The Least of These.

by Kathleen Neely

  I unfolded my arms and sat on the cold ground, facing him. “What happened?”

  Tyler slid his backpack off and looped his foot through the straps. “I took the West End Bridge to Carson Street just like he instructed me. I found the row house, but no one waited outside, so I parked at the curb and hung around for a few minutes, not knowing what else to do. Finally, I walked to the door and rang the bell.”

  Tyler rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped under his chin. “There was no answer. Went back to the car to check my address. I had the right place. I was sure I walked into a bust. My hands went clammy, and I fumbled putting the key in the ignition. All of a sudden there was a thwack on my window. It almost gave me a heart attack.”

  He sat up straight, an involuntary spasm twitching his face. “I couldn’t see the face in the dark. I didn’t know if it was my contact or the cops. My hand shook so bad I could barely roll the window down. When I did, I saw the man described on my paper. I made the exchange and couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  I nodded. “So do you have a plan?”

  “I’m getting outta here. I gotta go as far as I can from this city. There’s nothing here for me but trouble.” He raised his head arching one brow. “Winter’s coming. You have any interest in heading someplace warmer?”

  I stood and leaned against the pylon, tapping my fingers together. “Ty, I think there’s another way. I think we should go to the police.”

  He rose to his feet, hands on his hips. “Are you crazy? No way am I going to the cops. You know what I’ve been doing. They’ll lock me up.”

  “No, they won’t. They won’t want you. You’ve been a pawn, used in a bigger game. They want the game master.” I took a few steps toward him. “Listen Ty, did they ever tell you what the packages held?”

  “No, but…”

  “No.” My hand swept down, closing my fist like a conductor halting the music. “That’s all. No but’s, just no. You tell the police you weren’t aware. When you became suspicious, you stopped and went to the authorities.”

  “Yeah. Then I’m a dead man.” A siren above sounded, as if in confirmation.

  I stepped toward him. “They’ll protect you. We’ll tell them you need protection.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not doing it, Scott. Why should I? I can walk away if I get outta this city.”

  “Yeah, you walk away and kids all over Pittsburgh are shooting poison in their arms, dying at sixteen. Can you live with that?” My forward motion brought me right before him.

  Tyler turned his head away. “Why did I want to find you anyway? You always judge me.”

  I stepped back and ran my hands through my hair. Walking back toward the bridge support, I braced my arms and head against the pitted metal pillar.

  “Sorry, Scott. I don’t mean to sound heartless, but they’re kids that choose it. No one makes them use drugs. I can’t stop it. It’s a bigger problem than I can fix.”

  My shoulders slumped with the heaviness. My tone became more of a plea. “What if you could stop it for one kid? Would that be worth the risk?”

  He lowered his head avoiding my eyes. “Can’t.”

  “You mean won’t.” I spit out the word with emphasis.

  Tyler stiffened. “Judging me again.” He started walking away from the damp, musty overpass.

  “Hey wait, Ty. I need to tell you some things. Need to tell you why this is so important to me.”

  “You can tell me, but I’m not going to the police. I’m hopping on a Greyhound, and I won’t look back.”

  13

  Scott Harrington

  I sat on a landscaping tie and Tyler joined me. Telling Tyler my brother OD’d would be insufficient. I needed him to see Edwin, to see us as kids, to know the cost. Taking a deep breath, I pictured Edwin in my mind. My occupation depended on using words to make people real. I needed that skill right now.

  “Edwin was a year older than me—fourteen months to be exact. When we were young, we only had each other. No neighborhood kids or friends to invite over. Just him and me. We were typical boys—we wrestled, played ball, video games. Our parents were rarely around. Leticia, our nanny, raised us. Sometimes our mother would take us to the country club with her, and we’d swim with the other kids.”

  Tyler’s eyebrows rose.

  I ignored it. “I don’t think she wanted to take us, but her socialite friends took their kids. She had to keep up appearances. We lived in an impressive old house, my dad’s family home for two generations back.”

