Rain!
So this should give some context for the amount of rain that came down from the sky for several hours today…this is the runoff from a nearby building…and this wasn’t even when it was raining the hardest!
Category Archives: Phoebe
2.04 The Black-And-Blue-Becker-Betting-Pool
Familiar Voice One: “Did you pick her?”
Click.
Familiar Voice Two: “Not sure I remember who I put my money on. Its’ been over a year since the last payout.”
Click. Click. Click.
Familiar Voice Three: “Someone’s going to get paid! She’s the dark horse.”
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Familiar Voice Four: “Can’t wait until Dylan gets here, and Dad opens the envelope.”
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Me (cracking my left eye open just a slit): “You are going to wear out the shutter on that camera.”
Robbie (unrepentant): “Morticia! Did we wake you?”
My cousins (in descending order Jesse, Dylan, Ian, Dwight, and Robbie) agree with Wood that the nickname Morticia fits me better than my given one of Phoebe.
Me (staring blearily up at four out of five of my cousins crowding around the bed): “Yes. What are you guys doing here? And why is Dylan on his way?”
Jesse (continuing to snap pictures of me): “Mom texted everyone that the Black-and-Blue-Becker-Betting-Pool was paying out today!”
Fantastic.
The Black And Blue Becker Betting Pool is one of our clan’s seriously cracked institutions, inspired by Aunt Pearl and observed by my cousins, their spouses, and me.
On Thanksgiving Day six years ago, while arranging us in that year’s woodland-inspired family photo, Aunt Pearl let out a gusty sigh and thanked us for finally giving her her-heart’s-desire. We were baffled. None of us had any announcements pertaining to grandkids, promotions, or winning a marathon. So what did we give her? Besides each of us wearing (with minimal grousing) a sweater sporting a cuddly woodland creature on its chest? (At least she’d given up making us dress up as the woodland creatures. I feel sorry for my nieces and nephews.)
The Answer: A group photo unmarred by bruises, gauze, or plaster-encased limbs.
(Personally, I don’t believe the addition of crutches, slings, or the occasional brace really detracts from these tableaus of mortification she insists on and includes in her annual Christmas letters – but I digress.)
My cousins and I thought her claim pure exaggeration. During dinner, we went round and round with Aunt Pearl, until in a fit of exasperation, she pulled out every photo album in the house (there were a dauntingly large number of them) and challenged us to find single unblemished holiday, any holiday would due, photo. Which, much to my Aunt’s disgust (and due to her excellent pie, Uncle’s smooth bourbon and the overall level of tryptophan), evolved into a bout of reminiscing over all the stupid shirt we did which unintentionally mucked up Aunt Pearl’s carefully planned and themed snapshots.
Idle speculation from Jesse’s partner Tad compounded her indignation when he wondered who’d be the next one to mess up a family photo. The question caused instantaneous Bedlam when we all pointed at each other and loudly declared why our chosen-one would be “The One” to complete the deed.
Then Dwight came up with a brilliant idea.
To prove who guessed correctly and therefore won – we’d write our predictions down, put them in an envelope, seal it up and wait until one of us showed for a holiday sporting a cane, band-aid, or splint. To make things interesting, each of us stuck in a hundred bucks in, thus establishing the Black And Blue Becker Betting Pool (in case you’re curious, Dylan triggered the first payout by showing up the following Easter with his left arm encased in a cast).
The crucial detail here? You must be present to win.
It doesn’t seem like Aunt Pearl totally bought whatever Wood’s explanation was last night – so she called in the cavalry.
Me (struggling to untangle myself from the blankets): “But Chinese New Year isn’t until next week.”
Uncle refuses to celebrate New Year’s Eve or Day, claiming seven days isn’t enough time to recover from his Christmas hangover. (I think he got tired of the squabbling over who had to don Baby New Years’ diaper for the photo.) So we now celebrate Chinese New Year with our neighbors, the Lu’s, instead (much to everyone’s satisfaction).
Ian (drily): “You think that shiner will be gone by then?”
