by J D Spero
“That’s all right.” Bernie Hubbard’s face was a huge smile.
“You have enough property to manage without worrying about mine.”
“I don’t mind helping out. Really, it’s no problem.”
An awkward pause followed. Cool air swept through the open door. Bernie kept smiling even as he shivered. Mom studied her fingers, and then straightened alert.
“You weren’t thinking of fixing it now, were you? Oh, geez. Where are my manners? Please, come in.”
Bernie shuffled inside, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just at Ma’s. She mentioned, well…” He looked at Hen, his smile fading.
Mom crossed her arms. “What was that? What did she tell you?”
Hen missed what Bernie said next. He whispered it into Marcella’s loose, dark hair. Hen’s stomach went bubbly, like it did when he saw high-schoolers kissing on the bus.
Mom reared back as if she’d been struck. Her words were quick. “Well, you can rest assured I have the situation under control. You and your mother needn’t worry.” Then, softer, “Thanks for your concern.”
“No offense, Marcella. And I don’t mean to pry. But do you have an idea where the boys are right now?”
Hen had turned on too many lights. It was too bright.
“Movies. I think.”
Hen perked up. “Movies? Can I go?”
Mom gave him a pained look. “Oh, Hen.”
Was she going to cry?
Bernie went to stroke her hair, but patted her back instead. His arm seemed charged with electricity.
Mom murmured into his shoulder. “I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I didn’t find anything in his room.”
So that’s what she was doing in their room. What was she trying to find? Secret treasure? Maybe Hen could find it. He snuck across the living room to the stairs, a slight thrill quickening his pulse. The creaky bottom step gave him away, though. Always did.
Mom seemed to have forgotten he was there. “Oh, Hen. It’s bedtime.”
And then it was like Bernie wasn’t there. She hugged Hen’s shoulders. “First, a bath. Then, some warm jammies.”
Hen couldn’t help but whine. Baths were for babies. He trudged upstairs, a great sulk tugging his face.
Ty and Derek took the booth closest to the kitchen at Leon’s. Derek liked to keep an eye on things, he said. As if he owned the place already. Ty cradled the napkin holder and made faces in the chrome.
“What’s it like with Roxanne Russo?”
“What’s it like with Geraldine Greenbladt?”
“Screw you.”
Derek exhaled through a crooked smile, put out his smoke.
“Seriously. What’s she like? Yanno, in bed.”
“Come on. It was a one night deal.”
“It’s been more than one time, D.”
Derek blushed. “Forget it, Ty. We’re not an item.”
“Lights on or off?”
“On.”
“That figures.” Ty’s stomach was a pit. He wanted to protect her honor, but truth be told, he would’ve left the lights on too.
After they ordered, Derek changed the subject. “Okay, about tonight. Let’s go over this. It’s you against Sally Hubbard. Should be a no-brainer.”
Ty nodded rhythmically, hardly listening. He caught bits—report, paperwork, investigation—but he kept eyeing the back room. Was Leon there? Was it locked?
The car dealer, Gary Walsh, unwittingly set him up. He roared in like a wrecking ball, and Leon joined him in a booth, comparing notes on last night’s Giants game. Leon was good and distracted. Perfect.
Their Reubens came, and Ty’s senses filled with the tang of warm corned beef and sauerkraut. Derek dug in like he hadn’t eaten all day. So he was distracted too. Double perfect.
“Gotta hit the can,” Ty said.
The back room door wasn’t fully closed, and Ty saw the desk lamp on. He could feel its warmth from the hallway. His fingertips went numb. How much longer could he poach these little packets?
He needed his own source, even though he worked here. He had to sneak behind his best friend’s back, like a thief, to get drugs that Derek and his pop freaking sold. He’d eventually have to buy from some dude who bought from Derek. With a huge markup. What a joke. Not tonight, though.
Luck was with him. He found a white packet in the first drawer he opened. Weird. Obvious-weird. Like someone left it there for him. Ty wasted no time. He hurried out just before Leon came down the hall. Close call.
He slid into the booth where Derek chewed a fry cigar-style, eyeing him strangely.
“What?” Ty hoped he wasn’t going red. His hands shook when he picked up his sandwich.
“You aw’right?”
Ty squirmed under Derek’s sideways stare.
“I’m good.” After a few bites—it was worth the wait—Ty realized he really did have to pee, which was inconvenient as hell. He’d have to wait or Derek would know all.
Derek started in again about the plan. Ty half-listened, not caring about whatever they had to get from Miss Sally. Or why Derek was so freaked out about it. He finished his Reuben and wiped Thousand Island from his fingers. Damn, those were tasty.
Derek went on. “I mean, ‘parently she’s got more money than God. Wouldn’t know by the way she lives.”
That snapped Ty to attention. “What? Miss Sally’s got money?”
“Yah. Loads.”
Ty giggled. Derek narrowed his eyes. “You say your ma killed your buzz, but it looks like you’re still flyin’.”
