The Letter - Chapter 17

I heard an insistent rapping on my front door.  Now who can that be?  I was immersed in Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead and was a bit annoyed by the interruption.  Why did I pay to have that doorbell repaired if people are going to insist on knocking anyhow?  I yanked open the door, determined to send the intruder on his or her way so I could get back to my novel.  Instead, my face cracked into a broad grin as I saw a woman with a close-cropped head of silver standing on my porch.

“Beverly!  Please come in.  Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”

“Isn’t it broken?  I thought you told me it doesn’t work.”

“That was months ago.  I recall that you used it the last time you visited.”

“Oh, that’s right.  Sorry, I guess I’m not quite with it today.  I’m having the downstairs painted and I haven’t finished taking down my pictures.  Fortunately, they’re late today, so I thought I’d run over here quickly with my latest draft of your Dear George letter.  Sorry it’s taken me so long.  I often wonder where the time goes.  I wake up, attend to a few things and before I know it, it’s time for lunch.  Anyway, I think I stuck to the basic ideas we discussed.”  Beverly handed me an envelope containing her draft of the letter.

“Thank you so much Beverly.  It hasn’t been that long.”

“A week, by my reckoning.  Well, Van Gogh didn’t paint Starry, Starry Night in a day, did he?”

“I’ll bet it took him at least a week to get it right,” I replied smiling.  “Can you stay for a few minutes?  I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee or make tea if you’d like.”

“No, I’ve got to get back before the painters arrive, but thank you just the same.  Feel free to make whatever changes are necessary to make it your own, Ellie.  When George reads it, he’ll not be able to wait for you to get to Pittsburgh.  He’ll be calling you from SeaTac airport to get your address here in Issaquah so he can give it to the cab driver.”

“You are such a dear.  By the way, I love your hair, but where’s the crown of flames you promised?”

Beverly chuckled.  “Fortunately, my hairdresser has more sense than I do.  Do you really think it looks good?”

“No, I think it looks great!” I said.  You should give me the name of your hairdresser.  I need to do something with this rat’s nest,” I said running my fingers through my hair.

“Like our kids would say, I’ll text you the name and address,” Beverly said over her shoulder as she hurried down the front walk. 

“Well I guess this means I should call my sister to schedule a visit to Pittsburgh, before I chicken out,” I said to myself as I closed the front door.  I walked to the kitchen, set the draft on the table and put the kettle on to make myself a cup of tea.  While I was waiting for the water to boil, I read the draft that Beverly had brought me.  I was impressed.  She had hit the right notes – very friendly without being too forward.  I wouldn’t have to change much when I copied it to my stationery.  I filled my tea strainer with Earl Gray and poured the boiling water into my cup.  Now all I had to do was schedule my visit with Marnie so I could add a sentence or two inviting George to another basketball game.  I removed my cell phone from my pocket and dialed my sister’s number.

The Letter - Chapter 16

“Okay, Jennifer, show me what you’ve got,” Liz said, looking at me expectantly.

“I don’t know how much of this stuff will be useful to our case,” I said.  I reached into my backpack and pulled out papers and a book.

“Our case!” Liz’s eyes widened. “ I like the sound of that – like we’re real detectives, right?”

“Well here’s what I’ve got.”  I spread the materials I had gathered on top of Liz’s bed.  She got up from her desk and came over to look.  “Here’s the letter itself and the envelope that it came in.  There’s my dad’s old high school yearbook.”  “Here’s the program dad picked up at the basketball game with the Jaguar’s schedule and information about the players.  And here’s my English composition paper with the A+ grade and the note from Mrs. Cook, saying ‘Excellent work, Jennifer!’  Now how did that get mixed in there,” I said, picking it up with a flourish.  Oh, I don’t know.  I don’t have a clue!”

“Cute, Jen.  You’re such a show-off!  I worked my butt off and only got a B+,” Liz pouted.

