Puzzling Pieces

Chapter 15

Robbo was interrupted from finishing the story when his phone went off and on the other line was, low-and-behold, Elisha. A firecracker was lit underneath his butt-cheeks because he’s up and circling the room restlessly. “Yo, Elisha, where you at man? Is everything ok?”

I can’t hear Elisha’s response because Robbo refuses to put him on a loudspeaker. But he’s alive. Well. And that puts me at rest for the time being as I think that I haven’t eaten for the past 10 – hours or so. I could do with a little nibble to set aside the growls and groans of the sss in my stomach. Robbo hears them calling in the dark, and he directs me to the fridge in his circling jog around the room.

A little cheeky to be directing me to the fridge when it isn’t his home, but a trip to the fridge means a diversion crash-course to scope out the house. The way Robbo’s conversation is going, he wouldn’t pay much attention to my nosiness and dikey-dike nose.

I give my sniffer a couple of nostril-raises first as I go into the kitchen and find an untouched homemade tuna; sweetcorn; mayonnaise; chicken sliced and beetroot baguette. This family has taste as I unwrap it from the cling film and take a couple of bites that are packed with each flavor hitting my taste buds raw. The beetroot excites my tongue the most. And the tuna gives me that mercury fishy taste with the mayonnaise mellowing the whole experience out. Only hunger turns me into a food critic.

I feel bad for a second, then I leave a few dollars by their sink, then return to close the fridge and see that this family has a bunch of pictures held up by cheap dollar-store magnets. I give them each a look as I eat and chew into this bad-girl, and see the main man had a love for rifles and machine guns with a couple of him at a shooting range.

Each time he has a thumbs up just before he takes on the shooting range. His goatee gives him the outline of a women’s lady gardens, I kid myself not, the way his hair is cut, it looks plasticky and spit-shined. He has the right side of nose pierced; ears smaller than a 12- year old, but still could pass for a soldado if you take off the regular attire and put him in the same shade as Vivian.

His wife, or whomever the female may be is pretty. The sort that shouldn’t be living here and struggling, like this home clearly was. She’s petite but looks like she could handle herself inside of a female institution that locks up criminals. They have a teenage son, and he’s identical to the dad.

I still can make-out Robbo conversing in the living room as I sneakily go into the bedroom that’s opposite the bathroom. No stairs in this place as I’m cheekily making my own self at home now.

I give the door handle a twist and walk on in with no expectations. I have no idea whose house it is. But for some reason, it isn’t just anybody’s, and the canvass wardrobe that’s stuffed with all the families clothes: the woman has the most bra’s, non-sleeveless crop tops, skirts that are both long and short, jackets to keep warm – she’s taking up the entire space.

A few pairs of sneaks and sandals are at the side of the bed. There’s a basic TV near the window and looks like it’s from the 1950’s with the tuning-in system like a radio. I thought these tvs were vintage now? Anyways, there’s a marked calendar that I walk closer to inspect. A little reminder has been written for a Tuesday, that says, reunion.

Funny, I think. Viv’s reunion fell on a Tuesday. I check the date of the calendar … f**k, it’s 4-years old.” If I could just work out how many years ago that reunion happened? But Robbo has finished his cup-o-sation. “Elisha is in some trouble. Says that he managed to give them the slip because Terrence and this guy called Andy were arguing over the loss of the car. He managed to hitch a ride and he says he’ll give me the details of where he is when the heat on him dies down enough to make sure I’m not tailed.”

“Alright. But what house are we at? This isn’t just any crib. I see a few plants that haven’t been allowed to die. The mail’s been collected and placed in the kitchen drawer. I wanted to look for a knife to cut my baguette and saw a bunch of them. But this calendar, this begs me to ask what the hell? How do you keep a 4-year old calendar up?” I take it down for Robbo. “And the only marking is this particular Tuesday. See for yourself.”

Robbo takes it from me and slowly checks each month and day. “it must’ve been special?”

“It was. I wonder if there are any more calendars in this crib?”

“There’s another in the living room.” I immediately head towards there, and Robbo follows with the calendar in his hands. “It’s on that sofa.” I pick it up, another plain calendar with the front page a picture of the statue of liberty. The one in the bedroom had the American flag: madness. I flick through the calendar until I come to a reminder that says, under Tuesday, Reunion.

“Another marking on this one. The same Tuesday. Same reunion reminder on here.”

