Mrs. Peterson

                               

Illustration by Laurie Lail

                         Laurie Lail                                                  

            Roxanne rushed her son toward the door of Mrs. Hanley’s second grade class. He tugged on her hand hard, so that she had to stop and turn toward him. He squeezed her hand and asked, “You’re going to get a couple of talking skeletons, right?  With the motion detector, like the one we saw in the store?” His dark eyes were pleading. She bent down, put her face next to his, and told him, “Yes love, I promise. I’ll find some.”

 “And don’t forget the sticky eyeballs! And don’t forget, lots of cobwebs!”

“Yes. Brandon. I have the list.” Mrs. Hanley walked over. “Brandon, come in and hang up your coat and get your math homework from your book bag please.”

Roxanne blew Brandon a kiss, and her cell phone rang. “Hi. I just dropped him off, and boy, is he excited. He even made check list for me.”

“It’s the ultimate fun, scary yet safe.”

“ David, you can’t work one minute late; you have to hurry home today, and get the orange lights on the deck, or he’ll drive me crazy. Did you call the bakery?”

“Yes.”

“Can they do it?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Call me at lunch and remind Dianne about the punch recipe. Don’t forget. Love you.”

Before Brandon was born, Roxanne’s husband had coached basketball, and volunteered to tutor in a Saturday math program at an elementary school. She knew her husband would be great father. Roxanne and David had spent a good deal of money on fertility clinics and had been married nine years before becoming pregnant with Brandon. They read their son stories every night. Sometimes, they sit on either side of the boy and take turns using accents and funny voices for the various characters. They had done so with two of Brandon’s books last night, but still, they had to threaten their son with stern consequences of no playground time the next day before he’d settle down and go to sleep, and then they’d laid awake themselves, whispering about their party plans.

They always started decorating the inside of the house in early October by first replacing some of the artwork with paintings of haunted looking homes, faces that turned to skulls at a certain angle, and a family photograph they’d had made wearing zombie makeup. On the mantle, they replaced the vases and artwork with jars of eyeballs and frogs and creepy candles garnished with cobwebs and spiders. The party was this weekend and Brandon became more and more excited with every new decoration added to their home. They knew Brandon would look back on this annual party all of his life.

  Roxanne stepped from Jacobson Elementary School into a burst of fall color, sparkling in the morning’s sunlight and the clear autumn air. She felt exuberance rush through her when she inhaled the smell of drying leaves. She shoved her hand into her pocket to retrieve the list for the Halloween party Brandon had fastidiously written for her, with drawings of skeleton heads and spiders as bullet points for each item. 

Her first stop would be the superstores. This was the one time of year when they came in handy, always stocked with seasonal trinkets and talking skeletons, which Brandon loved. There are two situated less than a mile from each other; so, what she didn’t find at one, she could scoot down the street and was almost certain to find at the other. She turned into the crowded parking lot to magically find a space right up front, as if some witch had cast a special spell.

Roxanne could smell popcorn wafting from the snack bar as she wrestled a large orange cart free from the stack. She stopped at the dollar bin and debated having one of the large soft pretzels she saw a young girl eating. She dropped in a couple bags of sticky eyeballs, a bag of plastic cockroaches, and several packets of glow-stick bracelets into her cart. She was sniffing a pumpkin spice candle and let her eyes wander from the bin to the other customers. She thought she saw familiar face walking out of the store. Roxanne put the candle down. It’s Mrs. Peterson. Isn’t it? It couldn’t be.  It’s been almost twenty years, but she moves just like her.

Roxanne called out “Mrs. Peterson”. The woman didn’t turn around. She was older, and Lisa had only seen her from the side, but Lisa was sure, the way she dressed and something in her walk; it had to be Mrs. Peterson.

Roxanne turned her cart around and went after her. She watched the woman cross to the parking lot, and Lisa strode toward the large glass doors.

 An employee stopped her and said, “Ma’am? May I help you?”

 Roxanne looked from the store employee, to the things in her cart, and back to the employee.  “Sorry. Can I leave my cart here for a minute? I saw someone I haven’t seen in years.”

“Yes, but I can’t promise your items will remain.”

Roxanne looked back toward the parking lot, but there was no sign of Mrs. Peterson. She thought for a second of running into the parking lot to find her, but it was so crowded, the chances were slim.

Roxanne turned back toward the dangling bats, ghosts, and haunted houses hanging from the ceiling and strategically dispersed throughout the store. It would have been good to see Mrs. Peterson, but she had a very important list in her pocket.

Roxanne pushed the cart toward the seasonal section. She began rummaging through the bins and shelves of Halloween novelty items. Her mind wandered back to the Corner Café where she had worked while in college, the place where she’d met the Petersons.

