InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "It's the eye of the Tweakger!"

September 6, 1966. It's a warm day in Bedford, Massachusetts. The leaves have just started to brown around the edges as the brilliance of summer fades into a cool autumn. Miss Fletcher's second grade class is getting to know each other on the playground, running across the grass and scraping knees. It's on this day that John De Witte puts gum in Marcia Sternwood's fine blonde curls. Normally a very well-behaved boy, everyone else brushes it off as an accident, even if it's clear to her that his apologies aren't that sincere. As she's later told by her older and much wiser Fifth Grader sister, Tricia, while picking the sticky pink substance out and trying so hard not to cry, it means he likes her. Marcia thinks she's insane. Almost ten years later, it turns out that she's actually right.

April 15, 1976. They share a blanket underneath the darkest sky and dotted with the brightest stars. His letter jacket is draped over her shoulders, and unbeknownst to her, there's an old ring with a stone as sparkling as the lights overhead sitting in the left pocket, next to his hand. He has two important things to tell her, and, despite knowing her so well now that he doesn't have to, asks whether she wants first the good news or the bad. Marcia smiles, red lips pulled back to reveal those pearl-like teeth, shakes her head so that those curls fall into her face. He wants to kiss her right then, but waits for a better moment. The bad, of course, so she can have a happy ending. He clears his throat; alright, and he tells her that he's signed up for the ROTC at Amherst. That sweet smile falters; not three years ago did her own brother die, fighting for a cause he didn't believe in, but was forced to go halfway across the world to kill or be killed. But much as her own losses make her feel a bit of fire in the pit of her stomach, she understands where John comes from. His family is one that belongs to the military; practically raised at Hanscom, he has never seen himself going anywhere else in life but down the path of his father, and his father's father, and so on. She tells him she loves him. He asks her, palms sweating and hands shaking as he reaches into that pocket and gets on his knees, if she loves him enough to marry him. The answer is obvious.

June 5, 1980. The weather is just starting to heat up on Langley Air Force Base. Marcia, nearly two weeks past due date, is taking a walk with a few of the other wives and their children when her water breaks. Despite logging in hours over enemy territory, John hasn't been this nervous since the night of his proposal. But he tries to quell the shaking in his limbs as he's handed his tiny fair-haired daughter, holding Josephine Nora De Witte for the very first time. Her name is that of his mother's, but her blue eyes are his own, and her beauty will be as great, if not greater, than her mother. In an attempt to hush her loud cries (it's nothing compared to the roar of jets on take off, but he's a little surprised at how something so small can produce such volume), he lifts her high enough to kiss her on the forehead gently, still unsure of how to hold such a delicate, tiny thing, but he's been told he'll be a natural father. And even if he's not, he hopes his little girl will love him all the same.

August 29, 1989. She's smiling widely, but really, she hates this place. It's only been two days, but she misses the tropical warmth of Honolulu. She misses the smell of plumeria in the air, and the frequent state of liquid sunshine, where the sky is bright and yet the rain still mists the people below. She still mourns the best authentic Mexican food that can be found in Del Rio, the hushpuppies of Biloxi, and the freshest bowl of soba in Fussa. For a second time, she's disappointed that they have to move somewhere ese, having gotten her hopes up when they were staying in Fairfield. In truth, Scott is just like any of the other Air Force Bases she's lived on, but she's decided to hate being here, simply because it's another place to adjust to. (In truth, it's really because she's still mad at herself for leaving without seeing her best friend at Hickam one last time, because saying goodbye was just too hard to do again.)

January 18, 1991. She doesn't look at his face as she puts the frame between sheets of bubblewrap. She's afraid that if she does, she'll break, as fragile as the glass pane protecting his picture in dress uniform. As fragile as her mother is right now, a box of tissues always on hand as she forces herself to put away dishes and bedspreads and clothing that still smells like him, even if he's been gone for over six months. At any given moment, she'll drop what she's doing and start crying, and Josephine won't know what to do, other than pass the tissues and stand by in awkward silence. As for herself, she hasn't shed a single tear, not even at the memorial service. It's not that she isn't sad -- she loved her father, she really did, and no one could question that. There was no one happier to see him when he came back from his deployment, running to grasp his legs, small hands clutching at the green camo cloth and never wanting to let go again. But she can't seem to make herself cry, no matter how much people expect it of her. She can't afford to break her resolve. Because this time, he's not coming back, his body lost to a desert storm. His strength, however, lingers on in his daughter.