“Well, I suppose I come by it naturally, since my dad’s a published writer,” I said, giving Liz a wink as I put the paper back into my backpack.

 

Liz walked back to her chair and I sat down on her bed with the clues.  Liz gave me a sly smile.

“By the way, I’ve got something that will make you jealous, Miss A-Plus Excellent Work Jennifer.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“Guess who’s been invited to the Sweetheart Semi-Formal?”

“You, Liz?!”  That’s so exciting!  Who?  Is it Mikey?”

“Yep, Mikey Lanza.  You are a promising detective, Jen.  How did you figure that out?”

“Oh everyone knows he has the hots for you, Liz.  Don’t try to play coy with me.”

“Are you going yet?  The rumor is Pete McCaskey has a crush on you.”

“No one has asked, but it’s still a few weeks away.  Pete’s nice, but he’s so shy.  Maybe I’ll just go stag.   Anyway, we’re here to work on my dad’s love life, not mine.  What I’ve laid out on your bed are all the clues I’ve been able to discover so far that might lead us to finding this mystery woman.”

“Let me see your dad’s yearbook,” said Liz. 

I picked up the thin black book with the embossed head of a jaguar on the front cover and handed it to her.  Liz started to thumb through it.  “Hey, your dad was kind of cute.  A little nerdy maybe with the Buddy Holly glasses.”

“He doesn’t look nerdy!” I exclaimed pretending to be offended.  “My dad was just a hipster before his time.  Anyway, I’m not sure what clues we can get from the yearbook.  It’s from his senior year, so there’s no way to figure out who was in his sophomore English class.”

“Yeah, I guess we just don’t know enough to hone in on the mystery woman based on this. I was thinking about that game we used to play called ‘Guess Who?’ where you asked your opponent questions to eliminate suspects.”

“I loved that game.  One player would say, ‘Does the suspect have blond hair?’” I intoned in my best mock detective voice. “ No!” I answered gruffly for the opposing player.  “Then you’d flip down all the suspects that have blond hair.  No, our case is more complicated than that game, unfortunately,” I said, taking the yearbook back from Liz and putting it into my backpack.  “Let’s take a look at the envelope that the letter came in,” I said picking up the envelope and walking over to look at it with Liz.  We studied it under the light of her desk lamp. 

“The cancellation is very light – like the machine was running out of ink.  And what’s there is smudged like it went through the machine too fast.  It looks like the state abbreviation ends in ‘A’.”  Liz squinted at the lavender envelope.

“Do a search for state abbreviations on your computer, Liz.  Let’s see how many states we can flip down on our Guess Who board.”

Liz typed in “state abbreviations” and found a site called 50states.com.  “Wow, it looks like we can knock a lot of them off our list,” she said as she scrolled down the page with her mouse.

  

“Yes.  It looks like we can narrow it down to eight states – California, Georgia, Iowa, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Virginia and Washington.  That’s great detective work, Liz!  I’m keeping you as my trusted assistant.  Can you make out any of the numbers of the zip code?”

Liz picked up the envelope and brought it within an inch of her eyes.  “I’m  having trouble making anything out.  Wait a second.”  She opened her top desk drawer, pulled out a pair of glasses and put them on.

“Lizzie Henderson!  Since when do you wear glasses?”

“I got them a month ago.  I haven’t had the nerve to wear them at school yet.  Don’t tell my mom.”

“So who’s the hipster now?  You look adorable!  Do they help you see better?”

“Actually, yes.  Much better,” Liz said with a sheepish smile.  “Do you think Mikey will have second thoughts about inviting me to the dance when he sees me wearing them?”

“God, no way!  You look fantastic both with and without them.”

“You sound like my mom.”

“Your mother knows what she’s talking about.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me.  I’ll start wearing them tomorrow.  Now let me take a better look at this envelope.”  Liz held it under the light and stared at the postmark. “No, I still can’t make it out.  I wish I had a magnifying glass.”

