by David Gane
“You know,” he waves a hand in the air, “wherever she is.”
He never seems to complain about anything—even a missing parent.
He stares at the trailer. “All right, let’s go.”
chapter 14
I take a deep breath and follow him to the trailer. An official-looking eviction notice, dated two days ago, has been posted on the door, with a padlock to enforce it.
“Son of a bitch,” Charlie says, but he seems calm, laughing as he shakes his head. He takes a breath and runs his fingers through his thick hair.
“Charlie, what’s going on?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Your mom can’t pay rent, you get evicted, you have a hearing, you lose, you have another hearing, you lose again, then the court and the sheriff’s department kick you out and take all your shit.”
I stare at him. Sometimes I think that the way I’ve grown up has left me too insulated from the world.
He’s grinning, and I can tell he wants to make fun of me, but he holds back.
“Up for one more B&E?” he asks as he scoots around the back.
“Charlie?” He’s already disappeared. “Charlie!”
I don’t want to break into someone’s house—not today, not any day, really—even if it is his own.
When I get around the corner, Charlie’s standing on a wooden pallet he’s leaned against the siding, stretching for a window. He can’t quite make it.
“Hey, All Star, give me a hand.” He tosses me a flat metal bar. “Push the window up, just a bit, and slide this in the gap.”
I climb up and feel for the gap between the window frame and the screen before sliding the bar in. It takes only one small pry for the entire screen to pop out. I push open the sliding window.
“Thanks, Shepherd.”
He jumps up and effortlessly pulls himself in. I’m impressed with how well he’s healed from last summer’s attack.
His head pops back out. “You coming?”
That’s a great question.
I hope I don’t regret this.
chapter 15
I pull myself through the window, landing softly.
Charlie’s already gone.
I’m in a bedroom—I think. It’s so dark and desolate I can’t really tell. I try the light switch by the door, but there doesn’t seem to be any power. I pull out my phone, turn on its light, and look around.
There’s a mattress on the floor with some crumpled sheets and an old blanket. An abused dresser is against one wall and above it, a matching mirror, though the glass is broken. There’s an ugly straw ornament thing on the wall, random in its placement. The closet door is pushed in, hanging off its hinges. It’s a sad and neglected space, with almost nothing else in it except the smell of stale cigarette smoke soaked into the brown carpet.
I step out of the room, searching for Charlie, making my way down the narrow, wood-panelled hallway and into the main living area. Another blanket, this one knitted, lies on a velour couch beside a frayed pillow. Empty glasses and bottles litter the coffee table next to an ashtray overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts. The whole place has a pungent, lived-in smell of sweat mixed with the stink of old nicotine. Linoleum peels in the kitchen corners. An empty box of doughnuts sits on the counter. There are dishes in the sink; clumps of mould have formed on the food-crusted edges.
I study the fridge. A couple of magnets hold overdue bills. A sticky note with a phone number and the name James is stuck beside them. No light turns on when I open it. It’s empty but smells sour and rotten.
I wince. This can’t be Charlie’s home. He’s weird but clean; he cares about the details. This grim space doesn’t suit him. I close the fridge door quietly, head spinning.
“Can you grab a box?” Charlie yells from another room.
I see one under the kitchen table and grab it. It smells like cat pee but I haven’t seen any animals. I carry it down the hallway until I find him in a cramped room, sitting on a mattress, working by flashlight. The foot of the bed is flush against a small closet whose doors have been removed. Inside is another beat-up dresser with an old television hooked up to an original Nintendo console on top. At the head of the bed, a bedsheet’s been pinned over the window as a makeshift curtain. On the wall beside it are two posters: one for Deep Purple and one for Apocalypse Now.
Man, talk about irony.
“This is your room?” I ask, handing him the box.
Charlie ignores me, busying himself opening drawers and dumping things into the box. “Can you unhook the game and toss it in here?”
“Sure.” I get that he doesn’t want to talk about it.
He pulls a few shirts off hangers and yanks some jeans off a top shelf.
I look at the things he’s put into the box. A coffee mug with a local radio station logo on it, a few books, some cassette tapes. Two picture frames lie face down. I reach in to take a look but before I can turn them over, he slaps my hand away.
“What the hell, man!” he growls.
I raise my hands in surrender. He never seems to have a problem going through other people’s property. “Sorry. Just curious.”
“Are you only here to snoop through my shit and judge?”
Ouch. He’s like an exposed nerve.
It isn’t until his voice drops and he whispers, “Just help, okay?” that I realize how much courage Charlie needed to even let me be here and see how he lives.
“Okay. What do you want from me?”
He points to the top of his closet. “Above the inside trim is an envelope taped to the wall. Grab it.”
He’s so very odd sometimes, but I should be used to this by now. I reach up and feel along the edge, finding an eight-by-ten manila envelope. I pull it down.
“What’s in it?”
“Well, Mr. Curious, open it and find out.”