“How old is this one?”

“3-years old.” I rest it on the sofa. “Who is this guy, Robbo?”

Robbo slants his neck to the right to have some privacy with his quick-thinking on telling me or not. But it turns out that he was deciding on whether or not to give me an envelope that he brings out from his tracksuit trousers. “It isn’t much on who he is. But Viv had a key and an address to here. So, you might make sense of this letter more than me. It’s a short read.”

Robbo takes it out of the envelope and unfolds it for me. I take it and see that it truly is short. It says, checks up on an old friend for me when you get the time to Robbo. I’ve left the address and key for you to enter. He gave me a spare when I last saw him. But I’m unable to see him lately. Long story. But if you catch him, I’m sure he’ll fill in the details. He has a beautiful woman out there. Knock first before entering.

“And was he here?”

“This was the first place I visited. He wasn’t here. But this woman had a house sitter that comes every morning to clean and dust.”

“Who pays her?” -

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, that sandwich was freshly made.”

“That was mine. And I was the one who sorted the letters that I saw on the welcome mat.”

“OK. So, I suppose one of us should ask a neighbor about their whereabouts? I think you have a friendlier appeal then I do Robbo.”

“Yeah. Sia, this was the guy that I saw in the photograph.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask if I’m sure?”

“Because I reckon this is just going to be another long headache.”

…

I was always envious of other boys and girls when it came to basic socializing. They had it easy when they would walk home in their groups and have that sense of a unified bond. Even if being in a group meant sacrificing individuality. I’ve always valued others bonding more than my own. I think it comes from seeing my mother happy when the good times came with my dad.

I never cared about me much. The loner status came with my sexuality, and many girls fancied me but were afraid to be the outcast and walk that path alone. I had few girlfriends because I chose that. I could rival the guys with numbers, but it was complicated when I had so much to contend with on a level where the school was nothing more than an observational ground to find whose taking who’s lunch money?

One girl had been robbed, a few dollars that is more than enough when I think of how penniless some of these kids parents were. It was tough to have money out there. But she had a few, and it went missing when she went to check her jacket. She came out crying, her name was Felicia, and she told the teacher that she thinks it could be either Jeremy or Randen. She pointed the two out, and I studied Randen who flung his arms out and shadily said, it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!” He had the guilty expression written all over him as if it was evident that he did it.

The whole class was in agreement that it was him. Then the teacher asked Jeremey if he had taken the money, and his reaction was a politely calm, “no miss.” And of course, the one taken to the principal’s office was Randen, who was dealing with verbal abuse from the students who had to be told to take their seats and quieten down until she gets back.

It was at break time that I approached Jeremey and asked him, “don’t you feel bad for allowing Randen to take the punishment for your actions?”

Being 13-years old, this must’ve been a little heady for him at the time, because he seemed unable to give me some lip on what I already knew.

“I know that Randen was hanging by Felicia’s coat. His own was next to hers. But you had no reason to be standing there: leaning with your arm stretched out and your hand like a gripping crane as you pretended to fall onto her coat. It’s not the first time.”

“Shut up!” That seemed adequate, considering he was quite the dunce. “You haven’t seen me take no money.”

“You do it all the time. Lunch money goes missing, and you’re the one usually around when it does.”

“You have no proof.”

“I do.”-

“You don’t.”-

“But I do. I bet … you have it in your lunchbox?”

“I don’t!” -

“Then let me see?” Needless to say, I never did get to see his lunchbox. And I should’ve told Miss Preseli that she got it wrong again. That the real culprit was Jeremey who looked like a small milk carton with a very short neck. His acne was worse than Randens, but putting that aside, he was the thief, and I knew this by him giving away the involuntary calmness that comes from calculating a response to an accusation.

Randen was truthful because his response was out of fear. Almost like a panic attack that hits because it’s out of character. Jeremey was a borderline sociopath in today's terms: charming until you push him, likable to a certain extent, and capable of befriending ever person that he robbed from with no remorse.

I’ll take to my likely grave my intuition that never took anything for granted when I felt like the majority vote needed to clue up on the facts and personality of a person.

I sit on this sofa, waiting for Robbo to return and I’m no closer to bridging a dying gap that had become between me and Viv. It still hadn’t hit me that he was dead. I mean … I missed the funeral for f**k sake! I can’t even visit his grave and ask him a personal question. A real simple one that would be, “are you a murderer, Viv?”