The café was the typical college town eatery, mixed decor and patrons. She pictured Ted, the quiet bad boy who worked in the kitchen, Jennie, the English major who wore Boho braids and Birkenstocks, and Sylvia, who was smart, poised, petite and pre-law. She chuckled when she thought of herself in those days. She called herself Roxie. She was in art school and worked really hard, but she gave off a vibe of having no real ambition whatsoever and damned proud of it. As Roxie, she had worn her teased platinum blonde hair to remarkable heights. She was a little Marylyn Manson and a little Marylyn Monroe. Even on the most frigid of days, Roxie would offer cleavage. A single, struggling mom had raised Roxanne, and becoming Roxie made her feel like she held a certain kind of power her mother could have used. Few men made it in and out of the Corner Café without a serving of Roxie’s slow sly smile accompanied by the batting of her thick false lashes, as if they were backup singers to her lips. It was often suggested, by the manager, that Roxie’s unique appearance and charm was the reason Mr. Peterson loved dinning at the café, and the reason Mrs. Peterson would steal the tip.

Everyone had guessed the Petersons were in their early-forties, and they seemed to have stepped out of the past. He was a tall, boisterous man’s man sort, who made it a point to know everyone’s name. He kept a strict routine. They always ate at the café on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, arriving at five. He always took booth seven or nine and, if on the rare occasion one of those two booths weren’t open during early dinning, he would begrudgingly sit at booth eleven. He always had a corny joke to tell and never bothered with please or thank-you when speaking to his server, but he always left a hearty tip. Mrs. Peterson was small, thin and always pristinely and prudishly dressed, and she rarely said anything to anyone; she seemed uncomfortably shy.

 The way the Petersons behaved had reminded Roxanne of the older couples in the Saturday afternoon movies from the fifties. They had been truly out of place sitting among the bright colors of the cartoonish collages, or the stark, high-contrast black and white close up photographs of lips, eyes and pierced navels, or the drippy paintings of laughing women, all mounted on an electric blue walls. They seemed almost ridiculous sipping coffee in the midst of the music selection chosen by wait staff-Nirvana, Edith Piaf, Technotronic, classic Johnny Cash, MC Hammer, and anything alternative, pouring from the corner speakers a little too loudly. The Petersons became even more out-of-place when other clientele wafted into their proximity: the assortment of college students and professors, vegan yoga instructors with blonde dreadlocks and ten bangle bracelets on each arm, the proudly flamboyant gay couple with matching beards who owned the gallery next door, the grunge crowd and their collection of piercings and tattoos, and of course, Roxie.

 Mrs. Peterson, when speaking to her husband, called him Samuel, when speaking about her husband she always referred to him as Mr. Peterson, and he always referred to her as “my bride” unless he was speaking directly to her, then he called her “Mother,” even though no one had ever heard either of them speak of having children.

Mr. Peterson always started with a bourbon on the rocks and a cup of soup. On Mondays, he had the beef tips, Wednesdays, the steak sub, and on Fridays, he had the New York Strip. He always finished his meal with a cup of black coffee.  Mr. Peterson always ordered for his wife, and it was always a salad and a cup of coffee, and she usually gazed down at her plate avoiding eye contact unless spoken to, and then both eye contact and response were conducted with brevity.

Roxanne rounded the corner of a plastic giant Jack-o-lantern display and saw the one of the talking skeletons Brandon wanted. As she pulled it from the hook it said, “I’m just hanging here alone, cause I got No-body to dance with, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Roxanne searched for the off-switch, and the skeleton started singing Bad to the Bone. She turned it off and tossed it in the cart. She remembered a strange moment she’d had with Mrs. Peterson.

Roxanne had been clearing the table beside the Petersons, singing Silent Night along with Barbra Streisand roaring from the Café speaker. She had caught Mrs. Peterson peeking up from her salad and watching her with a little smile. She had smiled back, and Mrs. Peterson had snapped her head back toward her food as though she’d been caught at something.

Roxanne had walked to the Peterson’s table and said, “I love this version of Silent Night, my mom had this album, and it doesn’t feel like Christmas until I hear it. What’s your favorite carol Mrs. Peterson?” Mrs. Peterson had kept her eyes on her salad and responded, “Mr. Peterson likes the Christmas album by Johnny Mathis.” Mr. Peterson had chimed in, “That’s right, Roxie; pulled it out just the other day to get myself in the spirit. Look here Roxie; bring me and my bride some more coffee.”

Roxanne ran her eyes over a spider-web candelabra and thought it might be good on the food table. She picked it up to inspect it and thought of how she used to picture Mrs. Peterson, prudish, odd, and sneaky.

Mrs. Peterson had several methods for stealing the tip. Mr. Peterson liked to walk to the register to pay his bill, and he always dropped the tip down before he did. Mrs. Peterson’s most common method was when Mr. Peterson was at the register, she would plop her purse in front of the tip, being sure to obscure Mr. Peterson’s view, and then pull out her compact to check her appearance. Next, she would snag a few bills from the top, sliding them back into her purse with her compact. After paying, Mr. Peterson would motion for her, as he always did, letting her know he was ready to leave, and the two would leave. Mr. Peterson never saw his wife take the tip, but the staff certainly did.