I rip the seal. Inside is about two hundred dollars in cash, photocopies of his IDs, a credit card—I’m sure it’s not his—a gift card from a grocery store, and a SIM card for a phone.
“You never know when you need to scramble,” he says.
I study him before realizing. “Wait, you have more of these?”
“All across the city.”
I think back to the day I first met him, digging in the dirt. “That day outside your school?”
“Burying some cash, as well as some juicy evidence on a couple of people, in case I ever needed to get out of a jam. Always be prepared, is my motto.” He picks up the box on the floor and hands it to me. “Okay, we’re out of here.”
I look at the meagre collection of stuff. “That’s it?”
“Life isn’t about possessions, Shepherd.”
“Fine. We done?”
“Yup.”
“Where now?”
“Far from here.”
chapter 16
We sit in Dad’s car, all of Charlie’s worldly belongings in a box in the back seat. I’ve known Charlie for almost two years, and rarely see him worry. But in the glow of the dashboard, I can see he’s having trouble.
He drops his head, struggling to get the words out. “Shepherd, I need a favour …”
I know exactly what’s on his mind. He needs a place to stay tonight. I don’t make him suffer. “I’ve texted Mom and Dad already. They’re waiting for us.” I nod to the trailer. “You want to torch it before we go?”
He laughs, letting out a deep sigh. “Thank you.”
“No worries, man.” Then, almost without thinking, “Let’s get you back home.”
chapter 17
The party is in full swing by the time we pull up in the driveway.
We decide to leave his stuff in the car and go through the back door, avoiding a big tah-dah entrance through the front.
The kitchen is a mess. Dinner plates are piled up on the coun
ter along with dessert dishes. Glasses are lined up beside the sink, and dozens of empty bottles of wine sit beside unopened ones. Containers of leftovers are stacked high.
“Looks like quite the party.” He honestly could’ve talked about the excess, especially after what we’d just walked away from.
He opens the container of barbecue. “Wow, that smells fantastic.”
“Maybe we should let Mom and Dad know we’re back first.”
“You don’t think me going in gnawing on a T-bone is a good first impression?”
“When do you ever make a good first impression?”
“Oof, Shepherd, you’re getting some sass on you.”
“Being around you helps.”
“Fine,” he says, putting the lid back on the plastic container. “Let’s meet the herd.”
chapter 18
Everyone is in the living room when we come around the corner. Gekas sees us first, then Mom, then Dad, then everyone else. Silence slams down on the room like a cartoon mallet.
“We’re ba-aack,” I joke.
Mom, clearly thoroughly enjoying Aunt Ayana’s wine, glides over to Charlie. “Charles, you made it. Excellent.” She gives Charlie a tight squeeze, surprising both Charlie and me.
Dad jumps up and pats him on the back. “It’s good to see you, Charlie.”
There is a lot of affection flowing in this room and I’m certain it’s not just the party. He’s made an impact on our family—he’s part of us now. And the fact that he nearly died trying to protect us has never been forgotten.
“Happy anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. S.,” Charlie stammers.
I’ve never see him at a loss for words, and now it’s happened twice in one night.
“Let me get you some food,” Dad says, heading for the kitchen.
A few guests exchange looks, and Mom notices. Some of them have heard about this kid, and many are perhaps taken aback that he’s received such a warm welcome.
“Everybody, this is Charles Wolfe.”
Heather’s shaking her head. “Hey, Trouble.”
He nods at her, smirking. “Heather.” Without missing a beat, he looks over at Jodi and Bryan. “And you must be the wise, sensible sister and brother-in-law?”
Jodi ignores Heather’s protests but doesn’t leave her chair. “Oh, you do not disappoint, do you?” By the look in her eye, she’s still deciding what she thinks of him. Out of all the people he’ll meet tonight, she’ll likely be his worst critic since she knows exactly what all Charlie’s gotten into.
Charlie and Detective Gekas size each other up. He’s never been her biggest fan—I don’t think any cop holds much of his enthusiasm—but she saved his life, so he tries not to be an asshole.
“Detective.”
She grins. “Charles, how are you?”
“Oh, you know. Trying to keep my nose clean.”
His eyes drift to the man perched beside her and she introduces them. “Charles, Spencer.”
Spencer stands to shake his hand.
Dad returns with a heaping plate of food. “Hopefully, I hit all your necessary food groups.”
“As long as it’s your cooking, I don’t think you can go wrong, Mr. S.”
Dad sets up a TV tray with cutlery and a napkin for him as Mom continues to guide him around the room, introducing him to everyone else.
I stand at the doorway watching Charlie and my family do their thing. What gets me is that less than an hour ago, I was helping Charlie move out of his place, but here he is, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Dad comes over to lean beside me. “Everything okay?”
“His mom took off and he’s been evicted.”
“Do we know where she is?”
“He might, but he’s not saying.”
Dad sighs slowly.
“He’s homeless, Dad.”
