May 2021

Celeste sets out to find a bank robber—but ends up solving a mystery about her mother instead Eighteen-thousand dollars were stolen from the Bridgeham Regional Bank on Nov. 2. Eyewitnesses say the robber was a man wearing all black, carrying a gun. “He had a slight figure and he ran very quickly,” said one woman who had witnessed the event. This is the third armed robbery this week. Witness reports from each of the robberies confirm it was the same person. —Page 1 of The Bridgeham Times “Maman,” I said, looking up from the newspaper. “Did you hear about the robbery?” “What is it, the third one you’ve told me about this week?” my mother asked, washing dishes at the sink. “Yeah. And all of the eyewitness reports agree that it’s the same person!” “Celeste, eat your oatmeal,” she said. “It’s getting cold.” I ignored her. “But isn’t that weird? I mean, this isn’t the kind of place you’d expect to hear about three armed robberies in one week by the same person.” “What do you mean?” she asked, turning around. “No place on Earth is safe from people doing horrible things. People kill, steal, cheat, lie. You name it.” She turned back around. “Now eat your oatmeal. You’ll be late for school.” At dinner, I brought up the robberies again. “It’s just—that’s so many!” I said intently, once again ignoring the food in front of me. Maman gave me a weary glance. The dark circles under her eyes were as prominent as always. “Why are you so fascinated by the horrible things people do?” “Because it’s a mystery. Isn’t it exciting? That person could rob the restaurant! We’d be in the news!” “That is not exciting. And it’s not worth pursuing. Just because you’ve read about every mystery book the library has does not mean that you’re going to be able to solve this case, if that’s what you’re aiming for.” “That’s not what I was saying,” I said indignantly, although I had had that same fantasy for all of math class. I’d just have to pursue it when Maman wasn’t looking. There was a long silence before Maman said, “You should write Aunt Marjorie.” Aunt Marjorie was Maman’s younger sister with a passion for poetry, and in my opinion, quite possibly a mental disorder. She had dropped out of school to become a poet, and now she lived by herself in the middle of nowhere. Maman always used her as the reason why I should work hard in school. (“You don’t want to end up like Aunt Marjorie.”) But as far as I could remember, Maman sent her a letter every day because Aunt Marjorie didn’t own a telephone. And on Sundays she sent her money and a box of food because she knew Aunt Marjorie couldn’t support herself. She didn’t want to publish her poems (“It ruins the intimacy”). But to be honest, I doubted she would be able to publish them even if she tried. “But she never responds when you write her,” I said. “She never responds to me.” Maman stared at her plate. “But she might respond to you.” “What would I write about?” I asked. “I don’t know. Whatever you want. Write about school or something. She needs human contact. She’s probably started talking to the squirrels.” She sighed. After dinner, I wrote Aunt Marjorie a long letter telling her all about the robberies and how I’d compiled all the information I knew about the robber. He was male, blond, tall, skinny, and fast. I had even devoted a notebook to it, and I carried it with me everywhere in case I saw a clue or had a sudden realization. I told her about how I wanted to solve them. I knew that my secret was safe with her. She hadn’t seen another human in person for years. I mailed it the next morning. Writing to Aunt Marjorie made me think about Maman’s childhood in France. Maman’s father had left, and her mother was sick for a long time before she died when Maman was eighteen. Maman had taken care of Aunt Marjorie, her little sister, for most of her childhood: cooking, cleaning, and fussing over everything while Aunt Marjorie played outside or wrote poetry. I suspected this was why Maman was so worried about her all the time. She had programmed herself to. I wondered why she would have let Aunt Marjorie drop out of school. That didn’t seem like something Maman would do. Maybe she had been too busy to care. *         *          * Constantly worrying made Maman far too practical and cheap. She insisted on hand-washing all of the laundry because there was no washing machine in our apartment and the laundromat was “too expensive.” I couldn’t understand why she would be so intent on making her life harder all the time. And for what? Saving a few dollars? The way I saw it, Maman had never been happy. Naturally, I decided that her constant worrying had done this to her. I had resolved to never live like her. I was going to become a famous detective or, at the very least, star in a detective show. I’d be rich, and I’d hire people to do everything for me. Then I’d have Maman come live in my mansion so that she could understand how life was meant to be lived: to the fullest. *         *          * One night while I tried to sleep, Maman’s question played over and over in my head. Why was I so fascinated by the robberies? I got out of bed and looked out my window at the city lights twinkling. The lights never stopped, like they were constantly worrying or working, too busy to take a break. As I crawled back into bed, I realized that if I solved the mysteries, I’d give people a reason to stop worrying. The