thirty-three

“That’s Alberta’s house.” That’s what I meant to say, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

“Isn’t that Alberta’s house?” asked Tom. He stood and pressed the volume button so that we could hear.

“… the bomb. One person was slightly injured and there is major damage to the home. This is Ro …”

“Oh my God,” I said, and realized that my hands had clasped themselves over my mouth of their own volition.

The image shifted to a traffic accident on Interstate 69.

“Try another channel,” I said, forcing my hands down to the table.

Tom tried two more news stations before we hit one that showed the same chaotic scene in front of Alberta’s house. The camera angle was different, and the open garage door showed no vehicle inside. The camera panned past the emergency vehicles in the driveway and on the street and stopped in another driveway. I recognized the Rasmussen home, and Alberta’s SUV in the Rasmussens’ driveway. Just one Rasmussen, a voice in my head reminded me. A police officer appeared at the back of Alberta’s vehicle, popped the hatch, and picked up a pet carrier. It looked like the one Gypsy and her kittens had been in when I visited. Another man appeared with four Welsh Terriers on leashes. Hutchinson. He followed the officer with the cats in through the garage.

Tom sat down beside me as the image shifted to a distant view of the back of Alberta’s house, where a half dozen police officers and a couple of fire fighters were doing what they do. “… through a large window. Police have not yet determined whether the incidents are connected.” The reporter pressed her ear and held her hand up in a “wait a minute” gesture, then spoke to the camera again. “We take you live now to police spokesperson Captain Vicky Miller.”

A crisp woman in a jacket with police insignia on it was now addressing a dozen reporters. “… short statement. The bomb squad responded this afternoon to a report of a suspicious package delivered to a home in Fort Wayne. It was determined that the contents of the package were designed to look like a bomb, but no explosives were present. The back window of the same home was broken at about the same time. We have not yet determined whether the events are related. We will keep you informed as we learn more.” The Channel 15 reporter started to ask a question, but Captain Miller signaled “stop” with her hand and said, “We have work to do” and the image shifted again.

The camera panned across the front of Alberta’s yard to the pond and woods, and the reporter spoke again. “We have learned that the owner of the home, Mrs. Alberta Shofelter, has been embroiled in a number of neighborhood disputes over the past few months.”

“‘A number of disputes?” I said.

“Two is a number,” said Tom, holding up his hand to stop me talking.

“… feral cat colony, and an unrelated dispute over potential development of this empty lot.”

My shoulder muscles spasmed at that. “Empty lot? It’s woods and wetlands and meadow, you moron.”

Several people turned to look at me, including the two young women I had seen earlier in the restroom. Sweatshirt smiled at me and said, “You’re right. It’s a beautiful place, and not empty at all.”

The television shifted again to a view of Louise Rasmussen’s house across the street, and then a photo of Charles appeared on the screen. “… developer and philanthropist Charles Rasmussen, who died Sunday under suspicious circumstances.”

“Good riddance,” said a young man sitting with the ESP women. The three of them stood up, dropped their refuse into the recycle bins by the wall, and left.

The TV news shifted to another story, and Tom turned the volume off.

“I need to check on Alberta,” I said. “She may need some help.” I pulled my phone from my pocket, but Tom stopped me. “Let’s go to my office. It’s quieter.”

It was no surprise that Alberta didn’t answer her phone. Even if she had it with her, she had to be shook up. I left a message and tried Hutchinson. No luck there, either. I didn’t have Louise’s number, but I knew someone who did. Jade Templeton answered on the first ring, and I told her what was going on.

“I can’t give out residents’ numbers except to family,” she said. “But hang on …” I heard a door close, and Jade said, “Mr. Marconi is in the garden with your mom. Hold on. I’m on my way …”

Drake’s head rested on my thigh, and I fondled his silky ear while I waited.

Then another voice. “Janet?”

“Mr. Marconi. Something has happened to my friend, well, her house, across from Louise’s place. I really need Louise’s phone number.” I wrote it on a pad on Tom’s desk and said, “How’s my mom today?”

“Better, much better,” he said. “She’s been telling me about your upcoming exhibit of photos from North Africa.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“That was in 1990.”

“I know,” he said, the kindness in his voice tangible over the airways. “She’s really looking forward to the opening, and she’s very proud of you.”

“Wow. Just wow,” I said after I closed my phone. I told Tom what Marconi had said, then punched in Louise’s number. She didn’t answer, either, but I left a message.

“I’m going,” I said.

Tom grabbed his jacket from the back of the door and snapped Drake’s leash to his collar. “Who’s driving?”

I stepped out the door and nearly walked into the young woman in the Environmental Studies sweatshirt. She said, “Oh!” and took a step back. “Sorry. I just, uh, I thought you might be here at Professor Saunders’ office so …” She thrust a flyer into my hand and said, “Here. I wanted you to have this. If you’re interested.”

The flyer’s headline was “DON’T LET THEM PAVE PARADISE.” Below it was a call to a teach-in, a term I hadn’t heard since the sixties and seventies. My mother was fond of teach-ins in those days. The theme was “Wetlands and Woods in Winter,” and it was scheduled for the first weekend in December.

“Okay, I’ll look at the website,” I said, and started to walk past her, but the woman’s face lit up and she said, “You will? Oh, that’s great. We could use a photographer.”

“How do you know I’m a photographer?”

Tom closed his door and said, “Guilty.”

The woman gave Drake a good back-scratch, then held her hand toward me and said, “Sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Robin.” She glanced at Tom. “I took Professor Saunders’ class on ethno-botany. He showed us an article about that award you won last year for your environmental photography.”

He did?

Tom shrugged at me.

“Robin, look, we really have to go, but I will look at the website.”

“Can I call you? Or, you know, text you?” The fire of youthful passion lit her face.

“Sure, call or email. Email is better. No texts. You can get my email from To …, er, Professor Saunders.” I started to go, but turned back and asked, “What’s your last name?”

“Byrde. With a ‘y’ and an ‘e.’”

When we were out of earshot, I said, “Seriously? Her parents named her Robin Byrde?”

“Beats ‘Princess.’ I had one of those once.”

The subject of goofy names was therapeutic, if bewildering. Coming up with more of them cracked the glacier of stress that had been smothering me since I arrived on campus, if not before. “What do you suppose Robin’s relatives are named?” I asked.

“There’s her brother Hawk.”

“And the twins, Wren and Sparrow.”

“Don’t forget Uncle Booby,” offered Tom. “He wears blue suede shoes.”

“And Auntie Ostrich, with the long neck.”

“We’re awful. She seems like a nice person,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“Auntie Ostrich?”

“Robin.”

“She is. At least she was a good student.” He slowed down for the turn into Alberta’s subdivision, and gestured for me to look down the street. The fire truck we had seen on television was gone, but two police cars, one of them unmarked, still had their lights going, and a K9 handler was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, a black German Shepherd dog by his side.