Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / DEADLY DANCE-REWRITTEN CHAPTERS 1-8

BOOK ONE
CHICAGO
1956

CHAPTER 1  ”A door slamming makes one jump, but it doesn’t make one afraid. What one fears is the serpent that crawls underneath it.”--- Collette, Cheri

The images flickered through my head like the pictures in a flip book.  You know, the ones that make things seem like they’re moving. My throat felt dry. One more day like all the rest. Might as well get up.

As I forced my eyes open, the bright sunlight shining through the open draperies practically blinded me. I tried to sit up, but nothing happened.  Breathe…breathe…

Crazy thoughts tumbled through my mind, like this must be how Miss Mermaid, the goldfish I had when I was five, felt every time I scooped her out of the water to “play”. After I drew a few shaky breaths I calmed down a bit, but then I panicked.  My fingers moved, but why were my hands behind my back?  It was like taking a slow inventory.  Legs…can’t move. Head hurts.  What was cutting into my ankles and wrists? An icy sweat slicked over me, saturating the thin fabric of my nightgown.

I’m a dancer.  I know how to control my breathing, so I stared straight up at the ceiling, waiting for it to level out.  I tried to focus on the little depressions in the pressed plaster design where wooly bits of dust hung like furry caterpillars ready to spin cocoons.  That’s not my ceiling! When I tried to call out, only muffled sounds escaped through the gag pressing against the corners of my mouth.

Street noises invaded the silence, becoming louder and louder by the moment. My heart pounded as hot tears streamed down my face.  I must be dreaming.  But I wasn’t dreaming, was I?  The pain was real, and I couldn’t move.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them everything in the room started to come into focus. I turned my head ever so slowly to the right, setting off a pounding in my temples I could hardly bear.  I tried to concentrate on the stark white veins winding a crazy path across the green marble top of a bedside table. I was terrified.

As I collapsed against the pillow, drained of energy, little black specs blinked furiously on a field of red.  Then everything faded to black.  I didn’t know it then, but I’d been drugged.

                         <<<>>>

A grating metallic sound shattered the stillness of the strange room. Hollow footsteps echoed across what sounded like a wooden floor and the faint scent of gardenias blending with the rancid tobacco smell in the room made me feel sick.  The effect of the drugs had started to wear off and my heart was beating faster than Fred Astaire tapping his way through a dance routine.

I tensed.  I had the feeling that eyes were boring into my back. Someone was very close to the bed now. The noises in the street sounded like the roar of the cars on the huge roller coaster at Riverview Park. A tall woman moved into view and simply stood still for a moment, looking down at me.
“Well, Sandra, you’re up.  Good.  Want me to tell you what’s going on, don’t you?”

I squinted as she bent toward me, her blond hair spilling over her shoulders in a glimmering shawl. Ang…Angie?  Thank God.

As I looked into her hazel eyes, the flecks of gold seemed to be flashing like caution lights. Her full lips, painted a brilliant scarlet, were drawn into a sneer, not a smile.

She said, “For God’s sake, you idiot… you look scared to death.” She glared at me.  “Well, that’s good.  You should be afraid!”
  
She stroked my hair, long fingers playing with the black waves, and then she cupped my chin in a viselike grip. “Ya know, you’re really naïve for a kid of seventeen.”  She straightened and put her hands on her hips.  “I guess there’s no harm in telling you.  Remember you said the Coke tasted funny when we were having lunch yesterday?  Well, I slipped you something to knock you out. I’ll bet you don’t even remember losing your cherry last night.”

My eyes glistened like a trapped animal as the tears spilled out and slid down my cheeks. Last night?  Cherries?  What cherries?

Angie gripped my shoulders and shook me. I felt my eyes fill with tears again.  “Don’t go crying now.  Stop crying, hear me? From now on, you’re going to do as I say or…” her voice trailed off. She pointed at the tray she carried.  ”I brought you some toast and juice.  Damn you, quit wiggling around.  If you calm down, maybe I’ll take that thing out of your mouth for a while.  After all, I am your best friend, aren’t I?”  Her eyes narrowed to an evil slit as she stroked my cheek.  “If you promise to drink this juice, I may even untie you.”  I nodded. Angie loosened the knot of fabric and it fell away.

When I tried to speak, the words were raspy, just above a whisper. “Anything, Angie.  I’ll do anything.  Just get me out of here.”  
My jaw ached and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls.  Finally I managed to croak out, “Why are you doing this?  I want to go home.  Now”
There was no answer…

I’d become aware of an aching, throbbing feeling between my legs. It really hurt like the time I’d fallen on the edge of the wooden milk crate in kindergarten and the doctor told my mother I had bruised my vagina. Funny word, vagina.

“Angie…” My voice was cracking as it rose higher and higher, “I’m scared…  Why am I tied up?”  Angie stared at me without saying a word, her hazel eyes as cold as a winter wind blowing off Lake Michigan.

“An…Angie, stop frightening me.”

She inhaled sharply and replied in flat cruel tone. “You’re a pain in the ass, Pavlova.  Quit bawling and drink the damn juice.  Want to know why you’re here?”  She moved her face very close to mine.  “Because Danny Boy and I kidnapped you, that’s why.”

CHAPTER 2   “The smiler with the knife under the cloak.”—-Chaucer, The Canterbury tales

I was fighting my way through the black haze when I heard someone who sounded a lot like Danny say, “That horny old goat is gonna flip when he sees our sweet little Pavlova.”  Then he chuckled. “How damn convenient that the cops will just think she ran away.”

Angie’s smooth voice seemed to come from far away.  She giggled.  “No harm…no foul!”

Ran away?  

I could barely make out Angie’s face as I struggled to focus. Danny’s voice went up a notch, “Who’d ever think that being a pianist at a damned ballet school of all things would wind up being our ticket outta here?  Good thing the band broke up after all, I guess.”

<<<>>>

I thought about the first time I saw Danny. He was the new piano player at the Kasarvina Academy and I was sitting in a corner on a folding chair watching the dancers.

When class was over, he told me how beautiful I was.  I didn’t care.  I didn’t care about anything anymore.
  
Every day for nearly a year I’d followed the same robotic routine.  Walk the two blocks to the bus stop on Clark Street after school.  Take the bus to the Academy. Walk in, hug Madam Kasarvina, go to my folding chair at the far side of the studio and stare at the class.  I didn’t dance anymore.  I couldn’t. All I did now was watch the others.