If it were busy enough at the café, Mrs. Peterson might try for the entire tip. Roxanne remembered how she’d set it up, she’d tell her husband as he rose to pay, “Samuel, I need to freshen up. I’ll meet you in the car, if that’s alright?” and he always said, “Make it quick, Mother. Don’t keep me waiting.”  Sometimes, if Roxanne could get to the table, she’d bus the table and grab the tip before Mrs. Peterson emerged from the restroom. But, if it was really hopping at the café, and Mr. Peterson had left to wait for her in the car, Mrs. Peterson would step from the bathroom and grab the whole thing on her way out.

 Roxanne remembered their fascination with the Petersons. Jennie had lost the whole tip to Mrs. Peterson one night. Jennie had pulled her apron off, sat on the bar stool beside Roxanne, and said, “Oh man, Roxie. She got the whole thing. She’s like an evil genius. I wonder if Mr. Peterson realizes that his mousey little wife has the makings of a double agent.” Roxie had turned up a bottle of beer, then went back to rolling silverware into large paper napkins, and said, “No shit. Those two are so strange. They stick out like nuns in a wet t-shirt contest.” Ted snickered and almost dropped the rack of wine glasses he was carrying. Roxie propped her elbow on the bar and leaned toward Ted as he shoved a rack of wine glasses onto the bar. “But then that’s a-who-o-o-le-nother-fantasy, huh big boy?”  Ted gave her a little nod and smile before strolling back toward the kitchen.

Roxanne set the candelabra in her cart and remembered how they used to explain the tip stealing to other patrons that saw it. It became a Corner Café joke. How to handle the Petersons had even been worked into the training of new servers. When trainees had asked why the manager never confronted the Mrs. Peterson about the tip, the answer was always, “It wouldn’t be the café without them; they’re our resident kooks.” This response had been the truth. The Petersons had become an annoyance, a game, a mystery, and a form of entertainment, but mostly, they’d become a tradition.

Roxanne remembered the night things began to get interesting. She had bragged about beating Mrs. Peterson to the tip while they did closing duties. While she had been spraying and wiping tables with the smelly Clorox solution she told her fellow servers, “Okay, so I had cleared the table and was picking up the tip just as she came out of the john. I looked right at her, tucked the tip in my bra and said, ‘Have a lovely night Mrs. Peterson.’ Of course she just scurried by. She’ll pay hell trying to get my tip from me again with that toilet routine of hers. I swear if she’d loosen her collar once in a while she could probably get more oxygen and think faster. What’s with the puritan wardrobe anyway? I mean really, has anyone ever seen her neck?” 

Sylvia had sat down a tray of salt-and-pepper shakers and said, “I should think you could appreciate a fashion statement. Besides, I saw her neck once. I was coming out of the bathroom stall one night when Mrs. Peterson was pulling her turtleneck down and looking at this big purple birthmark. Anyway, I have another bit of news about Mrs. Peterson. One of the women in my legal philosophy class, Gina, works part-time in the floral department at The Town Market where Mrs. Peterson shops. She said Mr. Peterson always drops her off and then sits in the parking lot and watches for her, sooo, she does the shopping alone.”

Roxie folded her arms, “No surprise there. Mr. Peterson would consider that woman’s work. Seriously, the man’s probably never set foot in a grocery store.”

 Sylvia smiled and narrowed her eyes in Roxy’s direction. “Then he doesn’t know what she does in there, does he?”

Roxie put both her hands on the table, and leaned in Sylvia’s direction with the look of a hungry wolf.  “Tell!”

“Well, Mrs. Peterson does lots of strange-ish sorts of things. Like she always fondles the peaches, but never buys any.”

Roxie rolled her eyes.

Sylvia put up a hand. “Seriously, Gina says she smells them and rubs on the peaches like their puppies, like they’re the most wonderful things she’s ever come across, but she never buys even one. Anyway, there is this one really peculiar thing she does that might interest you.” Sylvia picked up a peppershaker and filled it waiting for Roxie to egg her on.

Roxie raised her brows. “Which is?”

“After she’s checked out and paid for her groceries, she goes to customer service with her cart, her receipt, and a wad of coupons, saying she forgot to turn them in at the register, and then she asks to be reimbursed. So the customer service attendant then goes through the receipts and the coupons, calculates up the difference and hands Mrs. Peterson a cash reimbursement.” Sylvia widened her eyes at Roxie.

Roxie had smirked, “So she forgot to hand in some coupons. I’m surprised Mr. Peterson even lets her use them, with his ‘Men these days don’t know how to make their way’ attitude.”

