The Lovely Chocolate Mob (9 page)

Miss Planter followed up with, “You’re not a member of the choir, are you?”

“No, I’m not although I’ve thought about becoming a member.”

“Why don’t you join the choir then?”

“Well, I’m employed. And like I said, I’m pretty much married to my job. It’s not a good wife, but I’ve got to eat. Anyway, many times I’m tired when I get home, and rehearsals are on Wednesday night. I’m very tired in the middle of the week, and need to get enough rest for the remainder of the week. Plus, I’ve noticed that the choir stands up during the first half hour of the service; I’d rather not stand up that long.”

Miss Planter was looking at me as though she couldn’t believe anybody would make up so many excuses. Her poker face was slipping; I felt I was being sized-up.

“Also, I prefer singing songs I know, along with the choir; any new songs or those I don’t care about, I’d rather just listen.”

Miss Planter sat still, writing for a little while, then asked, “Why do you sit in the back of the church? Don’t you mix with others in the congregation?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not what you’d call a mixer. I hate mixing. I don’t like acting happy when I’m not. In fact, there’s a time in church when I really can’t stand being there.”

“And what time is that, Mr. Owen?” asked Miss Planter, putting her notes aside, as though this information was important to her.

“It’s the time, usually at the beginning of the service, when the minister asks us all to stand and greet each other. The music will play, and all the talking starts; people stand up and turn around to meet and greet and shake hands. Well, while this is good for most people, it’s hell on earth for me.”

“You’re saying that you have a reserved personality, Mr. Owen?” asked Miss Planter.

“Yes, I suppose that I do. I mean, I like all the people, but I just prefer to meet them one-at-a-time, on terms I’m familiar with. I don’t like meeting people just because it’s time to meet people. I’ll shake someone’s hand, then stand there and listen to what they have to say, smiling as though I’m thrilled to hear what they’re saying. With all the talking and music, I really can’t hear a darn thing, so there I am, with a grin on my face, nodding my head to something I can’t quite decipher. I’d rather not be doing that.”

“Well, how do you avoid this, Mr. Owen? That seems to be a part of most large congregations in Protestant churches,” said Miss Planter, revealing that she also knew the usual workings of church practices.

I paused until my answer was clear in my mind. “Since it’s at the beginning of the service, I don’t walk into the auditorium until after this is all over. Then when they’re done with all the handshaking I can enter and sit and listen and enjoy the sermon in peace and quiet, and I don’t feel as though I’ve compromised myself. I know this sounds unusual, but that’s what I do. I’m a bit odd, I guess.”

“No, you’re not odd. I was just concerned.”

“Concerned? About what? My dated views on matrimony?”

“Well, possibly, but… I guess what I was really concerned with is how well you interact with others.”

“I don’t mix well, if that’s what you mean. Yes, I know. It’s one of my many faults, and here you’ve discovered one of them. You’re worried that since I don’t mix well, I’m a bit of an isolationist.”

“Yes, that’s… it sounds as though you’ve already thought of this!” said Miss Planter, who looked at me with puzzlement.

“Besides marriage, I think about other things every day as well,” and I grinned.

Miss Planter also grinned, and looked down to write on her clipboard. It’s good to see her smile; it’s better to make her smile.

Then she hits me with a whammy. “Don’t you think you have rather narrow views on the state of marriage?”

“Narrow views? I’ve thought about that a lot, and would have to say, yes, I do have rather narrow views. But I’ve had years to look at it from many angles, and have seen the social fallout we’re experiencing in our land, and I just can’t come up with anything better. I mean, this marriage business is important; I’ve come to a conclusion about it, which is, if you can’t do it right then don’t do it.”

I looked over at Miss Planter, who was looking at me over her clipboard, studying me.

“Hopefully I didn’t scare you with what I just shared,” I said. “This is extreme to some, I’m sure.”

“No, you didn’t scare me, Mr. Owen,” said Miss Planter, who started writing on her clipboard again. “It’s just that I don’t hear that very often in these sessions.”

