Michael Stephen Daigle's Blog, page 18

Tea, after

A hand through tousled  hair

Light from eyes once dark

A twisted smile;

A pinch of tea leaves

The aroma drenched with earth and sweetness

You shivered, a tongue touched with honey.

Tea after absence

Tea, after.

Cherry Street: Theo and the school bully

This is another segment from the Cherry Street School story, yet untitled. In this scene, new student Theo Dubois  has a run-in with the school bully, Bobby Danforth. If you like what you read, please hit the FOLLOW  key on the cover page of the website. Thanks.

The cafeteria in the middle of the school was also the gym. A balcony surrounded the two-story opening. Theo had never seen anything so odd and interesting.

Or loud. The commotion  of a hundred kids talking, scraping chairs and walking, and doors shutting bounced off the wooden walls and hard floor until the air shivered with sound. Some mats hung on the wall did little to deaden the noise, forcing anyone who wanted to be heard to speak louder than the person next to them.

Theo spotted Dev sitting alone and joined her.

“Hey,” he said.

She didn’t look up.

“You should move on, T. You don’t want to be seen with me.”

“What’s that mean? You’re the only kid who talked to me. I mean I was in Miss Denison’s class and we were doing math and since no other kid answered the questions I ended up answering them all, and they laughed.”

She looked up. Her right eye was bruised. He reached to touch it and she pushed his hand away. It was then he noticed how green her eyes were.

“What happened?”

“T, look. There’s them and there’s me.  The good kids and the girl who lives in a purple bus in a grocery store parking lot. The kid who wears black because she can’t afford anything  else and who any day now could become a ward of the state, or worse. If you get messed into this, they come after you too.”

She crushed a packet of saltines.

Don’t care, he thought.

“You want a sandwich?” Theo asked. “I got two.  Where do you get milk?”

“”T… no.”

He reached for her hand. “Dev, yes.” He wrinkled his nose.

She  held his hand and bit her lower lip while she stared into his eyes. “At the end, next to the cashier.”

“Got it.” Theo pulled two sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper out of the bag and passed one to Dev. “Be right back.”

He took two cartons of milk and an apple for Dev. The cashier said, “Forty cents, please,” and Theo passed her one of his dollar bills and said thank you as he took the change.

As he turned, a kid about his size bumped into him and  the change fell to the floor.

“Hey look, Onion Girl’s new friend, ” the kid said to the two boys with him. “The new kid, Thee awful lee, can’t handle his  milk.”

Theo looked at the floor to spot the coins, “Sorry…” How does he know my full name? I’ve never talked to that kid.

“Son, leave it there,” said the cashier, a thin black woman with a blue vest over her red blouse. “Bobby Danforth you pick up that boy’s change. You did that on purpose.”

Kids in line at the service line stepped back.

Son of gun. Bobby Danforth.

“Not gonna,” Bobby Danforth replied.

She stood eye-to-eye with the kid.  “You start picking up that change right now,” she said in a loud, shrill voice that pierced the buzz of the room. “Or I’ll have you reported to the office before you get to your next class. Besides, I’ll see your mother tonight at the church board meeting. And with the number of incidents you’ve caused in this room, I can guarantee that you won’t be playing on the baseball team because my son is the coach.”

The cafeteria din softened; students turned in their seats or stood to watch the confrontation. A murmured “ooh” floated in the air. Flashes of cell phone cameras lighted the room. Theo glanced around and back at the cashier. Everyone was watching him. I don’t want to be in the middle of this.  Dev was standing, her face calm and dark, a look that Theo could not read. 

The glare that the moment  before  filled Bobby Danforth’s eyes melted to indecision. “Don’t tell her.” A near whimper. “Please?” He blinked and elbowed one of the other kids in the stomach, “Help me.”

“You  better find sixty cents, or it’ll come out of  your pocket,” the cashier said.

Bobby Danforth and his two friends bent to search for the dropped change.

“Got it,” Bobby Danforth said, standing and handing Theo two quarters and a dime.

“How nice of you,” Theo said. At the side door Bobby Danforth turned back to Theo and offered a hard, warning smile; one by one, he and the other boys ran out. The show over, the students turned back to their own business and filled again the room with chatter.

“Thanks,” Theo said to the cashier, “ I…”

“You’re new,” she said.

“Second day. I’m Theo Dubois.”

“I’m Mary Nelson,”  the cashier said. “Mrs. Nelson.” She smiled. “You watch yourself, Theo Dubois. That Danforth boy thinks he runs the world. Now you go take care of that poor girl. I can’t watch all you.”

He returned to the table and delivered a carton of  milk and the apple to Dev.

“That’s how you got the black eye, ain’t it?” he asked.

When she didn’t reply, he reached to her chin to lift her face; when she resisted, he pulled his hand away.

He leaned his head in. “One thing you’ll know about me, Dev. I don’t scare off.”

He took her hand when the bell rang and folded into it the other dollar bill and the change. “I’ll get more,” he said and stepped away.

Cherry Street School: Theo’s first day ends, shops at the Red & White

Since I seem to be serializing this story, in this segment, Theo Dubois ends his first day at Cherry Street School feeling lost and alone.

Theo rolled the paper grocery bag under his arm and turned left at the end of the school sidewalk where it met Cherry Street. He looked back at the school and felt dizzy. The day had been a blur of unfamiliar voices and pointed directions –boy’s room is down there,  cafeteria downstairs, all with a  wrist wave and why-don’t-you-know scowl — and heads turned then turn away as kids entered the office and Theo was still sitting on the bench, and all of Mrs. Sternman’s twitch smiles and frowns had not found him a classroom.

His stomach grumbled with hunger and an uneasiness of not belonging. More than once he wondered of anyone would notice if had just left.

