What would Junie B. Jones do?

"Mr. Jacobson sniffs little girls' bicycle seats," Benjamin Carter announced cavalierly as though the topic made for polite dinner conversation.

The family had just sat down to the evening meal. Grace Carter poured some gravy on her mash potatoes, cleared her throat and asked, "Where exactly did you learn this?"

Eight year old Benjamin sipped at his apple juice. "Mitzi Brookfield. She overheard her parents talking. They said Mr. Jacobson's got some mental abba… abba… abba…"

"Aberrations," his mother offered.

"Yeah, that's it. Mental abrasions."

Lillian Carter was quiet, undemonstrative woman, who favored gardening, crossword puzzles and feng shui. The previous year, she arranged Benjamin's bedroom to promote a harmonious flow of nourishing energies. The new setup was supposed to 'excite and calm' at the same time, a concept that neither Benjamin nor his father comprehended. To that end, Mrs. Carter removed the television and kept windows open until later October. Sometimes she even placed small dishes of essential oils – the young boy was partial to bergamot, citronella Java, clary sage and jasmine - on a shelf. She positioned the bed away from the doorway and replaced his bedside table with a matching set. When Mr. Carter inquired why the boy needed two tables, Mrs. Carter smiled and explained that it was a matter of balancing positive energies.

Mrs. Carter glanced across the table at her husband. The man, who had raised a forkful of meatloaf to his open mouth, lowered the food back to the plate without tasting it. "Speaking of mental abrasions," Mr. Carter said, "the Brookfield clan - "

"Phillip!" Mrs. Carter rose with such force that her chair went flying out from under her, slamming against the hickory hutch. The children eyed their mother uncertainly. Mrs. Carter retrieved her chair and set it in its proper place. Her husband smiled indulgently at the three youngsters, placed the meatloaf in his mouth and chewed with his head tilted at a sharp angle. "Very tasty. What did you put in it?"

"Seasoned bread crumbs," Mrs. Carter replied evenly. There would be no more discussion of the Brookfields or Mr. Jacobson's predilections for certain bicycle seats. "No, the spices."

"Basil and thyme."

He speared another portion of the succulent meat. "Yes, very nice."

Later that night after Benjamin brushed his teeth and crawled under the covers, his mother came to his room and said, "Regarding our neighbor, Mr. Jacobson…"

Jeremiah Jacobson had lived on Bickford Street forever - long before the Carters bought their split-level ranch house. The Jewish man resided there with his wife and two kids. Over the years, the children grew up and moved away. In late November, three days before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Jacobson, a short woman with sclerotic legs, suffered a massive heart attack and passed away. Since then, old man Jacobson had gone a bit queer in the head. He let his hair, what little there was, creep helter-skelter down over his prominent ears. And then there was the scraggily salt-and-pepper beard which enveloped his sallow cheeks - whether he grew the beard in mourning or as social protest, the raggedy growth made the elderly man look utterly derelict, down-on-his-luck. "Regarding Mr. Jacobson," Mrs. Carter began again, "he worked at Balfour Jewelry for thirty-three years."

"How do you know that?"

"The company gave him a big retirement party when he left work, and there was even an article in the newspaper." Mrs. Carter sat down on the edge of the bed. "The year New England won the Super Bowl, Mr. Jacobson helped design the fancy team rings."

Since Mrs. Jacobson’s passing, Lillian felt a strong neighborly sentiment towards the widower. When the temperature topped out in the low nineties, she sent Benjamin's older brother over to trim the old man's lawn. A couple of times when the ShopRite Supermarket featured two-for-one coupon days, she even picked up extra groceries for the older man and had Benjamin lugged them over to the dilapidated house with the weed-strewn lawn.

Rising, Mrs. Carter wandered over to the bookcase. Teasing a tattered paperback from the shelf, she returned to the bed. "What's this?" She laid the book on the bed sheet next to his chest.

"Junie B Jones and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake."

"What's with the B?"

Benjamin wrinkled his nose. "The B stands for Beatrice. Except Junie don't like Beatrice; she just likes B and that's all!"

Mrs. Carter ran her fingertips over the mangled cover. "How come the book is such a mess?"

Benjamin wiggled his smallish rump settling it comfortably on the mattress. "Probably because I read it a million, quadrillion times, that's why."

Mrs. Carter shut the light. Then she kissed his cheek as she did every single night since as far back as Benjamin Carter could recollect. The pretty woman with the pale blue eyes stood over him swaying gently in the dark. Benjamin couldn't make out her features, only sense her benevolent presence. "Maybe, at this stage in his life, Mr. Jacobson is a bit like your favorite book. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No, not really."

