Chapter 7

Julia Bentley Blackwell was very close to Frances Noonan’s own age. “I always thought of her as younger,” Mrs. Noonan explained to Sarah. “She was in graduate school on the East Coast when I knew her parents. We worked together a whole summer. She was on break from school and living a completely different life from me. I was a married woman, cooking and ironing and planning for a family. I always thought of her as carefree and young. But I was young too. I just didn’t realize it.”

Mrs. Noonan eyed Sarah, sitting next to her at the kitchen table, dipping a chocolate cookie into a glass of milk. Sarah seemed so young, but she was older than Frances Noonan had been when she met Julia.

“I didn’t even call her ‘Miss Bentley.’ I called her Julia. That’s how much older I thought I was.”

Sarah eyed her quizzically.

“We were from a different era than you are, dear. Our parents were definitely of a different era, and they taught us well. This was long before ‘Ms.’ was popular. Everyone was ‘Mrs.’ or ‘Miss.’ It was a form of civility, of respect. The country was in crisis and we held on to these courtesies, they held us together. We were comfortable speaking this way. In this building, we Fog Ladies, we just kept it up, even now.”

Mrs. Noonan thoughtfully sipped her milk. “The first person I met here, when Bill and I moved in all those years ago, the first person I met was so old I couldn’t believe she was living on her own. Miss Carroll. That’s how she introduced herself, what I called her as long as I knew her. It was months before I learned her first name. Margaret. Margaret Carroll.”

Mrs. Noonan studied Sarah. Not a wrinkle. Fingers straight and not bent by arthritis. The whites of her eyes white, not yellow. Well, white with red blood vessels from not enough sleep. Anyway, the point was, in retrospect, Miss Carroll turned out to not be so old. Turned out she was only sixty-five. Which seemed ancient then, when Frances Noonan and Julia were young. Now sixty-five just seemed normal.

Mrs. Noonan found Julia Blackwell easily. She was listed in Mrs. Noonan’s old telephone company-issued paper telephone book under Blackwell, Julia B. An address was given on Russian Hill. Could she simply call her out of the blue?

After much thought and discussion with the Fog Ladies, Mrs. Noonan left a long message on the answering machine, saying that she was an old family friend, that she remembered Julia from their summer together, that she had read about the murder in the newspaper, and that she was very good with children if Julia needed babysitting relief in order to help her son. She hung up wishing the machine would give her some reaction, some assurance the message would be received in the spirit she intended.

Her answer came within a few hours. Julia Blackwell called back to say she indeed remembered her and that she would be grateful for any help Mrs. Noonan could offer. Mrs. Noonan told her several Fog Ladies had babysitting experience. The two women agreed to meet the next day.

Mrs. Noonan was happy when Alma Gordon suggested she join her. Mrs. Gordon had transformed Baby Owen from a sad, silent waif into a bubbly toddler. She had a way with babies.

Enid Carmichael somehow assumed she would be coming too. Frances was appalled at the thought and kicked herself for asking the ladies if anyone else would like to go. She hadn’t meant Enid Carmichael. Olivia Honeycut, who had grandchildren, would be useful, though she was sometimes too outspoken. Even Harriet Flynn, with her holier than thou preachings, was preferable to Enid Carmichael.

Of course Enid would want to come. This was murder, after all. Enid Carmichael thrived on gossip and excitement. She’d been that way as long as Frances had known her. People never change, Frances’s husband, Bill, always said. He was certainly right about Enid Carmichael.

The Fog Ladies had been meeting more than a decade, the group growing larger as each woman became a widow, except for Enid, who just glommed on. First, Alma Gordon’s husband died of a coronary. Then her own Bill, hit by a car crossing Lombard Street on his morning walk. She always thought he would die in the line of duty. She never expected that kind of a telephone call once he retired.

Then Philip Flynn—a stroke. And Chester Honeycut—lung cancer. Muriel Bridge, who had died herself the year before, became a widow when her husband died of pneumonia following gallbladder surgery. Five men, all dying before the wives.

The Fog Ladies had turned to each other for comfort and for company. After more than forty years of marriage, it was an adjustment to be alone. Having these women during the day was a godsend. If only the hours between ten p.m. and four a.m. could be filled as well.