Then the last bell and the hallway behind him rumbled with kids banging and slamming toward the doors. When one of the secretaries walked out of the office with her coat and handbag, Theo stepped out behind her because no one stopped him.

 Alone on the sidewalk, he closed his eyes to recall in reverse the path he walked that morning.

Cherry Street  crossed County  Road, a wide, four-lane street. Then it was three blocks up to a no-name street with a green house with a white fence where he turned right. But that street jogged left at a tall wooden fence that had a locked metal gate, so he walked along that fence for a block, turning right  to follow the fence for  another half-block to an intersection where Theo went straight and the fence turned right. He paused and glanced back at the street he had followed  and down the fence to its end, for a moment confused. All those turns the fence took hadn’t sunk in that morning when he ran past on his way to school, but now, walking, it seemed odd. He leaned his eye up to a crack in the fence and saw a red building.

I wonder how to get in?

Crap, the kids.

He started to run. His younger brother and sister Paul and Annie were probably home already. And the boxes are still in the middle of the room and there’s no food. They probably got a handful of papers like Mrs. Sternman gave me.

It was easier in Laketown.  All the kids jumping out the school door getting yelled at by the teacher to watch for trucks that couldn’t  stop in time rolling down the steep hill past the Franklin farm; thirty kids peeling off to their houses yelling and waving like a joy bomb going off. And if was a Tuesday or a Thursday, Theo would run into the side door of the coffee shop, pour a Coke, throw  on an apron and go to work.

He wasn’t supposed to use the grill or any of the hot stuff, but Teddy, the high school kid, would let him flip burgers now and again.

Theo had learned how to serve coffee without spilling it, to make milk shakes on the blender and not make a mess, and slap a scoop of egg or tuna salad on bread, flatten it out, add tomatoes and maybe lettuce and cut it diagonally without losing a finger. Mostly he served chocolate milk and Cokes and donuts to his friends, even though he would tell them the donuts were probably stale, but they didn’t care and laughed and joked and dunked them in their chocolate milk, except for Jeff, who dunked them in his Coke.

The memory made him feel heavy; he shuffled the last three  blocks home.

Annie and Paul were asleep, curled up on the mattress  in the middle room. On the table were two piles of papers, one in a wad, Paul’s, and  Annie’s neatly stacked.

Theo wasn’t surprised they fell asleep. They all had been running for three straight days after their father said without warning, pack up, you’re  moving to New York. He remembered that a couple friends stopped by on their bikes and asked what was going on. “Don’t know,” Theo said. “Guess we’re leaving.”

 He wondered if the kids dozed off at school like he had at one point sitting on the bench; a slam of the door to his left woke him before Mrs. Sternman noticed. She would have frowned.

The trip from Maine took twelve hours. Their father loaded all their furniture and stuff in the rental van and drove off. Theo, the kids and their Mom made the trip later in her little sedan. Theo tried to sleep in the passenger’s seat, head resting on a pillow propped against the bouncing window glass. The kids stretched out on the narrow rear seat, waking and grabbing when they rolled onto a pile of suitcases wedged between the seats.

Theo through one open eye watched his mother as she drove, face  crumbling in hurt, hands clenched on the steering wheel in anger, sometimes singing wordless tunes, but always smoking, her window open a crack to let out the smoke and allow her to toss out the finished cigarette after lighting a new one with its glowing butt. Sometimes she seemed calm, but then her face would tighten and the car would lurch forward at higher speed for a few miles. One time he reached over to touch her arm and ask if she needed to rest. She shook her head and stared at him with wild eyes as if she didn’t recognize him and had just returned from someplace else.  “I’m okay, Honey,” she said.  “We’re almost there.”

Theo had heard the shouting, the stomping, seen the dishes flying across the room to shatter at his father’s feet; had seen her rage and pain explode as he stood treelike unmoved. The first time, Theo thought, he was just calm; later Theo realized he just didn’t care.

No, Theo thought, as he pulled the pillow into a ball, we left “there.” We’re nowhere.

****

His father had left an envelope with ten $20 bills. Theo took two and wrote a note:  “Gone to store. Don’t leave house.”

The house  was at the corner of a busy wide street, and a street without sidewalks. It was gray and three stories tall. It had a big side yard and a barn at the end. The kids will like the yard, Theo thought.

A post on the front porch had a number: 311.

A metal street post had two signs. One running in the same direction as the big street said, “Main.”  The other  one was broken and said only: “Ow.”

There was a doctor’s office across the big street. A good landmark, he thought, like the busted up oak on the side of the hill  above halfway rock that let you know you had taken the right trail off Bear Hill. He had missed that sign one time and ended up at the far end of the lake out near Butternut Swamp at nightfall. He spent some time splashing around the edges of the swamp until he saw the light at Bachelor’s store.  There had been another fight. His father was gone whwen he got back and his mother was in her room with the door closed and didn’t respond to his knock. At least the kids were asleep.

He slipped to the lakeshore and sat hunched, arms around knees, head sunk, squinting across the dark water wondering if they even knew he had been gone.

****

He didn’t really know what to get at the Red & White. Milk, that made sense, and bread and peanut butter and grape jam. Some hotdogs, and ketchup. A couple boxes of cereal. Cookies. He wondered how he was going to carry it all  home, about eight blocks.

He added canned spaghetti, the little letter kind that Paul liked, and raviolis.

The woman at the cash register smiled and handed him the change. It had cost about $35.

Theo rolled the tops of the bags and grabbed the lighter one by the top and encircled the other heavier one in his arms. He juggled the  bag to get one hand under the heavier bag.  At the automatic door the heavier bag broke open and the cans rolled toward the sidewalk.

Only then did Theo collapse  against the wall and weep.

The things we hide: WIP

Years ago I started sketching out a story about a weekly Maine  newspaper editor named Hadley Chandler. It was planned as an episodic story with threads that involve an old family farm, industrial pollution, the ups and downs of the old town.

