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Florence's Journey: Proving Something

By Victor Hess

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CHAPTER 1

Saturday, July 9, 1955,
Florence Williams home, Lancaster, Ohio

The note tacked to the front door said:

Florence,
Everything will be all right. We will be back soon
with a surprise.
If we’re not home when you read this, go over to
the Blair’s house until we get home.
Mom and Dad

Nine-year-old Florence Abigail Williams read the note and knew that meant the back door would be unlocked so she walked around the house holding the puzzling note in her hand. She had just walked the 217 paces home from best friend Kitty Blair’s house, only one block away, where she had stayed overnight for a slumber party.
She went straight to the refrigerator, still counting her steps and found the last orange. For a moment she leaned into the coolness of the open refrigerator. Then she closed the door and used her fingers to separate the orange rind from the juicy fruit.
Everything will be all right. She was sure that meant her mom and dad had made up. They were arguing about money and furniture before she left last night for her overnight at the Blair’s.
At 237 steps, she finally stopped counting at the door of her bedroom and plopped down on the green army cot she was using as her bed until her dad got enough money to get her a real one, hopefully with four white posts like
Kitty Blair had. Maybe that was going to be the surprise. That has to be what the note meant.
She raised her bedroom window and was greeted with a rush of warm, moist air full of fresh aromas, reminders of the showers that just passed through her small town.
She used a clean washcloth to hold the orange while she chomped on the sweet fruit. With each bite, juice dribbled onto the cloth. After devouring the orange, she ran cold water through the washcloth and wiped her face. The citrus scent and cool wetness was so refreshing she used the cloth to wipe her arms and legs, repeating the process until the stickiness of the orange was gone but the aroma and coolness lingered.
She lay on the uncomfortable cot, picturing four white posts reaching up to the ceiling and imagined the loose sheet was really a green coverlet. She imagined her flat pillow was instead plush and feathery, covered by deep burgundy velvet. She spread her arms out, breathed in the sweetness, and then sat up.
She picked up her beaver-faced sock puppet and slipped her left hand in.
“Paddles, what do you think? We’re getting a new bed!” she said, looking directly in Paddles’ eyes.
“That will be so lovely, Florence,” Paddles said, stretching her head to see all around the room. “Will it fit?”
“It could go over here.” Florence slid the cot out of the way, still holding Paddles in her left hand.
“What about the drawings on the wall?”
“I’ll leave them there. We’ll put the bed in the center of the room, like Kitty’s.”
“I see,” said Paddles, still not convinced. Florence was able to speak for Paddles without ever moving her lips because she practiced her ventriloquism
all day long. She learned it from watching the Shari Lewis show on television at the Blair’s. Her mom made the puppet from a brown wool sock, cutting it and resewing it to create a mouth, eyes, and small nostrils. Then she sewed on two
white beaver teeth. She took Paddles into the bathroom and both of them looked into the mirror. Florence manipulated the sock puppet with her finger to show different expressions on Paddles’ face. Florence adjusted the brown barrettes in
her dark hair, pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose and practiced her skill with her puppet, as she did every day.
“You look so nice today, Florence.”
“Thank you, Paddles.”
“And Paddles, we’re replacing that old table in the kitchen with a new yellow dinette. It has Duran upholstery. Daddy is sure to get a raise. And you know what that means.”
“Money!” Paddles said, Florence’s lips not moving an inch.
Finally, they walked around the house sharing ideas on what piece of furniture would go into all the empty corners. She and Paddles stared at the oft-painted table and three spindle back chairs.
“And furniture. Look, here is where a new TV will be, right in front of the couch. Of course, it will be reupholstered.”
She swung her left arm across the center of the living room like the girls did on game shows.
“That is perfect,” agreed Paddles.
She sat on one of the kitchen chairs. “I hope they find a four-poster bed,” she whispered to Paddles.
“Me, too.” She made Paddles face look happy with excitement.
Florence was startled by the phone ringing. Two rings meant it was a call for the Williams home, so she answered it.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello,” another voice said.
“Florence?” said a third voice.
“It’s for us, Mrs. Farley,” Florence said over the fourparty line. Mrs. Farley hung up her end of the call. Click.
“Is your mom home?” It was Mrs. Blair’s voice.
“No, she left me a note. It said for me to go back to your house. Is that okay?”
“Yes, absolutely. You can have supper with us and we’re going to see 3 Ring Circus at the drive-in. Oh, Kitty wants to know if you can bring Paddles.”
“Yes ma’am. That’s swell. Mom didn’t leave me any money.”
“That’s okay, we already talked about it. Come on over if you are ready.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Blair. I’ll be there soon.”