  I left it at that for Tyler’s sake. He grew up in poverty. It would be cruel to describe the long entrance lined with trees, the fountain at the bend in the governor’s driveway, and the huge pillars towering the front of the 17,000 square-foot house. He already surmised that we were wealthy.

  “I never knew anything else until high school. Then I realized everyone didn’t live like that.”

  Tyler eyed my frayed jeans.

  “Might sound impressive, but believe me, for two boys growing up with absent parents and no other friends, we couldn’t have cared less. Most of the house remained off limits to us anyway. In many ways, Edwin and I just had each other.” I stood and paced for a moment.

  Tyler sat there, waiting for the rest of my story. The wind picked up and a few leaves from the grassy embankment blew past.

  “Hormones hit him like an eighteen-wheeler. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but looking back, I can see it. It seemed like all of a sudden, he shut me out, not wanting to do anything together. At fifteen, he starting hanging with the cool kids from school. I wasn’t cool by anyone’s standard—skinny, awkward, and wearing glasses. I guess kids today might call me dorky. Dorky and quiet. I didn’t talk much to anyone but Edwin.”

  Tyler didn’t interject. Was he starting to see beyond his belief that these are kids that choose drugs? There are always circumstances—something they’re searching for.

  “He started sneaking out when he should have been in bed. A couple of times, I woke and went in to talk. He seemed spacy, and I figured he’d been drinking. One night, I went looking for a CD he had used. I went in his bedroom and checked in his nightstand drawer. I found needles and some white stuff. I knew it had to be drugs. I couldn’t stop fretting about it. The next day I told him I had seen the drugs. He lunged at me and pushed me up against the wall, his arm pressed into my neck. He told me if I said one word, he’d beat the crap outta me, but his language came out a little stronger. I asked him what it was. He said, ‘Heroin. And don’t you ever touch it.’

  “I spent the next three months knowing and not doing anything about it. I watched him kill himself, but I remained quiet. I should’ve gone to my dad, or at least to Leticia. But—and believe me, I know how stupid this sounds—I didn’t want Edwin to get mad at me. A month after his sixteenth birthday, they found him under the bleachers at the school’s football field, dead from an overdose.”

  Tyler said nothing.

  “You know, Ty, you said these kids choose it. But I want you to think about this. We weren’t raised in a normal home. No dad to throw ball or mom to tuck us in. Edwin was searching, but he didn’t know what for.”

  Tyler gazed at me, unblinking. “I hear what you’re saying, but I didn’t have a normal home. No mom or dad to show any support. I’ve been searching for something all my life. But I didn’t take drugs.”

  I bit back the words, but you sold them. That wouldn’t help me get my point across. A better way was if I just sat down and continued my story.

  “After that, my family went crazy. Dad raged and wanted to find someone to blame and bring to justice. Mom blamed my dad because he didn’t spend any time with us. Next thing I knew, they filed for divorce. Dad got the house, which had been in his family, and cursed about not having a pre-nup. Mom got me and a multi-million-dollar settlement. Leticia got a severance package. My mother moved me to Scarsdale. After that, I only saw my dad once or twice a year.

  “At eighte
en, I headed for Columbia University. They were horrified that I planned to study journalism and not law. I don’t think Dad has forgiven me yet. He had lost his golden boy. We all knew it. My dad always talked about the day when the firm would be Harrington and Harrington.”

  I stood again and stretched my cramped legs, too tall to sit like that for long.

  “They didn’t know I could have stepped up to the plate and helped my brother. Instead, I sat back and watched him destroy himself. I live with guilt every day of my life. It about destroyed me the first year after he died.”

  I returned to my seat. “So, Ty, that’s why I can’t walk away from this. Someone has a brother, a son, a best friend who needs help. I am going to the police. The only question is whether you’ll go with me.”

  Tyler knitted his brows. “So, if your family’s so rich, why are you out here?”