Oh, how she missed Bill. His smell, of wintergreen breath mints and coffee, his smile, showing teeth that got more crooked as he grew older, his solidness that softened over the years with all her baked goods, her molasses cookies being his all-time favorite. The Fog Ladies ate her cookies now. Though she hadn’t made the molasses ones since Bill died.

Enid Carmichael was not a widow. She had been divorced forever, divorced and bitter at first, but that, at least, had mellowed. Knowing everything about everybody, she latched on to the growing group instantly, even before they knew they were a group. Enid was one of them. Still, she didn’t know diddly-squat about children.

In the end, as far as meeting Julia Blackwell was concerned, Mrs. Noonan diplomatically explained that since Enid had no interest in actually babysitting the tyke, there was no real reason for her to come, and Mrs. Carmichael grudgingly stayed behind.

Julia Blackwell’s apartment was in a large brick building on Russian Hill. Parking was difficult, and Mrs. Noonan’s car was not small. She circled the block several times, up and down a steep hill, waiting for a space to open up. Each time they turned the corner at the top of the hill, the San Francisco Bay opened up in front of them, blue today, with several sail boats and one large container ship they tracked with each circle of the block. Just as Mrs. Noonan was giving up, a van pulled away from a spot directly in front of the building. She had been concentrating so much on finding parking that she hadn’t noticed the van was from a local television station. Alma Gordon pointed it out.

“I bet that’s about the killing. Poor woman,” Frances said.

Julia Blackwell answered on the intercom with an anxious voice, and Frances heard it relax when they announced themselves. The woman still squeaked when Frances pressed her apartment doorbell, and it wasn’t until the door was shut and they were seated with tea that she seemed to calm down.

“They won’t let us alone. At all hours of the day. Cameras, questions. Poor Ben. This last group got into the building and actually came to the door and had the camera rolling when I opened it. Got Ben on film. I thought it was you and stupidly opened the door without thinking. Poor child. He’s only two and a half, but that’s old enough to know something has happened to his parents.”

Ben was set up in an adjacent room which they could see through a set of French doors. He was surrounded by toys, but he sat on the floor watching them. He had a stuffed giraffe in his arms and one thumb in his mouth.

“They haven’t let him visit his father. I’ve been there, to the jail, a few times, but they won’t let Ben go. It’s probably just as well. Paul is in an awful state. I don’t know if he could pull it together, even for Ben.”

Julia Blackwell was crying and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. She turned her head away from the boy so he couldn’t see. Mrs. Noonan wanted to hug her but didn’t want Ben to get alarmed. She sat in silence, placing her hand over Julia’s. Finally, Alma Gordon spoke.

“Do you need help with Ben?” she asked. “I am taking care of a toddler myself, younger than Ben. I know how tiring it can be. Frances and I would like to help if we can.”

“You’re so kind. Your call caught me off guard. All I’ve had is media calls, police calls, and crank calls. Since Ben was born, I’ve taken care of him during the day, and I must admit, I have let my social obligations go. I’ve been so wrapped up in Paul and Andrea’s lives, I haven’t seen some of my own friends in years. Many have died or moved away from the city.” She paused to gaze toward Ben, then leaned toward the ladies.

“Frances, when we were young, my parents talked about you and Bill so much I felt like you were part of the family. Meeting you again now reminds me of all the stories my mother told about the Wives’ Guild. She used to say that no matter how undesirable the task, she could count on you to volunteer with a smile. I can see what she means. And I remember you at the juvenile detention center, tackling that huge sixteen-year-old when he threatened that other boy with his pen to his neck. You just shoved against him somehow and the crisis was over, and he even laughed that you would try it.”

“How funny, I haven’t thought of that in years.” Mrs. Noonan smiled. “All I was thinking at the time was if someone gets hurt on my watch, my Bill will have hell to pay.”

Julia Blackwell nodded. “Well, I always admired you. I just stood there petrified. I can definitely use your help. I can’t tell you how relieved I’ve been since you called. You can imagine how much I have to do now, to try to get help for Paul. It is very hard to manage with Ben, not to mention not being able to talk in front of him.”