Benjamin felt his mother's hand caress his cheek. "Well, perhaps someday you will." The woman turned and shuffled noiselessly from the bedroom. Benjamin fluffed the pillow and lay back down. The crickets were chirping in the back yard. A neighbor had trimmed his lawn in the late afternoon and the cloying scent of fresh-mown grass drifted through the open window. No more than a minute or two passed before Mrs. Carter returned and sat back down again on the edge of the bed. "Do you remember back in October that ugliness with Lucinda Rodriguez?" Benjamin nodded in the dark.

Mitzi Brookfield started a rumor that the Rodriguez girl was an illegal immigrant. The Mexican family dogpaddled across the Rio Grande and picked their way to Brandenberg, Massachusetts where they were presently living under false pretenses. Around midday, Lucinda went home crying. The next morning, Benjamin spotted the dark-skinned girl, clutching her father's hand and heading in the direction of the principal's office. Mr. Rodriguez was decked out in a sullen scowl and three-piece suit. Later that same day, The Brookfields were called into school to meet with the superintendent. After the unfortunate incident, there was no more mention of undocumented aliens or Spanish-sounding rivers that bordered the southern United States.
"The Brookfields have a penchant for stirring up trouble."

"What's a penchant?"

"It doesn't matter," his mother replied rather abruptly, "just so long as you know that Mitzi Brookfield is a first-class troublemaker and don't feed into any of her nonsense." She kissed his smallish hand, pressed it to her warm cheek and went away.

* * * * *

"I spoke to Ben about Mr. Jacobson." Lillian Carter stood just outside the bathroom door where her husband was hunched over the sink, raking a toothbrush across his gums.

"And how did that go?"

"Pretty good." The woman pawed at the oak floorboards with the toe of her slipper. "The kid's in second grade. What’s he know about malicious slander?"

Mr. Carter put the toothbrush away and reached for the unwaxed dental floss. "Jacobson’s wife died… his kids moved away. He's eighty years old for Christ's sakes!" He wrapped a length of floss around his left index finger, pulled the strand taut then wriggled it down between a rear molar.

"I ran into Jake Brookfield in the Dairy Mart the other night," his wife spoke in a relaxed tone. "He was buying a slew of lottery scratch tickets. He also had a three-pack of those glossy, soft-porn magazines they stow away behind the counter."

"You don't say!" Mr. Carter chuckled and shook his head.

"The mags were lying there on the counter wrapped in thick plastic, but you could see what they were." She thumped her husband sharply on the upper arm to gain his undivided attention. "Salacious Sluts & Blatantly Busty Bimbos! - that was the title of the topmost magazine. "Salacious Sluts & Blatantly Busty Bimbos," she repeated, leaning hard, for theatrical effect, on the first consonant of each word. "The jerk wasn't even the least bit embarrassed."

* * * * *

On Tuesday, Benjamin rode his bike to the athletic field. A Little League team with Tedeschi Supermarket logos plastered across their yellow T-shirts was practicing double plays. The coach hit a grounder to the left side of the infield. The shortstop flipped to second, and the baseman promptly relayed the ball over to first. "Again!" The coach smacked another ball that hit a rock and skittered between the infielders. Mr. Jacobsen was sitting on a bench near the refreshment stand eating an orange. He ran a folding knife over the rind. Repeating the process, he peeled away the covering in four neat flaps which he stacked one on top of the other. The frail man ate the fruit one wedge at a time, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief which he dampened at the bubbler when the snack was gone.

In some twisted sort of way, the Jewish man reminded Benjamin of a character in a Junie B. Jones stories where everyone - teachers and students alike - were all just a bit off-center. "Heads up, first base!" The coach tapped a grounder down the first base line. The fielder lunged forward as the pitcher expertly drifted to his left, covering the open bag.

"There's that pervert." Mitzi Brookfield, who had been playing hopscotch with a group of older kids, came over to join Benjamin. She was heavyset with orangey hair and grotesquely large freckles that resembled liver spots.

"He ain't so bad."

"Yeah, well,” Mitzi threw down the gauntlet, “why don't you haul your sorry ass over there and strike up a conversation?" Benjamin stared across the eighty feet between the playing diamond and where Mr. Jacobson sat on a bench. The man was ignoring everyone altogether having turned his attention to the local newspaper. Benjamin kicked at the dirt several times and rubbed his chin. "Yellow-bellied coward!" Mitzi hissed.