When the class was over, I got up, hugged Madam Kasarvina again and left. Danny started to tease me about having the saddest eyes he had ever seen.  But he didn’t get a rise out of me.  I simply didn’t care.
  
DANNY BOY
I settled back into the little chair, looking at Sandra and picture how intrigued I was when I first saw her. That girl is so incredibly sad. I had to know what happened to her.

I can see it so clearly.  Tanya Kasarvina’s eyes filling with sadness, as she inhales sharply and says in that Russian accent of hers, “Danny, from time Sandra was little girl, I know she will be star.  No question. She has been student with me since four years old.”

So I asked, “And?”

And she says, her voice a little shaky,  “Last year was time for what you call big payoff.  I know Sandra is ready to be professional.  I call my friends at New York City Ballet Company.”

I tapped my forehead.  ”I get it. I guess they sent a scout and he didn’t think she was as good as you did?”

“As good?”  Tanya laughed bitterly.  “Danny, what you see now is not my Sandra.  Only hollow shell. Now, no life, no fire, no friends, no hope.  Scout is enchanted. She lights up stage with her passion.  When she smiles at you, is magic. Next day, director of company calls.  He comes to Chicago to see Sandra.

I edge closer,  “So, Madame, I don’t get it.  They liked her.  What happened?”

Her voice cracked with emotion. “New York City Ballet wants Sandra, but stupid mother says this is nonsense for girl only sixteen.”  The coach shook her head. “To her, Sandra is same as little sister who grinds out off key songs on second hand accordion.”

I sit there stunned.  “The old dame lets an opportunity like that go down the drain?  No wonder poor Sandy’s checked out.  Couldn’t you do anything?”

“Nyet. Mr. Javits offers everything he can think of…contract, chaperones, tutors.  Everyone tries to change stupid pig’s mind.”  She inhales again, and waits, letting the air fill her lungs. “In the end, stupid mother listens to nothing and no one …New York City Ballet will have to wait she says.  And, Sandra becomes like she is now.”

“Didn’t her mother see what was happening to her?”

“No, Danny.  Maude Barton is woman who sees one way.  Meanwhile, months pass.  Then it is over. Mr. Javits gives up. Sandra is failing in school, crying all the time and even talks of killing self.  Only I understand what it is to lose dream.” She shifts her lame leg into a more comfortable position and I wonder what happened to cause her limp.

I realized that if Sandra disappears, everyone would think she ran away.

The coach is still talking.  “She is like daughter to me, Danny.” She stops, fighting to gain control of her emotion.   “When her heart breaks, my heart breaks, but, how you say, my hands are all tied up. Every day she comes and watches with dead eyes.  I think she will never dance again.  Spirit is gone.”
  
Finally her voice cracked and she couldn’t go on.  I could hear that tough old lady crying behind the closed door of her office.

I got home, grabbed Angie, gave her a big kiss and told her to sit down.  ”Angie, you gotta see this kid,” I said. Looks kinda like Elizabeth Taylor, a real beauty.  I’m tellin’ you we can pull it off.  Go sign up for some lessons.  It’ll be good exercise for you and you’ll get to know her.”
Angie glared at me.  “Are you saying I need exercise?”

“Nah, here’s my idea.  We snatch this kid and make a deal with Martin D’Angelo for enough dough to get us outta this berg.  The couple of bucks he gives us for directin’ kids to him who want to hook is chicken shit compared to the thousands he’ll pay us for someone like her. If you take some lessons, you can get close to her.”

Angie’s jaw dropped like I’d asked her to kill someone. What was the big deal?  She told me she did a lot of things to survive herself… hooking and lifting money from the wallets of unsuspecting Johns. She yelled at me, “Are you friggin’ crazy?  Don’t you know that what you’re planning to do is called kidnapping and white slavery, you nut.  Count me out!”
I just kept quiet.  A few minutes passed and she minces up to me and says, “Danny, if what you say is true, you could be right. They probably would stop looking for her after a while.”

I smile.  ”You bet, baby.  Think about it.  Virgin pussy. Beautiful, teenage, virgin pussy.  Some of Marty’s regulars will pay big dollars for her, baby.  Trust me.”
  
So, Angie finally signs up for classes.

She waits a few weeks and then she approached Sandra.  Taking it slow, she decides to invite Sandra to lunch after a Saturday class.  What the Hell?  The girl surprised her and said okay.  So then she began to stop by the kid’s house on the weekends, taking her out to the movies or lunch.  
There was one thing I am definitely right about. The kid is truly beautiful.  Every once and a while she flashes smile.  Then she is awesome.  Angie knew we had to grab her soon so she kept watching and waiting for the time to be right.

She told me that after meeting Maude Barton, Madame Kasarvina is right about one thing…the mother is incredibly stupid.  We couldn’t figure out how a woman like her ever had a daughter like Sandra.

I look over at Angie and raise an eyebrow like I’m trying to signal, maybe we shouldn’t be saying anything about this in front of the kid.  She shrugs.

CHAPTER 3  “Cruelty is fed, not weakened, by tears.        -–Publilius Syrus, Maxims

Angie turns back from looking at Danny Boy, yanks me into a sitting position, and digs her fingers into my shoulders.  She shoves a glass between my parched lips and says, “Drink this.  Everything will be fine.  Trust me.”

Trust her? I start to swallow, wondering what I did wrong.  Am I being punished?

The odd tasting fluid eases the ache in my dry throat, but a bitter aftertaste burns my tongue and I start coughing.  She just stands there staring at me.  She doesn’t say a word.

Someone honks their horn in the street below and it breaks the stillness in the room.  Everything seems like its in slow motion.  Angie bends to untie the ropes that bind my wrists and ankles. I inhale the sweet aroma of her perfume.

“Just do what I say and everything will be fine.”  Her voice is muffled.
She bends closer to me and says, “Ya know what?  Danny Boy got a hard on the moment he saw you. He said you had a beautiful body…slim, tight, sexy. She mimics Danny’s high-pitched voice.  “Oh, Angie, you should see this kid’s skin.  Like fine porcelain.  And that coal black hair.”

Danny adds, “Hey, Ang, while you’re at it, don’t forget the part where I said she had the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.”  

She turns around and says something under her breath that I can’t understand.  Then she moves closer and jabs her finger at me, and her voice sounds clearer now.  “I teased him about just wanting to screw you.”

Danny complains, “Ah, come on, Ang.  I’m only human.  I mean, look at her.  Anyway, you know I was a lot more jazzed about how much johns would pay for her in a classy place like this.”  His hands swept the room.  “More money than you can imagine, Sandy.”