Me (mumbling): “Maybe if I put a steak on it?”
Finally prevailing over the blankets and stiff muscles I sat up, the collective hiss from the four boys cut off the rest of my reply. Jesse even stopped snapping pictures (we record every injury responsible for a payout, it’s not as weird as it sounds). Looking down, I realized the scoop neck tank I wore to bed last night gave them a fair idea of the sheer square footage my bruise covered.
Dwight (recovering first): “You’re going to need an entire cow to cover that sucker.”
Robbie (sarcasm dripping off his words): “What happened? Purple hair too passé now? Decided to dye your skin instead?”
Me (rolling my eyes): “No. A colossal land squid engineered on the Island of Doctor Cousteau attacked me! The Doctor set the enormous invertebrate on my trail after I uncovered his dastardly plan to steal Rye’s entire water reservoir to create an aquatic inland base. Of course, I foiled Cousteau’s evil agenda, but not before he told Squiddy to ink me! Fighting him is how I got banged up and dyed.”
Several beats past while my cousins considered the merits of my explanation.
Jesse (laughing): “The use of a historical figure, a cephalopod, and transforming a classic science fiction story to suit was inspired! Nine out of ten stars!”
Aunt Pearl may have called in the calvary – but we’ve hurt ourselves enough over the years that we don’t fess up to how it actually happened – because it’s usually really dull. Walked into a bulldozer while texting. Tripped on our own shoelace, dog, or second base. Got punched in the eye by a three-year-old. None of these make good stories. So unless we lose consciousness or hospitalization occurs, we don’t fess up to how a payout worthy injury actually occurs.
That being said, I was pushing the limits of the acceptable non-disclosure range of injuries.
Which explains my cousin’s current close quarters hovering.
Me (smiling): “Only nine? Well, then I’m not going to lift up my shirt so you can record the magnificence of Squiddy’s inking!”
This was met with a chorus of boos and laughter.
2.03 The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth
So Wood took ballet.
I wonder if his Gran taped his recitals…I bet she did.
The glimmerings of a party started percolating. We could watch all of Wood’s performances in sequence while eating potato salad, pasta, and wings. The wings would, of course, require a plethora of sauces, Thai sweet chili, Kansas City bbq, Hawaiian, Korean bbq, teriyaki, maple-chipotle, ginger-scallion, mole, tandoori, honey-mustard…
Pulling myself physically from the visions of plum sauce dancing in my head, my mind slid back to the man winding cotton around my wounds.
Do they teach conversational wizardry in medical school? Sounds like a class Wood would ace, it’s probably an elective. Because trading truth for truth feels like a tactic discovered by Hippocrates (Father of Western Medicine). Which he then handed down to his students, who handed it down to their students, and on thru generations until it landed in a modern medical text as Chapter Seventeen – Securing The Truth: Ten Ways to Sway Your Patient.
What’s worse? It’s working.
The thought of paying Wood’s twenty-year-old Twinkle-Toes Revelation with a bunch of lame excuses made me feel rotten to the core. Especially since I’ve kept my knack a secret from him since the day we met…
Me (sighing): “How did you know I’d gotten hurt at Nevermore tonight?”
Wood: “Logic. It’s the only place where you wouldn’t call anyone for help. Sit still for a minute.”
With a snick of his scissors, he finished up my new wrappings.
Me: “You’re right, I did happen at Nevermore.”
While I cast about for a way, to tell the truth, without telling the whole truth. Wood continued to ride the silence stretching between us (another tip from chapter seventeen, I’m sure).
Me (watching him clean up): “So here’s the thing, I can’t tell you what happened.”
Yanking (and thankfully cracking) a can of cola from the fridge, he thumped it down in front of me, then dropped some impressively large pills next to it.
Wood (curtly): “Take these.”
Me: “But I can tell you why.”
Wood, after handing me my button-up, sat down and started balancing his chair on its back legs (a habit which Aunt Pearl’s been trying to break for years) while watching me thru narrow eyes.
