Julie
1962
O
nce upon a time, I was a hero.
On a stifling hot day during the last week of July, Lucy and I were lying on our stomachs at the Baby Beach, reading while our mother swam in the bay and Isabel hung out near the lifeguard stand with her friends. Suddenly, Lucy scrambled into a sitting position.
“Something’s wrong,” she said. Lucy had an uncanny way of knowing when anything out of the ordinary was occurring.
“You’re imagining things,” I said, but then I realized she was right. There’d been a shift in the activity on the beach. I could still hear the music from the transistor radios, but the laughter and talking had changed to whispers and shouts. Something was definitely going on.
I sat up, too, and noticed a few women standing at the water’s edge, shading their eyes as they looked out at the bay, and it was a moment before I realized that my mother was one of them. I heard a woman’s voice from somewhere behind me calling “Donnie! Donnie!” I glanced toward the lifeguard stand and saw Ned standing on top of it, looking toward the deep water through his binoculars.
My mother started walking toward us.
“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked, getting to my feet.
“Oh, not much,” she said, “but I think we should go home now. It’s so hot today.”
I could see right through her. Something bad had happened and she was trying to protect Lucy from knowing about it. I had no intention of leaving. I took off for the lifeguard stand at a run.
“Julie!” Mom called after me. “Where are you going? We have to go home.”
“In a minute,” I called over my shoulder.
Ned was still on top of the stand, but now he was crouched down on his haunches talking to a woman. It looked like a private conversation, so I walked behind the stand to where the teenagers stood huddled in a mass. I tugged on Isabel’s arm.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“A little boy is missing,” she said.
“What do you mean, he’s missing?” I asked. “In the water?”
“If I knew where he was, he wouldn’t be missing,” Isabel said, and some of her friends laughed.
“A three-year-old boy disappeared from his parents’ beach blanket,” Mitzi Caruso explained to me. “He’s got light blond hair and is wearing blue trunks.”
I looked around me at the beach. Nearly everyone was stand
ing now, talking with one another, holding fast to their children. Women had their hands to their mouths, frown lines across their foreheads as they stared at the water. From where I stood, I searched the beach for a towheaded little boy and spotted several of them, but they all appeared to have at least one parent close by. I felt sad and I prayed that the little boy had not drowned. I had to do something to ease my feeling of helplessness.
“I’m going to check the playground,” I said, even though the teenagers were not paying much attention to me. I ran toward the swings, my mother’s request to return to her and Lucy forgotten.
I began my search for clues in a methodical fashion, using my foot to mark off areas in the sand to examine. I found a man’s watch almost immediately. It lay in the sand near one of the swings and had probably come off when a father had been pushing his child. I found a playing card—the two of clubs—along with numerous Popsicle sticks. And then I found a clue that sent a chill up my spine: a small piece of blue cloth!
I ran back to the lifeguard stand just as Ned was climbing down the ladder.
“Ned!” I called as I neared him. “Look what I found near the swings.” I held the piece of cloth out to him and he took it from my hand but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. His face looked grim, his mouth a straight, tight line.
“It might be from the boy’s trunks,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “No. His trunks are plaid, not solid.”He looked distracted as he handed the cloth back to me. “But thanks for trying and for keeping your eyes open.” He started toward the parking lot at a run, and Isabel walked up to me, frowning.
“Don’t bug him, Jules,” she said. Lifting her hair off her neck,
she slipped a rubber band around it to form a sloppy ponytail. “This is an emergency. There’s no time to fool around.”
“I know it’s an emergency,” I said, and I walked away from her, annoyed.
“Come on, Julie,” my mother called again. She was folding the blanket and I walked over to help her.
“I want to stay, Mom,” I said, taking the hem of the blanket in my hands.
“You’ll only get in the way.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
My mother took the folded blanket into her arms and looked around us. People were still huddled together in small groups, talking. Some of the adults were racing this way and that, searching for the boy, I guessed, although the beach was so small you could nearly see all of it from where we were standing. The only areas hidden from view were the patches of tall beach grass at either end of the sandy crescent, and I watched a couple of women disappear into them, calling, “Donnnnneeeee! Donnnnneeeee!”
I heard sirens in the distance and looked toward the road. Ned and Isabel and a few other people stood in the parking lot, and Ned waved at the ambulance and the police car as they came into view.
“Please
, Mommy.” Lucy grabbed our mother’s arm. “I want to go
home.
”
Lucy hated the sound of sirens. They must have reminded her of riding in the ambulance after the long-ago accident she’d been in with our mother.
“All right,” Mom said. “Pick up the thermos and we’ll leave. Julie, you can stay, but be sure you let the police do their job.”