Money?  Johns? Screw me?

By now Angie’s face is just inches from mine.  She hisses, “You really did believe that I liked you. That I was your best friend.”  Her laugh is hard, like she doesn’t really like me at all.  “Hell, I’m twenty eight years old.   Why would someone like me spend so much time with a messed up kid like you?”  She shakes her head in mock pity.  Her voice is flat.  “You poor dope.

Throwing her head back laughing, she sounds like the witch in The Wizard of Oz.  Her blonde hair sparkles in the wash of the ceiling light.

In a quick motion, she jerks me up from the bed, my body screaming in agony as she twists me around to face the other side of the room and pushes hard sending me stumbling forward.  Stabs of pain shoot through my arms and legs.  I feel my legs moving in rotation, but they feel like they belong to someone else. Angie sets the pace, her arm firmly around my waist.

“Am…m… I dr…runk, Angie?”  She meets my muddled question with silence.

Like a puppet without strings, I stagger across the room, finally collapsing into a little red chair at the boudoir table.  Angie starts to apply makeup and fix my hair as if we were having a girl’s night sleepover.  I snap into reality when she pulls my head up harshly and forces me to look at the mirror.  A strange painted face with ruby red lips, gobs of mascara and rouge stares back at me.  “Who…who is…?”

“Whadda you mean, who?  It’s you my little prize, all fixed up for your gentleman caller.”

I struggle to rise from the chair and Angie pushes hard on my shoulder shouting, “Don’t fight me.  You’ll do what I tell you to do, or you’ll wish you’d never set eyes on me.  Understand?”

I sink back into the chair and nod with numb obedience. The blackness descends over me again like a magician’s cape and somewhere in the distance I can hear Angie saying, “Yeah, you’re gonna be a first class whore, Pavlova.”

CHAPTER 4   “Opportunities are seldom labeled.”—-John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic.

My head hurts and I feel woozy.  For some reason I’d been thinking about my first blue ballet bag but now, just barely awake, I turn my head toward the sound of grunting noises. Danny is still sitting in the small floral chair.  He stares at me, saying something I can’t make out. I strain to hear him.

I watch him for a minute thinking, “What in the world is he doing?”  Then I see that he’s grabbing his crotch and acting like he’s having a spasm.  He calls out to Angie, “Hey, Ang.  What in the Hell is she babbling about…blue, blue what?  She’s probably dreamin’ about blue balls cause that’s what she used to give the guys who wanted to hump her!”
  
I have no idea what he is talking about, but I hear Angie laughing.  “No, I’m afraid not, my dear.  I doubt that our little Miss Innocence here even has an idea of what blue balls are.  And, who the Hell cares what she’s thinking about down in her own little world anyway.  Let the kid rest, she’ll need it.  She’ll be earning her keep pretty soon.”

<<<>>>
(start italics)
Madame Tanya Kasarvina seems to float toward me. I am little, only about four. As I transfer my tiny hand from Mama’s familiar rough grip to Madame’s firm slender one, I pause and pat the new blue leotard and ballet bag.

Mama’s stocky image comes into focus, telling the strange woman, “Madame Kasarvina, I’ve cleaned a lot of houses to pay for these ballet lessons so you take good care of my Sandy.”

The ballet teacher’s mane of rich black hair sprinkled with silver, is pulled into a thick twist at the base of her neck.  I can make out her pretty cheekbones and large gray eyes, but everything else looks fuzzy and dreamy.  She smiles at both of us and, with some funny accent, says in a rich voice, “Not to worry, Mrs. Barton.”  We move toward the rehearsal room. She is limping.. “So, little dancer-to-be, come, come.  Wonderful world is about to open up for you.  Such pretty little girl.”

Now I am running toward ten girls attempting simple positions with the grace of a group of tiny elephants.  Music fills the room. The piano player, Tonio, draws his long fingers across the keys of the ornate carved walnut upright piano.
(end italics)

<<<>>>
Angie’s sharp voice cuts through my daydream as the effect of the drugs slackens.  ”Well, Pavlova.  Look at you—-you’re a full-fledged whore now.”
  
“Wh…whore?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, whore. You know, ladies who get screwed for money.  Or don’t you know what that is?”

I am speechless.

Angie muses, “You know, Sandy, after tonight I think maybe I’ll go to Florida…I dunno.  I just want to be out of this goddamn cold. Wherever I’ll be, at least I’ll be warm.  Her deep, throaty laugh seems to fill the room.

Danny says in his high effeminate voice.  ”Great job, Angie baby.  You’re an artist, you know.  A regular Picasso.”  A sudden chill creeps down my spine as he grabs Angie and twirls her around. ““So, what do you think of my idea now? Some for me…some for you.  Money, baby…real money…get out of town money!”

She kisses him on the cheek as they dance around the room.

Danny snickers, sounding as if he is really enjoying all of it. “Baby, once we’re out of here, who cares how long she lasts?”

I struggle to stay awake.  Why are they laughing at me when I am so scared?  I want this nightmare to end.

Angie’s silky hair circles her head as she swings around to give Danny a big hug.  He steps back.  “Man, I hate to say it, but maybe we sold her too cheap.”

Angie says, “No.  I don’t think so.  We got enough. Don’t forget, guys like Beckwith have so much dough it’s probably like a couple of dollars would be to us, but they don’t get rich by giving it away. By the way, I saw you check out her tits last night.”

She makes a playful grab at his crotch.  “Did she give you a hard on, Baby?”

“Hey, go easy, Ang.” Danny protests.  “What did you expect?  That one could turn on a ninety year old in a fuckin’ rest home, you know.”

Angie laughs and fans her face. She giggles softly. “Would you believe the kid once told me that she didn’t even undress in front of the other girls in the gym?  Wow.  What a way to graduate!”

Graduate?  I don’t graduate till summer.  Tears start to run down my face.
  
Then she says, “Hey, Danny Boy, whadda ya really think about the makeup?  I mean, does she, you know, look a little too much like a pro?”

He squints at me for a moment and shakes his head.  ”For anyone else, yeah, maybe…but, um, since Covington gets her tonight, he likes them to look like little tramps.  Nah, if you ask me, she’s just about right for him.  But she better stop cryin’.  It’s gonna get all streaky.”

I thought I saw a flash of something in Angie’s eyes.  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she was afraid.  After a long while she says, “Yeah, Covington. Kinky bastard, that one.  What the hell. Money is money.”