I was looking for that story that I either have in on paper in a file somewhere or the electronic version got lost in a past computer failure.

When I’m planning a story I often write scenes, rather than take notes. That way I can begin to experiment with characters and settings.

This is one such new scene, and it adds to the mix Elizabeth Margaret Denard, a wealthy woman who is suing Hadley Chandler, and her dead aunt Senator Margaret Denard, who had  deep secret her niece wants to know.

“Mr. Chandler?”

The woman’s voice echoed from the office to the press room in the rear of the building.

“Out here,” Hadley yelled. He set aside the pair of wrenches he had been using to tighten a bolt on the press and wiped his hands on a succession of red cloths until the ink was a mere stain on his palms.

He turned to the slim woman in a chic, unadorned black dress and wide white hat silhouetted in the dim hallway lighting.

“Hello, Miss Denard. Audrey Hepburn?”

Elizabeth Denard laughed, deliberately showy.

“Was thinking Sophia Loren, but I don’t have the chest for it.”

Hadley smiled as he escorted her into his cluttered office. That was the Betsey Denard he had known.  Somerset High School’s leading actor, statewide renown, front pages in all the state’s newspapers, even a mention in the  Boston Globe when Somerset’s cast won a New England award for a wrenching production of “Othello,” in which she played Iago.

Hadley had written dozens of stories about her career, from her transition from a fresh-faced sassy, Betsey Denard, to a hard-edged  Liz Denard when she conquered Portland’s banking community, to whatever she fancied herself now as Elizabeth Margaret Denard.

And now she was trying to put him out of business.

He wondered if it was because he once wrote that her middle name was not Margaret, and suggested she had claimed that name to add heft to her declarations of importance.

Because her aunt, Senator Margaret Denard,  was a heavyweight who fought for the rights of women, Native Americans, battled the paper companies over river pollution and developers over the need to preserve the state’s farms. Hadley knew the senator had gone head-to-head with Will Hathaway’s grandfather more than once.

Hadley Chandler was one of maybe six people in Somerset who was allowed  call the late senator Maggie and not be greeted with a scowl.

“So, Betsey,” Hadley said as he cleared  a chair, “What brings you to Somerset? You haven’t shut me down yet.”

Her soft, round face hardened at the sound of her discarded name, but she did  not correct him.

“Have you not cleaned this office since I was last here?” she asked.

Hadley sat and pushed aside the pile of stories he needed to edit, and  waved at the messy space. “It’s a museum in here.” He leaned over the desk and hardened his voice. “And if you win your lawsuit, this could be yours.”

A thin, inscrutable smile. “I don’t want to win, Hadley. Because I do  not want this newspaper. There is no profit in this business, and further, I do  not want to be known as one of those hedge fund managers who buys properties to drain them financially and close them. Certainly  not in my hometown.”

“So why did you sue? You want that two grand back that much?  I did pay her back taxes. It cleared up the title to the  building. The receipt is in the court documents.”

Elizabeth Denard removed her white hat and the dark, round Hollywood sunglasses before reaching into her black handbag and producing a few letters in colored envelopes which she placed on the desk.

She indicated the envelopes with a nod. “I believe you know who this person is.  As you know I am my aunt’s sole heir, at least I thought I was until a search of her estate house by my attorney found these letters.” She leaned back. “You  should be honored, Hadley. You are the second-most mentioned person in my aunt’s detailed and immaculate records. Why is that? We’re you sleeping with her?”

Hadley was intrigued as she turned her face to the window and the firm, thin mouth and jutting jaw melted into a wrinkled-browed, lip-biting softness.  Hadley wondered how much of that look was acting, and how much was fear.

“You don’t know, do you?” he asked.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t know what to ask. You suspect your aunt had a deep secret, and you would be right. And I know it.”
          She jumped to her feet,  scooped up the letters, her bag and her hat and began to leave. “You can tell that secret in court.”

“No, Betsey, you don’t want me to tell that secret in court. It’s not in the paperwork, ” he said calmly. “Will Hathaway knows what I know. It’s what we have been trying not to say in court. In a way I think you’ve known it all along.”

Her head jerked to one side and her eyes narrowed in confusion.  Her hands shook as she dropped her belongings on the desk.

That, Hadley decided, was not acting. She had been acting her entire life, that scared, uncertain kid she was as a child buried beneath the roles she had chosen to control herself and others.

“Sit down, Betsey. I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

****

The office door ground open.

“Dad? Dad? Is it true?”

“In here,” Hadley replied.

It was his 19-year-old daughter, Sarah, the freckled faced, long curly haired spitting image of her mother, down to the old hippie clothes she had borrowed.

“She dropped the lawsuit? Really? I mean I just ran into Will, er, Mr. Hathaway, and…”

“Yes. She did.” Hadley rose and embraced her. “This old mess is still mine. And it could be yours. Betsey agreed to invest in the company as a silent partner so we can upgrade all our systems.”

“Wow.  No lawsuit and new computers,” Sarah said, sitting. “What did  you have over her? Finances? Secret lovers?”

Hadley motioned for Sarah to close the inner office door.
          She did and then sat with a grin and one eye closed. “Ooh, secrets.”

“The kind which you can never tell. Life changing stuff. Got it? It’s not ours to tell.”

Sarah nodded, “Got it.”

“Do you remember a woman named Susan Smith? She worked on campaigns  and other election stuff?”

“Right. She came to the school and talked about voting rights. Very intense.”

“She was Maggie Denard’s lover, for decades.”

“Really?”

“You have to understand, this started maybe fifty years ago. Maggie was in her twenties. A woman state senator did not….”

“No, Dad, I get it. She, the senator, or either of them, could  not tell anyone. So how’d you know?”

