Roadblock XI
Restored in October 2026 from a 2003 copy of the original PenBase page saved by the Wayback Machine; Pentrace’s own database copy had been cut short.
“Hey, lady, you’re absolutely crazy!” I heard the slightly hoarse, baritone voice of the male Tony, Anthony Morelli, call out. “The Cardinals make the Cubs look minor league!”
“That’s what you think,” Antonia called cheerfully. “If you knew as much about baseball as you do about feeding your big, fat face, I might pay attention to you.”
The Tonys were at it again. I halted outside their door, cleared my throat loudly, knocked, and then entered. They were busily at work on a body. I took a brief look and recognized Ada Green, the local grocer’s mother. I made a mental note to send the grocer a note of condolence and turned to my two employees.
“Do either of you know where William is?” I asked, trying to sound sterner than I felt.
The Tonys looked at each other for a second. The look bespoke consternation. Then Antonia replied, “It’s Wednesday, Mrs. Euler. He’s teaching his class.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. William teaches a course on the grieving process at the community college every semester. It’s quite a popular course, as he is known to be an excellent instructor. I knew it was scheduled for Wednesday afternoons this semester, but I’d lost track of the days because so much had been happening so quickly.
Determined not to show my embarrassment, I immediately spoke again. “Well then, if you have time to take a break from arguing about the Cubs and the Cardinals, I could use your help,” I grumbled.
Antonia blushed, but Anthony just grinned at me. “Sure, Mrs. E.,” he purred. “Anything to help the boss.”
I snorted. “Are either of you experienced on the Internet?”
Antonia blushed again, as her colleague pointed at her. “She is, Mrs. E.,” he burbled happily. “She can do anything on the ‘net.”
“I don’t need just anything,” I said emphatically. “I need something quite specific.” I glared at the young man for a moment, and he smiled placatingly. “Just a manner of speaking. If you don’t need me, I’ll get back to Mrs. Green.”
I led Antonia upstairs to the computer in Steven’s office. Steven keeps insisting I should put in an entire computer network, but we’ve managed so far with just one PC, and since I’m not particularly impressed with computers, I would rather spend the money on other projects.
Once Antonia was seated, I explained what I wanted. “I need to find out the name of a musical prize and the name of a musical composition,” I said. “All I know about them is that they were composed by my son James and his wife Patricia, and that the prize is being awarded in Vancouver.”
“Is being awarded?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“So it hasn’t yet,” she said.
I was feeling a bit impatient, but I bit my tongue. “That’s correct.”
“Then the information may not yet be available online,” she warned me.
I shrugged. “Do your best. That’s all I ask.”
Antonia’s best took her a full hour, but her labors were in vain. While she was working, I heard her mumble, “With so little information I won’t be able to find Jack Sh*t.” I almost interrupted to tell her how fortunate it was that she wasn’t looking for Jack Sh*t, but I decided such an interruption would be disruptive as well as unnecessary. I knew when I was tempted to be difficult, and this time I avoided temptation.
“Sorry, Mrs. Euler,” she said finally. “I’ve searched everything I could think of, but I came up empty. I really need more information. And even then, I’m not sure a prize that hasn’t been awarded yet would show up.”
“Well, it has been announced,” I protested.
She shrugged. “Sorry.”
I sent her back to Anthony and the late Mrs. Green and returned to my own office. I knew that I had a difficult choice. Either I could write James a generic letter of congratulations or I’d have to phone and ferret out the details I needed. A generic letter would hardly have the desired effect, I thought, but phoning might embroil me in one of my awful conversations with my son that always left both of us wishing we hadn’t tried to talk. I sat in my office the rest of the afternoon brooding. I wished Phoebe or Steven were here to advise me. Or even William. Then it occurred to me to call Anita.
I laughed as I dialed her number. She was the obvious person to ask for advice. I let the phone ring twenty-five times before I gave up. Then I started brooding again.
I tried Anita several times that afternoon and early evening before I finally went home at a little after eight. Then I tried from home, but to no avail. I was beginning to worry when my phone rang at a quarter to ten.
“Marian, you won’t believe what that son of yours has been doing all afternoon,” I heard Anita’s voice announce. For a moment I thought she was talking about James, since he’d been on my mind, but as she went on, I realized that she meant Andrew.
“What?”
“He’s been helping Laurel look for Roadblock.”
I laughed. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“They’ve been looking in and around my house,” she said, chuckling. “We spent four hours going through the deserted field across the way. Then they took me out to dinner.”
“We?” I repeated the word, just to be sure.
“You certainly don’t think I’d miss a chance to go chasing through a deserted field in the company of a military man, do you?” Anita responded. I decided not to reply to that.
“I thought Laurel was convinced that Paula had arranged for Roadblock to be kidnapped, er, catnapped,” I said. Anita’s chuckle turned into outright laughter.
“Apparently Andrew persuaded her to explore all other avenues of kitty recovery before leveling an accusation of such gravity,” Anita replied. I could almost hear her tongue tapping on her molars. “And she, convinced that your son is infallible, agreed.”
I snorted. “Well, I guess they’ll be coming over here tomorrow.”
“Quite possibly. Though Andrew advised her that the most likely place to find the cat was her own neighborhood.”
“That’s what I told her too.”
“The neighbors weren’t home this morning,” Anita observed. “And I think Laurel got back home too late to knock on doors tonight.”
“How late did your dinner go on?”