“Your wish is my command, madame” I said with a deep bow.  I reached into my backpack and pulled out a magnifying glass.  Liz and I looked at the envelope through the glass.

“The first number looks like a 9,” I said.

“You’re right, Jen, definitely a 9.”  Liz continued looking through the magnifier.  “And the next two are 8 and 0.  Yep, I’m sure of it.  See?”

I looked at the images where Liz was pointing.  “I think you’re right, Liz.  Eight and zero.  See, those glasses are just the thing.  What about the last two?”

Liz looked closely, squinted and wrinkled her nose.  “I’m sorry, Jennifer.  I can’t make them out.”

“Me neither,” I sighed.  “Well, see if you can figure anything out with those first three digits.”

Liz typed “zip code 980.”  Then she clicked on one of the sites that popped up on her search engine.  “Look, it’s an area in Washington.  It’s just outside of Seattle.”

“Washington is on our list.  Lizzie Henderson, you’re a genius!  Wow, we’ve really made some progress. But it’s getting late,” I said looking at the clock on Liz’s nightstand.  “And neither of us has even started our homework. I’d better get home.  My dad is probably getting ready to send out the police after me.”  I pulled out my phone and quickly texted him that I was leaving Liz’s house and would be home in fifteen minutes.  Then I gathered up the clues I had brought and gave Liz a hug.  “You’ve been so helpful.  I know we’re going to find this lady.  Let me know if you think of anything else we should look into.”  I bounded down the stairs.  “Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson!” I yelled toward the light in the kitchen.  “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re always welcome, Jennifer,” I heard in reply as I walked out the door.

The Letter - Chapter 15

I was struggling to finish a letter to the editor on the health care debate.  It was getting way too long.  I would have to either be more succinct or add more details and submit it to the Post-Gazette as an Op-Ed piece.  I stared at my laptop’s screen, considering the best way to make my points when my cell phone rang.  I picked it up and looked to see who was calling.  It was a restricted number – probably a sales person.  But, on the other hand, could it possibly be the letter writer? I wondered. I pushed the green button.

“Hello?” I said hesitantly.  “Who is this?”

“George?  Is that you?”

I felt my heart sink.  “Missy,” I said to my ex-wife.  “It’s been a while.”

 

“You know I hate that name,” she sounded annoyed.

“Sorry, Melissa.  To what do I owe the pleasure?”  I tried to recall the last time we’d talked. Nearly two years, excepting those few times we were forced to communicate to get the divorce finalized.  Thankfully, she had wanted nothing except out of our marriage.

“I saw you at Jennifer’s play,” she said.  “I thought you might come over to say ‘hi.’”

“I thought it best that I not encroach on your time with Jennifer.  I didn’t want to spoil her triumphant evening. It was quite a surprise to her that you came.”  I picked up a pencil and nervously tapped it on my desk.  More a shock than a surprise.  You’ve shown no interest in our daughter since you left us.  And Richard was there with you.  What was I supposed to do with him?  Shake his hand?  Where was this going?  I spun around in my swivel chair and stared out the window.

“I’m glad I was able to be there.” Melissa said.  “Our daughter is quite an actress.  Is she considering pursuing theater as a career?”

“Not as far as I know.  She says she wants to be a teacher.”  You might know this if you ever would have called to talk to her since her sophomore year.

“Really?  That would be a waste.  You know, Richard and I were talking after the show.  Sewickley Academy has a great drama department.  His boys went to school there.  Auditions for their spring musical are coming up.”

I swiveled my chair back and started doodling on a piece of scrap paper.  “What are you suggesting, Mis, I’m sorry, Melissa?”  Why should I care what Richard thinks about anything?

“Uh, never mind.  So are you around the house most days, now that you’re no longer working?”

I frowned at her dig at my decision to retire from my law practice to pursue writing. “Yes, I’m usually in my office writing from mid-morning till early afternoon.”

“Still working on The Great American Novel?  How much of an advance did they offer you?”