“I don’t tell many people how I feel about this issue; some feel that it’s a bit out of date,” I said, hoping to let her know I hadn’t lost touch with reality.

“Being a single man, for most of your life, how do you feel about that?”

“I’ve been a single man for all of my life, and if you mean, do I feel as though I’ve missed out, then yes, I’ve felt that often. I still feel it, in fact. No wife, no companionship, no children, no future. It used to hurt worse, a lot worse, believe me, but I’ve slowly grown accustomed to it. And I do like the peace and quiet in the evenings.”

Miss Planter laughed here, even though this wasn’t meant as a joke. After my surprise, I laughed also.

“Raising children is a lot of work, Mr. Owen. Maybe your different life isn’t so terrible. Do you feel guilty about being single?”

“Now there’s another fair question,” I remarked. “Yes, I’ve felt guilt about my status many times. I haven’t taken care of a wife and I haven’t raised any children, which used to be the accepted norm, smiled upon by society. I wish life could have smiled on me here, but that’s not the way it worked out. I was, however, involved in the care of my parents for years.”

Miss Planter looked over at me.

“I’m proud of that,” I said. “I’d do it again.”

On Wednesday at work, my new cell phone rang; I looked and saw a number I didn’t recognize. I opened it up and said, “Hello?”

An electronic, tinny-sounding voice said, “Tonight, after work, take a walk. Same place. Same time.”

“What?”

“I have news you need to hear.”

Then it hit me. This was Walter.

“Okay, I’ll take a walk.”

The phone went dead. For the rest of the day, work dragged on, since now I was curious about the news that Walter had. I was glad to see five o’clock finally arrive.

I went home, made a snack, took a shower, read my computer e-mails, caught up on the news, cleaned up the kitchen, then put on my shoes and went for a walk. It was a nice stroll down past the Dairy Queen and around the corner to the post office. I stopped and waited, but not for long. The large and slow recreational vehicle came down the street, but from the opposite direction than before. It stopped, and with no invitation I walked across the street and hopped in.

Walter was wearing his disguise, so I didn’t say anything until we left the city and made our way south, back to Estella’s bar and grill. We sat at the same booth, far from the other people; there were more customers there that night. There were some bikers I had been worried about; they appeared to be mostly in their mid-fifties, maybe even into their sixties and seventies; either that or they’d all had a rough life. I really had nothing to worry about, since they seemed to enjoy each other’s company, and their fighting and hell-raising days were far behind them now. At least a quarter of them appeared to be vets, based on the tone of their dress. American flags were sewn into their clothes, their bandanas, and even painted on their motorbikes in the parking lot. They seemed to know Kim and Walter, and were also comfortable in this setting.

We got comfortable, ordered some drinks, and Walter started talking. “I did a little research on your old sweetheart, Helen Ceraldi, or Helen Ceraldi
hyphen
Burke,” lowering his voice when saying the name a second time. “Guess what I came up with.”

I had some idea what he was talking about, and was extremely curious. I tried not to appear too anxious, but Walter knew me. “What did you come up with?” I asked.

Walter looked pleased, like the cat who ate the canary. “You know she married that doctor, right? Franklin Burke, M.D. They’ve got four kids: three girls, and one boy. Got that?”

“Got it. I knew that.”

“I did a little research,” he said. “A little fact-checking, and… did she tell you they’re broke, up to their necks in debt, practically one paycheck away from bankruptcy?”

I let this sink in for a moment. It didn’t make sense. Why would she keep this from me?

“No, she didn’t tell me this. In fact, everything I know about her tells me the opposite. Married to a doctor, four kids, sports car, a house…”

“Not just a house, a mansion!” Walter said with glee. He was enjoying this. “In the rich part of town!”

I started naming their known assets. “Kids, a mansion, a car…”

“And not just a car, an Italian sports car, an import!” Walter said. “That’s not their
only
car…”

I interrupted, “You better let me write all this down; let me get situated. This might get heavy.”

