Err on the Side of Violence: Terribly Acronymed Detective Club Series (Book 3)

Chapter Three: Joe, Summer, 1971

Five-year old Joe didn't know what to make of the girl who lived in the house his family used to live in. She was always streaked with dirt, and her knees were always skinned, and her hair was a mess in the back, but she wasn't a kid raised by wolves. She had a mother and a father, although mostly Joe only saw her father, and even him not very often; her mother hadn't been around lately, but to five-year old Joe, that wasn't a concern. Time, when you were this young, wasn't linear, so he wouldn't have been able to assign any significance to her prolonged absence. He was confident she would be back, and however long it took it would be soon enough. What also put him at ease about it was that the girl never seemed overly distraught her mother was gone. She held Mrs. Anderson's hand as confidently as she would her own mother's, and the older woman, a great friend of the family, seemed to dote on her as a mother would, so he knew the girl would be all right.

He watched her as he sat in Mrs. Anderson's garden while Dad worked, nailing together pieces of driftwood he found on the shore of the river; Joe sometimes went with Dad on these scavenging trips, and he was fascinated by what they found washing up sometimes: an old boot, a bicycle wheel, a length of chain. 

The girl held a basket while Mrs. Anderson picked vegetables. She munched on a carrot without even washing it first. This was just too much. His mother washed everything as soon as she brought it into the house. He had to warn her she was endangering her health by eating dirt.

He strolled over to her and said, "You should wash that."

She looked up at him and continued munching. "Why?" she asked with a full mouth.

"It's dirty."

She shrugged. "I rubbed off most of it on my shirt."

Mrs. Anderson looked up at him and brightened. "Giuseppe, you remember Rachel, don't you? You're going to go to Kindergarten together soon, won't that be fun?"

Joe looked at Rachel, which was her name, apparently. He didn't remember her. Or did he? At this age memory was still hazy.

Rachel said, "Juice-ep-ee?"

"Call me Joe, it's easier. My name's just Italian for Joseph anyway."

Her brow furrowed. "What's Italian?"

"It's the language Joe's family spoke when they used to live in Italy, and still speak now at home and with other Italians," Mrs. Anderson said.

Rachel looked at him and said, "Can you speak Italian?"

"Sure."

"Can you say something in Italian?"

"Mi chiamo Giuseppe."

"What does that mean?"

Joe shrugged. "My name is Joe."

"Oh. So, if I say mi chiamo Rachel, that'd be me talking Italian."

"Sure. But your name in Italian would be Rachelle."

"Rah-kay-lay?"

"Close, but good enough."

Rachel smiled. "Wanna play?"

"Sure!" He turned back to Dad. "Hey, Dad, can I play with Rachel?"

Dad nodded and waved him away. Rachel left the basket with Mrs. Anderson and they walked off together. "Come back here when you're done, Rachel," Mrs. Anderson said. "Your dad won't be home until later, so I need to know where you are."

"Okay!" Rachel called back.

They emerged on to Lawrence Street, and eventually found themselves jumping the ditch. As Queensborough was at sea level, drainage ditches were needed to prevent flooding. There was one between the street and Mrs. Anderson's house, running the length of the street, and it was just wide enough for five-year old Joe to jump with a little running start. He and Rachel laughed as they flew back and forth across the ditch, and laughed even harder when Rachel shot short and landed on the downslope and rolled to the bottom, which was mercifully dry in the summer. Joe slid in to join her, and they marched down the length of the ditch until they noticed another boy their age playing in front of his house.