Pierce Manor

Pierce Manor
by Ellen Resnick

March 8, 1966.  The day I celebrated my 8^th birthday.

Also the day Wendy Wolin died.

I wonder if she took her last breath at the same moment

I extinguished the colorful candles

placed by my mother in a line across my birthday cake,

with one in front for good luck.

We found out about the tragedy the next day.

She was standing at the bottom of the driveway

that curved up behind the tall red brick apartment buildings

that was home.  Pierce Manor.

Waiting for her mother to bring the car around

from the parking lot.

Who knows where Wendy and her mom were planning to go,

maybe shopping in town or out for a slice of pizza.

Who knows how long she stood there before the man

approached her.

Did he say anything first?

Did he smile at her and did she smile back?

Or did he rush over with muscles tense, looking side to side

to make sure no one was watching.

Wendy stepping back instinctively, knowing something bad

was going to happen.

Maybe she simply stood on the corner facing the driveway where her

mother’s car was about to appear over the hill.

Waiting patiently.  Unsuspecting.

We read in the newspaper that she said “a man punched me”

to the men in the firehouse across the street,

as blood patches soaked the front of her overcoat.

I don’t remember Wendy’s face,

but I think I would know it if I saw her photo.

I do remember that our town, Elizabeth, changed

forever that day.

A sketch of the crazed man who took her life

hung for weeks on telephone poles, in supermarkets,

on the front page of the local newspaper.  

Every morning our mothers walked by our side

holding our hands tightly, 

as we marched in twos, big and small

towards Nicholas Murray Butler #23.

We formed a solid protective line

to and from school,

for weeks upon weeks.

I don’t think they ever found him.

I don’t remember when we began to walk to school

alone again.

But I will always remember that day.

My 8^th birthday.  The day Wendy Wolin died.