<<<>>>

I try to focus on the reflection in the mirror while I listen to Angie and Danny Boy go on and on and she keeps yelling at me to quit crying. What were they arguing about now?

I couldn’t help it.  Tears well in my eyes and slide down my cheeks leaving erratic tracks of mascara. My streaked face looks back at me from the mirror. I’ve lost sense of time.

The only thing that looks even a little familiar is the black velvet ribbon at my neck.  It looks like the one the Gibson Girls wear in the ancient photographs in an album on the coffee table in the front room of my house in some long-ago distant past.

My eyes begin to sting from the mascara mixing with my tears.  Angie spits out, “God damn it, Pavlova.  Quit the sniveling…hear me?  I don’t have any friggin’ time to fix you up again.  Now just be a good girl and quit makin’ life hard for me.  Tears won’t do you any good.”  She grabs a makeup puff and aims a swift jab at my streaked cheeks.

I can see Danny Boy holding something in his hand.  He reaches out and I feel a sharp needle pierce my upper arm.  Everything around me goes soft and fuzzy again.

(start italics)
I look in the long mirror on the back of the closet door for one last check.  Pink socks peek out over black and white saddle shoes. I wear a loose pink angora sweater and pleated skirt, a birthday present from daddy. The doorbell rings. I rush down the stairs.

“Hi, Pavlova.  Ready to go?”  Angie crosses the front room, headed for the little telephone table in the narrow back hall. “Say, can I use the telephone?  I’ll make one call, and then we’re off to devour some burgers, right?”

I look out of the living room window into the street. My eyes fix on a car parked at the curb.  ”You got it!  You got the car! Wow! Black convertible.  I love it.”
(end italics)

CHAPTER 5  ”There is no little enemy.”—Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanac

I watch as Angie twirls a strand of hair around her finger, releases it and then starts to twirl it again.  Danny checks his watch for the third time in an hour. “Is it seven yet?”

“Nah, it’s only quarter to.  Shit, we got her ready too soon.”  He smiles.  “What the Hell.  We’re almost there, baby.  Sunshine here we come.”
“Yeah.  Can’t be too soon for me. I am so sick of this damn cold.”

Danny coughs and sniffles as if he has a cold.  He says,  ”You need to make an appearance downstairs.”

Angie leaves the room first, going down the servant’s staircase and Danny follows, making sure to close and lock the door behind him.
  
<<<>>>

The stately brownstone mansion where Sandra is being held captive is just north of the famous Magnificent Mile in the Gold Coast area of Lakeshore Drive.  Marty D’Angelo intentionally set up his “discrete business” where he would rub elbows with the upper crust of Chicago society. He even used a high priced interior decorator to insure that his “gentlemen” guests had only the finest.

From its earliest days the Gold Coast was home to many important Chicago families who contributed to the social, cultural and economic history of the city.  The houses are close together on this valuable stretch of land but Marty keeps such a low profile that when neighbors see visitors like a senator or prominent businessman pull up in a limo, they simply assume he is well connected and entertains a lot.

ANGIE
I head toward two attractive young women seated on an elegant sofa in the living room of the brownstone.

The one called Marilyn wears a deep green satin gown. Her long auburn hair brushes a real emerald necklace nestled against her throat.  Sonia, the exotic beauty from France, sits across from her complaining about money as usual, between sips of her Tom Collins.

Marilyn cuts Sonia off in mid sentence.  “You’ve got it better than any of us.  Don’t you ever do anything but complain?”

I sit there burning with envy. “You tell her, Marilyn,” I egg her on.  Things are bad for her? Sonia, you have a pink Cadillac convertible and a fabulous apartment. Money problems…yeah, right, like blind men can see…wish I had your problems.”

Perched on a deep purple velvet loveseat, Marilyn pats the place next to her, signaling for me to join them.  ”You seem nervous tonight, Angie.” Her voice drops to a tone of confidentiality, “I’m not sure why, but I’ve got a creepy feeling. Like something’s going on.  How about you?”

I shrug it off as though I don’t know anything and glance at the ornate clock on the marble mantle.  A little after seven. Each of the ladies will take their dates to one of the mansion’s bedrooms soon.  Then it will be safe for us to bring Covington up to Sandra’s third floor room on the other side of the huge house.

I tense at the sound of Marty’s smooth baritone as he greets Covington in the foyer and leads him to the comfortable lounge with its carved walnut bar.  Covington is too early. They’ll wonder why he’s here.  The Honorable Judge Arthur Covington hasn’t been back to the mansion since roughing up Sonia a few months ago. That’s how Sonia got the Caddy.  It was his apology.  But no one will have anything to do with him after that, and everyone knows Marty told him not to come back.  They will definitely wonder why he’s here. I feel like I’m starting to panic and reassure myself that it will be okay.

Marilyn’s voice breaks in as she says, “What’s he doing here?”  I can feel a cold sweat washing over me.  Then she shrugs, giggles a distinctive tinkling bell laugh and shakes her head.  “Oh well,” she says, “who cares why he’s here as long as he doesn’t touch me.  Maybe he has business with Marty.”

I calm down and leave the room a while later, but pause on the stairs to listen to their buzz.  Just in case something more is said about Covington.
I think about the time several months ago, when we all huddled over a gruesome police photo of a battered body plastered across the front page of the Chicago Tribune, and agreed that it was the pretty blonde teenager we caught a brief glimpse of two days before.  My body twitches and I shiver.  Covington was there that night.

As I head up the stairs, I picture a warm tropical place with palm trees and sandy beaches.  I deserve to be somewhere else.

CHAPTER 6   “Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds.”—-George Eliot, Adam Bede

MAUDE BARTON
I’m a wreck.  I still can’t believe Sandy is actually missing.   All through the years of ballet lessons, I watched what was once a tiny flame turn into a rampant fire that consumes her every waking moment, but I was able to dismiss it as so much nonsense until the New York City Ballet Company made the offer last year. Then it became a threat.

<<<>>>

I put the telephone receiver in its cradle, shake my head and walk back to the living room.  I collapse into my favorite chair, cover my face with chapped hands and curse myself.

My mind wanders back to that day in 1949.  Madam Kasarvina’s office smelled of furniture polish, lavender soap and shampoo.  Her Highness was sitting in her fancy chair, hands spread out on the gleaming desktop, laying out her plan to take over Sandy’s life.  “… So you will not to worry Mrs. Barton.  Such talent needs to be fed like beautiful flower.  I will handle all.”