“Maggie and I had been friends for years. I covered her campaigns as a reporter for the Sentinel. Over the years, we had quite a few drinks at the Senator Hotel in  Augusta during legislative sessions. One night Susan came in and it was obvious why she was there.”

“And you, the great reporter, didn’t tell anyone. The scoop of a career and you kept to yourself.”

Hadley shrugged. “Private stuff. Didn’t matter.”

“Anyone else know?”

“Maggie’s staff, I’m sure, but they were loyal.”

Sarah took her father’s hand.  “How hard it all was. The secrets, hidden lives.” Eyes wide and jaw dropping. “And you, all this time? How?”

“I gave her my word. Before we shared politics, we shared friendship.”

“How did they cover for it, which is a terrible to have to do, all that hiding.”

“Susan was a party official so it was natural that she and Maggie appeared everywhere together and didn’t raise suspicion.” He kissed her daughter’s hand. “But  she carried it with her. You look at photos of the time and while Maggie is smiling, her eyes are dark and sorrowing. Look at what issues she championed. The rights of the dispossessed. That’s how she expressed her anger and distrust of the  system.”

Sarah waved a hand in the air.

“So how did Maggie have Betsey’s mother? Adopted?”

Hadley smiled. “Maggie took a couple years off. Her seat was that secure. But the story circulating at the time said she was  recovering from stress or fatigue – something a woman legislator could suffer  without harming her political career because, after all, they were the weaker sex.” He winked.

“So who…? Wait, that’s why Betsey called Maggie her aunt, not her grandmother. They kept it from her. You’re  not Betsey’s grandfather by any chance?”
          Hadley laughed at his amazing daughter. “No. Please. The last great secret.”

Sarah screwed up her face. “How did Betsey take all this?”

“She was relieved and troubled. She knew there were secrets but had no place to start looking. Thus the lawsuit. She thought my records would have the information, that, you know, the two grand loan was a payoff… and no it wasn’t, there, kid. But after I told her all this, she never asked the question I thought she would: About her legitimacy and the succession of the family fortune.  She’s the only one left. Instead she said she was attracted to the role of Iago because of his suspicious and scheming nature. So she schemed and plotted and up to this point it has left her angry, suspicious and alone.”

“Wake up call?”

“We’ll see. She’s planning  to reopen her aunt’s estate house as a women’s study institute.”

“That’ll be cool. So, there, Dad, why Betsey no husband and kids?”

          “That, my modern daughter, is the question for another day. By the way, I told Betsey her real middle name is Susan.”

Thanks for these top reviews

Thanks to readers of the Frank Nagler Mystery series for these top reviews. Forever grateful.

THE SWAMPS OF JERSEY.  Why are an old swamp, a burning factory and a dead woman linked? Why is Ironton, N.J. detective Frank Nagler so concerned that Lauren Fox left town? Paperback, ebook, Audiobook.

5.0 out of 5 stars  Frank Nagler is a Sam Spade for our time!

As I began this book, I could almost hear Humphrey Bogart reading the narrative portions describing the fictional town of Ironton. Frank Nagler is a tough, gritty, and tired detective who has yet another murder to deal with, and a local government that’s reeking with corruption. Throw in a sensitive side and a “foxy” woman, and Nagler’s cynical humor is often laced with memories of happier times. The story is occasionally long with descriptive passages, but the action is fast paced at other times and keeps the reader committed to finding out who the girl in the bog is and who killed her. I look forward to future Nagler tales!

A GAME CALLED DEAD. Frank Nagler must track down an Internet terrorist whose past intertwines with his own. Paperback and ebook and audiobook. A Runner-Up in the Shelf Unbound 2016 Best Indie Book contest.

5.0 out of 5 stars  Nicely done

Good writing, strong characters, and a plot that works. Starts off with a gasp-inducing crime scene that almost made me stop reading the book. But, like Nagler, I persevered. And I am glad I did. Good descriptive writing and character development. The story works because you come to care about these characters. Nicely done. I will be reading more.

THE WEIGHT OF LIVING: The discovery of  young girl wearing summer clothes on a bitter March night leads Frank Nagler  into a search through a dark history that has surprising connections to his group of friends. Paperback and ebook.

First Place for Mysteries  in the 2017 Royal Dragonfly Book Award contest;  Notable 100 Book, Shelf Unbound 2018 Indie Book Awards; Named a Distinguished Favorite, 2018  Independent Press Awards; Distinguished Favorite in the 2018 Big NYC Book Contest; Finalist in the 2019 Book Excellence Awards.

Named A Gold Star Award winner in the 2020 Elite Choice Book Awards

5.0 out of 5 stars  Intense, dark, fascinating!

Early on, I assumed this would be a typical crime thriller – crime, clues, solved! Boy was I wrong! This book was filled with suspenseful subplots. I couldn’t put it down! I didn’t realize this book was a part of a series until I was partially through and am thrilled to say that it makes a great standalone book. I can’t wait to read the rest of the series!

THE RED HAND: Frank Nagler’s beginning, a struggle in a terrorized city with a serial killer and a personal battle as his wife fights for her life. Paperback, ebook audiobook. Distinguished Favorite in the 2019 Big NYC Book Contest; Second Place winner for mysteries in the 2019 Royal Dragonfly Book Awards;  Notable 100 Book in the 2019 Shelf Unbound Indie Book Awards;  Distinguished Favorite  in the 2020 Independent Press Awards; Nominee in the 2020 TopShelf Book Awards

5.0 out of 5 stars  Enjoyed it

Reviewed in the United States on January 15, 2022

The Red Hand is a thrilling and dark read. I enjoyed the MC– Frank. He’s a well-developed character I quickly became invested in his arc. The pacing for this book is pretty good, I had a hard time putting it down– reading late into the night!

Who are the real heroes in the Frank Nagler Mysteries?

Growing up in Upstate New York I was under the influence of Syracuse University.