“They just dropped me off about fifteen minutes before I phoned you. Apparently Andrew and Laurel have a great deal to talk about, though I admit that I didn’t find his jokes all that funny or his military stories particularly entertaining. For a man who earns his living as a banker, he certainly does play up his rather limited military experience.”
“He is in the reserves,” I replied, “and you and everyone else encourage him with willingness to listen to his exaggerated fabrications.”
Anita laughed. “Yes, I know we do. He’s a colonel, isn’t he? Just exactly how much active duty has he seen?”
I cleared my throat. “None, thank heavens!”
“Just as well,” she replied. “In any case, I thought you’d like to know what he and Laurel have been up to.”
“I was trying to reach you,” I said. “I can’t make up my mind whether or not to phone James to get the details of his music prize so I can write an informed letter of congratulations. We always have such uncomfortable phone calls.”
“Music prize?” Anita asked. “What music prize?”
“I know I told you that he and his wife won a music prize that they are about to collect in Vancouver.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, I told you. You’re losing your memory.”
I was gearing up for a good argument, but Anita just yawned and said, “Could be,” depriving me of a chance to vent my frustration.
“Well, should I call James or not?” I demanded.
“You may end up talking to his wife again,” Anita replied quite sensibly. “Didn’t you tell me James doesn’t like to answer the phone?”
“That’s true. So you think I ought to call?”
Anita yawned. “Why not? It’s still early evening in California. When you find out about the prize, let me know. I’ve always enjoyed his compositions.”
“You’ve heard his music?” I asked, astonished.
“When I was tutoring him,” she informed me. “I thought you knew that. I tried to persuade him that a knowledge of mathematics would enhance his ability to write music, but he wasn’t having any of it.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I said. “Good night, Anita.”
I sat at the phone for a half-hour after Anita’s call. James had never willingly let me hear any of his compositions. I always had to wheedle or threaten to take away his oboe. I felt aggrieved and was tempted to blame Anita. That was easier than blaming James or myself. Finally I pulled myself together and dialed my son’s number, hoping that it would not be he who picked up the phone.
No one picked up at first, and I was about to hang up when the answering machine kicked in with a few notes of a familiar melody followed by my son’s voice declaring that no one could come to the phone. Perhaps they’d already gone to Vancouver, I thought. I was not eager to leave a message in any case and was about to hang up when I heard a click and my son’s voice once again, this time live.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, James,” I replied to the rather sullen greeting, wishing all the while that I’d hung up while I had the chance.
“Mother?”
His voice sounded disbelieving but not, surprisingly, dismayed. I was gratified that he’d recognized my voice immediately, and resisting the temptation to engage in small talk or to comment on how gratified I was, I simply requested that he tell me about the composition and the prize. Though he seemed taken aback, he complied, though he told me a great deal about the composition and nearly nothing about the prize. For a half-hour James talked about himself, his passion for music, the problems he’d encountered in getting “Benediction” (the title of the piece) completed to his satisfaction, and his amazement when he received notification that it had taken first place in a competition up in British Columbia.
“I hadn’t even wanted to send the thing in, you see,” he whispered, “but Patricia insisted.” He laughed softly, and it was good to hear. The last time I could remember hearing James laugh was before he went away to school. We’d been drawing birds together, and he made up some silly lyrics to a song. “When I told Patricia that I didn’t think the piece was any good after all my work,” he continued, “she said she knew the part she’d written was good, and if I didn’t send the composition in, she would. And she’d take all the credit for it too.” He laughed again. “She wrote the part for the strings, you see. She has a very good ear.”
Thank heavens for Patricia, I thought, but I didn’t say a word. In the past I’d often offered what I felt were helpful or encouraging comments. I told James he really ought to try to make his living as a composer or a musician instead of slaving away on his little bit of land, but every time I did so, he ended the conversation abruptly.
“The best thing about my… our winning this competition is that we’ll get a chance to hear the piece played by professional musicians. The worst is that I’ll have to speak at a reception. You know how much I dislike public speaking. But I thought that if I told them about the fig tree that was the inspiration for the piece, that would be something quite unlike what they hear from other composers.”
I was sure it would be, and that worried me a little, I admit. Hesitantly I ventured, “The fig tree?”
“Yes, I was sitting by the fig tree in our back yard, just enjoying the sun when suddenly I got the oddest sensation. It was as if there was no boundary between the tree and me. The life force that animated the tree animated me as well, and I not only knew it, but I felt it in every fiber of my being.”
Uh oh, I thought, but I didn’t give voice to my misgivings. James had always been prone to what Lawrence called bouts of insanity. I didn’t believe the episodes were insane at all, but they were certainly not what one would ordinarily call normal. I wondered if composers were allowed to be as moonstruck as poets. I really didn’t know, so James’ intention of speaking about his mystical inspiration, for indeed mystical was the only word I could come up with to do justice to what he’d described, filled me with anxiety.
“Will Patricia speak as well?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “But she’ll help me write my remarks, of course.”
I breathed a vast sigh of relief. “That’s good,” I said. Then, thinking he might sense my dubiousness, I added, “It would be nice to have her input, wouldn’t it?”
He chuckled. “Of course. I always appreciate her input.”
On that note we bid each other good night. I hung up, relieved I’d not said anything that provoked withdrawal. It was the first time in years that we’d had such a pleasant phone conversation. I wondered as I repaired to my bed, book in hand, if that was because I’d hardly said a word.