Me (fumbling with my sleeve): “Ever wonder why I’m still trying to save Nevermore from Little Ben? And Little Ben From himself?”
Wood: “Loyalty to his father?”
Me (now floundering with my buttons): “That’s part of it…”
Wood (softly): “Because you’re related to some of the residents there?”
He knew about the Residents? Panic lanced thru my stomach until it struck me who Wood was tactfully alluding too. Blinking rapidly, I focused on our different definitions of the word, which permitted the knots in my middle to slacken.
Me (deciding I’d buttoned enough buttons to pass muster, I chuckled without any humor): “That’s where it started, a newly minted nine-year-old’s melodramatic promise, to always take care of them, the best I could.”
Wood (lowering his chair onto all fours): “Those were extenuating circumstances…”
Me (wondering if a bruise turns colors when you blush): “Yes. Well. I never forgot about it. So when Big Ben put me in charge of Nevermore’s internal operations, basically everyone above and below ground, my promise expanded with my promotion. Which includes, no matter how annoying he is, Little Ben.”
Wood started to say something – but I cut him off – if I stopped now, I’d never have the courage to sail this close to the whole truth again.
Me (rushing): “I know what you’re thinking, but I can’t just abandon my promise just because Little Ben handed me walking papers. That’s not how it works. Tonight, these {waving hands} happened seeing those promise thru, and before you ask, I can’t promise you it won’t happen again.”
Leaning back, Wood stared at the ceiling processing. I tried and failed to rest my head on my crossed arms (seems bending at the waist isn’t for me at the moment, this should make picking up groceries/luggage/cat carriers for my FLYT fares exciting).
Wood (leaning towards me): “These promises, they’re what really prompted your sudden need to hike up Pumpkin Mountain?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. Did he make the connection between the Fall Foliage Tour and Tiffany Grindle’s anonymous tipster? It didn’t matter, he’d know if I lied.
Me (sighing): “Yes.”
Wood (nodding): “Okay.”
Me (wary): “Okay?”
Wood (meeting my gaze): “I’ll smooth thing over with Uncle and Aunt” Pearl.
Relief swept thru me (or perhaps the painkillers kicked in – it could go either way) and put a smile onto my face.
Wood (returning mine with a small sly one of his own): “Oh, don’t thank me yet, we still need to settle your tab.”
2.01 What The Cat Dragged In
Mr. Nelson (excitedly babbling): “…your niece and I were passing Nevermore when we saw him…”
Opening the front door, I heard Mr. Nelson’s enthusiastically recounting his sighting of The Grey Man to my Uncle. When he referenced my part in the story, Aunt Pearl stuck her head around the corner. She took one look at me, stepped into the hall, and picked up the phone.
Aunt Pearl (calling into the living room): “Dear, can you take Phoebe into the kitchen? She looks like a mouse the cat played with too long.”
Me (hoping to stop her dialing): “I’m fine…”
Aunt Pearl (into the phone, completely ignoring me): “Can you come over right away? Phoebe looks like she fell down a well….”
The grim set of my Uncle’s mouth when he crossed the threshold distracted me from the unflattering comparisons my Aunt continued to reel off into the phone. Without a word, he tipped his head towards the kitchen. The weight of his gaze was palatable as I shuffled past.
Uncle (calling over his shoulder): “Help yourself to a bottle in the living room Jordie, I’ll be right back.”
Mr. Nelson, sensing he no longer commanded anyone’s attention, attempted to follow us into the kitchen.
Uncle (rebuffing him at the door): “We’ll talk after I speak with Phoebe.”
Well, there goes all hope that they’ll let this go.
Uncle (swinging the door shut – I think on Mr. Nelson’s nose – he turned towards me): “Do I need to call Earl?”
I know the bandages on my hands made me look like the walking wounded, but why would he think I needed to talk to Earl? (Earl being a family friend and a detective for the Rye police department.) Please don’t let him be who Aunt Pearl jumped on the phone too…
Me (wearily): “What’s the fuss? I fell down and skinned my hands, like a little old lady, but other than that, I’m fine.”
