But at least I had a general idea where to locate him. I hadn’t the foggiest where Mary Pat was. I did read the Hoopsma jacket this time. Cover to cover. Maybe I’m prejudiced because I was a contributor, but I’ve seen sloppier files. Each deciduous incisor and cuspid was logged for both children, but some dates weren’t recorded and notes were illegible. Perfection is difficult to attain when you’re in such a hurry.
The last entry was 9 January 1954, a voucher checkoff, ten cents compensation for a first molar. Bob Pat had reached a skeptical age, and his active file was closed. The narrative stated that his parents, Patrick and Patricia Hoopsma, were divorcing. Mary Pat was rumored to be incorrigible, a devious tomboy who’d graduated to truant and shoplifter. We knew all this because with two children of similar age we visited Hoopsma household frequently and we often recorded our observations. It is a common complaint of Management, somewhat justified, that while Production whines that it is too rushed to follow company policy, staffers have plenty of time to snoop and gossip.
Bob Pat proved too easy to trace. The previous Thursday, when descending a mountain pass, he’d hit a patch of ice and jackknifed his double semi. The graveside memorial service was held at a parched, windswept cemetery on a plateau. If there were waterfalls thereabouts in Various Falls, they had dried up.
It was a sparse turnout. Bob Pat Hoopsma was remembered by trucker buddies and a couple of sentimental hookers. They’d passed the hat and hired a minister. During the ten minute service he alluded to beloved family members, but none attended. Older sister Mary Pat was conspicuously absent.
Thanks to downsizing and consolidation, Clerical Support was becoming an endangered species, so I personally formalized my report on standard forms and delivered them to Management. She made several helpful criticisms of my typing and adherence to procedures, then slid aside the inch-high stack of documents and said, “Sad.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I think he was a decent man. He died alone and middle-aged—”
“No, I mean your inability to close the file. I’m not necessarily blaming you. For the moment we’ll blame bad luck. However, Auditing will not be so understanding.”
That was my marching order. On my hands and knees I begged an expense voucher to replace the tires on the company car before I met Bob Pat’s fate. At the brief memorial service I had overheard Mary Pat’s name. She was said to have recently lived in or near Grand Peaks, a neighboring and larger town. I was unable to locate her; the best I could do was a few vague recollections of her name. Though she had not lived in Grand Peaks “recently,” I felt she might in some way remain connected.
At the boss’s behest I represented myself as an attorney retained to discharge Bob Pat Hoopsma’s estate. I don’t know what was more loathsome, the subterfuge or the persona. But it worked.
I took a room at a motel and ran advertisements in the local newspaper. There was no estate. Bob Pat’s landlady at his rooming house gave his clothing to Goodwill and a neighbor at whose curb it was parked had Bob Pat’s old pickup truck towed off.
The word “estate” is magical. The advertising attracted a succession of ne’er-do-well chums and shirttail relatives. Finally Mary Pat showed.
“You’ve changed,” she said, taking a seat without being invited.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Small world, ain’t it? I rarely forget a face,” she cackled, lighting a cigarette before I could protest that this was a nonsmoking room. “You’ve put on some pounds, but hell, who am I to talk?”
Stocky, in jeans and logger shirt, Mary Pat Hoopsma was a rough-looking character. I said, “I’m sure we haven’t previously met.”
She shrugged and blew a smoke ring. “It’s been awhile. How a nice girl like you got into the stinko lawyer racket is none of my business. What is my business is this estate thing. You can take my word for it, I’m his sole survivor.”
“Why weren’t you at the memorial service?”
“The world’s been none too kind to me. I’m not saying it’s not part my fault, but I decided fifteen years ago I wanted as little to do with it as I could. I been living in the hills and didn’t hear he’d died till I came into town for supplies this morning. My Jeep needs a carburetor, and I damn near didn’t make out of the woods. Let’s cut to the chase. What did Bob Pat leave his big sis?”
“In a manner of speaking, ninety-four dollars and thirty-one cents.”
She smiled sadly. “That’s more than I expected he’d leave behind. Me and Bob Pat, we’re a pair to draw to.”
“You didn’t stay in contact over the years?”
“Nope. Him and me, we were wild as kids, especially me. We left home young. I had some petty scrapes with the law and three bad marriages. He was a lifer in the military and went on to drive trucks. We were both cut out to be loners. An extra ninety-four thirty-one won’t hurt a bit. When do I get my money?”
“Mary Pat, on 11 September 1952 did you or did you not steal from under your brother’s pillow a dime payment for a lost lower incisor?”
She nodded appraisingly at me. “Yep. Like I said, I rarely forget a face. Tell me, how’d a tooth fairy go sour and become a lawyer?”
“Nobody has ever seen a tooth fairy,” I said indignantly.
“Yeah? Well, what I seen come sailing through the window trailing all that twinkly stuff wasn’t a B-29.”
“Impossible!”
“Maybe nobody ever woke up during the switcheroo. I never did,” Mary Pat said. “That don’t mean you weren’t spotted from time to time. C’mon, how would anybody believe in a tooth fairy unless there’d been a spotting or two? Kids don’t just take their parents’ word for everything, you know.”
I had no response. The Tooth Fairy was assumed to be mythical when a child reached an age when other fantastical delights such as Santa Claus became suspect. Yet we were expected to perform in a real world context. This was an edgy paradox that troubled me throughout my years in Production.
“I heard that tinkling sound you made and crouched behind Bob Pat’s dresser before you landed. I must of made noise, too. You grabbed his tooth and took off like a bat out of hell, no offense.”
“You then stole the dime I left?”
“You didn’t leave a dime, you were in such an all-out hurry. I’d gone into his room to steal it, but it wasn’t there. You bugged out so fast you must of gotten rattled and forgot to leave the money.”
My heart sank. I didn’t think I’d bungled the transaction, but it was entirely possible. The most stressful aspect of Production next to achieving quotas was fear of discovery. I was young and skittish then, not as clear-headed and confident as I grew to be in later years. I said, “You were punished for the theft and confessed to it.”
“If I hadn’t, Mom would of turned me over to Dad. He was drinking awful heavy. It was a no-win situation. When did you say I was getting my ninety-four bucks?”
I violated every confidentiality rule in the Employee Handbook. I told her everything I’ve told you. I told her I was sorry about the ninety-four thirty-one. A duplicate payment was out of the question.
“Wait a second,” Mary Pat said. “You think you’re off the hook on account of you paid Bob Pat the money plus interest you didn’t pay him back then?”
“Essentially, yes.”
She laughed. “Listen, if you close out your file by telling the truth, and this hatchet squad you got paying you a visit is half as nasty as you claim, girlie, you’re in deep doodoo.”
She was absolutely correct. I had brought the file to resolution, yes, though at great expense incurred due to my original botching. I’d done a terrible job of cleaning up my own mess.
“There is another possibility. I did do my job correctly, and you stole the money upon my departure.”