The Dollar Kids

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  “I suppose,” Dad said. “What about the skills he already has?”

  “Yeah, because anyone can play soccer,” said Clem, banging his cup down. “Right, Dad?”

  “Oh, Clem, no one is saying that,” said Mum.

  “Aren’t you?” Clem said to Dad. “Isn’t that what you’re thinking? ’Cause guess what! Someone else made a soccer team, too. The high-school team — where there were actual tryouts. Only no one’s asked how my practices have been going, or whether I’m ready for my first game next week.”

  “Oh, love, of course you made the team,” said Mum. “We never questioned it!”

  “Well, you should have,” said Clem. “Turns out kids in Millville are really good at soccer. And I mean really good.”

  Dad nodded. “Makes sense. There’s nothing else to do here. Kids aren’t distracted by other pursuits. . . .”

  “You mean more worthwhile pursuits, right?” asked Clem.

  “Clem, I didn’t say —”

  Clem blurted, “I made varsity.”

  “As a sophomore!” Mum said.

  Again, Dad nodded. “Makes sense — low enrollment . . .”

  Clem placed his cup in the sink and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Honestly, Weaver,” she said. “Must you steal his thunder?”

  “I don’t get it,” Dad said. “I wasn’t trying to be negative. . . .”

  The air between Mum and Dad started to crackle. Both Lowen and Anneth left the room.

  The following morning, after Clem was pulled from bed, the Grovers had a family meeting around the dining room table.

  “As you know,” Mum began, “my shop is not doing as well as anticipated.”

  Clem sat up tall.

  Lowen quickly looked at Dad, trying to gauge the seriousness of this conversation. He knew that the slow start to the restaurant meant that his family was far from meeting the second requirement: repairing the dollar house. But how could they afford to make repairs if the restaurant wasn’t making any money — was in fact losing money each day it was open?

  “But it’s only September, Mum,” Anneth said, and Lowen realized that sometime between the end of June and now, his sister had gotten fully on board.

  “We’re not ready to throw in the towel yet,” Mum continued, “but we’re going to have to adjust our schedule —”

  “— and our budget,” Dad added.

  “Dad is going to stay in Flintlock longer than we had hoped,” said Mum.

  Anneth reached for their father’s arm.

  Sadness draped over Lowen. He wished for a moment that they could all go back in time — before Millville, before the shooting. Life seemed so predictable then.

  “Since I won’t be able to devote as much time to the repairs,” Dad said, “we’ll need to hire out the bigger jobs. That’ll cost money, of course.”

  “What jobs?” asked Clem.

  “Replacing the rotted porch, steps, and siding, for starters.”

  Clem jumped up from the table. “You can still do those, Dad. On the weekends. What happened to ‘It will be good to have creative projects — to do things with your hands’?”

  “It’s my fault,” said Mum. “I foolishly thought that the shop would take right off. That we’d have money, that your father could leave his job and —”

  Dad put his hand on Mum’s. “We all had a little magical thinking.”

  Anneth looked panicked. “I didn’t want to come, but now I don’t want to leave.”

  “Me either,” said Clem with urgency. “I’ll take on more of the house projects.”

  “That’s sweet, Clem,” Mum said. “But you’ve got school, and soccer, and you’ve signed up for driver’s ed.”

  “Not to mention that these jobs require some expertise,” Dad said.

  “I can learn. Lots of high-school kids in this area have building experience,” Clem said, and then added, “I don’t have to get my license this year. I won’t be able to afford a car anyway.”

  “Well, let’s take this one step at a time,” Dad said.

  “I’ll borrow the Fields’ lawn mower,” offered Anneth. “Our yard is beginning to look like a meadow next to theirs. I know it’s not much, but at least it’ll show people that we’re trying.”

  “And I’ll rebuild the porch,” Clem said.

  Lowen stood. “I can help you, Clem —”

  “No, dude —”

  “You can help me today, Lowen,” Dad said as if he hadn’t heard his declaration. “We’ll work on getting the mold out of the upstairs bathroom. It’s a big health hazard.”