Why didn’t I stop it right then?

<<<>>>

On this winter morning in 1956, I sit in the straight chair in the corner of my living room while fear festers like an infected wound.
The terrible premonition that gripped me that day in Madame Kasavina’s office is now a reality.  Memories.

(start italics)
I can hear myself shouting at Sandy on that hot summer day last year, “Your hero, your Madame Kasarvina!  Your idol! Maybe she was a star in Russia before she fell, but all she can do now is teach. She’s nothing but a cripple trying to live through you.”  Sandy glared at me in stony silence.  
With hands planted on my hips, I shouted, “I’m not smart about things like ballet protégés… stars…tours, understand?  I clean people’s homes.  That’s what I do, young lady.  But don’t think I don’t know you got fancy ideas.  Foolish, fancy ideas from your wonderful Madame Kasarvina.”

Sandy didn’t say a word.  Just glared at me.

So I ranted some more.  ”Let her try scrubbin’ toilets and pickin’ up clothes and washin’ someone else’s dirty underwear.  Well, that’s what I know, scrubbin’, cleanin’ and washin’.  Not foolish dreams like travelin’ all over hell and gone dancin’ for rich people.  That’s just plain crazy, hear me.”  

Sandy tried to reason with me but I didn’t even look at her.  ”Shut up now.  You just shut up for a change and listen to me.  It’s always about you.”  I grabbed Sandy’s chin and tilted it up, forcing her to lock eyes with me.  ”Your sister Judy.  Does she want to play the accordion at Carnegie Hall?  No, Miss Fancy Pants!  You think you’re better than we are.”  I wiped my face with my handkerchief, exhausted from the outburst.
Sandy’s pout gave way to rage. “It’s not a dream!” she shouted back at me.  “It’s real. The New York City Ballet scouted me, Mama.  Me.  Sandra Barton!  You don’t get it, do you?  All you have to do is sign the contract.” In a last desperate plea Sandy whimpered, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
(end italics)

<<<>>>

I stare at the phone, hoping it will ring but the silence in the room remains unbroken.  I take off my rimless glasses, wipe them for the hundredth time with the hem of my skirt and close my eyes.

I remember how after our argument Sandy suddenly started to twirl faster and faster on one leg on the faded carpet as though driven by an unseen force.  It scared me, that crazy behavior.  She kept repeating, “It’s my life…it’s my life…” over and over again. After that the crying and pitiful moaning began.  It was almost more than I could bear, but I wasn’t going to change my mind that easy.  No sir.  I yelled at her to stop, but Sandy just kept twirling.

Finally she stopped abruptly and stared at me.  The way her eyes looked that day still haunt me. They were filled with such hatred it was as though I could reach out and touch it.  She rasped at me,  “Mama.  Can’t you see what you’re doing?  You’re killing everything inside of me.  Go to one of your famous fortunetellers.  Ask them about this.  You ask them about everything else.”

I refused to admit that what I heard was the sound of her heart breaking, and it didn’t change my mind.  Not for a moment.  Instead I hissed at my daughter,  ”Ballet is a cancer eating at your insides.   Soon there will be nothing left of you.  Where are the regular friends for a girl your age?  Answer me, where are they?  Name me one!  There aren’t any.  Only the people at the Academy.  I wish we never met your precious Madame.”

When my daughter Judy bounded through the front door, I didn’t even hear her.  Finally, I sensed Judy staring at us.  Without a word she took the steps two at a time, skipping over the worn carpet covers in search of refuge from our furious voices filling the room.

I look at the clock again.  There is nothing in the oven now, but the aroma of the chicken as it drifted into the living room that day, tinged with the distinctive odor of something starting to burn, somehow is still there.
What was it I did next?  I strain to remember as though it will make everything all right again.
  
Oh yes, I got up from the old tweed chair, complained about my arthritis and padded to the kitchen shouting, “Do you join clubs for after school?  Do you go to football and basketball games?  Do you even go to those “sock hop” dances?  NO!  Every single day of your life, all you do is go to school, do your homework, go to ballet school and dance in recitals.”

<<<>>>

I am walking around the room like a robot, straightening a doily, then a lamp, wiping my glasses and looking from the clock to the telephone.  When I complete the circuit I start again.  What is wrong with those police?  My daughter is missing.

What was past and couldn’t be fixed, takes hold of me as though thinking about it can make it better.

<<<>>>

Sandy was standing there staring into space when I went back into the kitchen. Placing one of the potholders Aunt Ethyl crocheted for me last Christmas on each side of the roasting pan, I lifted the bird from the oven, set the hot pan on top of the chipped stove and wiped the perspiration from my forehead.  With slow measured steps, I walked back into the living room to face Sandy.  

My words float past me as clearly as the day I said them. Flat.  Final.  “You’re just sixteen. Too young, much too young for this. You know how you will go to New York?  Over my dead body, young lady! That’s how.”  Why was I so cruel?

By then Sandy was lying on the carpet sobbing.  The strange thing was, never for a moment had I even considered the possibility that my daughter might be in the midst of a breakdown.  Instead I shouted at her, “You! You! It’s always about you!  What YOU want, what YOU do, how talented YOU are.  The money for your lessons would have been better spent on other things we needed.”

I twist the handkerchief I hold in my lap before raising my hand to dab at my damp eyes. The voice echoed in my head.  ”Mama…please…I won’t get this chance again.”

Oh, I stood my ground, all right. There was no way a crippled ballet teacher would live her lost years through my Sandy.

Dark eyes flashing, sending shards of light across the tension-filled room, my daughter tried to control her shaking voice when she made one last plea.  “They have a chaperone all lined up for me, Mama.  They have tutors.  I can finish high school.  They promised.  I’ll get my diploma.  I’ll get good marks. I’ll make you proud of me.”

I didn’t even listen to her.  Instead, I pulled myself up to my full height of 5’1” and carefully adjusted my rimless glasses.

It was then the awful animal-like scream burst forth as Sandy’s wild hysteria penetrated the sudden quiet that had fallen over the room. The battle was over and I won, or had I?  If only those huge chocolate brown eyes were looking at me now, the answer would probably be different.

<<<>>>

It is starting to get dark, and still no word.  I continue to pace in circles.  Every minute seems like an hour.  I scan the impeccably clean room.  Worn, but immaculate.  As always, the wooden floors are polished to a high gloss, but the active traffic pattern of a family is clearly defined in the spots where the dark stain is worn away.  No amount of polishing can ever cover that.

