Connect the Dots

by Keith Calabrese

  They were the kind of men his dad would have once dismissed—stuffed shirts, he used to call them. Men with tough words but soft hands and pudgy, pink faces. Men who weren’t worth listening to.

  But now his dad was listening, and Ryan didn’t understand why. All those shows did was make his dad angry, too. Sometimes Ryan would pass by the den and overhear his dad muttering back at the TV, growling “What a mess” and “Whole country’s going down the toilet” in a dark voice that didn’t sound like his own.

  And Ryan knew his dad wasn’t the only one.

  About a mile from Ryan’s house, on the side of the road at the edge of town, was a simple white sign with black lettering that was supposed to read, in an official yet friendly font:

  WELCOME TO CLIFFS DONNELLY

  POPULATION: 22,177

  Cliffs Donnelly. It was a strange name for a town, if for no other reason than it begged the question, why not just call it Donnelly Cliffs, or even Cliffs of Donnelly? According to one of Ryan’s teachers, Mr. Earle, the original name of the town (back when it was first incorporated in 1835) was supposed to be Clifton Donnelly, after the two most prominent families in town, the Cliftons and the Donnellys. But then the Donnelly family decided to bribe the town sign maker into cutting out the Cliftons altogether. Unfortunately, the Donnellys, while devious, weren’t all that punctual, and by the time they got around to bribing the sign maker, he’d already carved the first four letters, Clif, and thus the town of Cliffs Donnelly was born.

  That was what Mr. Earle said, anyway. Though you could never really be sure with him. That man sure knew how to tell a story. Ryan did know one thing for sure, though. There weren’t any cliffs in Cliffs Donnelly.

  Of course, while Ryan was sure that Welcome to Cliffs Donnelly was what it said on the sign at the northern edge of town, here on the South Side someone had taken a can of black spray paint and traced over the i, one f, the o, one n, one l, and the y, so that all you really noticed on the sign was:

  If only.

  It was fast becoming the town’s nickname. Because there was always another factory closing down, another business moving away, more people out of work, making the town a bit emptier than it was before.

  People on both sides of town were now starting to see Cliffs Donnelly as a place where “if only” had gone from a joke to a lament. People who used to say things like “If only I hadn’t blown out my knee in high school I could’ve gone pro,” or “If only I had practiced guitar more I could have been a rock star,” were now saying, “If only the factory hadn’t shut down I could’ve kept the house,” and “If only I didn’t have to choose between health insurance and the gas bill.” Of course these people always knew they’d never go pro or be rock stars. But that had always been okay because they also knew that if they worked hard and lived right, things more or less would work out. Only they weren’t working out, not anymore.

  And it was making people like Ryan’s dad angry.

  Ryan loved his dad, but lately he didn’t like being around him much. Not so long ago they used to hang out a lot. They used to watch TV together all the time. Old movies, mostly. Ryan and his dad hadn’t watched a movie together in months.

  Ryan went upstairs and found his mom in Declan’s room. Declan was asleep in his crib, and his mom was reading one of her books in the rocking chair. She was always reading when she had a spare moment. Or doing a crossword in pen. And she could do the daily Sudoku crazy fast. She was by far the smartest person Ryan knew.

  “Too smart for this family,” Ryan’s dad used to joke. Back when he used to joke.

  “Hi, honey,” she whispered. “Finished up Mrs. Haemmerle’s lawn?”

  Ryan nodded. “Finally,” he sighed, his body sagging against the doorframe.

  “Hungry?” She started to rise.

  Ryan waved her off. “I’m good, Mom,” he said softly, wanting to leave her to her reading. Soon Declan would be up and then there’d be a whirlwind of dinner, laundry, bath time.

  Ryan helped with Declan where he could, but there was no way around it; the kid just didn’t like him. Wouldn’t let Ryan hold him, wouldn’t even let Ryan near him just in case Ryan might try to set him down next to an electrical outlet with a handful of silverware.

  Ryan peeked into Declan’s crib. His little brother was lying on his back, his arms spread out and his legs splayed open like an overturned frog.

  Declan stirred, crinkling his nose in an irritated baby scowl.

  Even asleep he doesn’t like me, Ryan thought.

  By the time Ryan had taken a shower and changed, Declan was awake and his mom was downstairs with him, making dinner.

  Ryan came down to help set the table. Then his mom sent him into the den to call his dad to eat.

  He found his dad asleep in his chair, a frown on his face as if he could still hear the arguing men on the television. Ryan shook him gently on the shoulder. “Dad? Dad?” he said.

  Ryan’s dad opened his eyes narrowly.

  “Dinner, Dad,” Ryan said.

  His dad blinked and took a long breath, nodding that he’d be there directly.

  It was quiet during dinner, except for Declan, who was still too young to be affected by uncomfortable silence. Ryan’s parents filled the spaces with some small talk about the meal, and how Ryan’s dad would probably be working late all this week.