  He had heard that line, You can help me, all his life — whenever his parents wanted to give his brother and sister some space. But at least today he’d be the one getting to spend time with Dad.

  They walked down to Handy Hardware to buy supplies: a tape measure, hammer, drywall, screws, an X-Acto knife, a putty knife, and building mud. They also rented an electric drill. Lowen didn’t know whether Mr. Corbeau had sold his mother the blue kill-your-appetite paint on purpose, so he was wary when the clerk gave them something other than what they had asked for.

  “Is wallboard the same thing as drywall?” asked Lowen. Drywall had been on their list, but Mr. Corbeau had pointed them toward wallboard.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Corbeau, “same product.”

  “Is joint compound the same as mud?”

  Dad looked at Lowen as if he were being disrespectful.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Corbeau, smiling.

  On the way back, Dad carried the drill case in one hand and one end of the eight-foot drywall in the other. Lowen carried the other end of the drywall, and everything else in two bags. He felt a little like a cartoon character walking at one end of a long but very light board.

  So, of course, that was the exact moment that he should almost bump into Luna Muñoz. She was wearing a yellow dress and a bouncy ponytail, her cello case strapped to her back.

  “Lowen!” shouted his dad when Lowen stumbled out of the way to avoid knocking her over. “This board is fragile! You almost broke it in half!”

  Lowen’s face flamed. But Luna smiled at him — it was a kind smile, a smile that told him that she recognized him from that afternoon in the gym.

  It was pure sunshine.

  His mortification melted.

  And then he stumbled to keep up with Dad — almost clown-like — and Luna was gone.

  When they got back to the house, Dylan was sitting in the corduroy recliner.

  “Come on, Dylan,” Dad said as they entered the house. “If you’re going to be here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

  Lowen groaned internally. So much for one-on-one time with Dad.

  Dylan joined them in the small bathroom without any complaint.

  Dad handed Lowen the hammer. “See this black speckled stuff on the wall?”

  Lowen nodded. How could he not?

  “That’s mold,” Dad said. “We’ve got to remove all the infected drywall.” He handed Lowen the sledgehammer. “You can make the first hole.”

  “Really?” asked Lowen.

  “Sure,” said his father. “It’s likely that most of this wall will be infected, so if your blow goes beyond this patch, it will be OK.”

  Dylan spoke up, something he rarely did unless addressed. “But, what about the —”

  “It’s OK,” said Dad, anticipating Dylan’s concern. “I’ve turned the electrical current off. If you hit wiring, Lowen, it won’t hurt you. Just strike the wall this way.” Dad pantomimed hitting the wall sideways with two hands. “That way you won’t pull on anything.”

  Dylan croaked. “There’s —”

  “Stand back!” said Lowen. He was doing his best to ignore Dylan and just have fun. He held the sledgehammer with two hands like Dad showed him. Then he wound his arms back and smashed the wall with as much force as he could muster. The wallboard was as flimsy as the one he’d been carrying. His sledgehammer created a satisfying hole:
THWAP! And an instantaneous GUNG! — the clang of hammer on metal. Water sprayed in all directions. He’d hit a pipe!

  “Augh!” Water squirted at Lowen’s face.

  “Plug the hole!” yelled Dad. “I’ll go try to shut off the water!” He ran out of the room.

  Dylan handed Lowen a towel, which Lowen tried to wrap around the strip of pipe that was leaking. But holding his hands over one spot created a second leak.

  “Dylan!” yelled Dad from somewhere below. “Where is the turn-off valve?”

  Dylan looked at Lowen and shrugged as if he didn’t have a clue what Dad was referring to . . . but then some glimmer of recognition registered on his face and he went racing out of the bathroom.

  Meanwhile, Lowen’s soaked towel began dripping. He reached over to get a dry towel from the rack and . . .

  Whoops!

  . . . slipped on the wet floor. He fell back and hit the wall, nearly bashing his head on the toilet. The pipe he was meant to be plugging was now partially in his hand.

  Water gushed everywhere.