The colors in the rug are just a faded memory of the rich greens and maroons that once lit up the intricate pattern.  Under the windows, with their freshly starched white lace curtains, the bright bits of fabric I threw across the worn spots on the arms and back pillows of my deep green mohair sofa make it look like an old dowager trying to maintain her dignity.
I shut my eyes, squeezing until it began to hurt, but the foolhardiness of my last actions remain imprinted on my mind.  Closing my eyes accomplishes nothing.  I can’t get rid of it.

My frenzied daughter collapsed to her knees and clung to me pitifully begging for a change of heart. But I pried Sandy’s hands away from my legs and walked toward the kitchen saying, “Dinner is ready.”  Sandy has never looked at me with love since then.

The hours slip by, marked by the staccato tick of the clock in the kitchen. I realize that I am shivering although the room is filled with heat from the coal furnace in the basement. I go to the stove and put on water for a cup of tea to calm my nerves, praying that the phone will ring.

CHAPTER 7  ”Hatred, as well as love, renders its votaries credulous.”—-Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Confessions

My ex-husband Henry couldn’t stand seeing his daughter in such pain.  He pleaded with me to be reasonable.  When everything else failed, he shouted, “You stupid bitch.  I can’t just stand by and watch you tear Sandra to pieces like you tore me apart.  You’ll lose her anyway, you know.  You’ll drive her away like you drove me away!”

I didn’t care.  My mind was made up and there was no way he was going to change it.

One day Henry actually threatened me.  “I’ll fight you in court for custody!” he yelled. I knew that would never happen.  There was no way his sexy young wife wanted to share her home with a sixteen year old.  Oh, she would let him rant, but I knew she would never let him do it.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Maude,” he shouted.  “Times have changed.  This is 1955…it’s not a mortal sin for our daughter to dance with a famous ballet company.  Wake up, before you lose everything you’re trying to save!  Sign the damn contract.  We’ll get lawyers to check it out, but sign it!”

Every time that happened, I just faced Henry with my hands fixed on my hips and answered in a flat voice, “Oh, she can dance, I give you that, Henry, but it’s no different to me than when Judy plays her accordion. Both of our kids have their own little talent.  But Miss High and Mighty wants to leave school and traipse off to God knows where and nothing you say will make any difference.”

Looking back on it now, I know I just didn’t want to let her go and, well, I will admit that I didn’t really understand how important that darned contract was.  While I don’t admit it to everyone, now I realize that it was one of the most respected ballet companies in the country, and after Sandy worked so hard for that day I guess I should have at least considered it.  But I thought it was just plain foolishness.  How was I to know what was going to happen?

During the year from 1955 till now, Sandy’s grades in school went from A’s to D’s.  Her teachers did call me again and again saying they feared for her welfare.  But I didn’t pay attention to any of that.  After all, I’m her mother, aren’t I?  I know what’s best for my Sandy. How dare them suggest that I was the cause of her grades falling down?
  
Now, sitting here worried to death about that fool girl, I’m thinking maybe it really was a nervous breakdown she had that day.   It seems like she has hated everyone and everything since then, except, of course, her wonderful Madame Tanya and her new friend Angie Martin. I know Tanya has tried to get her to dance again, but Sandy’s stubborn.  If she decides she’s just going to watch, that’s what she’ll do.  And I do wish she wouldn’t cry quite as much as she does.  That’s downright depressing.
  
Not only that, but I was really getting sick of Carl Javits, the bigshot with the New York City Ballet, calling me and writing to me so many times.  Don’t hear from him anymore, so I guess I made my point.  Sandra Barton isn’t going to dance on their stage anytime soon.

<<<>>>

Sandy still hasn’t shown up and I want some action. I shout into the phone.  ”It’s November 27th already and no one tells me nothing.  I said I hafta talk to someone.  My daughter is still missin’.  When I called last night you said maybe she slept at a friend’s house and I had to wait the legal time to file a missin’ person report.  Well, it’s past forty-eight hours now…that’s two whole days… and you hafta take the report.  That’s the law.  I know.  Somethin’ has happened to that fool girl and you hafta find her.  Give me whoever takes the missin’ person reports.”

The operator on the other end sounds very bored, but when I raise my voice he tries to calm me down.  “Of course, Mrs. Barton, but girls her age, well, you know, sometimes they just forget to call the parent who is worried half out of their mind.  They get with their friends and they just forget.  Please calm down.”

By then I am shouting at the top of my lungs, as though that will make my point clearer.  ”No! You listen to me!  My Sandy, she isn’t like other kids.  Hardly any friends, doesn’t run around.  Actin’ like a fool lately, but she’s a good girl.  Calls home and lets me know where she is…never stays out late.”

He cleared his throat and then said “Uh huh.  So?”

I say, “This friend, Angie Martin, picked her up in her new car.  Gone most of two whole days and nights now! Angie, she’s older…I dunno 28, maybe 29.”  I pull out a handkerchief I have tucked into my sleeve and wipe my face. He’s still talking, and I take off my glasses and wipe them over and over as if it will help. I say in a weary tone, “What good are your reports…I want action.  You already told me there are no hospital reports of anyone like Sandy.  Listen, I’m not gonna talk to you on the phone any more.  Hear me.  I can get to the police station on the trolley and I’m comin’ over right now.  I’ll get some action or my name isn’t Maude Barton!”

I slam the phone down and turn to my younger daughter.  “Imagine Judy, they said Sandy ran away or was getting into bad trouble and afraid to come home.  Damned fool police.  Don’t they know this is a good family?  You wouldn’t JUST stay away home for no reason, and neither would Sandy.  It isn’t proper.”  

I’m what you call pleasantly plump, so it took me a little effort to get up from the seat of the mahogany telephone bench in the hall.  For the first time in several months, I’m asking myself why Angie spent time with Sandy.  Then, just as quickly I think, “She’s like a big sister to Sandy, that’s it. Poor girl doesn’t have any family of her own.  I smile to myself comforted in the thought.

My fourteen-year-old Judy looks at me with wide, scared eyes.  She idolizes her big sister even though Sandy’s become more and more sullen and withdrawn during this awful year and hasn’t paid much attention to Judy.  Judy sees the hatred in Sandy’s eyes when she looks at me.