Another dig.  I’d not yet made a penny from my writing.  “I’m working on a few things.  I’m enjoying my work.  Jennifer and I have enough to get by.”  Thank you at least for running off with a guy who is filthy rich and not squeezing me for alimony. I stuck the pencil back in my desk drawer and turned again to look out the window.  It was beginning to snow.

“Anyway, I have something to give you.  I thought I might stop by sometime next week.”

“What is it, Melissa?”

“It will be a surprise, George.  I’m not quite sure when it will be ready, but I can assure you it will be a complete surprise,” Melissa said.  “Goodbye, George.  Give my best to Jennifer.”  Melissa terminated the call.

I stared at the snow coming down outside.  Just a few flurries or the approach of another storm?  Time would tell.

Nailed to the Wall

Is it just me, or is it true for most husbands?  I cringe when my wife tells me she wants something hung on one of the walls in our house.  The thought of pounding a nail into a perfectly good wall 
makes me squeamish.  If God wanted holes in walls, He would have made them that way. 

Years ago, I worked at U.S. Steel’s headquarters in downtown Pittsburgh.  The office walls were made of steel.  Hanging a picture was easy.  Maintenance would bring an appropriately sized magnet with a hook.  It stuck wherever you wanted it.  No muss, no fuss.  Someone now makes picture hangers that stick to drywall, yet they pull off easily without any damage if you decide to move the picture an inch or two up, down or sideways.  I don’t trust those things, though my wife has taken to using them when she doesn’t want to hear my complaints about hanging a new picture.

I firmly believed my picture hanging days were over after living in the same house for over 30 years. There’s only so much you can hang on a wall.  Then our first grandchild was born, and we moved to be closer to him.  Of course, my wife wanted pictures, plaques and shelves to break up the monotony of the lovely bare walls in our new house.  So I gritted my teeth, made a trip to the local hardware store for various hooks and hangers, picked up my trusty hammer and was ready to work.  This wasn’t a one-day project.  As soon as we finished hanging things in one room, my wife was ready with an armful of home décor items to be hung in another.

“We’ve got to drive to Target to pick up the cloud shelf I ordered for our grandson’s room,” she announced one day.

“What’s a cloud shelf?” I grumbled as I picked up my car keys. 

“It’s shaped like a cloud.  It’s whimsical.  Our grandson will love it!”

I had to admit that my wife had done a wonderful job to transform our new house into a lovely and comfortable home.  All that was left was the guest room. 

Some years ago, I had started to learn to play the guitar.  In the course of that learning, I had purchased an acoustic guitar, an electric guitar, a travel guitar and a banjo.  They all ended up in their respective cases on the floor of the guest room. 

“This looks kind of messy,” my wife informed me.  “Can’t we figure out a better way to store these instruments?”

“Most guitar shops have them hanging on the wall,” I responded, instantly regretting it.

“That’s a great idea!”  Minutes later she was searching the internet for guitar hangers.  “How do these look?” she asked. 

“They look ok,” I responded with a lack of enthusiasm. I realized ordering them was the first step toward having to attach them to the wall – with screws no less.  Within a few days, the guitar hangers arrived.  I promptly deposited them in the guest room where they’d stay until I could muster the courage to hang them.

Weeks passed, and my wife did not say a word.  Several guests came and went, and during their visits, they had to negotiate a path around my instruments and the box of hangers.  But to her credit, my wife held her tongue.  Finally, she decided to nudge me a little.

“Your family is coming to see our new house in October.  Do you think you might get your guitars up by then?”

“Sure, sure, I’ll get it done by then,” I said, knowing their visit was a couple months away.

As the days slid by, I continued to look for ways to procrastinate.  Then my wife decided to invite our son-in-law’s parents to lunch. They hadn’t seen our house since we first moved in.

Though the deadline I had agreed to was still a month away, I knew my wife would be thrilled if I got it done before the upcoming lunch.  So I got my hammer, my tape measure, my electric drill, my $25 electronic stud finder, my old-school $1.98 magnetic stud finder, a ladder and a pencil. I was ready to get this job done.