“I will.”
“And be home by three. Not a second later, all right?”
A couple of men walked past us, one of them saying to the other that the bay might need to be dragged.
“What does that mean?” Lucy asked.
“Never mind,” my mother said. She picked up her beach bag and I saw tears in her eyes. She probably thought the boy was dead.
My mother and Lucy headed for the parking lot and I looked around me, trying to figure out what to do. My gaze lit on the pier. No one was out there, and I wondered if I could get a better look at the water from the end of it. I started running in that direction as a second police car pulled into the parking lot.
By the time I reached the end of the pier, there were no children at all in the water. Adults waded in the shallow section, eyes downcast as they looked for the little boy’s body. I studied the water below the pier, thinking that if the boy had made it onto the pier and then fallen in, I might see him under the water’s surface. But the water was too dark and, after a while, my eyes hurt from trying to pierce it.
I walked back down the pier toward the beach, and when I reached the area where the wood of the pier met the sand, I saw small footprints. They headed away from the beach toward the parking lot and they were the only set of footprints going in that direction. I followed them to where they disappeared into the crushed shells of the parking lot. Even when I got down on my knees and looked very closely, I could see how the bleached white bits of shell had been disturbed by tiny feet. I followed the footprints across the entire width of the parking lot, heading toward the clubhouse which was a nice, woody-smelling building where the kids in the area could play bingo and other
games on rainy days. I picked the footprints up again in the sand at the other end of the parking lot. It was almost too easy. The footprints led directly to the rear of the clubhouse and stopped short at the lattice that enclosed the building’s crawl space. I tugged at one of the seams in the lattice and it pulled away easily. Kneeling down, I crawled inside, and there I found little Donnie Jakes, sound asleep on the cool, shaded sand.
I got a ride home a little after three from a policeman named Officer Davis, to whom I’d turned over the boy after I found him. Officer Davis walked me to my front door and told my mother that I had found Donnie Jakes, alive and well. Mom burst into tears, and it took me a while to realize it was not my role in finding him that made her cry, but rather that the child, even though he was a stranger to her, was safe.
“We’d have found him eventually,” Officer Davis said to her, once she’d mopped the tears from her face with a tissue, “but Julie here saved us a lot of work.” He told her I was an excellent sleuth. He told her I was a hero.
The next day, the
Ocean County Leader
ran the following headline on its front page: Boy Found Unharmed. The first sentence of the article was something like,
Twelve-year-old Julie Bauer, aka the Nancy Drew of Bay Head Shores, helped police locate three-year old Donald P. Jakes, who had wandered off from his parents’ blanket on the BHS beach.
Within twenty-four hours, everyone knew my name. The mayor called to thank me, telling me once again that I was a hero, and Daddy came to the bungalow a day early to take us all out to dinner to celebrate. I was full of pride and self-importance, and I started thinking of myself as charmed, as though I could do no wrong. If only that had been the case.
Julie
“I
told him.” Ethan’s voice was a soft monotone on my speaker phone.
I was sitting at my desk, once again attempting to work on Chapter Four, and I quickly picked up the receiver.
“What did he say?” I asked. “And how are you?” I’d been waiting for his call, knowing he planned to talk to his father this morning. I had not yet gotten up the courage to call my mother.
“I’m fine,” he said, “but I won’t pretend it was easy.”
“Did you go to his house?” I knew that had been his plan.
“Uh-huh. I told him I’d bring over some pastries for breakfast and I think he knew something was up. So, we sat in his kitchen, and first I told him about Ned’s letter. He looked…God, he looked awful, Julie. Shocked. His face was all…it just crumpled in on itself. I told him I didn’t think it
meant that Ned had done it, and he started yelling…well not yelling, exactly, but he said how he
knew
Ned didn’t do it better than anyone, because he’d been with Ned that night, just like he told the police. And then he said, ‘I hope you didn’t do anything with that letter. We should burn it.’”
I winced. “Oh, Ethan,” I said.
“I told him that I took it to the police and that they spoke with you and me and that they’ve reopened the case and will probably want to talk with him.” The words came out in that monotone again. He sounded tired.
“What did he say?”
Ethan sighed. “He got up and walked around the kitchen for a while. He limps. Man, it just about breaks my heart to see how fast he’s aged since my mother died. He said it seems unfair that Ned’s not here to defend himself. He kept asking me why I took it. ‘Why did you feel the need to take it?’ he kept saying. I told him I
had
to take it, that it was the only decent thing to do.”
“Of course,” I murmured, reassuring myself that it
had
been the right thing, even with the authorities looking in my direction for their suspect.