"Outfield, heads up!" The infielders had retreated to the bench and a collection of Gatorade bottles, while the coach and his assistant were delivering up a steady stream of fly balls to the outfielders. The first booming shot sailed over the centerfielder's head, and he had to run the ball down. "Go talk to your good buddy, why dontcha?" Mitzi taunted gleefully, now that she had the upper hand.

What would Junie do in a similar predicament? What would the lovable, irascible, impulsive, unpredictable and ditsy first grader do confronted with the likes of Mitzi Brookfield? As if an alien intelligence had invaded his being, Benjamin suddenly felt his body propelled forward - against his will and, most definitely, against his better judgment.

"Oh, hello there." The elderly man removed a pair of reading glasses.

It was the affable smile and breathy voice that set Benjamin's mind at ease. "I'm Benjamin Carter."

"Yes, I know who you are… green house diagonally across from the fire hydrant.

"My mother says you made the championship rings when the Patriots won the Super bowl."

The man laughed, a dry, cackling sound. Benjamin had never heard anyone laugh like that, but it didn't bother him in the least. "I didn't actually make the rings; I designed them. Some of the other employees who worked in the jewelry plant actually poured the metal, fastened the precious stones and polished." "How do you like this?" The elderly man extended his right wrist to reveal a thick gold bracelet. "That's another one of my designs. It was very popular - a big seller back in the nineteen eighties. Although, I suppose that was a little before your time." He removed the bracelet and draped it across his knee. "It's 10K, yellow gold Cuban Link."

"You made it?"

"Cuban link, that's the design pattern… the style." He pointed toward the center of a strand. "I used a four-millimeter, rope pattern with a hand-crafted lobster clasp." Mr. Jacobson returned the bracelet to his emaciated wrist then held the metal up to the bright sunlight. "Pretty snazzy, huh?"

"Yeah, sure is a swell bracelet.

"You and twelve thousand eight hundred and fifty-three people shared the same sentiments."

"What's that?" Benjamin was pointing at the man's hairy chest.

Mr. Jacobson reached up with a gaunt hand and fingered a gold chain. Several alternating circular links were coupled with a longer oval section to produce a very masculine braid. "Now this charming bit of artisanship is a Figarucci. The design combines elements of both the Figaro and mariner-style."

"No, not the chain," Benjamin brought the elderly man up short. "The star."

He tapped a six-pointed Star of David. "I'm Jewish. It's the symbol of our faith."
"I know. My mother told me."

"Religions… they're all the same," Mr. Jacobson rambled on in his easy, distractible manner. “One faith is as good as another as long as the believer’s heart is true.” He gathered up the orange rinds and tossed them in a nearby trash can. “Rabbi David Ben Azai said something to that effect back in the eighth century, shortly after the Moslem invasion. But you don't have to be a Jewish scholar steeped in esoterica or eschatological gobbledygook to appreciate the basic sentiment."

Benjamin had no idea what his neighbor was talking about but it was pleasant listening. Mr. Jacobson's singsong voice seemed to build with subdued intensity and conviction. No matter that the boy understood nothing his neighbor was telling him. The older man had taken him into his confidence; now a pact, a sympathetic communion existed. "Do you know," the man reached out and tapped the boy forcefully on the kneecap, "in the Talmud it is written that every blade of grass has an angel that hovers over it and whispers 'Grow!' 'Grow!'"

Calling the outfielders in, the Little League manager was stowing the batting gear and catcher's equipment in a canvass duffle bag. Huddled around home plate the team was receiving final instructions from one of the assistant coaches. "Grass angels?" Benjamin repeated.

The old man nodded soberly. Well that was something Benjamin could appreciate. As scatterbrained as she was, Junie B. Jones would also have cherished the notion of tiny, winged sprites flitting about the baseball diamond assisting with lawn care. "Here, let me show you." Mr. Jacobson stood up on rickety legs and hobbled over to the third base coach's box where he dropped down on his knees. "Come on, little fellahs… grow, grow, grow!" He waved his arms in a supplicating gesture and raised his eyes heavenward, invoking a celestial power.

Caught up in the silliness, Benjamin threw himself down on the ground, beseeching the grass in a shrill, high-pitched voice. Mr. Jacobson, who seemed a bit winded, staggered to his feet. He went back to the bench, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose rather loudly. "Growing grass… it's an incremental, cumulative process. No need to rush the miraculous."

In all the time he had been talking with Mr. Jacobson, Benjamin had totally forgotten about Mitzi Brookfield. He glanced over his shoulder. The flabby girl was glowering at him, her wide jaw set in bristling rage. "You can invite you friend over, if you like," Mr. Jacobson offered.