  “Dad!” Lowen yelled. “Come quick! Dad!”

  Suddenly the water stopped. Lowen stood slowly, his jeans soaking wet. He guessed that he would have been standing in a foot of water if it hadn’t spread into the hall and soaked the carpet. He headed down the stairs to find Dad and Dylan.

  And whom should he meet while coming down the stairs?

  Mr. Field, of course. He probably had a funeral that afternoon and had come to ask the Grovers to stop screaming.

  “We had a pipe burst, Mr. Field,” Lowen said, intersecting his path. “In the upstairs bathroom.”

  Mr. Field stopped short. “Oh.” He seemed to be satisfied with this explanation. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, likely with the same tone of voice he used when responding to the bereaved. He started to descend the stairs, but stopped and asked, “Do you know Carl, the plumber?”

  Lowen nodded. He hoped they wouldn’t have to wait as long for him to repair their plumbing as they had had to wait for him to fix the plumbing at the restaurant. That could mean going without water for days or even weeks.

  “Do you have another bathroom?” asked Mr. Field. He seemed to be having the same thought regarding Carl.

  “My parents’ room has a toilet,” said Lowen, “but it doesn’t have a tub or shower.”

  “Does your mother or father know how to shut off the water in one bathroom but keep it on in the others?”

  Lowen shook his head with one hundred percent certainty.

  “OK, then,” said Mr. Field. “Let me show you.”

  Mr. Field had just finished explaining how when Clem arrived home, covered in sweat and dirt. Mum, who had recently returned herself, filled him in on the situation. “No shower?” he asked, incredulous.

  “You’ll have to take a sponge bath,” she said.

  Clem looked down at his legs. They were caked with dirt and grass stains.

  Mr. Field shook his head. “You can take a shower next door. We have two full bathrooms.”

  Clem’s eyes grew wide.

  “There you go!” said Dad. He was holding the sledgehammer that Lowen had dropped. “Problem solved.”

  Thought bubble over Clem’s head: Really? You want me to shower in a funeral home?

  “That’s OK,” said Clem. “A sponge bath doesn’t sound so bad, actually —”

  “No, no, I insist,” Mr. Field said.

  Clem looked to both Mum and Dad, but neither came to his rescue. “Lowen should come, too. Look — he’s covered in gunk from the pipe breaking.”

  Mum started to speak up, to suggest an alternative (or so Lowen guessed), but he didn’t want to be treated differently from his brother. They’d all lived next door to Abe, not just him. “I’ll go with Clem,” he said bravely.

  “Good,” said Mr. Field. “Come now. My service starts at four.”

  Lowen expected Clem to look grateful, maybe even drape his arm around him and say, “Come on, runt.” Instead he just sighed loudly and went to get his stuff.

  Mr. Field led them and their armloads of clothes and towels across the parking lot and through his back door. Straight ahead was a stairway leading to the second floor. “There is a bathroom down here,” Mr. Field said, pointing down a hall, “and another upstairs.”

  “I’m upstairs,” called Clem. He bounded up several steps and waited. Mr. Field glanced at Lowen, then shrugged and followed Clem. He called out to his wife to announce Clem’s arrival.

  Lowen stood still, taking note of a room to his right that looked like a kitchen but wasn’t a true kitchen. There was a little refrigerator, a microwave, and a coffee urn. In the center of the room was a table, and on the table was a silver tea set and silver serving trays.

  Lowen could hear Mr. Field chatting with his wife upstairs. The talk was slow, casual. That’s when Lowen got it: the Fields must live on the second floor, above the funeral home. No wonder Clem had called the upstairs shower so quickly.

  The hall leading out of the kitchen was lined with dark wood paneling, but there was light coming from the rooms at the front of the house. He ventured down the hall and tapped open a door to his left, fairly certain that this was the bathroom that Mr. Field had pointed out. Sure enough, it was an old-timey one with a deep claw-foot bathtub. Lowen put his clothes on the toilet lid and then turned to shut the door.