  “A whole different story, buddy. Let’s stick with the police for now. Will you do it?”

  He ran both hands through his hair before cradling his head in hands. “Here’s what I’ll do. I got no place to go. Can’t go back to Three Rivers Mission, and I can’t go back to sleeping under this bridge. I’m headed somewhere away from this city. I’ll go with you, and then I’m gone. From the police to the bus station. That’s all I can do.”

  I couldn’t let it go at that. The officers would want to follow up. And the documentary—Tyler’s might be the best piece. I could write it without his consent if I didn’t use his name or any specifics that would identify him. That would diminish the story’s impact.

  Besides, if he left for another state, he’d still be without a home. I didn’t put myself on the line for my brother. I’d like to think I outgrew that selfishness.

  “What if I could help you stay here?”

  Tyler shook his head as though clearing the cobwebs from his brain. “Why do you think you can help me when you can’t help yourself?”

  The time had come. I wouldn’t be any benefit to Tyler without breaking my cover.

  “Here’s the scoop. There is a part of the story I told you that you may have missed. Remember I said I went off to Columbia? They have about the best journalism school around. Well, that’s what I do, the reason I’m here.”

  Tyler still seemed confused, but then understanding seemed to settle in his brain. His mouth went slack as his eyes widened. “You…you’re a writer?” His voice rose, stuttering. “That’s why you’re here? To get a story?”

  “Yeah, but hear me out.”

  He sprang to his feet, hands clenched tight. “And why should I hear you out? You lied and used people for your own purposes. Am I in that book?”

  He backed away from me.

  I stood and took a few steps to join him. “It’s not a book, Ty. Listen. I’m trying to do some good work here.”

  “How self-sacrificing.” He nodded in mock agreement, his sarcasm wrapping around me like a straightjacket. “You wanna get some pictures? I could lay down here with my backpack if you have a camera.”

  “Tyler. Listen. It’s not like that. I’m hoping to…” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I hoped to win an award. That was the bottom line. Yet, I still felt the story needed to be told.

  I tried again. “Most people don’t know what it’s like to be without a home. I want to bring awareness that these are real people in real trouble. How are we helping and what more can we do? I think it’s something people need to hear.”

  He clenched his fists. “Well, put this in your story.”

  After making an obscene hand gesture, he took off.

  I watched his departing back for a brief moment before I called after him. “Can we talk about this?” When he kept walking, I made a snap decision and called again. “I have an extra bedroom.”

  That stopped him in his tracks, but he didn’t turn around.

  “I have connections that can get you a job.”

  That made the difference. He turned around and took slow steps back toward me.

  “In exchange for my story?”

  “Nope. No conditions. But if you agree, I’d like to write your story.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Your decision. All I ask is that you give me a chance to show you what I’m doing.”

  “If I agree, no pictures, no name.” He crossed his hands over his chest, head back and chin jutted forward, a mix of pride and desperation.

  I nodded. “I can work with that.”

  It would have to be enough for now. I would convince him later.

  His eyes fixed on mine, the anger still evident. “How long can I stay?”

  “Let’s get you off the street before we work out all the details, OK?”

  Tyler uncrossed his arms and nodded, still miffed at me, but we were making steps.

  “Let’s get out of here, go home, and get cleaned up. We’ll get a good meal from Stella, before we come in to the police station.”

  “Who’s Stella—your wife?”

  “Nah. Stella’s my neighbor, and she runs a little café. Good food. Good lady.”

  “She your girlfriend?”

  “Nope. The girl next door—literally.”

  ~*~

  I turned into my driveway, Tyler in the passenger seat. Nothing like my childhood home, the simple two-story clapboard painted a discreet ivory, sat on a quiet street. The houses were built with a few feet between them and fronted by sidewalks.

  I pointed at the house to the right of mine. “That’s where Stella lives. You’ll get to know her well.” I motioned toward the corner intersection. “Church Street. The café is down there and around the corner.”