“Gina said she does it that way every time she shops. Gina says sometimes, if she has a lot of them, it takes the clerk like fifteen minutes to get it all worked out. A lot of times, Mrs. Peterson has as much as fifteen bucks worth. The store manager tells them to just let her do it, as long as she’s bought the items and the coupons are good. Now, let’s think about this.” Sylvia let her eyebrows dent the skin between them. “We thought the tip stealing was a kleptomaniac thing, but what about the coupons?”

It had all came together for Roxanne, and she’d said, “She’s hiding money from him.”

 Sylvia had put her finger on her nose and pointed at Roxie. “Yes. Obviously, our Mrs. Peterson needs cash that she doesn’t want Mr. Peterson to know about, but for what?”

 Roxie had began wiping off the next table. “First of all that high collared oddity is not my Mrs. Peterson, and secondly, my Sylvia, it’s obviously for something illicit. She’s probably saving up for a gigolo. I mean come on; I can’t see her having much fun with Mr. Peterson, too self-absorbed, and he hardly notices her, really. Besides it’s always those prudish types that are the real freaks.”

Roxanne was brought back to the super store by a polite voice.

“Excuse me.”

Roxanne looked up, “Oh, I’m sorry”. Her cart was blocking the candy isle. She pushed it toward the isle of talking ghouls. She pushed the “try me” button on a bug-eyed skeleton with a top hat, and he blared, “Better eat all your candy or you’ll look like me.”  Roxanne smiled and chucked him into the cart too. Someone set off a strobe light with recorded assortment of screeches and screams. The flashing light made Roxanne think of the police cars and the afternoon she learned of Mrs. Peterson’s secret life.

 She had just met David and was picking up wine to take from The Town Market to bring on their second date. She’d seen Mrs. Peterson in the produce section smelling a peach. She remembered what Sylvia had said, and she’d ducked at the corner of the isle to watch. Mrs. Peterson picked the fruit up and gently rubbed her fingertips across its flesh, placed her nose against the fruit, closed her eyes and took a deep slow breath and smiled. Roxanne felt like she was spying on a strangely intimate moment. When Mrs. Peterson opened her eyes again and set down the fruit. Roxanne decided to speak. She stepped from the isle and said, “Hi, Mrs. Peterson, how do the peaches look?” Mrs. Peterson pulled her hand from the peaches. “Oh, I suppose they’re fine. Mr. Peterson can’t have them.” Mrs. Peterson offered Roxanne a polite smile, then turned her cart and walked toward the checkout.

When Roxanne had found her wine and was in line at the checkout, she’d overheard the bag boy gossiping to the cashier. “I knew something was up, she’s been standing out there looking for’em for at least fifteen minutes, and nobody’s seen‘em.”

 Roxanne had paid the cashier and turned to see flashing lights and Mrs. Peterson calmly standing with the police, nodding her head as they spoke. Roxanne had rushed out the door and had immediately noticed a difference in Mrs. Peterson’s demeanor; Mrs. Peterson was speaking in and excited tone and kept saying, “That can’t be right. He was just having a sandwich. He always has a sandwich while I’m shopping.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Is there someone we can call?”

Roxanne slowly touched her arm. “Mrs. Peterson, what’s happened?”

“They say Mr. Peterson has passed; he had a heart attack or something. That can’t be right. He was just having a sandwich. He always has a sandwich while I’m shopping. Its Saturday isn’t it? On Saturdays, Mr. Peterson has me do the shopping while he waits in the car and has a sandwich.” 

“Mrs. Peterson, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Roxie, is this true? Is he gone? Are you sure?”

Roxanne took her hands from the cart and held them. “Yes, Mrs. Peterson. I think so.”

An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, and parked beside the Peterson’s Oldsmobile.

The police officer looked at Roxanne. “We’ll take him to Smithville Memorial Hospital for now. We’ll have to have someone identify him.”

Roxanne said, “I could do that. Can I just get her settled down for now.”

Mrs. Peterson said, “I can answer your questions. I want to see for myself.”

The policeman nodded and talked into his walkie-talkie, “She wants to see the him. Can she come over and identify him now.”

The walkie-talkie said, “Yeah.”

Roxanne had walked with Mrs. Peterson and the policeman to the car. Anther policeman stood by the gurney and motioned them over. Mrs. Peterson quickened her step, and the cop pulled the sheet from Mr. Peterson’s head. Mrs. Peterson had put her hand on Mr. Peterson’s shoulder and shook gently. “Samuel?” She said, “Samuel, are you gone?”

Roxanne touched her shoulder. “Mrs. Peterson, are you okay?”

“Yes, it’s hard to believe. It certainly is hard to believe.”

Mrs. Peterson had stepped back and the cop asked, “Is this your husband, Samuel Peterson?”

Mrs. Peterson had nodded yes.

After Mrs. Peterson answered their questions, Roxanne had asked, “Mrs. Peterson, is their someone I can call for you?”