Uncle (leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing his arms): “That’s the story you’re sticking with?”
Squirming like a twelve-year-old caught stealing apples from the neighbor’s tree (not that I know what that feels like), I nodded.
Uncle: “Go, look at yourself in the mirror.”
Walking over to the pantry door, I opened and stared out my reflection (the day Aunt Pearl went shopping, while wearing her blouse inside-out, saw the installation of mirrors near every exit). How on earth I was going to explain what happened without Uncle calling Earl himself?
The entire left side of my neck, above my collar, was a nasty dark purple color, and I had a feeling I knew exactly how far the bruise extended. To round out my rather colorful look, I had a goose egg on right my temple (where my face smacked into the door?) and the beginnings of quite a shiner just below it. With the white gauze currently obscuring the ends of my arms – I was quite a sight.
Crap.
Uncle (colorlessly): “Did someone do this to you?”
Me: “I fell. I know it sounds lame, but I promise I’m fine.”
Uncle considered my words. If he didn’t believe me, I knew Aunt Pearl and Earl would feature prominently in my near future. Of course, my Aunt may have jumped the gun if the commotion coming from the front door was any indication. When Wood burst into the room, Gladstone bag in hand, relief, and trepidation (in equal parts) sang thru me.
Uncle (pushing off the counter): “Convince him, I’ll go take care of your Aunt.”
He walked out of the room and left me alone with a very angry Wood.
Wood (quickly surveying the situation): “Take off your shirt.”
Me (flabbergasted): “Excuse me?”
Wood (tightly): “You heard me. Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”
Me (incredulous): “You are not my doctor.”
That earned me a withering look.
Wood: “It’s either the hospital or me. Your Aunt will be thrilled to drive you there.”
Me (sulking): “I’m not taking off my bra.”
Knowing that he’d won the battle, he ignored me and started taking medical stuff out of the bag he’d placed on the kitchen table. Stepping slightly behind him, pretending I had some dignity, I grappled with my black vest and button-up. When he turned around, his doctor face was on, but I knew he was absolutely livid. Looking down at my own chest, I understood why. The vivid purple bruise on my neck morphed to an ugly blackish color. It covered almost my entire left side – from shoulder to just below my ribs and halfway across my chest. The delicate pink lacy bra I was wearing (everyone deserves to feel pretty) made the color look even more malignant.
There wouldn’t be any Guaranteed Fun tonight.
Two for Luck
The sentinels of Nevermore that greeted Mr. Nelson and I on our way in tonight. Perhaps they’ll bring me better luck in dealing with Aunt Pearl and Uncle than they did with dealing with the Woman in White…though I was able to walk away from the confrontation so I suppose my luck wasn’t so bad….
2.00 The Grey Man
Turns out when you inadvertently scare the bejesus out of a septuagenarian, they don’t ask a whole lot of questions.
Entirely engrossed in the mystery I’d lent him, Mr. Nelson didn’t notice me standing by the driver’s side door until I knocked on the window. After clutching his heart and hyperventilating for a few anxious moments, he leaned over and unlocked my door.
I thought the Princess smelled like a fruit basket before.
If the squares in his lap and the wrinkled cellophane packages in the back were any indication. He’d happily sampled his way through the entire marshmallow cornucopia. Sarah would just have to make do with twenty-five dollars worth of the suckers – she’d live. Handing me the Princess’s keys (locking him in the car without them felt slightly kidnapy), he finally noticed the swaths of gauze wrapped around my palms, wrists, and extending up my forearms.
Mr. Nelson (eyeing my bandages): “Are you up to driving?”
Me (shoveling reassurance into one word while turning over the ignition): “Yup.”
Pulling the Princess out of her impromptu hiding place, I gingerly steered the car while Mr. Nelson fumbled around in his seat.
Me (cranking up the heater): “You okay over there?”
Mr. Nelson (grumbling and struggling): “Yeah, the seat belt is wrapped around my arm…”
Me: “I’ll stop at the gates so you can sort yourself out.”