That meant my sports heroes included football stars Ernie Davis and Jimmy Brown.

Both were All-Americans at Syracuse and Brown later starred for the Cleveland Browns. Davis, sadly, died young of leukemia.

In addition, because my mother  was from Boston, another group of sports heroes were the Boston Celtics, mainly Bill Russell, Sam Jones, Satch Sanders, and K.C. Jone

Bill Russell with Red Auerbach; Ernie Davis; JIm Brown

As a kid I was also riveted by news film of the civil rights and voting rights  movements taking place in the South at the time.

Later as a reporter with the Daily Record of Morristown , N.J, for one Martin Luther King holiday story I interviewed a white minister from Dover who was a student at Little Rock High School when the school was desegregated, a Morristown bar owner who with his wife were teachers in Mississippi during the voting registration drives, and members of Morristown activist community who fought housing discrimination.

This came to mind over the weekend when I read a story from Indiana about a GOP lawmaker who filed a bill requiring that state teachers provide a “balanced look” at  such topics as slavery, Naziism, authoritarianism and the like so Indiana students would not judge such movements harshly.

Had two thought.

First, if the legislator can not talk to a relative who fought in WW2, he could at least Google Sen. Bob Dole, visit the library for a picture book on the war or watch any of the histories on TV that show the rise of Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini and any of the  gallery of dictators which plagued the world.

Second, he is another example of the GOP effort to recruit the dimmest bulbs in the hallway to run for office.

That report also made me think about my imaginary town , Ironton, N.J. base for the Frank Nagler Mystery series and the choice to include as many diverse characters possible and give them important roles.

This is not an effort to be “woke,” as is the current term.

These characters go back to the first drafts of the mysteries  written in my 20s.

Great stories have memorable minor characters who served to move the story and expand the universe.

One such character is Manny Calabrese, an Italian jeweler, who appears in several books. During an interview about THE RED HAND, the host noted how Manny reminded him  of  shopkeepers in his hometown, people who knew their customers, patted kids on the head. It was one of the highest compliments I had received.

Manny, like Barry, the Hispanic owner of Barry’s, the popular Ironton eatery, exists to add sympathy for Frank Nagler and the main characters, and add depth to the life of the city without caricature.

Leonard, for example, appears in the earliest drafts as blind street kid.

Over the stories he becomes owner of a bookstore which becomes a cornerstone for redevelopment of a section of Ironton.

There’s Del Williams, Detective Frank Nagler’s  black childhood friend from the worker’s ghetto. Nagler is always recounting their escapades. Del overcomes addiction  to become a leader and trainer for the street kids hired by Leonard at his store and other businesses.

Calista Knox overcomes child abuse and sex trafficking to become a hero in THE WEIGHT OF LIVING, and Nagler’s companion, Lauren Fox, represents all the qualities of the many women administrators, social workers, nurses, cops, fire fighters and others I have had the privilege  to know as a reporter. Nagler doesn’t succeed without her.

One of the favorite heroes in the stories is Lt. Maria Ramirez, Nagler’s no-nonsense partner. In the upcoming DRAGONY RISING, Ramirez and her companion, Destiny, are endangered because of their sexuality.

These characters exist because they make the Nagler stories more interesting and lively, not to make it appear that I am a writer trying to be  heroic or politically correct.

I am instead a writer partaking in the world that is, the one I learned about by living.

That brings up one more point.

A week or so ago I started a story about an elementary school I attended.   It was supposed to be a goofy growing up story.

Instead, “Dev” showed up.

She is the daughter of a farm worker who disguises her upbringing.

Where did Dev come from?

As a kid in Phoenix, N.Y. I would ride my bike past vast fields of vegetables – truck farms.

At the far rear of the fields were shacks and tents when the migrant workers lived.

That’s where Dev came from.

Where to find the Nagler books:

Amazon.com: Michael Stephen Daigle: Books, Biography, Blog, Audiobooks, Kindle

The Weight of Living by Michael Stephen Daigle, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

WIP: Cherry Street School. Meeting Dev

A continuation  of the first scene from WIP: Cherry Street School. (https://michaelstephendaigle.com/2022/01/07/wip-first-day-at-cherry-street-school/) Theo Dubois meets Andrea Devlin, aka, Dev.

The doors opened with a whoosh of air and closed with a clank as students  entered with some papers they handed to Mrs. Sternman, with the same greeting, “Good morning, Mrs. Sternman.” She would reply with their name and a quick, near smile. Theo decided after watching it three or four times, it wasn’t really a smile, but more like a twitch. The air clacked with typing and occasionally Theo heard a scratchy a voice coming from a speaker he couldn’t see. A woman would say, “I’ll send him right now,”  and then call someone else and say, “Please report to room 215.”

He reached to the wrinkled paper grocery bag  sitting on the floor between his feet. He didn’t have time for breakfast. He wanted to pull out one of the peanut and butter sandwiches, but didn’t  because Mrs. Sternman would frown.

What’s the big deal? he wondered.

Before he could consider an answer, the door to his left opened and a girl and a teacher entered. The teacher nodded to the bench. “You know the drill,” he said.

Theo glanced at the girl and then at the floor. He peeked up to see Mrs. Sternman and the new teacher talking. “Again?” she asked.  “Very well. I’ll call.”

The sense that the girl was in trouble  gave Theo no relief. I’m just trying to get into school and they drop me on a bench where they put kids who get into trouble. What does that make me? he asked himself.

He peeked a glance because he felt the girl was staring at him.

She wore all black, from her shiny  boots to a tight t-shirt. A large hoop earring dangled from her right ear, and her short, black hair shined with an iridescence  that Theo determined was decidedly not natural.

He nailed his eyes to the floor when she turned her head.

“It’s okay, kid,” she said. “I’m used to it.”

