The scooter, the thief, and the hard lesson
About fifteen minutes after the girls and I came home today, Fiona came into the house, crying. "What is it?" I asked, baffled. "Did someone hurt your feelings?"
She shook her head, still crying.
"Did you fall off your scooter?"
"No. Somebody took it!"
She had been riding it on the other side of the block, when a boy came up to her that she didn't recognize. "Can I see your scooter?" he asked.
"Okay, as long as you give it back," Fiona said.
Whereupon he got on it and immediately rode away.
I extricated this story from her with difficulty, and got a very vague description of the boy. It had all happened so fast. I yelled for Delia, and after a quick fruitless query with the neighbors to see if anyone recognized the boy from the description--no luck--we piled into the car and cruised a few streets nearby. No sign of the boy, or the scooter. It occurred to me that the staff at the park building a block from our house might be able to help, so we stopped there.
The park staffer listened to Fiona's story, and asked a few of the boys hanging around the doorway if they knew anything. Nobody did. The description was so vague that it wasn't much to go on, but the staffer did call one parent. The father on the other end of the line said that his boys had come home on bikes, not a scooter. I left our address and phone number and we left without much hope.
We went back into the house, and I went with Fiona up to her room. We cuddled up in the rocker and she held her Kirsten doll and we talked. I felt so badly for her, and a burning sense of outrage. How dare this boy take advantage of my little girl's innocence. How dare he steal her Christmas present like that. How dare he.
But one other detail of the story had come out when Fiona had told the story to the park staffer, and I focused on that. Fiona remembered there was another boy who had been standing across the street when the scooter was taken. Fiona said this second boy had called out to her, "He's not going to bring it back." And then he had gone into his home.
I decided we weren't done sleuthing yet. "Come on, Fiona," I told her. "Maybe that second boy knows the boy who took your scooter."
So we went knocking on a stranger's door. But the father who answered, strangely enough, was the father that the park staffer had called, because one of the boys who lived in the house, Henry, sort of fit that vague description. I asked the father if I could speak to his boys, because we thought they had seen the boy who had actually taken it. So the father called the two boys in and questioned them.
"Sure," the youngest boy, Quazzi, said. "I recognized him. It was Jamal. He took it."
The father and I looked at each other. "You're sure?" the father said. "This isn't the sort of thing we want to make a mistake about."
Yes, Quazzi was sure.
"Do you know where Jamal lives?"
Yes, Quazzi knew. He'd been to his house before. "It's just a few blocks from here."
The father offered to come with me. We all piled into the car, and drove to an address about six blocks away, and I marched up to the door with Fiona and went through the story again with the young mother who answered the door.
She looked at me, and a grim look came over her face. I had the impression that she didn't find this description of her son's alleged behavior entirely unbelievable. "Jamal? Come here."
Jamal came. Fiona wasn't sure whether it was him. But sure enough, he had a red sweatshirt with a hood that he had been wearing earlier in the day.
His mother questioned him, and his story, hastily concocted, did not hang together very well. He had been at the park, waiting for Henry to pick him up. A dog had chased him. We went through our account again, and Jamal suggested perhaps Henry had taken the scooter.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I just happen to have Henry in the car," I said. So I went back to the car and got Henry and Quazzi and their father, and Jamal's mother's face got grimmer and grimmer as Jamal dug himself in deeper and deeper. "Tell you what," she said. "Give me your number. I will get to the bottom of this, and I will find that scooter."
That was good enough for me. I dropped the boys and their father off and we went home. The phone was ringing as we walked in the house.
It was Jamal's mother. "I found your daughter's scooter," she said. "It was in the back of my house. You can come and pick it up right now."
And so Fiona and I went back again. We rung the bell, and Jamal's mother answered, and soon, Fiona's scooter was back in her eager hands. It was muddy, but none the worse for wear.
"Jamal," the mother called. "You come out here and apologize to this little girl."
No answer.
The mother disappeared, and we heard raised voices on the other side of the wall.
"You are gonna go out there and apologize!"
"Naw. I didn't do nothin'."
There was the sound of a slap. "Jamal, you get out there."
"I'm not gonna!"
There came the sound of more blows. I winced and drew Fiona close to me and put my arm around her shoulders. The boy was crying, and both he and the mother continued to yell at each other.
Finally, the mother reappeared at the door, belt still in her hand. "I apologize for my son," she said, with all the dignity she could muster.
"I'm just glad we got the scooter back," I said, and I gave her a little half-hearted smile, and a look that I hope she interpreted to mean I understand.
"He will be punished," she said, and closed the door.
We drove back home. "I feel sorry for Jamal," Fiona said suddenly.
"I do, too," I told her. "But I think I feel more sorry for his mother."