  But wait. What did a funeral home look like? He wished now that he’d been brave enough to attend Abe’s funeral. Other kids in the neighborhood and even kids from Abe’s third-grade class had gone. If Lowen’s imaginings were true, Abe had looked straight into the barrel of a gun, and here he hadn’t even been brave enough to say good-bye.

  He left the bathroom and headed to the end of the hall. There was a room on his right about the size of the Grovers’ living room, but it was set up with folding chairs all facing in the same direction. Like church.

  Feeling downright courageous, Lowen turned and walked across the hall. Here was a larger room with clustered armchairs and small tables. At one end, in front of a dark paneled wall, was a partially opened casket with bouquets of flowers all around.

  Lowen froze. The snake wrapped around his lungs.

  He turned to bolt but bumped into someone.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a dead body before?”

  It was Dylan. His pant cuffs were still wet and he was carrying a bouquet of flowers wrapped in cellophane.

  “What are you doing here?” Lowen asked.

  “I work here,” Dylan said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You work here?” asked Lowen, ignoring his question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask,” Dylan said. “Want to look in the casket? She doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Mrs. Doucette. She used to teach kindergarten. You can tell she’s wearing a wig.”

  Lowen tried to imagine the corpse of a woman. He shook his head no.

  “Come on,” said Dylan. “It’s not that scary.”

  Lowen shook his head emphatically.

  Dylan peeled the cellophane off the bouquet, made sure the gift card was prominently displayed, placed the flowers in a vase, and placed the vase on a table near the casket.

  “How come you work here?” Lowen hadn’t meant to emphasize that last word, but come on, what kind of kid voluntarily worked at a funeral home?

  “I’m not supposed to be working yet. It’s against the child labor laws. But Mrs. Field has arthritis and can’t do the stuff I do, like unwrap flowers, fold the programs, spread out the little cakes. So they pay me under the table to help out from time to time.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Dylan added, “Don’t tell anyone, OK?”

  “What about your parents?” It was the first time he’d asked Dylan about his family, and the minute he saw Dylan’s face, he regretted it.

  “What about them?” Dylan asked, sounding defensive.

  “Where do they work?”

&n
bsp; “My dad works at a mill in Buchanan. My mom doesn’t work — not anymore.” Dylan pulled out a couple of the flowers and put them back in different spots.

  “What are you doing?”

  Dylan shrugged. “Flowers show up better when there’s space between them. Hey,” he said, pulling something from his pocket, “you don’t think your parents would mind if I kept this, do you?”

  It was a piece of broken tile from the bathroom.

  Lowen was about to ask him what he wanted with a fragment of tile when they were interrupted.

  “Dylan, you’re here,” said Mr. Field, coming into the viewing room. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He turned to Lowen. “Haven’t you taken your bath? Your brother has already gone.”

  Lowen couldn’t believe that Clem had not only grabbed the upstairs shower, but had left without even waiting. He decided to take his time soaking in the tub. Heck, he still had a half hour before mourners arrived. And when he returned home he would tell Clem that not only was he not afraid to take a bath downstairs, he had stood in the same room as a dead person.

  Unfortunately, Clem wasn’t home when he returned.

  Mum and Dad were in the dining room surveying the water damage. Water was leaking through the upstairs flooring and had formed a substantial stain on the dining room ceiling. Lowen thought it looked like a giant hamster.

  Dad sighed. “If the leaking continues, I’m afraid the ceiling is going to come down.”

  “If it doesn’t come crashing down on our heads, we’ll probably have to take it down,” said Mum. She had none of her usual patience. Lowen guessed that, like most days, she’d used it up watching streams of Millvillians walk into the Busy Bee for lunch. “And we’ll need to pull up the floor under the carpet. And who knows where all that water inside the wall is going!”

  “I thought of turning off the wiring,” Dad said. “But it never occurred to me that the pipes might run horizontally.”

  “It’s probably not your fault,” Mum said. “Coach said that Dylan’s father was the kind of do-it-yourselfer that was apt to use milk jugs and bubble gum for building materials.”

  “Maybe we should cry uncle before we lose everything,” Dad said.