Theo scrunched up his face and sat back and said, “Sorry.”

The girl smiled.  “What they got you on the bench for?”

A friendly voice, he thought and felt himself relax.

“Dunno,” he said. “First day.”

“Got it. They’re trying to figure out where to put you.”

“What?”
The girl shook her head. “It’s what happened to me a couple years ago. I came from a bigger school and the way they listed the grades was different. If they can’t figure it out, they start you at the lowest level and let you work your way up.”

“What?”

She grinned. “Means they’re gonna put you with the dumb kids.”

Before Theo could respond, Mrs. Sternman appeared at the front desk. “Andrea.”

The girl wrinkled her nose and stood. “Yes, Mrs. Sternman.”

“Closer, please.”

As Andrea and Mrs. Sternman  huddled over the counter Theo heard Mrs. Sternman say… ”Your father…” and Andrea’s reply. “He was there this morning,” then, “Come on.  It’s a big purple school bus. You’ve found it before.”

Andrea returned to the bench. “Is she frowning?”

Theo flicked his eyes toward Mrs. Sternman and then covered his smile with one hand.
 “Good. I’m Dev. Andrea Devlin, but I like Dev better.”

“Hi, Dev. I’m Theo.” He pronounced it Ta-O. “Short for Theophile, for my grampa.

“That’s a mouthful. How about I call you ‘T’?”

“Deal.”

“So, where ya from?”

WIP: First day at Cherry Street School

In a writing group the name of Bruce Coville, the acclaimed children’s author, came up. I briefly attended elementary school with Bruce. That connection  led to this work-in-progress. And no, aliens won’t eat Theo’s homework. Instead this is a story about how three kids, strangers, band together to upset the status quo at Cherry Street School.

First Day

Theo Dubois pulled on the handle of the big white  door to the Cherry Street School, but the door didn’t open.

He dropped the paper bag with his supplies and tried again, this time with both hands, and the door still didn’t open.

He knocked on it with his knuckles, peered through a square window, then knocked again harder with  the side of his fist.

The former Cheery Street School, Phoenix, N.Y. It is now an apartment building.

He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared at the ground.

I’m already in trouble, he thought. First day.

“Don’t need to break it down, son.”

The man was walking toward the school.

“I’m supposed to go here but I can’t get in,” Theo said.

The man smiled. “You need to push this button on the speaker. It rings in the main office. The secretary will ask who you are and then unlock the door. Like this.”

The man pushed the button and a voice squawked from the wall speaker.

“State your name and business, please.”

“Hello, Sally, This is  Mr. Younger. I believe I have a new student with me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Younger.”

A buzzer sounded and Mr. Younger opened the door.  He pulled open the door  and swept his arm toward the opening. “After you.”e pulled ipen the door an swept

Theo offered a twisted, closed lip smile. “Thanks.”

He took the three wide steps up to a long hallway with doors on both sides that seemed to run forever. The floor shined with a polished glow.

“I don’t…” Theo began.

“I’m Mr. Younger,” the man said. “The principal. And your name is?”

“Theo. Um, Theo Dubois. We just moved here.”

“Well, welcome to Cherry Street School, Theo Dubois. The office is this way.  I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Sternman, the secretary who will get you settled.”

Theo glanced back at the door.

“Why’s the door locked? Do kids run away?”

Mr. Younger paused, then smiled softly.  “Oh, no, Theo. The door are locked for your safety. There has been some trouble. Did your old school not lock doors?”

“Sheesh, no. It had four rooms, about thirty kids. It was a really little town. My friend Kevin said his dad  said they were gonna close it up  and move the kids to a bigger school next year.”

Mr. Younger motioned up the hallways. “We should walk. How small was your town?”

Theo shrugged. “Couple hundred.”

 “Theo, Cherry Street School has 473 students.”

“Wow. You could put all of  Laketown in here.”

“Where is Laketown?”

Theo brightened. “On the lake. It was an old place. Looked old all the time.”

Mr. Younger chuckled. “I meant, what state?”

“Oh, In Maine, in the woods. Lake was called Minnehonk. We think it means lotta geese, ya know, many honks.”

“That’s wonderful, Theo.” Mr. Younger turned to a grey-haired woman at the front counter. “Mrs. Sternman, I’d like you to meet Theo, was it Du-boiz?”

Theo nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yeah, right. Du-boiz.”

 Mrs. Sternman peered over the rims of her glasses at Theo, whose head bobbed above the shoulder-high counter as he looked up to at Mrs. Sternman. She’s really tall, he thought.

Behind her two other women sat at wide metal desks and shuffled papers or spoke on a telephone. Two doors divided the rear wall. Mr. Younger  sat at the desk in the room to the right. The door to the other room was closed.

A wall length, paper banner on the right wall  said ‘CHERRY STREET SCHOOL” in red block letters. On the other wall a big calendar with a picture of a mountain filled the space between two other closed doors.

Theo thought  the office was very quiet even though it had a lot of people. He felt small.

“Hello, Theo,” Mrs. Sternman said with a  dry, cold voice. “It that your real name? Theo?”

Theo wrinkled his face. “It’s Theophile, T-off-o-lee. My  grandfather’s name.”

“Ah,” she said. “Spell it please. And then your surname.”

“My what?”

“Last name. You said it was Du-boiz.  So that would be D-U-B-O-I-S, correct? French. Isn’t that pronounced ‘Du-boi,’”

“Grampa Theo said it was Du-boiz. He said he got beat up as a kid if he said it the French way. That’s why I use Theo, not Ta-O. Kids don’t ask.”

Mrs. Sternman stopped writing and frowned. “And you believed  him?”

Theo found his voice. “He was my grampa. He was from the south. Said it happened all the time.”

“Ah, the South, “ Mrs. Sternman said. “Well, Theophile, this is the New York State. We are different. Please spell you’re first name. We can not have nicknames in the official records.”

