Wendy Hornsby - The Color of Light

“Were you looking for Dad’s gun?”

He averted his face from me when he nodded. “I was afraid it would get into the wrong hands after you turned the house over. Some kid of a visiting professor could run across it. You know how curious kids are, into everything.”

Jean-Paul set his glass on the coffee table, on top of an Avon catalogue that had Marva Riley’s contact information stamped on the front in red. He asked, “Mr. Loper, may I ask where you got the guns?”

George looked at Karen, who hadn’t yet caught up with the idea that there had been a handgun in her house, under her nose, for over thirty years, and she never knew about it. Karen liked knowing things.

“Second Thursday of the month, we always got together with the Rileys from down the street for bridge. It was serious bridge, but after a few rubbers we’d take a break. The guys would always go out to the backyard for a cigar and a stiff drink and leave the wives to talk about kids or whatever girls talk about.

“One Thursday, not long after the Stender shooting-we were at the Rileys’ that time-Chuck brought out these four Colts, brand new, still in their original boxes, with cleaning kits. He gave me two and kept two. I gave one to your dad, and kept the other.”

“Where did Chuck get them?” I asked.

“He told me some BS about the PD passing them out to good citizens so they could protect themselves and their families. I wanted the gun, so I didn’t ask a lot of questions. You know Chuck, always has something going on. Could have gotten them anywhere.”

“It appears they were the property of the National Guard,” Jean-Paul told him.

“I’ll be damned.” For some reason, George found that bit of news to be amusing. “All this time I thought Chuck lifted them from the police department.”

“For heaven’s sake, George,” Karen offered, thoroughly nonplussed by the revelations of the afternoon. “Stolen federal property. In my house. What are you going to do about it?”

Once again George seemed not to hear her, and I began to understand how he coped.

“Maggie,” he said, “I was a little surprised that your dad accepted the gun when I offered it to him. I wanted one to protect my family. You know, 1979, those were crazy times. There were still remnants of the Symbionese Liberation Army around here, robbing banks and setting off bombs. We had Black Panthers and La Raza and women burning their bras. And then Fay got shot by that guy. Jesus, I could not keep track of it all. But your dad took it all in stride. Didn’t seem to worry him. We live in interesting times, he’d say.”

Jean-Paul chuckled to himself; the phrase meant something to him. I didn’t ask what because I wanted to keep George on topic. I gave Jean-Paul’s hand a squeeze and turned my attention back to George.

“If Dad was taking things in stride, then why did he accept the gun?” I asked.

“Because of that woman,” he said. “Your mother. I guess you know by now that she was stalking you. Even got into your house one night. I thought he might want protection if she tried that again.”

My turn to be nonplussed. I managed to ask, “You knew about Isabelle?”

“Not the gory details,” he said, smiling again. “Honey, we were right next door here when you came to live with your folks. An extra little kid shows up one day and people are bound to notice.”

“What did Mom and Dad tell you about me?”

“Not much. Back then, adoptions were confidential. We didn’t think there was much to say.”

“I asked Betsy about you,” Karen chimed in. “But clearly it was a topic she did not wish to discuss. And when Betsy doesn’t want to talk about something, she absolutely won’t.”

True enough, I thought.

Again, George went on as if his wife hadn’t spoken. “When that woman started showing up, your dad told me she was the birth mother and she had some psychological problems, and he and Betsy sure would appreciate our help keeping her away from you if we saw her sneaking around.”

“Did you ever see her?” I asked.

He nodded. “A couple times. Once, I saw her hiding in the bushes by the house. We just got used to keeping an eye on you folks.”

“George, our guests need their drinks freshened.”

“Thank you, but no,” Jean-Paul said, taking my hand and encouraging me to rise with him. “We need to check on the barbecue.”

As the Lopers saw us out, Karen made conversation of her usual sort.

“I saw the locksmith van at your place yesterday. Were you having the locks changed?”

“We did, yes,” I said. “There was break-in on Thursday night, so I thought it was a good idea.”

“A break-in, oh my,” she gasped. “No wonder you were willing to pay the locksmith Sunday prices. Anything taken?”

“No,” I said. “When the police showed up whoever it was went out a window and over the back fence.”

The Lopers, smiling, exchanged knowing glances. George said, “It’s more likely that he went out through the gap the boys made in your fence.”

“You know about that?” I asked.

“Everyone does,” Karen said. “At least, everyone who had kids your age. You think we didn’t keep an eye on what you kids were up to?”

Her parting comment was, “Don’t forget to take one of the new keys down to Chuck Riley.”

“Why would I do that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “We always have. All of us. In case of emergency, you know. He is-well, he was-the police.”

I was dialing my mom on the phone before Jean-Paul and I reached our front door.

“Give Chuck Riley our house key?” Mom’s reaction was a guffaw; I wish I could have seen her face when I asked her if she had. “I would not give that reprobate the time of day, much less access to our house. Whatever gave you the notion that I would, dear?”

“Karen Loper told me ‘all of us’ have left a key with Chuck the Cop,” I said, grabbing the wine bottle off the kitchen counter as I followed Jean-Paul and his platter of raw meat out to the backyard.

“She and George may have trusted Chuck with their keys,” Mom said firmly. “But the Lopers are great friends with the Rileys, and we never were. As far as old Chuck being a cop, hmm. I think that when his department suggested that he had put in his twenty years and should retire, immediately, he lost some of his cop credibility. If he ever had any.”

“He was forced out?” I asked.

“That’s what Ben Nussbaum told us, but I don’t know the details. Probably got in trouble over one of his money-making schemes. The Rileys always seem to be in over their heads,” she said. “How did the topic of keys even come up?”

“Karen saw the locksmith at the house when I had the locks changed.”

“Why did you have the locks changed?” Mom asked. “Did the housing office ask you to?”

“No,” I said, refilling Jean-Paul’s wineglass and taking it to him. “Someone broke into the house, so I thought it was a good idea.”

“Dear lord, we’ve never had a break-in before. Were you home?”

“I was,” I said, not reminding her about Isabelle’s nighttime call.

“Margot, darling.” I could have kicked myself for telling her about the break-in; now she would worry. “He didn’t…” She couldn’t even say what she was thinking. “You weren’t hurt?”

“I never saw him. He just disappeared into the night.”

“Thank God for that.”

I laughed. “I love you, Mom. The first question everyone else asks is what was taken?”

“As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing in the house of real value, except you,” she said. After a little pause she asked, “Were you thinking it could have been Chuck?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” I said.