  That wasn’t news, as Ryan’s dad had been working late most nights. Though he didn’t talk about it much, Wilmette Stamping, Tool & Die was in trouble. For as long as Ryan could remember, factories had been closing down all over the area and relocating to Mexico and Asia. Ryan knew there was talk that the Wilmettes’ factory might be the next to go.

  “Did you take care of the Wilmette lawn this weekend?” Ryan’s dad asked him.

  Ryan nodded. “Saturday.”

  Ryan’s dad took a business envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to Ryan. His dad claimed to have no idea how much Ryan had charged his boss, having made Ryan negotiate his fee directly with Mr. Wilmette. “That’s between you and Mr. Wilmette,” his dad had said. “It’s your business.”

  Ryan’s dad was still looking at him after Ryan put the money away. “Did Haemmerle’s today, then?”

  “Yeah,” said Ryan.

  “She still not paying you?” he said, asking in that way adults do when they already know the answer.

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “Doesn’t sound okay to me,” his dad said, spearing a baby potato with his fork.

  “Doug …” his mom said softly.

  “He can answer, Karen.”

  Ryan looked directly at his dad, but not too directly. “As you say, it’s my business.”

  Ryan saw the muscles tense in his dad’s neck. Parents always tell their kids to stand up for themselves, but they never mean for their kids to do it with them. And Ryan was pushing it double by using his dad’s words back on him.

  Doug Hardy stared at his son for a long moment. Then he slid back his chair. “All right,” he said with a dismissive growl as he got up and went back into the den.

  WILMETTE STAMPING, TOOL & DIE

  Quiet is louder in a big house. And Ernest’s house was a big house. Ernest’s mom came from a big family and had wanted a big family, too. Both his parents had. So they built a huge house, with a huge yard, the kind meant to be overrun with lots of kids—kids who would yell and play and dirty up the rug.

  But there had only been Ernest. Just Ernest. Small Ernest.

  After dinner Ernest brought his dad some coffee, like he did most nights. His dad thanked him in a distracted way, absorbed so deeply in his work that Ernest was surprised his father even realized he’d entered the room.

  Ernest’s dad ran the family business, Wilmette Stamping, Tool & Die. It made, well, pieces.

  Every machine, whether it’s a toaster or a tractor, an alarm clock or a jumbo jet, a dishwasher or a pacemaker, is made up of a bunch of little parts, little pieces that have to fit and move together
perfectly for the machine in question to work. Individually the parts themselves never look like much. Just funny shapes with holes and wedges, curves and angles, nothing to take note of, really.

  As long as the machine in question works.

  Wilmette Stamping, Tool & Die was established in 1945 by Edgar Wilmette, Ernest’s great-grandfather, who had been a machinist and engineer with the Air Force. He was good at making these little pieces. And so was his son, Grandpa Eddie. And so was Ernest’s dad, Eric.

  So good that Wilmette Stamping, Tool & Die now boasted over two hundred employees on a sprawling industrial center spanning two and a half acres, complete with its own dedicated traffic light for that easy-to-miss turnoff for State Route 41.

  After Ernest gave his dad his coffee, he went up to his room. He read some, then got ready for bed and packed his bag for school tomorrow. The art set was sitting on his desk, right where he’d left it after coming home from Grandpa Eddie’s, kind of like it was waiting for him. He had a feeling that it was more than just an old, forgotten toy. That maybe it, too, was a piece of something, and that it just needed to be matched with other pieces. New pieces.

  And then things would start working again.

  No one does it alone. At least no one I’ve ever met.

  Thanks to my family, for their support and encouragement. And criticism. And for pretending not to notice when they catch me mumbling to myself.

  Thank you to the keen and insightful Maggie Washburn for kindly taking the first draft of this book out for a spin.

  Thanks to my amazing agent, Emily Mitchell, who despite living on the opposite edge of the country is still always there whenever I need her.

  I remain beyond grateful to my editor, Jenne Abramowitz. Working with you makes me so much better; it shouldn’t get to be this much fun.

  Thanks bundles to the Scholastic family: Ellie Berger, Rachel Feld, Julia Eisler, Baily Crawford, Yaffa Jaskoll, Josh Berlowitz, Elisabeth Ferrari, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Danielle Yadao, Alan Smagler, Elizabeth Whiting, Alexis Lunsford, Jackie Rubin, Nikki Mutch, Terribeth Smith, Roz Hilden, Chris Satterlund, Sue Flynn, Ann Marie Wong, Jana Haussmann, Shelly Romero, Abby McAden, and David Levithan. I’m blown away by your kindness and indefatigable awesomeness!

  And finally, thank you, Kirsten. I’d be all talk if it wasn’t for you.

  Keith Calabrese is the author of A Drop of Hope and a screenwriter who holds a degree in creative writing from Northwestern University. A former script reader, he lives in Los Angeles with his wife, their kids, and a dog who thinks he’s a mountain goat. You can visit Keith online at keithcalabrese.com and @notMrCalabrese.

  Also by Keith Calabrese

  A Drop of Hope

  Copyright © 2020 by Keith Calabrese

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, May 2020

  Jacket design by Baily Crawford

  Jacket art © 2020 by Chelen Ecija

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-35405-8

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