Theo spelled “Theophile” and waited for more instructions,

“What is your address?” Mrs. Sternman  asked, pen poised to record it 

Theo stared at the floor, hands jammed in his pockets.  “I don’t know.” He looked up at Mrs. Sternman.  “We got here Saturday. My dad unloaded our stuff and left a note on the kitchen table and took off.”

“Where does he live? What is his phone number?”

Theo  felt the coldness of her voice settle in his chest. “I don’t know. We just got here. Heck, I don’t even know the name of this town.”

“Is your mother with you?” she asked, her voice deepening with official frowning concern.

“She went early to look for a job.”

“Oh, dear. Where?”

“Syracuse,” Theo muttered. It was the one place name he knew because his father said that was where he worked for an electric company.

Mrs. Sternman tapped her pen on the counter, frowning.

“So you prepared  yourself  for school?”

“Yeah, Me and my younger brother and sister. We always used to do it.”

“Two siblings? Where are they?”

“At school I guess. The note said for them to stand on the corner and a bus was gonna come.”

Mrs. Sternman  said, frowning, “Please  take a seat, Theophile. I must speak with Mr. Younger.”

Theo’s shoes thumped on the wooden base of the bench as he sat head down and wondered what he had done. He peeked up and  watched as Mrs. Sternman  wave a finger at the principal. She turned to face Theo a couple of times and tapped the papers in her hand a couple more. Theo heard her say, “very concerned,” once and “very, very concerned” twice. Mr. Younger’s face was wrinkled in worry. Then Theo heard Mrs. Sternman say,  “Broken home” and “social services.” And Mr. Younger asked, “You’re absolutely sure?” and Mrs. Sternman replied, “Absolutely. This is very troubling.” She frowned again at Theo.

Nagler 5: DRAGONY RISING. Plotting the coup

A long running conspiracy bubbles below the surface of the story in the fifth Frank Nagler Mystery, DRAGONY RISING.

This is how the coup was planned:

“Ramirez opened her computer screen to show the start of an old-style video.

“This looks like it was recorded on an older camera, possibly on tape and converted to a digital file.  It’s really dark, badly recorded. The visuals are uneven and the sound drops out from time to time. I cleaned it up some. But… Frank … It’s that meeting, from 2006 in Dubin Place.”

The still image on the computer showed Ollivar, Dancer, Carlton Dixon, Tallem, Bernie Langdon, Dan Thomson, Taylor Mangot II and a blonde woman at his side, her face turned from the camera, possibly Rachel Pursel. The backs of heads filled the front bottom of the shot.

Ramirez hit play and the video jerked to life.

Ollivar spoke.

“All right, to finish up, here’s where we are. Ray…where’s Ray, okay put your hand up. Good. Ray’s in the planning department. All our applications will go through him, and the inspections. They’ll be the cleanest fucking inspections you’ve ever seen.” A general laugh. “Same in the fire department. Duval is working on a few “accidents.” He’ll inspect them, of course, and declare them solved in such a way that the insurance companies will have no questions. We have real estate and legal people who will handle property transfers once the settlements are complete. The properties will be consolidated under a variety of companies controlled by Mr. Mangot. That’s the first step. The police have others. Dancer?”

Dancer stepped forward and nodded. “Yeah, look. There’s some guys we’re gonna have to deal with. So if you’re working with someone one day, and the next week he ain’t there, don’t worry and don’t ask questions. If ya get asked about it, play dumb.  ‘Sol died? I din’t know that. Sorry to hear that.’  We don’t need heroes. Just do your job.”

Ollivar shifted to the front of the crowd again. “Thanks, Dancer. Heed that warning. Do your job. This is not a frontal assault on Ironton. This is a takeover. Quietly. With stealth, not brawn. It will require patience. It’s the model we will use to move forward, town by town. Now, you all have heard about Article 256-2006? It is an article that will consolidate the power of Ironton’s government in one person. Councilman Bill Weston – Stand, please Bill, thanks. – Bill is our first player, newly elected. He has introduced Article 256. It did not get a second, and therefore no vote.  But we planned for that.  It will be reintroduced, and gain a second, but fail again. Then again, and add another vote, and again, until one glorious year, it is passed into law and signed by the mayor of our choice.”

Scattered applause.

Ollivar: “Thanks. Our leader Carlton Dixon has a few words.”

A shuffling of bodies. Handshakes. Embraces. Raised fists.

“Thank you, Jesus. People think revolutions take place on the streets, are loud, violent things. Crowds with torches and bricks and flags threatening overthrow. That is theater.  Revolution are ideas, formed and refined in meetings like this, in meetings your ancestors held a century or more ago to take power back from the new folks who wanted it. Your ancestors stood up and said, no. No to the pollution of their lives. No to the slippery degradation of their beliefs. So they rose up and took back the purity of their lives.”

Dixon help up one hand to silence the murmured approval. “Society and its creation, government, at times rot. Such is that time. But society is a pile of rocks strapped together with the dreams of believers like you all. It is time to seek out the dreams that have putrefied. Pull out the loose rock, weaken its hold on the faulty structure. Pull one and it leans, makes a hole; pull another and it shivers, another, and it falls. Find your rock, that weak crumbling rock, brothers and sisters, and pull.”

A cheer filled the room. Dixon smiled and gently motioned for the cheering to cease.

“You will not see me often, but you will know the time has come when you hear me referred to as ‘McSalley.’ Think of it as a code.  There will be an event of destruction. It will be a distraction, and while they try to solve it, our work will go on. Also know this: When this gentleman reappears in Ironton, it has begun.”

Dixon pointed to the far corner as out of the shadows stepped McCarroll.

A cheer and an uncertain, “Oohh.” Then another sound.