CHAPTER 8    ”Everyone is as God made him, and often a great deal worse.”—-Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha

I can see Judy is real scared.  Her voice is kinda shaky when she says, “Mama what if they’re dead!  What if they had an accident in Angie’s new car?  Maybe they’re in a hospital somewhere all bloody with broken bones or something.  Maybe…” My Judy goes on and on with her imagination creating every possible horror.

She resembles me more than Henry.  Sandy’s the one that looks like Henry’s family.  Judy is short and plump, and her hair is sort of a mousy brown that she wears in two skinny braids. She’s pretty short sighted, and has thick glasses.  Maybe that’s not so bad because they cover up watery blue eyes.

She has a large overbite, too, and a wide space between her two front teeth when she smiles. Our dentist Dr. Westminer isn’t an orthodontist, but he likes Judy and offered to put braces on her teeth for only three hundred dollars. That’s a fortune to me, but I spent a lot of money on Sandy, and Judy will have those teeth fixed just as soon as I can save the money.  Maybe I can get Henry to pay for half.

Judy and her friends are crazy about the Nancy Drew Mysteries. They even formed a sleuths club, because they’re sure some of our neighbors have committed awful crimes. They’re like little amateur detectives, stalking whichever neighbor they decide to put under suspicion.  More than one neighbor has called me and the other parents of the members of A Mystery Club threatening nasty actions if we don’t call our daughters off.

My temples are pounding and I rub them until I think the skin will come off.  I pad over to Judy and pat her on the shoulder.  “Well, Judy, I’ve got to get over to the police station to file the report.  You be good while I’m gone.”

Judy jumps up from her chair.  ”Mama, I want to go with you.”

“Nonsense, Judy, you’re just a kid…you don’t need to see the likes of this.  No, you stay here.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She tries again.  ”No” she says in her pigheaded fourteen-year-old way.  ”I should go.  I can help.  Maybe I’ll remember things you don’t.  I love Sandy, too, Mama and I’m really scared for her.”

“Oh, I get it,” I say.  “You want those friends of yours in the Nancy Drew Club to be jealous, you goin’ to a real police station and all.  Well, young lady, just forget about that.”

I finally give in, because to tell you the truth, I sm glad for the company.  I catch my reflection in the mirror over the buffet and the deep creases in my forehead ripple like a sandy riverbed.  My mouth is drawn into a thin slash across my face.    What is happening to me?

I say, “Judy,” and notice that my voice is wavering, “Judy, baby, you know how Sandy has been for the last year, but I did it for her own good.  Sometimes… sometimes when she looks at me, I think she would kill me if she was that kinda girl.”  I draw a sharp breath, and cross the room, pick up my coat and signal Judy that its time to go.

“I’m a simple woman, Judy.  Maybe I don’t understand all of this business with contracts and ballet companies and chaperones and the like.  But, I know a young girl don’t belong in the life they tried to lure her into.  Too much temptation…not enough education.”

I pat my favorite hat into place, the one with the fruit and flowers, take Judy’s hand, and hurry out into the street.

<<<>>>

A young police officer, who hardly looks old enough to be on the force, starts the interview.  “So, Mrs.,” he glances at his notes, “Barton.  Did you bring a picture of your daughter?  We need one if you have it.”

I dig in my purse and bring out a picture of Sandy in full costume at her last recital.  He takes the photograph from me and lets out a low wolf whistle.  “Wow, your daughter sure is a looker.”  Before he sees the photo, it seems like he isn’t paying much attention to what we tell him.  To tell the truth, I could have been giving him information on a missing cat for all he seemed to care.  After seeing Sandy’s picture, he shows a little more enthusiasm, Officer Daily continues with routine questions and even asks if Henry has remarried.  He swings his chair around to look at the clock.  When he swivels back to face me, he catches the last part of my answer to his question.

I’m saying, “Yeah, Henry’s married again. What a floozy.  Not much older than my Sandy.  She’s only twenty-five, you know. Henry’s forty-two years old, for God’s Sake.”  I touch my matronly body and picture Henry’s new wife.  “Looks like a darn showgirl, that one, with fake platinum blond hair, huge bosoms and legs up to her chin.  If you ask me, she’s after his money. Henry’s that “Crazy Henry The Mattress Guy” on the radio.  Hmmmph.  I didn’t get none of that money.  He made it all after we were divorced.”

The young officer frowns at me,  “Is that so, Ma’am?”

“You bet.  And you know what else?  He hardly came around anymore until all of this nonsense started with that ballet company.  Darn fool wanted me to sign the contract.”  I purse my lips with distaste.  “His brother plays the saxophone at those jazz clubs along Clark Street, so why am I surprised?  By the way, that’s where he met Charlie.”

Daily looks confused.  “Charlie?”

“Yeah.  The floozy’s name is Charlotte, but he calls her Charlie.  That’s not a proper name for a woman.”

Officer Daily is drumming his fingers on the desk.  ”Mrs. Barton, try to stay on track.  I asked you if you know this Angie’s last name.”  The young officer stares at me and I can see he is losing his patience.

“I know this is hard for you, but I’ve asked you the same question three times now.  I need her last name for my report and I’m sure you know what it is.”  He taps his foot on the worn linoleum.

I think to myself, “This young man sure isn’t dedicated to his work.”
Now he’s getting downright rude.  “Look lady.  It’s getting late and they don’t approve any overtime.  So let’s just get this over with, okay?”

I can feel myself getting ready to snap back at him when Judy gets his attention with a much stronger voice than I’ve ever heard from my daughter.  ”Martin.  Her last name is Martin,” Judy says like Sherlock Holmes.

“Now, that’s what I need, kid.  Do you know where she lives?”

“What?”

“I said, do you know where she lives?”

I realize that Angie started coming to our house several months ago. Not until this very moment did I give any thought to the fact that neither one of us has a clue as to where she lives..  ”No, I’m sorry.  We don’t know.”

“Okay…okay…  What does she look like?  You certainly know that, don’t you?” he suggests in a voice dripping sarcasm.   After that, he becomes sort of apologetic.  I guess he figures if we crack up on him, he’ll need to spend time calming us down, and it sure looks like he’s in a rush to get out on time.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says.  Describe this Angie to me.  I need it for my report, okay.  Maybe your daughter has a snapshot of her…” He trails off breathing what I guess is a sigh of relief.  Once again Judy helps him out while I keep my mouth shut and twist the damned handkerchief in my lap.

