It was during one of these weekly trash-picking sessions that my mother and I were drawn from behind our five-thousand-piece puzzle into the snow-covered South Jersey streets. It was daunting watching the blue and white cars come screeching around the ninety-degree turn onto Massachusetts Avenue. Sirens blaring, seemingly heading straight towards us, the cars cut their wheels at the last moment to avoid the patch of black ice that had formed the night before, and continued on the straightaway for the next few blocks.
"Go get your jacket," my mother said to me, putting her hand on my bottom and pushing me toward the door.
I hurried in to bundle up. My mother: the woman who was ready for everything, even at seven in the morning, had put on her robe and boots before even setting foot outside. Taking more after my father, I had run barefoot into the shin-high snow without so much as a scarf. I could feel the numbness of my feet give way to sharp, shooting pains as I pulled on my shoes and socks and ran to the door, grabbing my ski jacket as I scampered out.
"Hurry up Meggs, it's starting to snow," my mother called out from ten paces ahead of me.
"What's the matter?" I called, running up to catch her.
"I'm not sure," she said, tying my loose scarf around my neck. "I have a bad feeling."
I could see two of the three cops that has passed us earlier slowly ducking back into their cars, shaking their heads and mumbling something to each other. The third was squatting next to the open back door of a squad car, half-heartedly smiling and offering the person inside some of his coffee.
"What happened?" my mom asked a middle-aged woman as we walked closer to the scene.
"They arrested Tom."
"Tom Talbot?" My mom responded. It occurred to me that I had never thought of him as having a last name.
"They said he tried to shoot a cop."
"Wait here," my mother directed me, as she made her way to the squad car.
One thing that needs to be said about my mother: she's a firecracker. She loves with all of her heart, speaks her mind, and will do anything in her power to help a friend. And on that cold November day, she did just that. I'm not sure exactly what was said, but my mother emerged completely composed from behind that squad car, Tom in hand.
When we arrived at my house, my mother boiled a pot of milk as Tom and I sat the breakfast nook. I couldn't help but think how careless she was being, letting her baby girl sit next to a man who was accused of shooting a cop. The only thought that danced around in my pre-pubescent head was, 'Does he want to shoot me too?' She must have been able to sense my ill ease, or the cold darting looks I kept giving the man sitting across from me.
"Can I talk to you for a moment, Megg?" She pulled me through the swinging doors into our formal living room. "Stop it. Stop it now. You have no idea how hard it is for him, and how awful he must feel right now."
"But Ma," I started, as she cut me off with an evil glare. "He tried to shoot a cop."
"Meghan, there are certain things in life that aren't black and white. I don't expect you to understand this now, but someday you will, and you'll feel horrible for how you're treating this poor man." She turned on her heels and started back towards the kitchen. "I think it would be best if you just went to your room. I'll bring you your soup when it's ready."
---
There was a light knock at my door. "Can I come in?"
I didn't respond, and my mother didn't wait for an answer. Displaying the skills that put her through college, she balanced the bowl of soup, a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk on one arm while opening the door with the other.
"Is he still here?"
"Your father is on his way home. He's going to take Tom home and talk to his mother. Why don't you just stay up here for a while?" She finished putting my food on the desk and walked out.
---
I had been too wrapped up in my Sega to come down when my dad first came home that afternoon, and was asleep before he got home that night. The next morning when I woke up, it was another normal day; no one was speaking of the reenactment of the O.K. Corral half a block away from our house. I still wasn't exactly sure what happened myself, so I kept my mouth shut, at least at home.
School was a different story. I would be praised, not punished, for my embellishments. I full-heartedly welcomed my fifteen minutes, but it was barely that. Ronnie Leopardi broke up with Gina Gibboni in a note folded like a football after geography class. It said something along the lines of "Go away. Forever." She spent all of recess and part of lunch crying; he ate two Lunch'ems tacos, traded his Fruit Roll Up for a pack of Gushers, and played a pickup game of basketball until the bell rang.
No one remembered I had almost been shot, or at least a guy on my street had been shot. Almost shot through the heart, followed by a meal of tomato soup with my Mom. Kids can be so cruel.
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If you are interested in reading the rest of "Red Ryder," please contact the editor, Lila Allen.