“No, son,” Dad says, smiling, patting me on the shoulder. “No, he’s not.”
chapter 19
The party lasts a few more hours but once it ends and the guests leave, it doesn’t take long for Mom to sober up and call out, “Tony, could you put on the kettle. It’s teatime.”
Teatime is Mom’s signal that it’s time for a family meeting. She’s a big believer in holding family conversations over the soothing effects of infused fruit, leaves, and flowers, and since Charlie’s come into our lives, we’ve had some pretty big discussions.
Charlie goes to the kitchen immediately, taking a seat across from Mom at the kitchen island. Dad pulls a seat up beside her, and Heather, Jodi, and Bryan stroll in from the living room, not wanting to miss out. Even Ollie has made his way upstairs from the basement and plops down at the foot of Charlie’s chair for some much-missed love.
Mom rummages through the basket and finds a flavour that pleases her. The house rule has always been that whoever calls the meeting gets to pick the tea.
I pull out cups for everyone and grab the tea she’s selected, laying everything on the island, along with spoons, sugar, and the honey pot. It feels a bit like an over-the-top ceremony, but if I’m right about what’s going to go down, this family needs all the help it can get.
Once the kettle finally whistles, I fill the pot, Mom clinks the top on, and the discussion begins.
She asks the first question. “Can you tell us what’s happened?”
There is a thick silence.
Charlie’s fingers dance around the edges of the cup, studying the pattern along its handle. “Do you know why Japanese teacups don’t have handles?”
“Charles—” Mom cautions.
“If it’s too hot for the hand, then it’s too hot for the mouth.”
“Charles …?”
All at once he gives in. Maybe it’s a relief? “I have no idea where my mom is. There’s usually two ways it goes with her. Either she’s at home, passed out, leaving the door unlocked so people can steal our stuff—that is, if we had stuff to steal—or she disappears for weeks at a time. Nothing new with any of it. I’ve been on own for a very long time.”
No one at the table seems shocked by this.
“But when I went to the trailer park today—that shithole—”
“Charles.”
“Sorry, Mrs. S., when I went to that stink-hole of a trailer, I found a lock on the door and an eviction notice. Seems like Mom forgot about our rent. Again.”
“Is there no way you can contact her?” Dad asks.
“Usually she has a phone, but when I tried calling, it was disconnected. Seems she forgot to pay that bill too. Surprise, surprise.” He holds his teacup in his hands for a moment before taking a sip. “Ah, perfect. Darjeeling?”
“What’s your plan then, Charles?” Mom asks.
“Well, thanks to your kindness, I’ve got a belly full of delicious food—props to you, Mr. S.—and a place to stay tonight.”
“And then? What happens tomorrow?”
“I’m not sure. I know people I can stay with, or I can go downtown and apply for a Section 10.”
I’ve heard about this. Social services gives a place to stay and a very small amount of money to kids whose parents don’t want them, who have nowhere else to live, or who don’t want to be in a group home or can’t be. Unfortunately, those kids are rarely successful in the end. Maybe it’s the program or maybe it’s the person, but most of those kids don’t make it to high school graduation.
“Nonsense. We have room for you here, Charles. You don’t need an invitation. You’re always welcome. You can stay as long as you like.”
Dad leans in. “However, we do have rules.”
Charlie is quiet.
I don’t know if it’s because of my parents’ kindness and hospitality or his resistance to being told what to do.
Maybe both.
“You’ll need to stay in school and
contribute to the household.”
“I think that’s fair.”
Mom takes a turn. “But that will mean you’ll need to switch schools. Anthony’s is closer and we’ve got a good relationship with the administration.”
“That’s fine. It’s time for a change anyhow.”
“We’ll work on that first thing tomorrow,” she adds.
Dad’s not done. “We’ll also want you to join some kind of activity at school, even if it’s just until the end of the year. It’s to keep you active and busy, and it may also help you feel connected.”
“Any activity?”
“Extracurricular,” Dad says.
“And legal,” I chime in.
Charlie scowls at me.
“And we’d like you to get a job. Something that requires responsibility and time management,” Mom adds.
“Also puts a little money in your pocket,” Dad finishes.
“I already have a job.”
We’re all surprised.
I can’t help it. “Again, legal?”
“Of course!” Charlie fakes being offended. “What sort of hoodlum do you think I am?”
I choose not to answer that question.
“Where?” Heather wants to know.
“At the Sugar Dough Stop.”
She laughs. “Of course.”
I’ve never been to the place, but I know it’s north of downtown in the warehouse district. Whenever I’ve driven by, it looks like it’s about ten years past needing to be torn down.
Mom and Dad glance at each other. There’s something on their minds, but Charlie beats them to the punch.
“One thing you haven’t mentioned—the big thing. Tony and me, and our knack for getting into trouble.”
By the looks on their faces, he’s hit the nail on the head. Dad takes Mom’s hand before urging him on. “And?”
“Well, after last summer,” he unconsciously rubs his belly where he was stabbed, “my desire to solve mysteries and catch bad guys has declined considerably.”