October 13, 1996. The sound that stirs her is the piercing cry of her half-sister, Brigid, whose vocal capacity is almost as good as little Sammy's was a few years ago, cutting through the walls of their small home in Lincoln Park like a knife. Her backpack is still on the floor where she left it, having thrown it on the ground after slamming her door and curling up in her bed, under all of the covers. The room is dark, illuminated only by the numbers on the clock reading 11:11. It's long past dinner time, and her stomach knows it, rolling and growling at her for food. But after arguing in the car to the point of getting grounded for two weeks about her "disciplinary issues" at school (she hadn't meant to say "ignorant bitch" out loud in the middle of class, even if is true about Ms. Browning), she's too proud to sneak downstairs and pick around for leftovers. Stupid as it is, she'd rather make a feast of those chocolate bars she has stashed in one of her desk drawers than go out and risk having to see her mother or Nick. She's less concerned about what he has to say to her than her mom, though; even after three years of marriage and nearly a decade of being a fearless firefighter, he hasn't been able to make himself into the disciplinarian of the child that isn't his. It doesn't matter, anyway -- being grounded is punishment enough, albeit one ineffectual for a girl who can count all of her true friends on one hand, two of whom she only contacts through monthly letters and hasn't seen in almost ten years.

February 14, 2000. That's what she can't stand about him. Why does she have to be the man in this relationship? Isn't it supposed to be the guy who doesn't want to form the emotional attachment? Isn't he the one who's supposed to just be happy with the sex and leave it at that? Why complicate everything by saying those three words? She didn't want to hear it, but he said it and lightly kissed her on that spot under her jaw and down her neck, then laid his head down next to hers before falling asleep. Jo is already trying to figure out a way to make it easy on him, a believable method of saying "it's not you, it's me" -- in truth, it really is Jo that has the problem, but no one ever buys that crap when you say it to them. She watches him breathing easily in the moonlight, chest rising and falling in a steady, even pattern, while there's a knot forming in her gut and she desperately wants to slip her arm out from under his head and roll over on her side. But she's not ready to wake him just yet. It's Valentine's Day in the morning, and all of their friends were planning on going out to dinner after class. She has the most awful timing.

May 29, 2002. There are tubes and wires hooked up to him while he sleeps, and he looks either like the back of a stereo or out of a scene from ER. The worst part of it all is that she had actually thought for a moment while flying in from Berkeley, at least they found a body this time. How awful is that? She's angry at herself for it, but says nothing to her mother, sitting in the chair on his right, next to the arm that's bandaged up, but still in tact. While they'd never been particularly religious before Nick Chandler came into their lives (he grew up a good Southern boy from a devoutly Christian family), she can tell that underneath those closed eyelids and hands clasped tightly together under her chin, she's praying for him. Josephine thinks about praying, too, but it seems too dishonest to suddenly call upon a God she never believed in before, just for this one favor. Glancing at her watch, it's 11:11, and Sam and Hannah are probably in bed by now. They don't know what's going on, just that daddy's hurt, and she's come home to take care of everyone. After four years of college and a degree in Criminal Justice, Josephine thought she'd be able to finally live her own life, but it seems like she has to be strong for everyone else again.

November 3, 2003. A year ago, she didn't expect to be standing here in this ultra blue smock, the name of the devil embroidered in white across the front, above a little tag with her name on it. The smug smiley bastard hanging on signs everywhere only makes her want to cringe more, and possibly punch him in his bright yellow face. However, she learned long ago how to force that frown upside-down while pleasantly handing a neat little envelope filled with blurry pictures of a family equally as ugly as the morbidly obese woman in front of her, about whom she wonders how she could even take photos with those sausage-like fingers without breaking the camera in her meaty fists. Josephine hates this place with a fiery passion, but a job's a job, and she needs to do something during the day while mom and the kids are at the elementary school (Jo feels lucky she never had to face the embarrassment of having one's parent kiss their booboo's better and get paid for it), and Nick is at physical therapy. Sure, she could've kept going with her Police Academy training, but after thirteen weeks, she'd just about decided she couldn't make it, and wasn't going to quit on her decision to quit.

December 17, 2003. These family portraits made for greeting cards are starting to get nauseating, and if that sleaze Steve thinks he's coming around with the mistletoe near her, he's going to get smacked with more than a sexual harassment suit. There's apparently no way to get out of the holiday spirit -- even claiming she's Jewish gets a laugh and a "Happy Hanukkah", and there's no way that she can pass for a celebrator of Kwanzaa. As for praising Allah...she didn't get along with her co-workers as it was, but she wasn't exactly interested in getting lynched. It's almost time for their booth to close, but she takes her time to sort through the stacks of photos that have yet to get picked up, not really that eager to get home to her own loving family. The Chandlers are in town, and try as they might to make it seem like she's one of their grandchildren, too, it's always clear that she's not. She's the lone De Witte, out of place and at odds with this world. While nobody's looking (though it's not like anyone pays attention to her here, anyway), she decides to slip a finger into one of the envelopes that have been sitting in the collection area for a couple of days now. What she finds inside is more than what she was expecting.