I called the father of Henry and Quazzi to thank them again. "I've always tried to teach my boys right," he said simply.
She shook her head, still crying.
"Did you fall off your scooter?"
"No. Somebody took it!"
She had been riding it on the other side of the block, when a boy came up to her that she didn't recognize. "Can I see your scooter?" he asked.
"Okay, as long as you give it back," Fiona said.
Whereupon he got on it and immediately rode away.
I extricated this story from her with difficulty, and got a very vague description of the boy. It had all happened so fast. I yelled for Delia, and after a quick fruitless query with the neighbors to see if anyone recognized the boy from the description--no luck--we piled into the car and cruised a few streets nearby. No sign of the boy, or the scooter. It occurred to me that the staff at the park building a block from our house might be able to help, so we stopped there.
The park staffer listened to Fiona's story, and asked a few of the boys hanging around the doorway if they knew anything. Nobody did. The description was so vague that it wasn't much to go on, but the staffer did call one parent. The father on the other end of the line said that his boys had come home on bikes, not a scooter. I left our address and phone number and we left without much hope.
We went back into the house, and I went with Fiona up to her room. We cuddled up in the rocker and she held her Kirsten doll and we talked. I felt so badly for her, and a burning sense of outrage. How dare this boy take advantage of my little girl's innocence. How dare he steal her Christmas present like that. How dare he.
But one other detail of the story had come out when Fiona had told the story to the park staffer, and I focused on that. Fiona remembered there was another boy who had been standing across the street when the scooter was taken. Fiona said this second boy had called out to her, "He's not going to bring it back." And then he had gone into his home.
I decided we weren't done sleuthing yet. "Come on, Fiona," I told her. "Maybe that second boy knows the boy who took your scooter."
So we went knocking on a stranger's door. But the father who answered, strangely enough, was the father that the park staffer had called, because one of the boys who lived in the house, Henry, sort of fit that vague description. I asked the father if I could speak to his boys, because we thought they had seen the boy who had actually taken it. So the father called the two boys in and questioned them.
"Sure," the youngest boy, Quazzi, said. "I recognized him. It was Jamal. He took it."
The father and I looked at each other. "You're sure?" the father said. "This isn't the sort of thing we want to make a mistake about."
Yes, Quazzi was sure.
"Do you know where Jamal lives?"
Yes, Quazzi knew. He'd been to his house before. "It's just a few blocks from here."
The father offered to come with me. We all piled into the car, and drove to an address about six blocks away, and I marched up to the door with Fiona and went through the story again with the young mother who answered the door.
She looked at me, and a grim look came over her face. I had the impression that she didn't find this description of her son's alleged behavior entirely unbelievable. "Jamal? Come here."
Jamal came. Fiona wasn't sure whether it was him. But sure enough, he had a red sweatshirt with a hood that he had been wearing earlier in the day.
His mother questioned him, and his story, hastily concocted, did not hang together very well. He had been at the park, waiting for Henry to pick him up. A dog had chased him. We went through our account again, and Jamal suggested perhaps Henry had taken the scooter.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I just happen to have Henry in the car," I said. So I went back to the car and got Henry and Quazzi and their father, and Jamal's mother's face got grimmer and grimmer as Jamal dug himself in deeper and deeper. "Tell you what," she said. "Give me your number. I will get to the bottom of this, and I will find that scooter."
That was good enough for me. I dropped the boys and their father off and we went home. The phone was ringing as we walked in the house.
It was Jamal's mother. "I found your daughter's scooter," she said. "It was in the back of my house. You can come and pick it up right now."
And so Fiona and I went back again. We rung the bell, and Jamal's mother answered, and soon, Fiona's scooter was back in her eager hands. It was muddy, but none the worse for wear.
"Jamal," the mother called. "You come out here and apologize to this little girl."
No answer.
The mother disappeared, and we heard raised voices on the other side of the wall.
"You are gonna go out there and apologize!"
"Naw. I didn't do nothin'."
There was the sound of a slap. "Jamal, you get out there."
"I'm not gonna!"
There came the sound of more blows. I winced and drew Fiona close to me and put my arm around her shoulders. The boy was crying, and both he and the mother continued to yell at each other.
Finally, the mother reappeared at the door, belt still in her hand. "I apologize for my son," she said, with all the dignity she could muster.
"I'm just glad we got the scooter back," I said, and I gave her a little half-hearted smile, and a look that I hope she interpreted to mean I understand.
"He will be punished," she said, and closed the door.
We drove back home. "I feel sorry for Jamal," Fiona said suddenly.
"I do, too," I told her. "But I think I feel more sorry for his mother."
I called the father of Henry and Quazzi to thank them again. "I've always tried to teach my boys right," he said simply.