A faint smile had come over Mrs. Peterson’s face; she’d become flushed. “Yes Roxie, I would very much like to call someone. I have a sister.” 

Tears streamed down Mrs. Petersons face as she giggled and said, “I have a sister, Margie.”

Roxanne had felt uncomfortable when Mrs. Peterson became strangely giddy. At first Roxanne had thought she was in shock. She’d remembered reading that people in shock can behave as if nothing has happened. They sometimes refuse to believe what they’ve witnessed. But then, Mrs. Peterson had said, “First, I should return those groceries. I won’t need all of that now that Mr. Peterson’s gone.” Mrs. Peterson had marched toward her cart and into the grocery store. Roxanne had followed, and watched as Mrs. Peterson handed over the receipt and collected a full reimbursement. The clerk had given Mrs. Peterson a tight-lipped smile. “There you are, Mrs. Peterson.”

Mrs. Peterson had slid the money in her purse and beamed at Roxanne. “Where can we find a telephone?”

Roxanne picked up a long rope of black garland that might look good in the bathroom, but all she could think about was remembering the tightness she had felt in her stomach at Mrs. Peterson’s odd reaction to the death of her husband. Roxanne had said, “I’m sure there’s a phone here at the customer service counter.” Roxanne had looked back at the clerk. “There’s been an emergency. We need to call someone for Mrs. Peterson.”

 “Is it a local call?” 

Mrs. Peterson had put her hand on the counter and said, “Yes, and I remember the number if it’s still the same. We haven’t talked in four years.”  The clerk had widened her eyes at Roxanne when she had handed over the phone. Mrs. Peterson had picked up the receiver, ran her hand over it, and clutched it as though it were something precious. Roxanne and the clerk had exchanged another glance as Mrs. Peterson dialed the number and closed her eyes listening to it ring.

 “Hello Dan. It’s Janice. Is Margie there?  Please, let me speak to her… Tell her I can explain everything.”  Mrs. Peterson had closed her eyes again as she waited. “Margie?  --Margie, how are you?  Oh Lord, Margie, I have so much to explain.” Tears had dropped from Mrs. Peterson’s eyes and dripped onto her snuggly tied silk scarf. “I’ve missed you Margie. --Mr. Peterson’s dead, Margie; he’s gone.”  Huge tears had welled in her eyes. Mrs. Peterson had had to stop a moment to collect herself. “Margie, I never meant those things I said, - I had to--for William--I want to see you. I want you to go with me to see William. --- Well, I don’t drive, Mr. Peterson didn’t allow it--I’m in the grocery store---The Town Market, it’s off of Maplewood Drive. ----There’s a young lady with me, Roxie. ----Alright Margie.” The clerk had handed Mrs. Peterson a tissue and she’d dabbed her eyes. “Roxie? Is there somewhere close by I could go to wait for my sister?”

 “Sure, there’s a restaurant right on the corner. Luigi’s.”

 “Oh that’s right. -- Margie?  There’s an Italian restaurant on the corner of the shopping center, Luigi’s. Would that be all right? ---- Oh good. --Thank you, Margie. Thank you.”

 Mrs. Peterson had hung up the phone and had clasped her hands together as if praying, then brought them to her forehead and sobbed.

“Mrs. Peterson?” Roxanne had gently asked. “May I keep you company while you wait for your sister?”

Mrs. Peterson had pulled herself together and squeezed Roxie’s arm. “Yes, Roxie. I’d like that.”

Roxie saw a large bad of cobwebbing and threw it in her cart. She found a rack of Halloween prizes. She pulled Brandon’s list from her pocket: bubbles, fangs, something with skulls, slime, and something with flashing lights. Lisa began to plunder through the shelves and hooks covered with Halloween prizes as she thought about the unbelievable story Mrs. Peterson had told her.

Roxanne had walked Mrs. Peterson through the shopping center breezeway to the restaurant.

They’d been seated in a booth by a window. Roxanne had asked the waiter for a glass of Chianti, and she had said “My treat Mrs. Peterson. I’m having wine, but order whatever you’d like. Mrs. Peterson had sat with her hands folded on the table. She had given Roxanne a confused look for a moment, and then she’d said, “Wine. Yes. I’d like that. I haven’t had a glass of wine in so long. Mr. Peterson didn’t like it when women drank.”

Mrs. Peterson had sat quietly for a moment and sipped her wine, then she’d looked down her glass and said, “You must be wondering why I took you girl’s money”

Roxanne had had that feeling she got as child when she’d been caught at something, she hadn’t known what to say. Mrs. Peterson had lifted her head to meet Roxie’s eyes. “You’ve all been very kind, really you have.”

Mrs. Peterson had closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them she had said, “I have to get used to telling this story, I think. I very much need to. I’ve recited it over and over in my mind; I’d planned to tell it soon. When I escaped. Would you listen?” Mrs. Peterson had let more tears fall as she took a sip of her wine and swallowed slowly. Roxanne had nodded and said, “Sure, Mrs. Peterson.”

