“Where’s your car?”
“Over there.” Casey points out into a dark and distant corner of the lot before pushing the crutches into motion, leaning and hopping fluidly alongside the redhead and the cart.
“The store was a lot more crowded when I got here,” Casey adds as they pass one empty space after another. “It took me forever to find what I needed and get out of there.”
“I can imagine. You don’t have a disability parking sticker?”
“No, not . . . yet. My doctor is working on it, though.”
“What happened?” She gestures down at the blue mesh post--op shoe strapped to Casey’s “bad” foot.
“My walkway was a sheet of ice on Tuesday. I slipped and broke it.”
“That stinks.” She nods, accepting the explanation. Just another casualty in a massive storm that brought down trees and power lines, caused a massive pileup on the interstate, and resulted in eleven lives lost.
Soon to be an even dozen, Casey thinks smugly. But of course, she won’t be added to the official toll.
It’ll be another of my little secrets.
They’ve almost reached the van parked beneath a burned--out lamppost.
Well—-not burned out. The rubber tip of one of Casey’s crutches comes down on what looks like a sliver of ice, but of course it’s a shard of glass from the overhead bulb that had been easily shattered with a well--aimed rock last night, long after the store had closed and the parking lot had emptied.
Casey pulls out the keys, presses a button, and the van’s back hatch unlatches and rises slowly. No interior light though. It, too, has been disabled, long before last night.
“Thanks so much,” Casey says as the woman parks the shopping cart near the rear bumper.
“No problem.”
She smiles and starts to turn away, never seeing the metal crutch arcing into the air before it slams into her head; never feeling the hand that roughly jerks down the hood of her jacket and briefly caresses her long red hair before yanking her into the van.
From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives
Opinion September 10, 2015
Protect Our Precious Children To the Editor:
When my husband and I relocated to the Hudson Valley after having been born and raised in Manhattan, we were looking for a safe, old--fashioned small town where we could provide our treasured daughter with the wonderful childhood she deserves. We thought we had found it in Mundy’s Landing.
Imagine our dismay when our Amanda came home from her first day of school yesterday and informed us that her fourth--grade class would be making an “educational” field trip in December to the historical society. Aware that the society houses macabre relics connected to the infamous murders of 1916, I was outraged and immediately called her teacher to protest. Ms. Mundy seemed unperturbed and informed me that this year’s social studies curriculum encompasses New York State history, which to her way of thinking entails taking advantage of the fact that some of the most colorful chapters unfolded here in the Hudson Valley. She added that the trip is a long--standing tradition.
Just because something has always been done doesn’t make it right! I invite fellow parents of our village to join me in taking a stand to protest this inappropriate local rite of passage. Aren’t our children entitled to an anxiety--free school experience without exposure to a disturbing tragedy under the guise of education?
Bari Hicks
Mundy Estates
Chapter 1
November 30, 2015
Mundy’s Landing, New York
Six minutes.