“No, Officer Daily,” Judy offers.  “No pictures that I know of, but I can tell you that Angie is really pretty.  She has this long blond hair and her eyes are big and sort of a weird greenish gray…I think it’s called hazel.  There are little gold colored specks in her eyes, too.”  Judy is acting like Nancy Drew now, and gives that snotty police officer one of the most complete descriptions he has probably ever heard.  “Tall, she’s pretty tall.  Almost as tall as you are, but she’s not one of those people with a long body.  It’s her legs that are long.  Her nose is a little crooked.”

Judy wraps up her description by telling Daily that Angie has a figure like a movie star.

He is actually listening to Judy and writing down what she says.  “What else can you tell us?  You said they drove off in her car.  Do you have any idea of what kind it was?”

“Black.  A black convertible.  She just got it.  I saw Sandy get into it from my window upstairs.  It was really shiny.”

He says, “OKAY, little girl, that’s good.  Do you know the make?  You know, the brand of car?”

“No, I’m sorry.  I don’t know much about cars…just that it was black.  That’s all I can tell you.”   Then Judy’s voice starts to shake.  “You think something has happened to both of them, don’t you?”

Daily looks at his watch and interrupts her. “No, kid.  I don’t have any ideas about anything yet.  Just need to get the information.  Do you know of anyone else who knows her or where she lives?”

“Well, there’s Madame Kasarvina, Sandy’s dance coach.”  Judy quickly follows with, “but we already called her when Sandy didn’t come home.  She gave us the number on Angie’s registration card at the academy but when we tried to call, the operator said there was no such number.  And the address space on the card hadn’t been filled in which made Madame Tanya get really mad at Rebecca…she’s the receptionist and she is supposed to get all of the information.”

“Okay.  Give me the number for this Madame Tanya Kasarvina.  Maybe we can help her to remember something.”  He glances at his watch again and scans his report to make sure he’ covered everything.  It looks like Officer Daily is satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything, and he actually smiles at us, oozing encouragement.  “Listen, you go back home now.”

We get up and are ready to leave when Judy remembers something else.  “In my Nancy Drew mysteries, the cops always look for fingerprints.  They can tell all kinds of things from fingerprints, you know.”

Daily rolls his eyes skyward.
  
“You’re right, Judy.  Sometimes fingerprints do give us clues. So just what are we supposed to fingerprint?  Your front door knob that everyone touches?  Or maybe the handle on the toilet?  Come on.  Give me a break.  Your sister is probably just spending the night with this Angie and maybe she’s even at home right now wondering where you and your Mom are.”

In a conspiratorial confidence Judy contributes her choice bit of information.  ”I know she touched the telephone,” she says.  “She made a call before she left.  I could hear her voice from upstairs but I couldn’t hear what she said.  The only other prints on the telephone would be mine, Mama’s or Sandy’s. We don’t use the phone very much and never let guests use it.”

“Look, a detective will contact you, but like I said, she’s probably back home already so call us right away if she’s there or if you hear from her.”
Judy is determined to make her point.  “I still think that Angie…”

Daily cuts her off and turns to me.  “Look, there’s no report of anyone who matches your daughter’s description in any of the hospitals or the morgue.  That’s good.  Like I said, she’ll turn up.  You’ll see. Then you’ll all have a good laugh over this.  Personally, if she’s not with this Angie I’ll bet we’ll find her trying to get to that New York City Ballet Company somehow.  You know, dreams like the one you said your daughter had don’t just die.  ‘Specially, when they could come true.  Are you sure this Madame Tanya Ka..Kasa… he snaps his fingers as the strange sounding name comes to him… Kasarvina didn’t help her do just that?”

“No, no.  She’s as upset as we are.  Beside herself, actually.”

“Well, Mrs. Barton, we’ll talk to her anyway.  You go home now.  I don’t think anything happened to either of them.  My bet is that if we can locate Angie, we’ll find your daughter, too, unless she shows up on her own. Go home now.”

I nod to Judy and we get ready to leave.  ”Mrs. Barton, if you think of anything else, write it down so you won’t forget to tell the investigating officer, okay?”

I drag my weary body out of the straight wooden chair, place my hand on Judy’s shoulder and we start toward the door.  I turn back to Officer Daily.  ”My God.  For the past year the only friend my daughter has is so much older than she is. I let her go off with her and don’t even know the woman’s address or phone number.  What’s the matter with me anyway?  Am I that stupid?”

<<<>>>

“Devon.”  The words break through my concentration.  Devon Avenue is my stop.  Following Judy out the rear door of the streetcar, I clutch my purse to my body. I walk beside Judy huffing and puffing to keep up with the child.  I say to my youngest daughter.  ”Maybe she’s so mad at me that she decided to stay with Angie to make me suffer.  Probably told her she let me know where she is.  That’s it.  They’ll find the fingerprints, and find where Angie lives and then they’ll find my Sandy.”

The gnawing feeling in my stomach grows worse as we walk and I know that I will head right for the large pink bottle of Pepto Bismol when we get home.  I open the door with the key that hangs from a fourteen carat gold key chain…the only expensive gift Henry ever gave me.  I don’t know why, but ut still means a lot to me.  He gave it to me with a corny card that said, “Happy Birthday to a fourteen carat lady.” That was so many years ago.  What had happened to that lady?  How had I turned into such a bitter, unyielding woman? Maybe I really had driven him away.  

My hat threatens to fall off the top hook of the mahogany hall tree in the little vestibule.  I firm it up and hurry through the hall to the bathroom where I grab the bottle of Pepto Bismol from the medicine cabinet and carry it to the kitchen to get a tablespoon.  Then Judy and I sit together at the white Formica kitchen table while a pot of coffee brews on the old stove.  When it is ready, I pour a cup and sip the comforting drink, allowing it to warm my insides while Judy has a glass of milk.  Together we try to remember anything that can help the police.  A pad of paper sits on the table next to Judy and she writes down anything that seems important.

I look at Judy, and her blue eyes are filled with sorrow.  ”Judy, in those mystery books you’re readin’ all the time, what would happen now?  You know, if this was one of them stories, my Sandy would just walk in the front door in a couple a hours and make us feel like fools for worrying like we are, wouldn’t she? Don’t you think she would?”

Judy is very quiet and thinks for a moment.  ”No, Mama.  She wouldn’t.  She really wouldn’t.” She gets up from the chrome chair and forces back tears that threaten to spill from her eyes even though she tries to act like Nancy Drew.  She puts both arms around me, lays her head on my shoulder and continues in a wobbly voice, “I’m so scared, Mama.  I’m so scared for Sandy.  If we were in one of my books, I’m sure she would be in real trouble!”

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