I Spy

I needed the money. Desperately. College costs were mounting, and my parents couldn’t help me. A brother with cerebral palsy and one fighting in Vietnam kept them occupied elsewhere. When Mrs. Garrison called, stuck without a sitter, I jumped at the chance. Two small boys, Michael, five and Adam, two, were easy. A bath, ten minutes of “The Brady Bunch” and they would be out cold.

“Ma, ma! Where are my faded bell-bottoms?” Not hearing me over The Price is Right, I called out again.

“You know. The ones with the peace sign you hate.”

“In the dryer and I’m not a maid, so please take care of your clothes. You’re in college, for God’s sake.”

“I hear you. I’m leaving after I change. Don’t know what time I’ll be home. The Garrisons have some political fundraising dinner or something.”

I headed out the door into the early October evening. The crisp air and crunch of leaves underfoot made me long for my college dorm. The Garrisons lived a block away, and the chance to walk outside was a welcome break from the fear and depression at home. Every phone call, every letter, every car made my parents freak out. Vietnam was real and in your face every day and now my big brother was there, fighting the Viet Cong or whatever.

Walking up the driveway, I was already counting the money. The Garrisons had dough, and they always paid well, and this gig could pay for the psyche and sociology books I needed. I reached for the doorbell, by Mrs. Garrison was already there, dressed in a flower print mini dress and hair sprayed stiff with Aquanet.

“Rachel, please come on in. The boys are already eating mac-n-cheese. Help yourself if you’d like some.”

“Walter, Rachel’s here. We have to go!” The Garrisons were not that old and Mr. Garrison was super cool and foxy, almost European looking. He bounded down the stairs wearing a deep blue suit with his shirt unbuttoned underneath, brown chest hair peeking out.

“Ok ok, let’s go! Oh hey Rachel, thanks for doing this, really appreciate it. We should be home by 11:30, as long as this one here doesn’t get too drunk. Boys are excited you’re here. They love you. See you later.”

Closing the door, I headed to the kitchen, just in time to witness Adam dump his food on the floor.

“Ok monkeys, let’s clean this up. Then baths and some TV and then time to get some sleep.”

Once the boys were in bed, I had to check out the rest of the house. I’d only been inside a few times with my mom, dropping off a casserole or pack of cigarettes. The Garrisons were the sort of neighbors we knew, but didn’t know. Strolling through the house, my heart was pounding because it felt strangely exciting and wrong at the same time to go into someone else’s space. The kitchen and living room were downstairs and nothing special, so I knew upstairs was where I needed to go. Heading up the stairs, I peeked in on the boys to make sure they were asleep, then straight across the hall to the master bedroom.

They got ready in a hurry as the bed was disheveled and clothes were laying on the floor. The room smelled like a mixture of smoke and Chanel, and the TV was still on. I reached over to flick it off and noticed paper stuck between the mattress and box spring. Probably Playboy Magazine, because that’s where my brother kept his. As I inched closer, I realized it wasn’t glossy like a magazine, but drier like a letter. My guilt sense was tingling, and I knew I shouldn’t look, but couldn’t stop. Gingerly lifting the mattress, I pulled out the paper, stepping over to the bedside table so I could see it more clearly. Written in German, it looked like a birth certificate dated Berlin 1943. The name of the child was Walter Josef Klein. I don't speak German but recognized the word Mutter means mother, and written next to it was the name, Gerta Plotz. Right next to Vater, and in deep black type, Adolph Hitler.

“Well Rachel, isn’t this interesting, what shall we do now?” Walter Garrison whispered, standing in the bedroom doorway.