Ramirez shut off the video; McCarroll’s blurred face shimmered on the computer screen.

“Is it really that easy?” she asked in a tortured whisper.

Christmas story: ‘The last bell ringer and the yoga girl’

Don stepped into the painted  plywood Santa hut and rolled his neck from side to side to loosen the kinks. He pulled off the scratchy white beard and red hat combo and  pushed his chin onto his chest and felt the relief.

The last day of the month-long season was always the worst. The outfit weighed a ton and smelled like a locker room. His wrists were sore from the constant bell ringing.

He nudged aside  a Styrofoam Rudolph,  stacked two cardboard elves in the back corner and dragged the  broken leather chair to the center and sat.

Close-up of Santa Claus holding metal bell in his hand and against grey background

He had planned to remove his boots but the gravity of fatigue anchored him, eyes closed and head resting on the chair’s crown.

This was not just the last day of this holiday season, but his own last day, perhaps ever, of dressing as Santa Claus and ringing bells, handing out candy canes and shouting “Merry Christmas” until his throat was raw.

What had started as a desperation part-time job a decade ago had become an annual gig which he proudly enjoyed.

Now there was no joy.

It wasn’t just the loss of the department store that stilled the corner, he knew.

In his forty years, he could not recall such angry times, even during war and hard times. In his decade as Santa he knew that people found him, heard the bell. They seemed to understand we were all in the same times together, good or bad.

But now even  as they dropped a few coins in his red bucket  there were fewer smiles and even fewer  mumbled words of cheer; giving had become some grudging duty.

Sitting, relaxed, he took two deep breaths and closed his eyes.

He felt his body swaying as the rhythmic ding-dong  of his brass bell echoed in riffs of four or five rings off the stone and glass all behind him, filling silent space when the traffic had calmed but lost in the roar as it moved again. He imagined the bell’s ring was the call of a winter song bird hidden in a bare tree across the street in the park, a plea to an  absent lover. Find me. Find me, find me; I am here.

“Santa?”

Did he sleep?

He bolted up and blinked to clear his vision to find a petite young woman in a  white wool coat and paisley scarf handing him a coffee cup.

“Tea with honey, correct?”

He blinked twice more and glanced around the sidewalk.

“Sure. Wow. Do I know you?”

“May I sit?’ she asked.

He offered her his chair, pulled over a wooden crate/Christmas gift and took the tea. “Please.”

He fumbled with the tab on the cup lid and took a sip while staring puzzled at her sweet, round face.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Miss.  All the years I’ve done this … but the tea?”

“I was fifteen. We had just move to the shelter…”

His face brightened. “Yes. At the community center, your mother and a brother, right? The director had asked me to spend a little extra time with you, but I don’t remember the circumstances. You just seemed so out of place.”

Her smile faded. “We were newly homeless, the first night.”

“Of course. Didn’t mean to pry.”
“You were the saddest Santa I had ever seen, so I got you a cup of tea with way too much sugar to make you feel better. You said you liked honey with tea.”

“I didn’t realize…”

“It was your eyes. Santa was supposed to be jolly with bright happy eyes and a deep laugh and was supposed to make everyone feel better, even when they were homeless. But your eyes were dark and your voice was anything but jolly.” She touched his hand. “I mean I was a kid, but I thought you had a broken heart.   I had seen my Mom’s face when she was hurt. To a kid, Santa’s not supposed to have a broken heart.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Well, yes and no.” He hadn’t thought about. It had been ten years.  “I  knew I had broken someone else’s heart.”

“That’s why you gave me this, isn’t it,” she said as she reached into her coat pocket and displayed a small, wooden carving of a woman in a yoga pose. “I learned later it is a warrior pose. You were going to give it to her, right?”

“What? My goodness. May I?”

 She handed him the carving. He ran a finger over the smooth wood.

“Yeah,” he said,  “I didn’t know anything about yoga but I saw this carving and thought it represented what she was: Strong, sassy,  determined.” He wiped his eyes. “I thought it might have fixed things, I was so dumb. She was something, giving, smart, loving  and I managed to make her feel … I don’t ..”

“Used?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?  Try absolutely. She told you to go away, right?”

He stared into the street with a pained face, gut punched; the truth hurt.

“Been there,” she said. “Both ways.”

“Yeah. I didn’t want that anymore,” nodding at the carving.  “I knew it had some other meaning. I guess I thought you’d figure it out.” Then irritated, “Why are you here? You should go. I don’t want this back.” He tried to stand.

“You can’t have it back. This carving saved my life.”

 “What?”

She took a breath and composed herself. Her voice wavered. “We were homeless for a year and then moved often. I was a geeky, poor lonely girl. But at the  worst times I’d pull out the yoga girl and feel strong. Look at her.” She held up the carving, legs bent, arms outstretched. “She is both  taking in strength  from the world, and  casting power into it. I was a kid. You were Santa Claus. I figured you gave this to me for a good reason.”

“Why are you here? Not just to find me.”

She smiled. “I moved back. I just sold my company to a conglomerate. Now I can do what I was meant to do, help homeless families.”

She removed a business card from her bag.

Patricia Jean Thompson. Yoga Girl Cosmetics.

“Organic, plastic free,  no animal testing,” she said. “I was leaving the bank when I saw you and knew immediately who you were.”

He shook his head. “I’m glad it worked out for you, I’m no hero. I’m a bum. The reason I remember all this is that I hurt someone deeply. I remember more about that than I do about helping you.”

She folded the carving back into her pocket. “The thing about pain is that it can be healed. The thing about kindness is that it happens. It’s medicine. It doesn’t need to be healed. It’s the cure. For me you’ll always be Santa Claus teaching a lesson about giving.”

She pulled five hundreds from her purse and slipped them into the top of the collection bucket.

“The season’s also about forgiving, even ourselves,” she said.  “You should try it.”