“Most inventions in this valley do, Mom.”
“Yes, but the boys aren’t U.S. citizens.”
“So?” Miren has settled into sleep and so has my leg that supports her. I readjust a little and Valerie, misinterpreting my discomfort, scoops her daughter from my lap.
“Most inventors don’t have relatives who are terrorists.”
“Mom! Domeka is not a terrorist. He’s a student who got caught up in an unfortunate situation.”
“Not according to last night’s evening news.” I look up as Danny crosses through the dining room heading in the direction of the coffee pot. Apparently my last remark sinks in, because he U-turns into the living room.
“What was on the news?”
I explain the situation in as few words as possible.
Danny runs his hand through his sleep-mussed hair and scratches his head. Then he breaks out a grin. “That’s great news!”
“Well, yes, it’s great news that your brother is free, but what will it mean for your enterprise if word gets out that you might be funneling money or some kind of technology to the ETA?”
“That’s what the reporter said?”
“Not in so many words, but the announcer named your father and your brother and made reference to ‘a twin brother in the U.S.’ Then he suggested the possibility that a group of people here might be sending money to the terrorists.”
“That’s not exactly what he said.” Roger joins the conversation. “But close enough.”
“Am I missing a meeting?” Andy comes into the living room, knotting his tie, Boofus at his heels.
“Looks like we have a quorum,” I say, and Roger brings Andy up to speed.
Danny takes charge of the conversation. “I think it might be wise to place a phone call to my mother to get the facts so we can be prepared for whatever comes.”
“Let’s place that call from my office, Danny.” Andy found space in a new building in Stanford Industrial Park shortly before Miren’s birth. Smart man.
The phone rings and I go to answer. Let this be Laura and not some reporter. Shifting the conversation, I address Valerie over my shoulder, “We saw Laura and Mike cozying up at a corner table at Sakura Gardens last night.”
But it’s not Laura. It’s a KGO radio news reporter. The panic that rises in my throat turns to confusion. He isn’t asking about Domeka, or Danny, or the ETA, he wants my comment on news that has leaked about Lukas. I get him off the phone as fast as I can.
All eyes are on me. “The word is out that Lukas is being released today without charges. He’s coming home.”
R
Every time I regain some balance, something comes around the corner and knocks me back off my feet. What I wanted to talk to Roger about at dinner last night was house hunting. Instead, we talked about the kids. Now Roger is trolling the auto parts store with Mike and I’m outside on a chilly November morning tending my winter garden, mulching perennials in the flower bed, my chest as tight and closed as new cabbage.
Danny has gone off with Andy to call Alaya. I know I should have gone with them and gotten on the phone with my sister, but all I have to say right now is I’m sorry. I’m sorry we didn’t grow up together. I’m sorry that more often it is trouble that draws us together, not joy. I want to tell her about Miren, gossip about the boys’ business and budding romances, surprise her with my plan to find a house with a guest room with her name on it. I don’t want to burden her with my worries that if Lukas had nothing to do with Scott’s death, the police will likely start looking at us again.
A flood of questions fill my head. Why didn’t we urge the boys to get the citizenship process going? How can we stay in this house when the people next door blame us for killing their dog and the people across the street blame us for involving their innocent son? I feel like Jacob wrestling with the Angel of God, but I’m beyond asking for a blessing. I want resolution and peace. That’s not true, I do want a blessing. I want a blessing for our children and our grandchildren. I don’t want the mistakes our parents made to be visited on our children in the form of lost love and shattered lives. And there is no one I can talk to about these feelings.
Talk to Me.
I lay my trowel aside. Knees nestling in my gardening pillow, I lean back on my heels and slow my breathing. Silence fills my ears and the space around me expands. I sit like this for a full minute. Then my thoughts reform themselves as I offer them up. Lord, I can’t imagine how this will all work out, but You are good. I will watch you work these disasters together for our good, in the way that only You can. Give me courage to face this day.
As if a low watt bulb received a jolt of current, courage fills me with a mixture of peace and excitement. What am I doing in the garden? I should be in the place I haven’t been for months, my art studio. I toss my garden gloves and trowel into the old galvanized bucket I found down by the creek after the fire and stash them in the garage. Then I spend the rest of the morning in my studio, sketching ideas for a new collage series. I’m trying to add a new dimension to my work, the sound of silence.