I wanted to be sure the hangers were screwed into the wooden studs behind the wall so there was no danger of my guitars falling.  Therefore, I measured, I used my expensive stud finder, I used my cheap stud finder, and then I measured some more.  I put pencil marks on the wall where I was fairly confident I would hit studs.  I was ready to start drilling holes.  But first I wisely decided to show my wife where I planned to hang the guitars.

“You’re not going to hang them on that wall, are you?” she asked.

“That’s where I figured three of them would go; I haven’t decided where to hang the fourth.”

“If you hang them on that wall, you won’t have enough room to actually play them.”

She was right.  So what if I’d just spent an hour marking up the wrong wall.  I considered calling it a day and getting a fresh start the next day, but I didn’t want to disappoint her.  So we talked through the overall plan for the room and I began again to measure and look for studs behind the drywall.  I got lucky with the first one.  I removed a cold air vent and was able to see the stud behind the wall.  So I drilled my holes and screwed the first hanger solidly into a stud.

For the next one, I figured correctly that two, side-by-side outlets were attached on either side of a stud.  Having hit two in a row, I was brimming with confidence.  More measuring, more stud finding and voila!  I hit a third one.  I had one more to go on a different wall with no vents or outlets to guide me.  Nervously, I measured.  The electronic stud finder was giving me a reading that there was a live electric wire somewhere near the stud.  I marked where I thought the stud was located, picked up my drill and hoped for the best.  And I hit it – the stud, not the wire.  Even in the Big Leagues, it’s a great day when a player goes four for four.  I proudly attached the last hanger to the wall and hung up my three guitars and banjo.

 

I still had three pictures to hang, but that was the denouement to this nail-biting suspense novel.  They went up handily.  Then my wife asked me to hang up the cuckoo clock she had gotten in Germany.  No sweat!  I got my hammer and a nail and it was on the wall in a flash.

I admitted that the guest room looked great with those instruments hanging on the wall.  As my wife pointed out, I will be more inclined to play them than if they were packed away in their cases.

Now that I’ve had such success in hanging those guitars, my wife is convinced that I can hang just about anything.  So the next time she asks me to hang something on the wall, I will just . . . ok, I admit it.  I’ll probably listen quietly and commit to doing it . . . soon.  Yeah, real soon, Honey – I promise.

The Letter - Chapter 14

I took a bite of a ginger snap.  Beverly looked at me expectantly with her blue-gray eyes.

“OK, Eleanor, I am ready to be your scrivener.  How do you want to start?  My dearest George?”

“A bit strong,” I smiled.  Let’s keep it simple.  Just write, “Dear George.”

“An excellent start, dear Ellie.  What next?”

“I think I should apologize to him.”

“For what?  Isn’t there a saying, ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry’?” Beverly grabbed another cookie.  “These damned things are addictive, you know.  You’re going to make me fatter than I already am.”

“You’re the one who brought the lady locks.  And you are in fine shape,” I said to her.

 

“Tell that to my bathroom scale.  I seem to gain two pounds for every one I struggle to lose,” Beverly frowned.  “OK, so it’s Dear George – colon or comma? Comma, I guess.  That’s what Mrs. Lehr, my 4^th grade teacher taught us for a friendly letter.  Geez, it’s been so long since I wrote an actual letter, I’ve almost forgotten all the rules.”

“This is a draft, Beverly.  Don’t worry about those details yet.  Anyway, let’s start with ‘I’m sorry or I apologize,’ uh . . ..”

“Maybe you should start with an introduction since your friend George won’t know who is apologizing let alone why.”

“Good point, Beverly.  How about, my name is Eleanor Barnhart, but you may remember me as Ellie Kosko.  I’m an old classmate of yours, and . . ..”