Ty swallowed his laugh. “You’re kidding about Miss Sally, right? About her being loaded?”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
“No freakin’ way.”
“Way.”
They both laughed now.
“So, you ready? You’re gonna do this for me, right?”
Ty’s turn to smile, his thoughts consumed by dollar signs. “Let’s go.”
Ty felt weird when Derek parked in front of Miss Sally’s house, even though they were all neighbors. Even weirder how different his street looked from this vantage point. They were, what, twenty paces from his own house but the whole dang street looked foreign. The car door creaked open.
“Aren’t you coming?” Ty asked when Derek didn’t open the driver’s side.
Derek rolled his eyes. “What the hell, Ty? Have you heard anything I said? No. You’re going in now, alone. Just get her to hand over the investigation report. Got it?”
“Yah, yah. Right. Okay. So you’re staying here? In the truck?”
Derek banged on the steering wheel. “Are you thick? Weren’t you listening at the diner? That woman hates me. You’re a different story.”
“I dunno about that—”
Big, grunting sigh. “Well, she likes your family. Your mom. Hen. You’re part of that family. Do you know what you’re gonna say?”
“Yah, yah. I got it. Okay. See ya.”
With each step up her porch, Ty aged backwards. Step, moody teenager. Step, cranky middle-grader. Step, scared, insecure boy. At her front door, Ty felt no older than Hen—a Boy Scout selling overpriced popcorn.
She answered right away, as if she’d been watching from her window.
“Hi there, Tyler. Are you alone?” She eyed the truck.
“Yah, yah.”
“Oh?”
It was an obvious lie. Derek should’ve parked at his own house. Ty could’ve walked over. Some plan. Why did he have to sit in his truck in front of her house?
Heat crawl up Ty’s face. He wanted to scrap the whole mission. Miss Sally’s house smelled like a giant vat of potpourri.
“Can I get you anything? I have Ginger Ale.”
“Um, water? If you have some.”
“I happen to have some water. Comes right from the faucet. Have a seat.”
While she fetched his water, Ty noticed Hen’s school picture—wallet size—in a little pewter frame on the sideboard. He liked that picture of
Hen, even if he wasn’t smiling. Kind of candid. Like they didn’t tell him before they snapped it. And his hair was messy. His cowlick curling up like a ram’s horn. Ty felt a pang of sadness. He tipped the frame down so he couldn’t see his little brother’s face.
The water glass Miss Sally gave him trembled in his hands and the water rippled. He downed the whole thing without taking a breath.
“My, my. You were thirsty. Is there anything else I could get you? A lollipop, maybe?”
“Lollipop?”
“Isn’t that a side effect? Doesn’t it make you want to suck on something?”
“What?” For some reason, his thoughts went to Roxanne Russo.
“A side effect of—what’s it called? Ecstasy, I think. Aren’t kids doing ecstasy these days?”
Ty felt a little sick. “No, ma’am. I’ve never done ecstasy.”
“Oh, I see.”
Miss Sally perched daintily on the arm of her plaid chair. On the mantle, the tick-tock of her old fashioned clock grew louder in the quiet room. Ty wondered if it chimed every fifteen minutes. If it was one of those kinds of clocks. After what seemed like hours, nothing happened. He was prepared to hear them, the voices, but they were quiet. Maybe waiting. Maybe the clock ticking was some sort of test.
To his astonishment, the ticking relaxed him. Or maybe it was the colors in the room, or the way Miss Sally decorated her house. The odor of potpourri in the air. He could see why Hen liked it there so much. It was calm. Quiet. Sleepy. Safe. He’d never been inside her house long enough to notice.
A lamp sat on the end table near Miss Sally’s plaid chair. A ceramic lamp. Ty had seen a similar lamp on a show recently. The same exact one. It had a hiding spot. A secret compartment for money or drugs or whatever. Very cool. Sneaky. Who’d look in a stupid lamp? Hey, maybe that’s where she stashed her cash? He breathed in deeply through his nose, and could almost smell it.
Aha. That was the test. They were quiet so he could focus on the lamp. The hiding spot. They had sent him on a mission. For the lamp. And what was inside it. Through Derek. He was, like, their spokesperson this time. Why else would Derek have Ty come in here all by himself for some stupid piece of paper? The lamp was at arm’s length. How easy it would be to reach out and—
As good as dead. A different voice. Not the older man with the smoking voice. This one sounded like a radio announcer. Ty glanced at the dark screen of the sleeping TV.
“Did you hear that?” he asked Miss Sally, his voice faltering.
“Hear what?”
Ty forced a swallow. Told himself it wasn’t real. “Nothing.”
He concentrated on breathing. And the voice didn’t come back. The room filled with the ticking again.
“To what do I owe this surprise visit, then?” Miss Sally’s voice was not unkind.
Ty stole a look at Derek’s truck. Rubbed his jeans. He couldn’t leave without trying. He forced the words, eyeing the lamp now. “Miss Sally, I actually need something from you. It’s really important.”
“What is it, Tyler?” Miss Sally was either amused or concerned. Ty couldn’t tell which.
