That's A Wrap

That’s A Wrap!

By Heather Ann Martinez

Every Sunday evening at seven o’clock, we sat down to eat at Joan’s Bed and Breakfast. Joan would cook all day after church. She called us her kids. She would tell everyone she met her kids were coming home for Sunday dinner. We weren’t her kids at all. We hadn’t even heard of Joan or each other for that matter prior to the new train stop being added between Milwaukee and Chicago. We could commute on the train into downtown Chicago and stay at the bed and breakfast during the week. Then, we could commute back to Milwaukee on the weekends. It wasn’t the most ideal of circumstances. There weren’t very many jobs in Milwaukee in our fields and Chicago seemed to have the better jobs.

There were four of us who made Joan’s Bed and Breakfast our weekday home every week for at least a year. We were complete strangers to each other. We didn’t have any friends or relatives in common. We didn’t go to the same high school or live in the same towns. Our first Sunday night dinner was very quiet. We were all tired from our commute to Joan’s which was a little over two hours. Joan did her best to make all of us feel at home in her large Victorian style mansion. There were eight bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a kitchen, a library, sun room, and three sitting rooms. Joan said the sitting rooms were once one large room used for dances. She had walls put in to divide them into smaller rooms so people could sit in smaller groups on old sofas and chairs.

I’ll admit, there was a certain charm about the place. Depending on the room you stayed in, it was as if you were stepping back in time. All of the bedroom furniture was originally built in the 1920’s. All of the rooms are spacious and well kept. Joan cleaned day and night. She touched up every room and placed mints and a handwritten note on our pillows each evening. She thanked us for our continued support and always hoped this place was a light at the end of a gloomy day.

Of course, I know you will want to know about that Sunday evening dinner. I am certain you read about it in the news. I can hardly believe I was there and it all happened around me. I had been so preoccupied with work, I really didn’t notice what the other commuters were doing. I never tried to start a conversation with any of them. I didn’t see the point in making small talk. I wasn’t going to be friends with any of them. My friends and family were in Milwaukee.  

Joan had been cooking all afternoon. At seven o’clock, she presented us with a roast lamb, potatoes and a whole mix of different vegetables. We each were served with a cream of chicken soup and a small salad to the right of our large dinner plates. I’m sure the aroma floated out of the kitchen to the neighboring houses. It wasn’t uncommon for one of the neighbors to drop in for dessert on a Sunday evening. That Sunday evening was different. Bert, the attorney, wouldn’t make eye contact with Melanie, the professor. Ivan was a musician and he usually hummed throughout dinner. He was silent that night. Joan was a chatterbox going back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. She kept talking about all the people she met at the grocery store earlier in the day. She placed a basket of crusty day old French bread on the table and sat down. I offered her a place but she said she was full.

Bert reached for the breadbasket first. Our eyes met. I could tell he had a black eye. I picked up the basket. He picked out a piece of bread, glanced at Melanie and resumed hunching over his plate. He was quickly eating but trying not to be noticed. Melanie, on the other hand, kept stabbing the potato pieces with her fork. Ivan kept looking up at the ceiling and periodically watched Melanie stab her potatoes. It should have been obvious there was a problem, but I was trying so hard to please Joan. I wanted her to know her efforts weren’t wasted. She always seemed so much younger than seventy-two years old. I knew she planned a different meal every week for all of us to enjoy. I loved her for that. Bert scolded me for saying that out loud once. He reminded me these Sunday dinners were included in her weekly price.

As Melanie stabbed her last potato piece, the doorbell rang. I offered to get it, but Joan motioned at me to sit back down. When she returned, two police officers followed behind her. The taller police officer with the reddish mustache asked which one of us was Bert. Bert looked up. He wasn’t surprised. He got up from the table and the shorter police officer placed handcuffs on him. The shorter police officer began to read him his rights. Then the taller police officer read off Melanie’s name and started listing fraud charges, embezzlement claims, and theft. I put my hands over my mouth. I couldn’t believe it. Bert had been caught stealing from the firm he worked at. Melanie put the money Bert stole in offshore bank accounts. They had planned to run away together even though they were both married to other people. The shorter police officer asked Bert how he had gotten the black eye. He looked at me and then told the officer he ran into a door. The officer noticed my hand was bandaged. Tears had streamed down my face. My little red curls were drooping all over my head.

No one knew how hard it was to be a woman in my shoes. I had loved my life in Milwaukee. I was twenty-three when I started making this commute. Bert was in his mid-fifties. He was always flirting with me. One Wednesday evening, we crossed paths on the staircase and started kissing. We had our weeknight affair for months until Melanie started commuting from Milwaukee too. Bert dumped me for her. When I realized they had enough to run away and start over somewhere, I decided to stop them. I gave the police and the law firm an anonymous tip about Bert’s theft, and here we are. I don’t know if I turned them in for revenge. They were very discrete about their relationship in Joan’s enormous house. I suppose I didn’t like being abandoned. At any rate, Ivan and I sat with Joan for several hours that evening. Bert and Melanie are in prison serving sentences. I helped Joan put all of the leftovers in foil every Sunday evening until two years later when I was able to get a new job closer to home. The last Sunday evening I was there, I said to Joan, “That’s a wrap.”