“Old classmate, huh?  You really know how to seduce a man.  And do you really need to confuse him with your married name?  Let me have a go at it. ‘Dear George, This is Ellie Kosko writing to you again.  You should have received a letter from me a few weeks ago, though you wouldn’t have known it.  After I put it in the mail, I realized I had forgotten to sign it.  Foolish me.’  What do you think so far?  Notice how I avoided any apology. So where do you want to go next?”

“Should I say I’m sorry about not making it to the game?”

“Of course not. Was it your fault that a blizzard caused your flight to be cancelled?  Now let’s see.  ‘I really had wanted to make it to our class reunion last fall, but’ . . ..”

“I had no intention of going to that reunion, Beverly.  I don’t look back on my high school days with much nostalgia.  Would you like more tea?” I asked as I got up to fill the kettle.

“No thank you.  I’ve had enough. George may or may not have been there.  Who cares?"  Beverly spoke as she continued to write.  ‘But it was too soon after my husband passed away.’   She looked at me across the table.  "We’re trying to do a little exposition here, Ellie.  We want to make it clear that you are single and eligible now that George is free of the clutches of that witch ex-wife whom he justifiably divorced.”

“For all I know, she could be a very nice person.  Maybe the divorce was George’s fault.”

“Didn’t your sister say . . .?”

“Yeah, Marnie did say his wife had run off with a rich guy.”

“OK.” Beverly continued to write.  “‘Nevertheless, the reunion got me thinking about how much I missed Pittsburgh, so when my sister invited me to visit, I was excited to make the trip.  I thought it might be fun to visit our high school and see my nephew play basketball.  It’s been years since I was there, and took a chance that you might be interested to meet me and reminisce about our high school days’.”

“And what’s happened in the years since. Add that,” I said.

“That’s good.  Let’s not let George think we’re stuck in the past.  So for when have you re-scheduled your trip?”

“I haven’t.”

“Seriously?  Are we sending this letter so you can become Facebook friends?  Really, Ellie, you need to get to Pittsburgh and see if this guy is worth fantasizing about.  Anyway, I think we’ve got a good start here, but I’ve got a hair appointment at 3:00, so I have to be going.”

“But we’re not finished,” I whined.

“Eleanor, I know where we’re going with this, probably better than you do.  I will take this draft with me, finish it off and bring it back to share with you tomorrow.  In the meantime, you need to call your sister and re-schedule that visit to Pittsburgh, capiche?”  Beverly got up and started for the front door.  “So what do you think?  Should I have them turn this silver into gold?” Beverly chuckled as she grabbed a bunch of her hair.

“I just can’t see you as a blonde,” I smiled at my friend, recalling her auburn locks that faded to gray many years before.

“Flaming red, then,” Beverly laughed, picking up her umbrella from my front porch.  “If you don’t go after this George, I might be in the mood for a trip to Pittsburgh myself.”

“Stay away from my guy!” I laughed as she hurried away with a wave of her hand.  

Once Upon a Time in New York City

What luck!  Seldom do the planets align in such a way that the plans of mere mortals work out so perfectly. 

Last Christmas, my son Michael and his wife Jamie gave my wife and me tickets to see Hamilton.  We had a fairly long wait to collect our present; our tickets were for September 6.  But that gave us nine months to get excited about seeing the musical that everyone wants to see.

 

In the meantime, Michael and his juggling troupe, Playing by Air, received an invitation to appear on national television in the latest incarnation of The Gong Show.  They flew to Los Angeles in May to tape their appearance, but did not find out for several months when it would air.  Was it mere coincidence or the hand of Providence that scheduled it for September 7 when my wife and I would be in New York City to watch it with him?  In either case, it couldn’t have worked out better, because my wife and I would be in a hotel with cable television.  Like many millennials, my son doesn’t have a television.  He and his wife have computers, smart phones and even a large screen, but they use them to watch online entertainment, not broadcast television.

