The Man with the Red Bag (13 page)

It was so weird, here in the dark, the lantern shining around our feet as we stood in silence, the moon fringing the edges of the clouds, the presidents above, listening. Even though I knew we might still be in danger, even though things could go from here to worse, the writer in me saw the scene and filed it away for a story setting. I guess writers never turn themselves off.

He made the sign of the cross over the small mound and I remembered how he'd done that, the first day, on the bus.

He stood and I heard him take a deep, raggedy breath.

“All right,” he said, and the way he said it made me know that he'd come to a decision. “I'll tell you.”

He didn't look at us.

“I'm a fireman,” he went on. “My father was, too.
We didn't work together much, but we were together on the day of September eleventh, 2001. In the Twin Towers. Every firefighter in the city was there that day. Even the older guys.” He stopped, coughed, moved a little. “My father died. The fire burned through…”

“Oh!” Geneva took a step toward him as if she was going to hug him. “I'm so so so sorry!” I don't know if he heard her or saw her.

“I was pulling him up. I had his arm, the fire came in a sweep from below.” He stopped again. “I let go.” He paused. “The media got it, of course. Newspapers. TV. Two heroes, father and son. One died.”

That's where Millie saw his picture, I thought, and at the same time I realized that he was standing so he could see the presidents' heads against the faraway sky and that he seemed to be talking to them, not to us at all.

“My father loved this country,” he went on. “He'd been here at Mount Rushmore twice. He joked that he wanted to be buried here, with the presidents watching over him for all time.” Stavros
touched the little mound gently with his toe. “These boots, his spare boots, were a part of him. The fire took the ones he wore, along with everything else.”

He leaned down and switched off the lantern.

“We thought,” I said into the darkness, “we thought…”

“Sometimes since nine-eleven people do.”

“We're sorry that we thought that way. Just because…”

Stavros nodded.

Geneva and I hovered, not knowing what to say or do next.

“Did you hurt your hand in the fire?” Geneva asked, sounding polite and ordinary.

“No. I was careless with a saw in my workshop. I had planned on driving out here. But the accident put a stop to that.”

“That must have hurt,” Geneva said.

I couldn't believe her with her small talk.

“I think we should go back now,” I said to her. And then to Stavros, “I don't suppose you want to come yet?”

“I'll stay for a while,” he said, and then dopey Geneva added, “Don't forget to pick up your wrapping paper. We don't litter.”

I thought Stavros smiled.

I didn't look back at him once as we went for our bikes.

This little bit of time for him was private and precious.

W
e left the next day for Rapid City, South Dakota. We'd stay the night in the old Alex Johnson Hotel there, then catch our flights home. Geneva and I exchanged e-mail addresses. I might write to her if I have nothing better to do. I probably will. Only because I'll probably never meet another girl with fake eyes and yellow hair. Who's brave, too.

I was surprised at how hard it was to say last goodbyes. At the beginning Declan had told us we should get pally and I'd thought, Come on! That'll never happen on a bus tour. But it had happened. I'd miss
everyone, even Millie. Well, not so much Millie.

She whispered to me that she'd be staying on the trail of Stavros when she got back. “I won't give up,” she said.

I shrugged. “Good luck.” I wasn't about to tell her his private and precious secret.

Stavros waved to Geneva and me as we left the bus for the last time. The red bag, light now, swung from his hand. The new bandage was streaked with dirt.

“Say hello to Sunshine for me,” Midge told him.

“I will. Thanks.”

“Bye,” we said. “Bye, Mr. Stavros.”

“He was so
nice
.” Geneva giggled.

“And we were jerks,” I said.

Geneva gave me one of her high-and-mighty looks. “Maybe
you
were a jerk. I was just doing my patriotic duty.”

Oh, brother!

“Here, Mr. Stavros,” Grandma said. “I want you to have this as a memento of our trip.” She gave him the finished blue scarf. “I'll knit another one for your dad,” she told me.

Charles Stavros knotted the scarf around his neck,
then leaned down and gently kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

I wondered what Grandma knew. Probably nothing. But she senses things. That's another one of her talents.

On the plane home the next morning she told me she'd loved this trip and we should plan another one for next summer vacation, which will be all right with me.

 

I've been catching up on everything in my mystery notebook. I bet I have a story here when I put it all together. One thing pleases me a lot. My how-to-write-a-mystery book says that the first clue presented should be the last one resolved, and in my real-life mystery, that's how it went. First off, I was suspicious of what was in that bag, and that's what I found out last. Okay! Joan Lowery Nixon would be proud of me. Also, in a book, the main character should learn something about himself or the world around him. I'd definitely done that. I think it's okay in a book for a writer to have imagination and think someone's who he isn't. I mean, you've got to have
suspense. But I'll remember in real life to be more careful. I think I'll use my original title, though.
The Man with the Red Bag.
In writing we call this “finding an edgy title that will catch the reader and never let go.”

So it's over.

But when I lie in bed at night, my head on my familiar, friendly blankey square, I think about that small mound up there in South Dakota, that memorial to a fireman who died. And I think of the four presidents watching over it with love and gratitude.

Maybe that's just the writer in me, being romantic and imaginative.

But anyway, that's what I think.