The Second Hand Man
July 28th, 1969

I’m inserious trouble. I’ve been found out. I may have to burn this diary and all theloose notes before they take me away.

Ironically itwas the uncomfortable curiosity of a large child that has undone me.

I was readingon the small camping stretcher that’s been assembled for me in Claudia’s roomwhen I heard Hannah’s lamenting.

“No! No! No!Nooo!”

This was thefirst time that her wailing had produced discernible speech. I rushed into mybedroom and she stared at me in a peculiar angry manner, as if I was a strangerbursting into her own bedroom. “What’s wrong?” I asked frantically.

She scrunchedup her face and declared, “It was you!”

“What?”

“You killedPoppa!”

“What?”

“You put allthose bees into the baking powder tin!”

“What? Whatare you talking about?”

“I couldn’tsleep properly because there was something hard in your mattress.” She held outthe thick, hard-covered notebook towards me. “I found this.” I felt the blooddrain from my face. She added. “I read the last stuff you wrote. I know it wasyou.”

I suddenlyfelt angry; the blood returning swiftly to my enraged visage. “That’s myprivate stuff! You had no right to scratch through there.” I grabbed thenotebook out of her outstretched hand. “How dare you? Have you no respect forother people’s privacy?”

She wassuddenly terrified of me. She pulled her knees up against her chest and staredover the top of them. “I knew you didn’t like my Poppa, but I would never haveimagined that you could ever have done…”She paused.

“What? You’recrazy! Why would I want to kill him? You haven’t been acting or thinkingrationally since your father’s death.”

“You killedhim! You did! You did! You did! I read it! You killed him. I’m gonna telleveryone it was you!” She started wailing loudly, “You thought you were cleverwith your twenty year-old brain, but now I know the truth!”

I held up thenotebook. “This is just a silly story I’ve been writing, okay? It doesn’t meananything!”

“You’refibbing! I’m gonna tell everyone!”

My mother hadsuddenly appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

I quicklysaid, “Hannah’s been scratching through my stuff!”

Hannah said,“That’s a fib! The bed was a bit uncomfortable so I just…”

Iinterrupted. “She has been going through all my stuff? I can see it.”

“I have not!That’s a big fib!”

“Oh, yeah?Then why is my…”

My motherinterrupted sternly. “Connie?”

“Yes, ma?”

“Get to thekitchen!”

“But, ma?”

“I’m notgonna talk again! Go!”

“Yes, ma.”

“Now!”

“Alright, I’mgoing.”

My motherreached the kitchen ten seconds after me. She was fuming mad!

“What’s wrongwith you? I thought a son of mine would know better. Her father’s just died;her mothers in police custody – and you upset her even more with your pettysquabbling!”

“Sorry, ma.”

“Have you noheart? I told you the problem would be sorted out shortly. You’ll have your ownbedroom to yourself again soon. Okay?”

“Okay, ma.Sorry, ma.”

“Don’t tellme, ‘Sorry.’ Tell it to Hannah. The poor child’s in a terrible state as itis.”

“Okay, ma.”

“She’s morethan twice your age, so you show her some respect, you hear?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Just becauseshe’s a bit slow doesn’t give you the right to talk to her like that. Don’tthink you’re better than other people because you go to a special class atschool.”

“No, ma.”

“God hasgiven you a gift. You be sure to use that gift properly!”

“Yes, ma.”

“Off you gothen. And I don’t want to hear you two fighting again – ever!”

“Yes, ma.”

When Ireturned to the room, Hannah had done some scratching through my stuff. She hadremoved my can of candy from my bookshelf and opened it.

She pushedthe baking powder container under my nose. “These were my father’s favoritecandies. You can’t buy them here. He used to get them special all the way fromBelgium.” She sat on the bed and started to sob bitterly. “Why, Connie? Why? MyPoppa never did you any harm?”

My motherappeared in the doorway again, so I quickly said, “I’m sorry, Hannah. I nevermeant to hurt you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.” Mother smiled at me andnodded. Then she was gone again.

Hannah staredintently at me. “It was also you, the foul-mouthed kid, that Mr. Fry wastalking about? Wasn’t it?”

“No…yes. Yes,I was hoping to surprise you. I wanted to make you happy. Can’t you see that?Can’t you understand that I never meant you any harm?”

I sat downnext to her and put my hand on her arm. She pushed it away and looked at mewith malice in her eyes. “I hate you! Get away from me!” Then she quickly put ahand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I ain’t never said that to anybody’s faceever.” She shook her head and started crying again. “It’s my fault! It’s all myfault. I should never have told you about Poppa’s allergies. I would never havethought it possible of you to do something like that. But you did. And now he’sgone. He’s gone and it’s all because of me. I’m not slow, I’m stupid!Stupid…stupid…stupid Hannah.”

“Stop that!And stop blaming yourself. I knew about your father’s allergies long before youtold me.”

“You’re justsaying that to make me feel better! Please go away!”

“It’s thetruth!”

“Go!”

“You mustbelieve me! I…”

“GO!”

Her voice hadgotten uncomfortably loud. Fearing another reprimand from my mother, I made ahasty exit.

It wasterribly foolish of me not to realize that Hannah’s larger, heavier frame wouldreveal my secret hiding place – especially since I was now writing my memoirsin a large, thick, hard-covered notebook.

Although thecamping stretcher in Claudia’s room is very comfortable, I doubt that I will begetting much, if any, sleep tonight.