Sunday, July 10, 1955,
Florence Williams home, Lancaster, Ohio

After breakfast at the Blair’s, Florence walked the one block home. She and Paddles took turns counting the paces. She wondered where her mom and dad were because she could not see their car in front. But when she got inside there were coffee cups on the kitchen table. She peeked in their bedroom, and they were sound asleep on their mattress.
She smiled, turned to go to her room, and was disappointed that the army cot was still there. She lay Paddles on it, still wondering what the surprise might be.
A loud bang jolted the house, and the front door flew open.
“Police! Police!”
Two men in green uniforms charged into the house with guns drawn. One opened her parent’s bedroom door.
“Out of bed, both of you! Put your hands up! Now!” she heard.
Florence quickly ran to the shallow closet and closed the door just as one of the officers checked her room. She could see Paddles on her bed and hoped the police wouldn’t take her away.
“Clear.” He turned and walked out. She heard footsteps all over the house. The front door opened and closed multiple times.
Florence, now shaking with fear, eased open the closet door and peeked into the living room, where her mom and dad stood, dressed, with their hands behind them.
“What’s this all about? Why are you doing this?” her dad said to the policeman.
“Is that your blue 1950 Studebaker Champion behind the house?” asked the main officer.
“Yes, sir.”
Florence mustered the courage to speak.
“Mom? Daddy?” She stepped through the doorway and could see three officers, one holding a cardboard box. Her face was wet with tears.
“I thought you said ‘clear’.” Said the officer in charge.
“Honey, I thought you were at the Blair’s?” her mom said.
“Officer, what’s going on?” her dad said.
“Is this your daughter?” asked the main officer.
“Yes,” her dad said. “Why are you doing this? Florence, this is a big mistake.”
Florence’s eyes went back and forth from one person to the other. Suddenly, it was difficult to breathe. She was filled with anxiety and confusion.
“Your car was seen fleeing a robbery in Wheeling yesterday. Two people, a man and woman wearing ski masks, robbed a pharmacy at gun point. West Virginia and Ohio authorities chased the car to somewhere around here.”
“We were nowhere near Wheeling yesterday,” Florence’s mom said.
“We found these ski masks and this revolver in your car. How did they get there. And if you weren’t in Wheeling then, where were you?”
Florence’s mom and dad stood there looking at each other waiting for the other to answer the question.
“We don’t know,” Oswald Williams finally said, looking frightened. His wife, Rachel, started crying. “That isn’t our stuff.”
Oddly, a warm feeling went over Florence and the room slightly changed. Florence saw these different colors dance around the five people and settle on each one. She blinked. It was a glow, each individual wrapped in a blue shadow as if a neon light was the outline of their bodies.
All except one. The man holding the box of evidence was different. He had a glow alright, but it was sinister to Florence, almost black, and she felt afraid again. She retreated back into her room, rubbing her eyes.
“Read them their rights,” the officer in charge said.
Florence reached for Paddles but picked up the note instead and then yelled out, “They went to get me a surprise. Look, here’s the note.” She handed the note to the officer in charge, proud to be able to help her parents. She then picked up Paddles and held her to her chest. The officer studied the note and then looked down at Florence.
“Who can we call to take care of your daughter?” he said to Mrs. Williams.
Florence sat on her green cot as the police escorted her mom and dad outside and into a police car.
Eventually, Mrs. Blair was escorted to Florence’s room by a police officer. “Florence, what happened?” A photographer tried to stop Mrs. Blair but she turned her head away as the flashbulb exploded with a bright light that momentarily blinded Florence.
“They took Mom and Daddy to jail. You have to get them out.”
“Why would they do that?” She put her arm around Florence.
“They think they robbed some place in Wheeling. We have to tell them they didn’t do it.” Florence never felt so afraid. By now, her left hand was completely covered by Paddles, but she kept it hidden under her right arm.
“I’ll take you home with us while they sort all this out. We need a bag or suitcase.”
Mrs. Blair was seven months pregnant. She was perspiring and asked one of the officers for a chair. He brought the wooden kitchen chair and then handed Mrs. Blair a glass of water.
“Florence needs a suitcase. Can you help?”
“Daddy has one in the closet.”
After discussions with the ranking officer, he brought in a brown leather suitcase, scarred and dented with age. He
set it on the green cot and snapped the latches open. Despite its age, the suitcase was substantial and large enough for Florence’s clothes that hung on hooks in the shallow closet.
“Where’s your dirty clothes? I’ll wash them, too,” said Mrs. Blair.
Florence retrieved them from a basket in the bathroom under the watchful eye of the officer.
After Mrs. Blair wrote her name, phone number, and address on the officer’s clipboard, she and Florence left, Florence clutching the suitcase and leaning to the right to keep the suitcase from dragging on the floor.
When Mrs. Blair and Florence arrived at the Blair house, they stepped inside and looked toward the dinner table she had left earlier when the police called. She sighed at the sight of dirty dishes still on the table.
“Come on Florence, let’s go upstairs.” She picked up the suitcase and led Florence to the stairs leading to the single bedroom. It was Kitty’s bedroom, where only this morning, Florence had innocently had breakfast, had a discussion
with Paddles and Mr. Blair about the weather, and then left to go home. At the top of the stairs, she set the suitcase down and walked over to Kitty, who now looked puzzled and curious.
“Florence is staying with us for a while. The truth, Kitty, is that Florence’s mom and dad were arrested for something they did not do, so we’re just going to wait for this to be cleared up. Kitty, help Florence sort her clothes
so I can put them in the wash. You girls stay up here while I talk to George.”
“He’s playing golf, Mama,” Kitty said.
“That’s right. Would you two do me a favor? My back is killing me but that mess on the table needs to be cleared up and washed. And get that fryer out of the freezer. Your dad wants to grill chicken tonight.”
“Yes, Mama,” Kitty said, and they both went downstairs as Mrs. Blair rolled onto the bed, closed her eyes, and begged the pain in her back to go away.

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