December 18, 2003. The woman at the desk is utterly unhelpful and unnecessarily gruff. But judging from every movie and television program she's seen involving front desks at police stations, it must be one of the job qualifications. Actually, the Scrooge-like attitude was almost a little refreshing, considering how insanely cheerful people seemed to make themselves during this, the most wonderful time of the year. Almost. Not quite, though, because Josephine doesn't like getting brushed off when these are clearly important matters. That packet of photographs is evidence. Gory, gruesome evidence, shots of a poorly lit room, masked men, a girl, and a lot of blood. And yet the woman didn't even bother to look at what she was handed. But that's the system, she realizes, said method of organization being part of the reason why she never went through with becoming part of it. That woman, and those detectives, are too busy handling "real crimes" right now. And while one might hope that the season of giving would cause people to take a vacation from their wayward activities, it only seems to increase the numbers. So maybe, Jo decides, she'll just lighten their caseload a little. She's got nothing better to do, after all.

December 19, 2003. Thinking ahead has always been her strength, though duping the system at the booth isn't exactly a tough job to pull off. It's merely a matter of writing down the wrong numbers, switching around labels and covering tracks. The old man and his boy (as she's dubbed him in her mind; aside from checking her out at the door, she doesn't think he thinks much of her, so she's returning the sentiment) seem a bit surprised at her ingenuity and careful forethought, and actually stop being patronizing when they take a look at the photos, her digital enlargements and enhancements on certain parts, and hear her list out the facts she knows: the type of film, the type of camera used, and the date it was delivered. What she needs them to do is fill in the rest of the blanks. Who? What? Where? Why? She's already poured over missing persons listings, but hasn't found a single girl who looks like the one in the photograph. And she's pretty certain that this isn't some high schooler hoax, even if it does look like it was a prank gone wrong. As for location, growing up in this city, she's almost certain she can identify bits and pieces of those dark corners. But there's only so much an amateur sleuth can do on her own.

December 24, 2003. She'd always been told that real crimes don't get solved half as quickly as they do on shows like Law & Order, but maybe a part of the reason is that the law is too slow to act, caught up in a tangle of bureaucracy and bullshit. Maybe she shouldn't be so proud of herself when they leave the department with an early Christmas package of anonymous information, because what it really means is that a poor girl was brutally date raped at a college party and then murdered to keep her silent, but she can't help feeling some kind of satisfaction from figuring out who did it. (She'll never understand why, exactly. She understands desperation, but it takes a certain kind of person to be able to take advantage of another and think that death is the only solution.) Even if there's a pink slip in her pocket (Dolores could only handle so many sick days and inventory errors) that she's going to have to try to explain to her mother, she's not sure of the last time she's actually ever felt so good about herself. The old man and his cane is to her right, and his boy on his other side, when he turns his head to look at her straight in the eye and says, "We're looking for a secretary."

March 8, 2005. She'll definitely be without any excuses for being late to work. Not that it matters, though, when you're your own boss. Technically, there was always Fin to think about, but he wasn't one to talk about tardiness, especially when he didn't have to walk several potentially deadly blocks covered in black ice to the office. All he had to do was roll out of bed and throw some clothes on. Well, hopefully he'd thought to appear decent. In this weather, she misses having a car just a little, but the sacrifice was worth it for a chance to live on her own and actually feel like a grown woman. Tugging her scarf tighter around her neck as the wind picks up for just a few seconds (a few seconds too many, though, because it chills her to the bone), the first thing she wants to do when she gets in is make a pot of coffee. And a moment after that thought goes through, it then occurs to her that she no longer has to make it herself (even though she will, because what the old man used to make was like tar). The first thing she's going to do when she passes through the door of Devlin & De Witte Investigations? Place an ad for a secretary.

July 15, 2007. She curses a little as the light brown liquid splashes over the edge of her overfilled mug and burns her hand, but this only hastens the beeline she's making for her desk. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she doesn't bother going to the bathroom in the back to wash it off; she's too busy, even if it's Sunday. But when you're running a private detective agency, any day of the week is free game for work. Hunched over her computer without taking a seat, she first checks her e-mail for important messages -- spam, spam, another stupid chain letter from her mother (who probably didn't read it to begin with), some sales notification from one of their equipment resources, a phone report they requested the other day, and more junk. She'll read a few of those things later, but right now she needs to finish downing this coffee and grab her camera before she's late to catch Mr. Archer on his way out of the seedy motel across town with his new friend, the one that Mrs. Archer had thought was a lady. Judging by the Adam's apple and faint stubble, she was wrong about that part. These mundane adultery cases are hardly the kind of work she enjoys, but a job's a job, and she'd rather be doing this than grinning like an idiot at idiots in a so-called "superstore". Although she considers calling him just to be mean because he's bound to have a massive hangover right now, Jo decides to be benevolent for once and scribbles a note on a post-it and leaves it on her partner's desk, the slacker, then races out the door that has her surname (and his) printed neatly on the glass pane.