  When we entered the house, Tyler gazed, wide-eyed. He turned around, his eyes darting everywhere in my little home. “Wow.”

  “Let me show you around.” I motioned toward each area. “The living room, dining room, and kitchen sort of run together.” We walked past the half-wall that divided the kitchen, and I opened the door to the patio.

  “This is fenced so Ginger can run without her leash. Oh, you haven’t met the old girl. She’s next door at Stella’s. She keeps her if I’m going to be out too long to leave her alone. Come on back inside. I’ll show you your bedroom.”

  We stepped back inside and started up the stairs. I scanned the house with new eyes, seeing things I took for granted. The weekly cleaning service kept it in good order. Hardwood floors shined to a glowing finish, the hexagon window at the curve of the stairs scattered light on the landing.

  “The first room on the right is mine and the one across from it is where you’ll stay. The third bedroom down the hall is overflow. I keep it for an office but mostly work at the dining room table anyway.”

  We stepped into Tyler’s room, no frills, a definite masculine décor, but spacious enough for a queen-sized sleigh bed and a chest of drawers. The heavy, well-built pine furniture glowed with a rich, dark wood tone.

  “Sorry there’s no TV in here.” I opened the closet, where one side remained empty for the rare occasion when I had a house guest. “You can keep your things in here.”

  Tyler’s mouth fell open, disbelief etched on his face as he touched the smooth wooden surfaces and stroked the comforter on the bed. “Man, this is nice. And this is just for company?”

  “Not anymore. Now it’s for you.”

  I sorted through my closet while Tyler took a long shower. Although his backpack bulged, it didn’t hold much of value. Both taller and fuller than Ty’s thin frame, my jeans would never work. But he could get by with some of my T-shirts. I pulled out three of them, as well as clean socks. I would do a department store run and pick up some faded jeans, let him think those were my old ones that no longer fit.

  But first, we had to eat. I called Stella’s to order takeout. She answered the café phone herself.

  “Hey, Stel, It’s Scott.”

  “You home?”

  “Yep. Didn’t get Ginger yet, but I want to place an order. I’ll run over and pick it up.”

  “Y
ou want the special? It’s Chicken Pesto Panini with a beet salad.”

  “Yeah, minus the beet salad. Make it a Caesar salad, and make that two orders.”

  “Two orders of salad, or two orders of everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Got company, or are you extraordinarily hungry today? And what’s wrong with my beet salad?”

  Ignoring the other questions, I replied, “Love your Caesar’s. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Always throw her a food compliment.

  “Don’t bother. I’m bringing it over.”

  I grinned and shook my head. She couldn’t stand not knowing.

  Tyler looked fresh with his hair damp and combed back, disguising the chopped haircut. My navy-blue pocket-T fit him well. No one would perceive anything but a clean-cut kid. That’s what I wanted Stella to see.

  The doorbell rang before Stella walked in.

  “Delivery,” she called. She came to the table and pulled out a myriad of small containers—Panini, Caesar, and beet salads, two of each.

  I raised my eyes to question when I saw the beet salads.

  “Don’t judge it ’til you try it.” She looked around for another person.

  “Tyler.” I mouthed it without sound then walked to the stairs and called. “Hey, Tyler. Dinner’s here.”

  He came down the stairs, and I introduced him to Stella.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Tyler. Scott’s told me about you.”

  His shoulders slumped, and he avoided eye contact. “Oh? What did he tell you?”

  Stella walked toward him and thrust out her hand, making him raise his gaze. “He told me he met a very nice kid.”

  Tyler let out a huge breath and shook her hand. “Yeah, I appreciate his help. Thanks for bringing this over.”

  “You’re welcome. Hope you like it.”

  His eyes lit as he glanced at the open cartons. “Are those beets? I haven’t had beets for a long time.”

  Stella jutted up her chin and raised her eyebrows as she shot a smug glance in my direction. “It’s a beet salad with pears, almonds, and goat cheese.”

  “Awesome.”