"She's not my friend," Benjamin clarified. "She's a perfectly horrid creature."

"Oh, well then… "Mr. Jacobson didn't bother to finish his thoughts. Reaching out he shook Benjamin's hand. The 10K yellow gold, Cuban link bracelet flashed in the midday sun. "I got to go now." The man nodded cordially and reached for his newspaper.

After he was gone, Benjamin turned around and scanned the athletic field. Mitzi Brookfield was nowhere to be found. After scouting about for the brazen girl so he could triumphantly rub her nose in the dirt, Benjamin hurried home and told his mother about Mr. Jacobson. "I’m glad you had a nice time." She went downstairs to throw a load of laundry into the washer. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the fact that, once they got to talking, Benjamin longer noticed the man's grubby appearance. Or maybe Mr. Jacobson wasn't so much unkempt as simply old and used up.

Later in the afternoon Officer Murphy drove down the street and waved to Benjamin out the window of the police cruiser. Officer Murphy was a tall man with a prominent, beaky nose. Sometimes he pulled over and chatted with the neighbors, but most days he just drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, turned around and headed back to the main street at a crawl. Earlier in the week he pulled the car over at the mouth of Bickford Street and got out his radar gun. "Whatcha doing?" Benjamin asked.

"Looking for people in a hurry to go nowhere fast." The officer winked and aimed his gun down the street in the direction of oncoming traffic. He seldom stayed longer than an hour or so. Then he packed up his hi-tech gadgetry and drove away. Today though, ten minutes passed and Officer Murphy's cruiser never reappeared. Benjamin pedaled his dirt bike to the bend in the road where a small crowd had gathered. The cruiser was parked in front of Mr. Jacobson's bungalow, and the Jewish man who designed Super Bowl rings was sitting in the back of the police cruiser. Normally easygoing and unperturbed, Officer Murphy wore a sullen expression as he climbed into the car, barked something into the two-way radio and drove slowly away.

"What happened?" Benjamin asked.

"They arrested the old geezer," a teenage boy with an unmanageable case of acne replied.

"What for?"

The youth shrugged. "Who the hell knows?"

Benjamin hurried home and told his mother what had happened. She was outside hanging delicate items on the clothesline. Mrs. Carter fixed a clothespin on the tail of a pleated blouse. "Tell me one more time what happened at the athletic field today." Benjamin told his mother about Mitzi Brookfield's dare and his conversation with the old man. "Every blade of grass has an angel," she repeated, staring out beyond the pussy willows covered with furry yellow catkins bordering the property. "Do you need to pee?" Benjamin shook his head. She threw a handful of wet clothing back in the wicker laundry basket and headed back in the direction of the rear deck. "Get your jacket. We're going for a little ride."

* * * * *

"I need to speak to the chief," Lillian Carter demanded. At the Brandenberg Police Station, Benjamin sat on a chair near a corkboard with a collection of black and white photos of grubby looking men and a handful of equally uncouth females, while his mother spoke to the officer manning the front desk. After a brief exchange, Mrs. Carter disappeared down a hallway into an adjoining room. Ten minutes later she returned and sat down on the chair next to him. Benjamin looked at his mother. She was studying the collection of mug shots stapled to the corkboard. Another few minutes passed in silence. "What are we doing?"

"Waiting," Mrs. Carter replied.

“For what?"

"For Mr. Jacobson to collect his belongings and join us here in the lobby." Another five minutes passed. Benjamin had lost all interest in the unflattering photos. There were too many and, after a while, they all looked the same. Not that the felons looked alike. There were Hispanics, Negroes, a couple of Asians and a still larger collection of white faces - an army of lost souls. Lost and clueless. Finally, Mr. Jacobson appeared in the hallway and came out to join them.

"Hey, I know you!" He ran his bony fingers through Benjamin's hair and flashed a good-natured smile.

"Let's get out of here." Mrs. Carter muttered. Benjamin took one last look at the cork board. Was the Brandenberg Police Department planning to put Mr. Jacobson's picture up on the board of shame? And, if so, would he be allowed to wear the Cuban link bracelet and Figarucci chain?

On the ride home the boy sat in the back. "You could sue the family for libel," Mrs. Carter spoke without taking her eyes off the road. "Character assassination."

"At my age?" Mrs. Jacobson laughed making a dry cackling sound. He didn't seem angry in the least. "That Officer Murphy's a nice guy. I don't think he realized…" The old man didn't bother finishing the sentence.