Mrs. Peterson had taken a long slow breath, blew it out and continued.  “Mr. Peterson was a very capable man. He made sure he had everything just as he wanted it. I was one of those things; he always kept a very close eye on me.” At her words Mrs. Peterson had given a tight nervous laugh and a sob at the same time. “I married late in life; I suppose. I’m not very outgoing. I’m shy, and I like quiet places. I worked in a library. I never really ever went out, except with Margie. The truth is that I married late because Mr. Peterson was the first to ask.

When I married him, my family had been thrilled. They admired him. He was an old fashioned gentleman. It was well enough at first, my sister and her husband would visit and my parents too. Then within months of each other, my parents passed. I began to see signs of Mr. Peterson’s sternness and sharp temper. He would rarely let me visit with Margie, and then when William came along, he’s my son, well.” Mrs. Peterson let out a guttural cry that received glances from a couple close by. 

Roxanne had reached for her hand, and Mrs. Peterson had said, “Yes, I have a son, William. He’s four years old.” Mrs. Peterson had paused for another taste of her wine, before looking away from Roxanne and breathing slowly for a moment before saying, “Mr. Peterson became more and more difficult when I was expecting William. He said I’d tricked him. He insisted I quit my job at the library. He no longer let me drive. He wouldn’t allow me to have money or keep a checkbook. At first I thought it must be the jitters of an expectant father. I thought he was having trouble getting used to the idea, but--”.  

Mrs. Peterson had looked down a moment, sipped some more wine and continued. “He became more and more irritated after my sister’s visits. Margie would bring her little girl, Jenny. He didn’t like how much we laughed; he said we sounded like stupid cackling hens. Then Margie gave me a baby shower a couple of months before William was due. Mr. Peterson had been so charming at the shower. I remember thinking that he must be coming around. He’d joked with all the women there about what we should name the baby. He’d even teased that he’d name the baby Patrick Peterson, and we’d call him PP. But after they left, he became enraged while I was placing all the gifts in the nursery. He began tearing everything up, and he pushed me into the crib Margie had put together for me. He was so outraged by the baby things. I’ll never forget him screaming ‘I’m in charge, don’t forget, I’m in charge.’ over and over. He pushed me again. I fell, and I’d hit my head against the wall, and my back had sharp pain. I remember sitting in the room wanting to run from the house, to take us to safety, but for some reason, I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t move. He came back with a pairing knife and held me down and slit my wrists. I just finally sat up. Blood was running on the little rug with ducks around the rim. I thought; I’ve let him kill us.” Mrs. Peterson had a look of horror on her face as she looked out the window.

Mrs. Peterson grabbed at the corner of her scarf, and began to sob again. Lisa reached across the table and put her hand on top of Mrs. Peterson’s. “Mrs. Peterson, it’s okay. You don’t have to do this. It’s okay.”

“No, I made a big mistake not running, not trying, and I’ve never told a soul.” Her expression became hard and vacant. She put her hand on top of Lisa’s. “Please. Let me try to finish.” Lisa nodded, and Mrs. Peterson went on.

“That night I woke up in the hospital, he told them I done it.”  Her face had softened and her eyes welled up again, she’d unrolled the silverware and dabbed her nose with her napkin. “He told them I’d hurt myself; that I’d gone crazy and caused William to come early. He told them that he was afraid I wouldn’t be able to care for the baby.” A look of discussed had crossed Mrs. Peterson’s face and she’d said, “They had to go ahead and take William. After they closed my wrists, they had to go and get him, a caesarian. Mr. Peterson had come into my room and said, ‘Well, Mother, he lived, but he’s going to be an idiot, like you.’” Mrs. Peterson had shoved her face into the napkin for a moment and then had slowly lifted her head said, “That afternoon, the doctor told me William would be probably be slow developmentally. The nurses looked at me with terror in their eyes when they brought William in to see me. They’d been told not to leave me alone with him.” Mrs. Peterson looked out the window and patted under her eyes with her napkin. “I called Margie for help, but I didn’t get to speak to her. He came in and caught me. He told them to take the telephone away, and they did. When Margie came to the hospital, he wouldn’t let her see me. He told them not to let anyone in. I don’t what else he did, but Margie never came. They kept William for a month, and I was sent to a mental hospital for an evaluation. I had to finally agree with the doctor, someone who I believe Mr. Peterson either knew or paid. I had agreed that it hadn’t been Mr. Peterson who’d caused the early delivery, or bruises and the slices on my wrist, but that I had had a fit due to some hormonal issue. Then I was allowed to come home and care for my son.”

Lisa felt overwhelmingly disgusted, like she should have guessed, like she’d helped keep a dark secret. 