Mr. Nelson just grunted and continued to juggle the book, book-light, and marshmallows all the while trying to keep the seatbelt from strangling him. Neither of us appreciated the four speed bumps we bounced over on the way to the gates. He finally got his feathers smoothed by the time the Princess rolled to a stop at the Second Avenue entrance. Turning to place the remaining marshmallows into the box in the backseat – it was his turn to scare the bejesus out of me – with a rather loud and inarticulate exclamation.
Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.
Me (staring wildly around, dimly registering the pricking of my toes): “What? Where?”
Mr. Nelson (jabbing the air wildly with his index finger): “Look! Over there!”
Looking around for the source of Mr. Nelson’s excitement – I glimpsed Joseph’s back as he strolled around the curve and out of sight.
Mr. Nelson: “Did you see him? Did you see The Grey Man?’
Me (still trying to get a grip): “The Grey Man?”
Sitting back down in his seat, he gave me a look that made me wonder if I’d accidentally spoken in Swahili. Smoothing his re-ruffled feathers, Mr. Nelson took a deliberate moment before answering my question. Which was great because my heart couldn’t take another shock tonight. Who the hell is The Grey Man?
Channeling my inner ostrich, I buried my head in metaphorical sand. This is tomorrow’s problem.
Pulling out into the quiet street, I steered the Princess towards my passenger’s house.
Mr. Nelson (unknowingly stomping all over my tail feathers): “A bit before your time I dare say, before my own if truth be told. But they say Grey Man of Rye is, was Edmund Wynter. A corrupt politician from the early nineteen-thirties who was found one a quiet Sunday morning hanging from the oak tree in front of City Hall…”
Me (my foot barely touching the gas): “Serious?”
Mr. Nelson (a mischievous light in his eyes): “As a heart attack. The only clue? A note pinned on his chest with the words, ‘No More’ written on it.”
Me (the Princess moving at a crawl now): “No more? No More what?”
Mr. Nelson: “That question didn’t get answered for twenty years.”
Me (feeling like a myna bird): “Twenty years?”
Mr. Nelson: “A reporter at the Daily Harvest overheard a conversation when he was a kid, and remembered it. During a slow news summer, he started digging. Discovering not only the meaning of the note but the motive for Wynter’s murder – blackmail. Turns out Wynter, for a price, would alter any record in City Hall to suit. What his ‘clients’ didn’t know was he kept the original documents. Then when he needed a favor, he’d use the originals to extract it.”
Me: “But how does this relate to the Grey Man?”
Mr. Nelson: “Right after Wynter’s gruesome death, people started to report sightings of him, wearing his trademark gray suit, all over town. Always looking over walls, thru windows, and around corners. It was whispered he was looking for his killer. However, after the story in the Daily Harvest, people began to wonder if he was really looking for his blackmail material, because none of his records ever resurfaced.”
How had I never heard this story before? Me, Morticia, Queen of the Macabre? (Mostly because people keep giving me skeleton themed gifts)
Me (snails were moving faster than we were): “Did they ever catch who killed him?”
Mr. Nelson: “No, and from the Daily Harvest coverage I’ve read, the police didn’t look very hard. Hey, your Uncle’s house is just up ahead. Can you pull in there?”
Me: “Sure. Why?”
Mr. Nelson (clearly excited): “I want to tell your Uncle I spotted the Gray Man! It’s been twenty years!”
Looking at my watch, which made me recall my current state of being (it was concealed by swaths of cotton), and because my ex-ray vision was down, I looked at my dash clock. Which informed me it was only ten o’clock. Still within calling hours of their house (which can extend pretty late if you have something interesting to say or show my Uncle).
Turning into the drive, Mr. Nelson bounded out of the car before she’d rolled to a stop. Parking the Princess in her usual spot, I leaned my head against the headrest, took three deep breaths then opened the door.
This should be fun.
Woot!
Please Be Patient!
I promise!
Finder Of Lost Things 
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