I borrowed a piece of paper from Kim. Fortunately, I usually carried a pen, so Walter talked and I wrote down everything important. It turned out that Helen and Dr. Burke owned an old, beautiful mansion near a gated community; it would have been included inside the gate, but was built many years before modern developers came along. The two oldest children had a car, which made a four-car family. It only made sense for Mindy to have a car since she needed to get around while at college. Their mansion had a five-car garage, located near the house; they all drove into a little courtyard area, between the house and the garage, the kind that used to exist back in the horse and carriage days, among those who could afford it.

Walter rattled off all what he found they owned, which included a swimming pool, a maid and a cook (but they were only part-timers). Well, nobody really owns a maid and cook, but they were employed. When the cook was off, the family ate out, especially on weekends, and many times at the country club, which brought even more expenses. They belonged to the Lovely Country Club, which, I suppose, is expected if you want to hob-nob with the movers and shakers.

Helen was on different community boards, including being a patron of the local arts, a sponsor and board member of the local public television group, and active with the local pet shelter. Oh yes, they had pets, and more than one. Sometimes they brought home dogs and cats no one wanted to adopt, until they could find homes for them. Many times they’d become attached to the pet, and keep it as one of their own, one more mouth to feed.

The children went to private schools, with Mindy attending an Ivy League school, with a declared degree in journalism. Since she was a beauty like her mother, she could be hired as a television reporter or news anchor at any station in the country.

Franklin Burke drove a Mercedes convertible, and liked to speed around with the top down when weather permitted. They used to own other houses, homes, properties, even a private plane, but these had been sold off and let go, probably due to “financial reverses.” They still owned their own boat, though, which was parked at the nearest marina.

Walter painted a picture of a family who got rich too quickly and spent it all as they were making it, who had acquired more than just a piece of the American dream, and were stuck trying to maintain it, if just for the sake of appearances. The Ivy League school alone cost at least $50,000 annually, and who knew what other kinds of expenses were required to keep their little girl mixing with the Greek crowd. She had probably already pledged with a sorority, which is expected if you’re to be sociable in college. That would cost her parents as well; those aren’t cheap, and you’ve got to have the right car and clothes to go along with that. What happened to kids who kept their noses to the grindstone?

The other three children were attending various different private schools, depending on their ages. The prices for these schools were high as well, and of course laptop computers weren’t provided; they were purchased by the parents. The children needed the latest model, the most costly. They were required to wear certain clothes and uniforms. The second oldest also had a convertible, and wound up driving the other two children to school and picking them up, which was probably the price of her having the car she wanted. It was painted red, like her mother’s. If they had to carry schoolbooks or equipment, it would be a crowded car.

Helen required having her hair done at least once a week; she ran a tab at
Rebecca Meredith’s,
the high-dollar store for clothes in the area, and when she wasn’t busy with the volunteer work in the community, attended the opera and orchestra concerts with Franklin. They took vacations whenever the seasons changed, and had traveled the country and all over the world. They booked themselves on cruises, and sometimes took the kids along in the summer, which served to expand their “world-views.”

When Walter finished, I looked at my sheet of paper. It was filled-up on both sides, and quite a mess. “How do people manage to maintain living expenses with all they own,” I wondered, “all that stuff?”

“Wish I had some of that stuff,“ Walter exclaimed. “I’d like a Caribbean cruise every now and then.”

“Walter, your whole life is a vacation,” I joked. “How did you manage to find this information?”

“Top secret, Randall-boy. If I told ya, I’d have to kill ya,” he joked back. “Anybody can find this stuff out, nowadays. Much of this is from the internet. The rest of it is… well, like I said, trade secrets.”

This didn’t stop Walter from sharing, however: “I used to have to go to the library to do research like this, and that was skimpy compared to the information age! Other info gathered is from just plain old legwork. Stake out, ‘borrowing’ their mail, remember what I told you about the television sound gun? I have one of those, too. I traded for it with an insider at a news station.”

Walter was bragging, but I guessed it wasn’t bragging if he could do it. He continued, “And I didn’t even have to go inside their home! I heard much of what they said from parking across the street. I borrowed Kim’s van and pointed my ‘gun’ in their direction.”