“I knew he’d finally see it that way,” Ethan said. “He’s always had this strong sense of justice. Of right and wrong. And finally he sat down again and said he wished I hadn’t, but that he understood. He had tears in his eyes and I asked him why and he said he was thinking about George Lewis and his family. He looked like he was going to…I don’t know. Fall apart, or something. I felt like I was killing him, Julie.”
The way he said my name made me feel close to him. I wished he were sitting next to me so I could wrap my arms around him.
“He finally said I did the right thing and that he’ll be glad to
talk to the police because he’s the only voice Ned has now. He’s afraid the finger’s going to end up pointing at Ned anyhow, no matter what he says.”
“I’m sorry it was so hard,” I said. “For both of you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I feel relieved that he knows now. That he heard it from me and not the police. When do you plan to tell your mother?”
“Today,” I said, knowing I couldn’t put it off
any
longer. “I’ve got to get it over with.”
“Do you want me to come up there?” he asked. “I could be with you when you tell her.”
I smiled at his offer. It was tempting; I wanted to see him again. But I knew this was something I had to do alone.
“I’ll be okay, thanks,” I said. “I’ll let
you
know how it goes.”
I walked the two blocks to
my
mother’s house as soon as I got off the phone with Ethan. I found her in the backyard where she was clipping blue hydrangea blossoms to bring into the house, and she looked up in surprise when she spotted me. I didn’t often drop in unannounced.
“Julie!” she said, straightening her spine, the hydrangeas in her left hand a giant pom-pom of baby-blue. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d like to talk to you,” I said, “but how about I help you with the hydrangeas first?” I reached for the blooms in her hand, but she pulled them away from me.
“Something’s wrong,” she said, studying my face. I knew my sunglasses were not so dark that she couldn’t see my eyes, and she seemed able to read the concern in my expression. “Is it Shannon?” I thought she was holding her breath as she waited for my answer.
“No, she’s fine,” I reassured her. “Everyone’s okay.” I put my hand on her back and motioned toward the patio. “How about we sit down?” I suggested.
“Oh, it’s a ‘you’d better sit down’ kind of thing, eh?” she asked, walking with me toward the patio. Her pace seemed much slower than mine. Was that new? I wondered. Was she having problems with the hip that sometimes bothered her? I remembered Ethan’s comment about his father’s aging and understood how he felt.
She laid the bouquet of hydrangea blossoms carefully on the glass-topped table along with the pruning shears, and sat down, taking off her gardening gloves.
“Well?” She looked at me.
“Remember a couple of weeks ago when I had lunch with Ethan Chapman?”
She nodded. “Of course,” she said.
“And you know that his brother, Ned, died, right?” I wasn’t sure if Mr. Chapman had told my mother about that or not.
She nodded again, silent now.
“Well, when Ethan and his daughter cleaned out Ned’s house, they found a letter Ned had written—but never mailed—to the Point Pleasant Police.”
My mother frowned. “What did it say?”
Here we go
, I thought. “It said that the wrong man went to prison for Isabel’s murder and that he—Ned—wanted to set the record straight.”
My mother looked frozen, as though she’d had an attack of paralysis. Her eyes bored into mine, and in the silent moment while she was absorbing my words, I remembered that she had slapped me—
hard
—the day Isabel died. It was the only time ei
ther of my parents had ever laid a hand on me. My cheek stung to remember it.
“Ned did it?” she asked finally. “But Ross said he was—”
“No one knows for sure who did it,” I said quickly. “Ned didn’t confess to anything in the letter.” I took off my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes. “I think it’s likely he did, Mom. I mean, that’s what makes the most sense, but Ethan can’t believe Ned could have done something like that and the police are looking at every possible suspect. They may want to talk to you. I hope not, but it’s possible.”
My mother looked toward the vegetable garden, where the tomatoes were ripening and the zucchini vines were quickly getting out of control. I knew she was not truly seeing the garden, though. Her mind was someplace far away.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. Telling her about the letter. Isabel’s murder. Everything.
“George Lewis was innocent?” she asked me, as if I knew for sure.
“The letter makes it sound like it,” I said.
She stared at me for another moment and I wasn’t sure she’d understood what I said. Then she stood up slowly. “I’m going to take a nap,” she said, brushing a few small leaves from her overalls.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She didn’t answer and I got to my feet as well and started walking toward her, but she held up her hand to stop me.
“I’m fine,” she said. “This all just makes me tired. It’s so…” She looked at me then. “You lose a child and they make you lose her all over again. Again and again and again…” Her voice trailed off as she walked away from me. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I follow her into the house? Make sure she was all
right? It was clear that she wanted time alone. I would give that to her, at least for the moment. I picked up the pruning shears and headed toward the hydrangeas.