My wife and I were excited to host a Gong Show party in our hotel room.  We bought snacks and beverages and ordered pizza.  Michael and Jamie arrived around 7:00 PM, even though the show didn’t air until 10:00 PM.  It had taken us a little bit of time and effort to figure out the hotel television when we first arrived at the hotel.  So my wife insisted that there would be no channel surfing in the time leading up to the show.  She put on the ABC channel at 7:00 and announced that it would stay there until The Gong Show was over at 11:00 PM.  So we suffered through Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune, and Battle of the Network Stars while waiting for the show we all wanted to see.

When a second Battle of the Network Stars came on at 9:00 PM, I was tempted to suggest that we switch to CNN to see what was happening with Hurricane Irma.  But my wife is usually right about these things – in fact, she is always right.  I didn’t want to be the guy who ruined the party if for any reason we weren’t able to get back to ABC.  So I held my tongue, and we continued to watch actors from shows we had never watched compete in contests we didn’t care about.

 

Then at 9:30, the screen suddenly went black.  We started furiously fiddling with the television controls, but couldn’t get anything.  I called the front desk.  Someone would be right up I was told.  Two or three minutes ticked by and nobody came.

 

“Go down to the front desk, and demand that they give us a room where the television is working,” my son shouted.  I started for the elevator, turned around and saw that my wife was coming with me. 

“Michael insisted that I go too,” she said.  I understood.  Hell hath no fury like a woman concerned that a hotel would deny her the opportunity to see her son on national television for the first time.  But before we could say a word, the guy behind the front desk informed us that the cable was out for the entire hotel.

With this information, I literally ran out the door and up the street to the hotel next door.  Perhaps they had a television in their lobby that no one was watching.  I ran into that hotel and desperately started looking for a television.  The only one I could find was in the bar.  A couple of surly looking guys were watching football.  Were they interested in the game, or might I convince them to switch to The Gong Show?  One of the guys cheered something that happened in the game.  A lost cause, I surmised.  My phone rang.

“We’re catching an Uber and going to Michael and Jamie’s.  We’ll try to figure out how to watch it on one of their computers.  Get back here,” my wife said.

I ran out of the hotel and back to the corner where they were waiting.  Within a minute or two, an Uber driver picked us up.  On the trip over, my wife and daughter-in-law were on their phones trying to get information that would allow us to connect to the show.  Time was running short.  We arrived at their apartment at 9:55.  My wife amazed us all by getting the show on my son’s laptop in a matter of minutes.  Then Jamie got it running on their large screen as the clock struck 10:00.  We had left all our snacks and drinks back at the hotel, but the party was on at their apartment.

We watched act after act, and Michael told us this was definitely the show that he was on.  However, sometimes they cut acts, and when 9:40 rolled around and his group hadn’t been on, Michael began to get worried that his act might have been cut.  This would have been pretty embarrassing as we had alerted hundreds of friends and family to watch the show.  At 9:45, they cut to commercial and we began to consider the possibility that his group would not appear.  We watched a commercial and then, the screen went to a test pattern that had the ABC logo and the message, “We’ll be right back.”

“This has happened before,” said Jamie.  “They must be taking a long commercial break, and they don’t show them all when you’re watching online.”

We waited, but the screen didn’t change.  We called our other son, Samuel, who was watching in Pittsburgh.  The commercials had just ended and the show was back on, he told us.  Our screen hadn’t changed.

“Oh my God!  We have the same internet service as the hotel,” Michael was on the verge of panic.

My wife did a quick search on her phone and discovered that the cable was out of service for most of the Borough of Queens.  It was 9:50.  The show was nearly over.  Again, we called Samuel in Pittsburgh.

“Can you Skype it to my phone?” Michael desperately asked his brother.  Samuel started streaming the images from his television to Michael’s cell phone while my wife texted Samuel directions for how to position his phone so we could see.

Tommy Maitland said, “And here’s the last act of our show, Playing by Air!”  And there was Michael with his juggling partners.  The four of us watched them on his cell phone screen. We could barely hear the audio.  But we could see that they did great, and the judges awarded them a perfect score – three 10s!  Unfortunately, the judges had given three other acts perfect scores and awarded the top prize to one of them.

