Rude Awakenings: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 2)

Chapter Seven: Lauren, Spring, 1979

The steamer trunk looked like a pirate's treasure chest, and Lauren was thrilled to look upon it for two reasons: first, because she was with her friends on an adventure of their own devising; second, they were in Joe's house, in his parents' room, while his parents were away on some errands, and she knew if they were caught they would get in trouble, so that only heightened the sense of adventure.

The room had a large bed, and smelled of some kind of flowery perfume and astringent aftershave. On the dresser and walls were framed black and white photos of impossibly old times: a bride and groom in front of a medieval church; friends in short sleeved button down shirts open to the chest, laughing in front of a bar with signs that read Cinzano and Peroni, words that made no sense to her but sounded so exotic. It felt like a museum, a holy place, a place off-limits to them. It felt illicit being there with Joe; with their other friends, too, of course, but at the moment the only two people in the room, for her, were Joe and her, and they were being naughty when Joe was rarely anything but angelic. 

"What's in it?" Sunny asked.

"I bet it's gold doubloons," Rachel said.

"No," Joe said. "It was used to carry our belongings when we travelled here from Italy. Now it just has blankets and comforters in it."

"Killjoy," Lauren said. "Why can't you just pretend for a minute?"

Joe studied her with interest, and Lauren felt a flutter in her belly, because he rarely looked at her like that. "Okay," he said, "you want to open it and see?"

Al placed a hand gingerly on the scuffed wooden body of the chest, ran his fingers over the stamped words and the leather straps. "It looks so old," he breathed. "I love the words on it, they probably tell a great story about all the places it's been. Is it Italian?"

"Yeah," Joe said. "It's just saying which airport it ended up in, where it's supposed to go, inspection by Customs officials, that kind of thing. All bureaucratic stuff."

Al looked disappointed. "Still, that is a story if you choose to look at it that way. A story of your family's journey. That's a kind of treasure in itself."

They all looked at Al in astonishment, especially Rachel, Lauren noticed. "Huh," Rachel said. "A story as a treasure. You know, in the fantasy books my dad reads, people would tell stories in exchange for food and a room at the inn. So, in a way it's like money, something of value that can be traded."

Lauren knew Rachel was already thinking of how she could make money telling stories. Her days, when not spent at school, with her friends or with Mrs. Anderson, were spent coming up with ways to make more money. Their paper route was the only consistent source of income for her, the only way she could afford to go to Spagnol's to buy candy bars and pop. Their grande business venture, the Lawrence Street Detective Club, hadn't had any commissions since the caper last Fall, in which they'd passed off one dog for another. No doubt Rachel was aware of that, so a new source of revenue needed to be found.

"Can we open it?" Sunny asked.

"Sure, but be quick about it," Joe said. "My parents will be home soon, and we shouldn't be here."

Al gently lifted the lid, as if worried he would tear it off if he wasn't careful. As Joe said, there were only blankets and comforters inside, but the wood on the inside of the lid exuded an aroma that was pleasing. It smelled a little like the inside of the church Joe went to; Lauren had sneaked in one Sunday morning to see exactly what Joe did there every week for an hour, what was so fascinating about this "mass" as he called it. At the end of the hour, she'd found she wasn't any the wiser. All that seemed to happen was everyone sat, then stood, then sat, then stood, then knelt, then stood, while the bald priest droned on and on, with a few songs played on an organ that made her spine tingle. What Joe got out of this she couldn't fathom, but she understood it was something his family did, so he did it too, whether he wanted to or not. She understood the pull of family obligation, even if most of her family's history involved the pulling away from that obligation.