Mrs. Peterson looked back at Lisa for a moment, then back out the window as she spoke.   “Mr. Peterson let me take William home, but he wouldn’t let me see Margie anymore. He let me know that if I didn’t send her away, that he’d say I was too unstable to take care of the baby and send William to a special home. He had me call Margie and tell her tell her not to come around anymore.” Mrs. Peterson gulped and looked at Lisa with pleading eyes. “I was afraid of him; I couldn’t face him, so I made the call. Margie came storming to the front door, demanding to know what was going on. Mr. Peterson told her she needed to leave, that she would upset me, and then he made me tell her so. She stood in the front yard, yelling my name. She yelled over and over again. All I could do was stand and watched her. Dan, Margie’s husband, finally pulled her in the car and drove away.”

Mrs. Peterson had looked down a moment, taken a deep breath and went on. “I was so weak from it all. It gave him more power.”

Roxanne had realized the server had been avoiding their table. Had it been her table, she would have done the same thing. She motioned for him, and then pointed to her glass and held up two fingers. She thought this was the craziest story she’d ever heard. For a moment she’d thought What if this woman really did try to off herself and her baby? And here I am having wine with her.

The server sat the wine down and Mrs. Peterson took a small sip and looked back out the window. “I did spend some beautiful days with William before he went to his home. Mr. Peterson said he was disgusted that the boy came from his loins. Not me. I thought William was the most precious prize I’d ever been given; I still do.” She gave Roxanne a small smile. “William and I were never allowed to see anyone, and I had to keep him away from Mr. Peterson. The medication they had me on made me drowsy, but I took care of William; I did.  I had to keep William out of the way and quiet. One night William had been sick; he’d cried a good bit during the night. The next morning, Mr. Peterson pinned me against the wall while William was crying and said, “Mother, You’re not taking care of this boy. We’re sending him to that home.” Mr. Peterson stormed out the back door. I scooped up William and watched through the nursery window. The neighbor’s cat was in our yard, and he kicked it so hard. It hit the trunk of the sycamore and then didn’t move again. Mr. Peterson just picked up and threw it in the garbage. I knew then I had to let my boy go. I had to keep him safe. William was two, he didn’t talk yet or walk; he could only crawl. I hoped he wouldn’t remember any of it.”

Mrs. Peterson bowed her head and shook it softly. “The home was a better place for William. I knew it. It had a special school just for children like him. I missed my boy so much. All I could think about was our days spent in his room, his chubby little wrist, and his little laugh, and the way he smelled after his bath. Margie, God bless her, would send packages with letters every month without fail. Mr. Peterson wouldn’t allow the letters she’d sent, but he would let us have some of the gifts, and some of Jenny’s drawings. Margie sent a stuffed lion that roared or purred when you pushed his tummy, and William loved it, and she used to send these wonderful baby shampoos from London. Sometimes lavender scented, sometimes almond, but my favorite, and I think Williams too, was the peach. Margie must have known because she sent that one the most. It was fitting; William’s hair was like peach fuzz for the longest time. He didn’t get much hair until he was well past eighteen months. I would hold him in his blanket and sing to him before I put him down for the night when Mr. Peterson was busy watching the news, and I could cuddle him and run my cheek over his peach fuzz.”

Roxanne had looked out the window to the rows of parked cars. She had felt heat rising in her cheeks. Roxanne felt her stomach turn and pushed her wine away.

Mrs. Peterson had a pained smile when she’d said, “It was horrible leaving my boy there. It was two months before I was able to see him. I thought he would forget me. He didn’t. He smiled, reached for me, and said, ‘Hi.’ He was finally saying some words, and he could walk with help.”

Mrs. Peterson had looked up toward the ceiling, smiled and shook her head, when she met Roxanne’s eyes again, she said, “After William was gone, I got my strength. I was able to gauge Mr. Peterson’s weaknesses. I only pretended to take my medicine. I held it in my mouth, and then wrapped it in tissue and flushed it down the toilet. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to raise my boy, but I’d let this go too far. So I came up with a plan.”

 Mrs. Peterson’s face had went blank and serious. “That’s why I was stealing. I would hide the money under the sink in a hole behind the cleaning products. Mr. Peterson never goes near any of that. Then when I had the chance, I would take it to the bank. Mr. Peterson would drop me off at the on seventh street to pick up dry cleaning or his shoes from Thompson’s or to get shirts from the men’s clothing store right next door. After I did my errands, I was to meet him at the Donut shop down the street. He never knew I’d slip into the bank next door and deposit my savings into my own private mutual fund. I was going to leave him, get a lawyer, and get my son. I needed money to go up against him.”

 Roxanne had asked her, “Was there no one you could call for help?”

 “I was afraid I’d make things worse, and there is only one phone in the house in Mr. Peterson’s office. He works from home. He keeps his office locked.”

“Why not a neighbor, or the grocery clerk?” 