"Yes," Mrs. Carter agreed, "he just got caught in the middle." Benjamin was still trying to figure out what exactly Officer Murphy didn’t realize and why, as they were leaving the police station, he came out in the parking lot and apologized to the older man.

After dropping Mr. Jacobson off, Mrs. Carter swiveled in her seat to face her son. "How’re you doing?"

"Good," Benjamin replied. Their neighbor, who worked at Balfour Jewelry for thirty-three years, was arrested but then, just as quickly, released and sent home. Officer Murphy and Mr. Jacobson were back on friendly terms. Everything was returning to normal.

Mrs. Carter pulled the car over to the side of the road and slid the shift in park. She sat staring at the dashboard for several minutes. When another car pulled up behind her, the woman promptly rolled the window down and waved the driver past. From where he was sitting in the backseat, Benjamin could see the right side of his mother's face. Walled up in some private reverie, the hazel eye never blinked. "What's wrong?" he finally asked.

"Mitzi got Mr. Jacobson in trouble." His mother spoke so softly, he could barely make out the words. "For no good reason… from shear spitefulness."

"Yes, I figured as much." Benjamin felt a wave of despair. The boy thought he got the better of the obnoxious troll when he shambled over to Mr. Jacobson on Mitzi's dare, but that only heightened her vindictiveness. Benjamin could picture the slobby girl grinning with orgasmic glee when she learned of Mr. Jacobson's arrest. Normal people didn't revel in other people's misery, but Mitzi Singleton was an eight year old grotesque - a sadistic monstrosity through and through. "What now?"

Mrs. Carter ran a tongue over her lips. "I'm wondering what Junie B. Jones might do in a similar situation."

It was the same question that came to mind when Mitzi goaded him at the baseball field. "Junie's just a stupid kid," Benjamin shot back. "She can just barely tie her shoe laces much less solve the world's problems."

"A grownup Junie B. Jones," Mrs. Carter amended her previous remark. "How would she handle preadolescent crimes against humanity?"

Benjamin didn't like where this was going. The trip to the police station was bad enough, but falling back on a fictional character from a children's book series as a role model didn't seem like such a great idea. "Junie does lots of dumb things."

"Yeah," his mother replied, "but they always turn out right in the end."

"I suppose so," Benjamin mumbled half-heartedly.

Mrs. Carter put the car back in gear. "One last bit of unfinished business." She drove to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned the car around. Three streets down, she pulled over in front of a blue house with white shutters. "This won't take long."

Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot, I tell you. Wait till you hear this! Junie B Jones had a dozen and one nifty catchphrases, but none could adequately describe what Benjamin's mother did over at the Brookfields. Mrs. Carter rang the doorbell. Mitzi's mother, a short dumpy woman with a mottled complexion similar to her daughter’s, cracked the door open. She wouldn't let Benjamin's mother in, but listened with a constipated expression, her eyes compressed to tiny slits and lips pinched so tight that the crow's feet on the side of her head stood out in bold relief. When Benjamin's mother finished speaking her mind, Mrs. Brookfield shouted, "Get the hell off my property!" But Mrs. Carter didn't budge. Mitzi's mother started yelling and hollering all the louder, but the squat woman didn't seem to be making a whole lot of sense that Benjamin could wrap his eight year old brain around. Mrs. Brookfield was just like the daughter. Or was it the other way around?

The dumpy woman made a motion to slam the door shut, but Mrs. Carter, who had a firm grasp on the doorknob, positioned her right leg against the molding and, using the foot for leverage, muscled the door wide open. Mrs. Brookfield collapsed in a heap, sprawling backwards on the living room rug. Stepping over the threshold into the home, the uninvited guest shut the door behind her. "Aw crap!" Benjamin muttered.

Five minutes passed. Things got very quiet. The front door opened and Mrs. Carter emerged. Before his mother reached the car, Benjamin could hear Mrs. Brookfield screaming hysterically. She let loose with an endless barrage of profanities, and then a second, childish voice began sobbing inconsolably, bellowing and begging for mercy.

"Every blade of grass has its own angel," Mrs. Carter leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. "Such a lovely metaphor!" The bedlam at the Brookfield residence continued unabated. Mrs. Carter turned the ignition key and put the car in gear. "Every blade of grass,” she repeated like a soothing mantra, “has its own angel who leans over it and whispers, 'Grow!' Grow!'" At the end of the street, the woman pulled up at a stop sign and looked both ways. "For the next ten years or so, I'm going to be your personal angel. How's that sound?"

Benjamin nodded his head vigorously. "Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot!"