Of course in this age of electronic devices, Michael was able to post a link on Facebook to a YouTube video of his Gong Show performance by the next morning.  My wife and I had recorded the show on our DVR and watched it when we arrived back in our home the next evening.

 

But there is something special about watching your son on a show in real time as it is being broadcast on network television, even if the planets have to align, albeit imperfectly, to make that happen.

The Letter - Chapter 13

“Mrs. Henderson, you make a delicious vegetable lasagna!” I said to Liz’s mother.  I picked up my plate and silverware and set them on the kitchen counter.  Should I put these in the dishwasher?”

“No, you girls go up and do your homework.  Mr. Henderson and I will clean up,” replied Liz’s mom.

“Hey, speak for yourself, Darla,” Mr. Henderson said with a smile.  There’s a hockey game on tonight.  The Penguins are a few wins away from a guaranteed playoff spot.”

“That game doesn’t start for another hour, dear.  By then, you should have the kitchen all cleaned up,” shot back Mrs. Henderson.

“Sheesh!  Now it sounds like I’m on cleanup detail alone,” Liz’s dad made a sad face.

“I’ll help, but then again, I cooked; so if you want to see the opening face-off, you’d better get started.  You girls run along.” 

I gave a backward glance as Liz and I left the dining room and was glad to see Liz’s parents were smiling at each other.  I shuddered as I remembered the very real arguments over seemingly petty things between my parents before my mother walked out on us.  I followed my friend up the stairs to her room.  Liz sat down in front of her laptop and ran her fingers through her thick, dark hair as she turned to face me.

“OK, Nancy, have you figured this case out yet? Liz asked.

“You’re the one with the Nancy Drew Mystery collection.  I’ve never read a Nancy Drew book.”

“True confession.  Me neither.  My mom got these at a garage sale,” Liz said pointing to a row of about a dozen books on her bookshelf.  “But I’ve never read a single one of them.  I did start Nancy’s Mysterious Letter after we talked the other night.  But I’m only like five chapters into it.”

“Anything helpful to solving our mystery?”

“Not really.  The mysterious letter came from a law firm in England.  They think Nancy’s an English heiress, but she thinks they sent it to the wrong Nancy Drew.  The real mystery seems to be that the mailman’s mail pouch was stolen when he came in to Nancy’s house for a cup of cocoa.”

“That sounds pretty weird.  Why did the mailman go in for cocoa?”

“Apparently, he is a dear man who delivered the mail for years and is about to retire.  But now his reputation is shot and he’ll likely lose his pension unless Nancy finds the culprits and the missing mail.  It’s actually not a bad read. But what I found really neat is that Nancy lives with her father, who is a lawyer – just like you and your dad!”

“My dad’s a retired corporate lawyer.  Did Nancy’s mother abandon them for a filthy rich law firm lawyer?”

“I think he’s a widower.  Sorry, I think I touched a raw nerve.  Anyway, Nancy’s not provided much help for our case so far.  She does seem to have two friends – a plump one named Bess and a ‘boyish’ one named George.”  Liz pulled back her bushy locks and tied them in a ponytail.

“George? That’s strange.  So if I’m Nancy, which friend are you?  Maybe you should be Nancy since you have her books.”

“No, Nancy’s blonde like you.  See?”  Liz picked up Nancy’s Mysterious Letter and showed me the cover illustration.  “And with these hips, no one would ever accuse me of being boyish,” Liz stood up and shimmied.

“All right, but you’re not plump, I laughed.  You have a perfect figure – shapely, but not the least bit fat.  I should probably be Boy George or George Junior since that’s my dad’s name.”

“Liz laughed.  I don’t remember it saying that boyish George had perfect teeth and hair.”

“My stylist and orthodontist thank you for that,” I laughed.  “OK, enough of Nancy and her friends.  Let me show you the clues I have pulled together.”