“You can count on us,” Mrs. Noonan said. “We’ll introduce ourselves to the lad, see how things go, then we can set up a schedule. You let us know what you need. We have several ladies who can help out, not just Alma and me.”

“And then there’s Baby Owen,” Alma Gordon said. “He will be pleased to see a boy close to his own age. He’s stuck being around us old folks all the time.”

“Is he your grandson? There are a lot of us watching these little fellas,” Julia said.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Gordon laughed. “Sylvia, my daughter, doesn’t have children. She didn’t meet Harold until she was older. I guess too old for babies.”

“It’s never too late. My husband and I thought we couldn’t have children. Paul came along when I was in my forties. You never know, you may be blessed with grandchildren yet.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Mrs. Gordon said wistfully.

“Who is Owen, then, if he’s not your grandson?”

“Oh, such a long story,” Mrs. Gordon said.

“We were helping with the ‘high risk youth’ through a program at the hospital,” Mrs. Noonan said.

“We used to help in the newborn nursery,” Mrs. Gordon said. “I loved that. Little bundles of pink and blue and everyone so happy. Why we had to change to Chantrelle, I don’t know.”

“It was my fault.” Mrs. Noonan knew it was her fault, but wouldn’t she do exactly the same thing again? “I thought we could be of use. The hospital needed volunteers to help the social workers with the teenagers, the ones with troubles like drugs or abuse or depression. Chantrelle was sixteen and had a baby, and we were supposed to give our support and set a good example and try to keep her in school and teach parenting skills.”

“What did I say about you taking on the undesirable tasks?” said Julia.

“I don’t think we accomplished even one of those things, come to think of it,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“Well, we did give our support,” said Mrs. Noonan. “And we still are, if you count Baby Owen.”

“So Owen is this girl’s child?” Julia asked. “Do you watch him while she’s in school?”

Mrs. Noonan didn’t say anything, and Mrs. Gordon certainly didn’t say anything. The silence grew. Mrs. Noonan saw Mrs. Gordon shift uncomfortably in her seat, eyes down.

“Well, no, not exactly,” Mrs. Noonan finally said.

Julia Blackwell stared from her to a silent Alma Gordon.

Mrs. Noonan decided she’d just better out with it. “I think we should tell you straight up, or you will think we go around offering our services and then stealing babies.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“I wouldn’t think that,” Julia Blackwell said. Mrs. Noonan saw her eyes dart over to Ben.

“We got to know each other very well,” Mrs. Noonan explained. “Chantrelle and Baby Owen even stayed with Alma for a while. So she knew how good Alma was with children.”

“Then, after they’d moved out, she left him one day, just left him at my doorstep,” Mrs. Gordon said. “I kept thinking she’d come back, that she only needed a break. But she hasn’t yet.”

“My. Oh, my,” said Julia Blackwell. “Well, she’ll probably turn up still. Don’t you think? How long has it been?”

Mrs. Noonan looked at Mrs. Gordon for help, but Mrs. Gordon was inspecting her shoes.

“Has it been a long time?” Julia persisted.

Mrs. Noonan spoke quietly. “It’s been months. We tried to find Chantrelle. We didn’t have any luck. Alma is afraid to tell anyone official for fear they will take Baby Owen and put him in a foster home. So we keep hoping Chantrelle will turn up.”

What must this woman think? What was Alma Gordon thinking? Had they done the right thing?

Julia Blackwell nodded vigorously. “I understand. I completely understand. Ben spent a night in Child Protective Services before they could track me down to come get him. Of all days, I cut my hand, stupidly, holding a bagel to cut it in half. Thought I’d cut a tendon. Had to go to the emergency room. Took most of the night and when I got home there was a note on my door.” She paused and her eyes filled with tears.

“A note. From the police department. You’d think, being a policeman’s daughter, that I would understand about tragedy. I had no idea.” She stopped again. She glanced at Ben, but he had turned his back.

“Tragedy. Paul. Andrea. And Ben. They had found a temporary foster family to take Ben overnight and that’s where I picked him up. I’m sure most foster homes are nice. This one was not.”

The ladies all looked over at Ben. He made a noise, a quiet singsong noise. Julia Blackwell tiptoed to the French doors. As she opened them, his song became clear, a repeated refrain.

“MommyDaddyNannaBen.”