“I tried once. I told the neighbors across the street about the physical abuse. Mr. Peterson explained my condition to them, and then explained, in his way, the trouble I would be in for if I ever tried it again, and I’d never see William again. I was told to apologize, to say I was having a spell. He caught me using a pay phone once to ask about William. He taught me lesson. I think he broke one of my ribs, and I didn’t get to see William that Easter. I was afraid he’d kill me, and there’d be no one for William. He would never have let Margie near my son.”

Mrs. Peterson had reached her hand toward Roxanne’s. “He had me. I now have a history of being mentally unstable, of slitting my wrist. I knew I would need money, a lawyer and proof. Of course, proof is always easy enough to come by with Mr. Peterson. I just had to make him mad, call a woman lawyer when he dropped me off for my errands, and find a doctor that knew about these things. I was planning on leaving this autumn.” She had untied the knot in her scarf and let Roxanne see the assortment of bruises on her neck, and said, “When I don’t act right, he likes to choke me, usually until I pass out.” Mrs. Peterson’s vacant look had come back. She’d said, “It’s alright now. I never would have thought Mr. Peterson would die from anything; I thought he would live forever. It’s easier now. I only have to convince everyone, and then go and get my boy.” She had met Roxanne’s eyes. “Do you think they’ll believe me? They have to, don’t they?” 

 Mrs. Peterson had laughed while tears again streamed down her face, and she’d said, “Would you believe I’ve saved almost two thousand dollars?”

 Mrs. Peterson’s face had become suddenly bright as she looked past Roxanne. Roxanne had turned to see a petit woman coming towards them. Mrs. Peterson had jumped to her feet and called, “Margie, over here, honey, I’m over here.”

The woman had Mrs. Peterson’s small build, nose and mouth. She had the same long neck, the same round eyes, the hair was loose and styled, but the resemblance was obvious. She had stopped and called, “Janice?” and trotted over and scooped Mrs. Peterson in her arms. Mrs. Peterson had hardly been able to speak for sobbing. “Margie, I’ve so much to explain—William!”

“Now Janice, never mind any of that now; I should have known, and I should’ve never given up.” Her sister’s eyes welled. “Let’s just take it from here.” She leaned back and wiped her Mrs. Peterson’s tears, but the tender jester only caused more sobbing. Roxanne had felt the restaurant watching; she’d neither blamed them for staring nor cared that they had.

Roxanne jumped from her memories as eerie laughter and the theme to the Adams family began competing with the piped in music of the store. Roxanne tried to guess how many ghoulish gummies were in each bag. She grabbed four bags and tossed them in by the light-up spider super balls. She checked her list; she was almost finished. She’d head to the store down the street to see what they had. She still wanted a few new headstones. She stopped at house wares. There was a set of Black platters that she considered for the food table. She added them to the cart. David would complain about the purchase at first, and she’d say what she always said, “We’ll use it for years to come.”

Roxanne headed towards checkout and thought about how she’d repeated the story to everyone at the Café; they’d sat listening in amazement. Sylvia leaned against the bar and said, “We should check on her. Can’t we get their address from the phone book?”

They’d found the address of Samuel Peterson. Turns out the Petersons lived only five minutes away. Sylvia suggested they send flowers, but Roxanne had a better idea. “I think we should send her a big basket of peaches.”

Roxanne turned the big orange cart toward the front of the store. There was an abundance of people in the checkout lines. Roxanne saw three young women in line, excited over their loot. She saw them add up the things in the cart and pull money from an envelope. Her mind went back to the last time she heard from Mrs. Peterson.

She had just walked into the café, only a few minutes before her shift began. Silvia was standing with one hand on her hip and one fanning herself with an envelope. Jenny was standing with Silvia, and said, “You won’t believe who sent us a letter, and it took everything we had to wait for you.”

 Silvia handed Roxie the letter. She looked at it; it was thick. It was addressed to The Evening Service Staff at the Corner Café and in the upper left hand corner it simply read, Janice Peterson. When Roxie opened the letter a thousand dollars in cash fell out and Roxanne read the note out loud:  

“Hello Ladies,

    I wanted to let you know that Mr. Peterson actually left some money for William and me. I’ve also sold the house. I’m driving again. Thanks to my lawyer, they let me take William to Disney World, on a plane! Margie went too. We had a lovely time. I have a small apartment near William’s home. I’m working with a consoler, and I hope to bring him home with me soon, and let him stay in school there. I’ve made him a pirate costume for Halloween! I’m going to take him trick or treating for the first time. I can’t wait!

Dearest Regards,

Mrs. Peterson

 P.S. Thanks for the loan. It gave me hope.”

Roxanne loaded her purchases in the trunk. She guessed William was about twenty-four. She knew he’d had a great childhood; his mother would have seen to that. She closed the trunk, and saw she was holding Brandon’s list. She looked at it, smiled and decided she would see if she could get him out of school early. Halloween only comes once a year, and childhood, only once in a lifetime.