“We’re going to jail!” The words of my best friend, Michael, rang in my ears.
I wracked my brain for a solution, a loophole, but found none. It was sure to be the end for both of us—no doubt about it. But what could be done now? On the positive side, besides us, only Mrs. Klapper knew what had happened. We felt we could trust her to keep quiet, but somehow that didn’t make me feel any better. I was sure Michael was as frightened as I was.
“Is something wrong? You look a little peaked.” At breakfast my mother appeared suspicious. I guess I was not exactly acting like myself. I worried that they knew I was in trouble and would call me on the carpet, but my luck held. What would they think if they knew?
Mom yelled out as I escaped through the front door, “You forgot your lunch.” The tension was unbearable.
I saw my accomplice in Mrs. Grimmer’s ten o’clock reading class. Michael looked as bad as I felt, so I knew I was not alone in my distress.
“Do you think Mrs. Klapper will tell?” I inquired hopefully. Michael seemed to nod and shake his head at the same time.
School let out at three o’clock, and Michael and I sat on the rock wall outside the school.
“Should we tell anyone? Should we go to the police?” I asked Michael. About this time, I suggested we visit the scene of the crime and search for any lingering evidence. We might not have gotten it all.
Although Michael and I had done nothing wrong ourselves, we knew that we were in big trouble. That we had handled the evidence at all—and then transported it away from the scene of the crime—certainly made us accomplices. We should have turned over to the authorities the stash that was now hidden in the shed behind my house.
Full daylight made the vacant lot appear different. An abandoned grocery store hid most of it from view from the street. Given the time of day of the original crime, it was unlikely anyone had seen Michael and me, or Mrs. Klapper. For that matter, no one would even have suspected that the unknown fourth party was up to no good. The only reason Mrs. Klapper was in on the caper was that her house sat next to the vacant lot. No scuttlebutt had yet passed through the halls of school. So no one else knew—yet!
Mrs. Klapper was a kind old lady. One neighbor suggested she was crazy or at least weak-minded, but I think that crazy is all a matter of perspective. She seemed quite normal to me. The fact that she knew enough to keep her mouth shut meant she certainly had her wits about her.
“Michael! Up there!” There she was again, in the corner window, looking down on us. And just as fast, she disappeared. Michael and I looked at each other, but we bravely held our ground. Within seconds, Mrs. Klapper charged toward us from across the lot. She walked right up and stared directly into my eyes.
“What are you boys going to do?” she demanded. “What are you going to do with the bag?” Mrs. Klapper’s face radiated immense concern, and her behavior did nothing to allay my worst fears.
We answered truthfully, saying we did not know. Seemingly satisfied by our honesty, she turned abruptly and walked back to the house.
Shocked by the brevity of the conversation and disappointed that Mrs. Klapper wasn’t more helpful, I turned to Michael. “Maybe there is something different about Mrs. Klapper.”
As Mrs. Klapper disappeared inside her house, I heard a car. I turned and spotted the city police cruiser making its way around the corner. “Quick, Michael. Hide behind the tree!” We were fast as lightning. Thank goodness for the excellent traction I had from the tread on my new sneakers.
By the weekend, Michael and I knew we had to do something soon. We agreed to get up early Saturday morning and take the bag to the city dump—an easy ride on our bicycles. Only in this way could we disassociate ourselves from the crime and avoid going to jail, assuming that Mrs. Klapper would continue to keep quiet. Michael and I loaded the contents into the baskets hanging on the rear of our bicycles.
All went as planned, and no one saw us. I do remember it taking some time to clean the baskets afterward. Although we knew we had done wrong, we now hoped we could beat the rap and avoid serious prison time.
Several weeks later, Michael and I bumped into Mrs. Klapper at the drugstore. She took us aside and asked if we had disposed of the bag. We told her we had and were sure we hadn’t been seen. She seemed relieved.
By May, when we finished second grade, we concluded that we had gotten away with being accomplices to a serious crime.
Michael and I never discussed the incident again.
* * *
To this day, I have not told my parents or anyone else of the event that transpired that spring. I know I would be too embarrassed. I’m sure Michael would be humiliated as well, although he may not even remember the incident. I surely do.
I’m proud to say that, despite our participation in what we considered at the time to be a dastardly deed, Michael and I grew up to be respectable citizens of our little town. To my knowledge, the incident has had no effect on our lives.
In our defense, I can only relate to you the circumstances of the transgression: Michael and I were alone in the vacant lot, Mrs. Klapper watching us from her upstairs window, when a pickup truck backed in from the street. The passenger in the truck opened his door and threw out a burlap bag. The truck sped away.
The fact that Michael and I were only eight years old at the time obviously affected our perception of the situation, although I clearly recall Mrs. Klapper being just as concerned as we were.
Even though we were young, we were still able to read and understand the large sign posted clearly next to the street: No Dumping—Under Penalty of Prosecution.