R
A soft tap on my studio door pulls me from a creative space in my head I’ve been plugged into for several hours. Images playing before my eyes float off and I blink hard to refocus my attention. I open the door and Valerie stands there, Miren settled in the crook of one arm, a cup of tea extended with the other. She must have tapped on the door with her foot. Motherhood is such a juggling act. I take the cup of tea and follow her into the kitchen. She picks up her mug and motions me with her head to follow her.
“When I went outside to get the mail, I noticed a news truck parked up the street.”
I move around her to open the front door. Bright sunlight stings my eyes. Outside, the gloom of the morning has lifted and cottony pieces pulled apart by an invisible hand wisp across a bluing sky. We walk up the driveway and peek around the hedge.
“My guess is they are waiting for Lukas to come home,” Valerie whispers, tucking the sleeping baby’s blanket more closely around her. Miren looks like a little sausage in pink casing resting on the plate of her mother’s shoulder.
I reach over to adjust Miren’s knit cap so her ears are covered. “If they were here to talk to us, they would have come to the door, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Valerie adjusts the weight of the sleeping baby. “Let’s go back inside.”
A cloud passes overhead, blocking the sun and darkening the street. From around the corner, the Dold’s white Ford Fairlane station wagon comes into view. They must have spotted the TV truck because the car speeds into the driveway and Kay jumps out, key in hand, before the car stops just short of the garage door.
“I’ll bet they wish they had an automatic garage door,” Valerie whispers in my ear.
Water splashes on my cheek. I put my hand out and turn my face upward. A fat drop lands in the middle of my forehead. “It’s starting to rain. Go on in the house. I want to stay here for a few minutes.”
Valerie bends her body over the baby and hustles down the driveway through the open door, passing Puffy who sits on the low step. Puffy is on robin watch. Robins rain dance on the grass, waiting for the worms to crawl out of their holes and skate on the wet walk. Easy pickings; I’m about to witness a lot of skating about.
Boofus barks from inside the house and before Valerie has a chance to shut the door, I slap the side of my leg, a signal to him to come. He scrambles to my side and we watch the melee begin.
While Kay struggles with the padlock, a bearded young man emerges from the truck. He hauls out a video camera that is attached by a heavy cable to somewhere inside the truck, hoists it onto his shoulder and walks down the street behind a woman holding a microphone. From inside the car Gunther yells at Kay to hurry up, which just slows her down. Boofus wiggles and whines. I wait until just before the woman crosses in front of me and then I slide the toe of my shoe underneath Boofus and give him a little shove in her direction. He takes off barking and wagging his tail, startling the reporter who turns a pair of frightened blue eyes on me.
“Oh he won’t hurt you,” I say, “but Gunther might if you bother him right now.”
She narrows her eyes and the cameraman behind her starts flipping switches. I hold her attention by babbling some nonsense while Boofus dances circles around her, causing her to trip on the cord that dangles from the microphone as she tries to step out of his way. I purposely do not look over at the Dolds until the garage door creaks open, tires screech and Gunther guns the car into the garage, barely missing Kay. Kay runs around behind the car and, with Herculean effort, pulls on a rope to lower the heavy door.
The reporter looks like a fisherman who has just watched a salmon slip off the hook. She drops her arm and holds it stiffly to her side, gripping the microphone even as she composes her face into friendly interest in what I might have to say.
I slap my thigh and say, “Come, Boofus!” Come inside and mama will get you a treat. “Bad Doggie!”
I exaggerate my voice into an invitation to play. He lowers his chest, splays his short legs out in front of him, hikes up his rear and whips his tail back and forth, yipping and sneezing.
Reporter girl walks toward me and camera guy follows, still fiddling with buttons and switches. She bends over to pick up the microphone cord and then straightens up and jabs the loose end into a camera slot and purrs at me. “You are the owner of the house where Scott Schwartz was found murdered, aren’t you?”
Anger shoots through me, but I match her measured speech.
“There has been no such finding,” I say. Then I bend down and scoop up Boofus. I hold him close to my cheek and baby talk at him, “We have to get this little guy inside before he catches a cold.” At that very moment, the sky lights up, thunder cracks, and clouds break over our heads.
“Give me your jacket, Lois, I can’t let this camera get wet,” the cameraman yells at reporter girl, who peels off an expensive trench coat, tangling her microphone cord in her sleeve.
I tuck Boofus up under my shoulder and run for the front door.