“Yah, so. You did an investigation on Leon’s Diner?”
Miss Sally held his gaze.
“I need the report.”
Now she laughed. “Silly boy. Did Derek put you up to this? Is that why he’s waiting in the truck?”
“No, really. I just need it. Come on.”
“Come on? That’s your persuasive argument? That’s your big line?”
Ty’s mouth fell open. A desperate thirst hit him all over again.
“Tyler, you listen to me.” She leaned on splayed knees, looking more like a basketball coach than a little old lady. “That boy is no good. You’ve got to get in with a nice group of friends. You become who you hang with, you know. Their aura rubs off on you. Choose wisely, Tyler. Surround yourself with quality people in this world, you hear me?”
He didn’t understand at all. “Yes, ma’am.”
They sat in silence for some time. When Miss Sally left to refill his water glass, Ty was stuck. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t go to check out the secret compartment in the lamp.
He stared at the TV, willing it to speak again. As usual, when they saw him looking, they were quiet. If Ty had access to his emotions, he would let himself cry. Right there in Miss Sally’s living room near the picture of Hen in the little pewter frame. It was all so hopeless and sad.
Nothing. He had nothing. He was empty.
His suffering smoldered inside. Everything swirled. On the outside, he kept up the normal act. He mixed in with the potpourri. Like taking on its vibe.
Damn, he was thirsty.
“Here. Drink, and then you’re on your way.”
Water never tasted so good. It seemed she saved a little bit of his life right then. He didn’t have a chance to thank her.
She pointed to the bay window. “You tell that hooligan waiting in that truck to forget about it. He’s not getting that report.”
Ty didn’t care about the stupid report anyway. Still, he waited until they pulled away before telling Derek. Miss Sally watched from the front door, Ty could feel it.
Derek sighed, but didn’t seem surprised. “On to plan B.”
“What’s plan B again?”
“Late night break in. Find it ourselves. She’s left us no choice.”
Ty nodded, and his head went numb. He reached inside his pocket and wrapped his hand around the little packet of white stuff.
January 1992
Running errands after school was no fun. Why did Mom always drag Hen around in the car on their free afternoons? He’d be in the backseat for hours. It would be dark by the time they got home. All he wanted was to play outside. He wanted to forget Christmas and everything about it, his Lego barn and all. Hen hadn’t seen Tyler since Christmas day. He hadn’t spoken to him since telling him I hate you over a week ago.
After Tyler left, they had a huge snowstorm, like the sky was mad at him too. But Hen loved the snow. He built a huge igloo. And it still stood, frozen solid in its dome-like shape. His winter play tent. He liked to escape there, especially on sunny days. The sunshine shone through the icy igloo walls and it felt like he was inside a giant crystal. There, he imagined none of the bad stuff happened. He pretended that he’d never gone to Miss Sally’s after school. He pretended he didn’t have a brother.
Out the window, they passed snowcapped trees. They looked like they were wrapped in cotton. Hen wished he were one of them. Just for the day.
“Hen, sweetie. I was hoping we could stop in and see Tyler.”
Hen’s stomach swooped, hearing his brother’s name. He kept watching the trees.
“Hen? What do you think?”
Hen didn’t answer.
“He’s still your brother, you know. Don’t you want to see him?”
No. Hen was still pretending.
“Hen, it’s okay that you two had a fight. It’s okay to be mad with Tyler. That happens between brothers. But you still love him, right?”
Still love him.
Hen imagined love was like Play Dough. He could keep it warm in his hand and mush it around, change its shape. It would get under his fingernails and into the grooves of his thumbprint. Once, Hen ate some. It tasted okay. Sometimes, tiny specs fell onto the kitchen floor and dried into hard pebbles. Mom would sweep them up and throw them away.
Was love like that? Could it change like that?
Heat gathered under Hen’s knit hat. The snowcapped trees now seemed too tall. Maybe he didn’t want to be a tree after all.
Mom parked by the bank. She turned to Hen. “Do you want to talk about why you’re upset with Tyler?”
Hen shook his head.
Mom sighed. “You know, forgiveness is an important part of being a family. In some ways, it doesn’t matter why you’re upset with Tyler. What’s important is that you find it in your heart to forgive him, because you love him no matter what.”
Hen
tried to forget about the dried Play Dough pebbles.
Next to the bank was a gray house and attached office. He knew that house. Gears spun in his mind.
Mom pressed. “You love Tyler no matter what, right? Just like I love you no matter what.”
“Okay.” The gray house. He had to knock on the door.
Worry fell from her brow. “All right. I have to make a quick deposit. It’ll only take a minute. Will you come in with me?”
“Can I wait here?”
Mom gave a tired smile. “Sure, sweetie.”
After she went through the glass doors, Hen ran through the snow mounds to the old gray house that held the sign: Hon. Carl Bowman
He could hear Murphy’s voice now: A judge is the mack-daddy of it all.
To his surprise, the judge himself answered the door. He had soft starbursts around his light brown eyes, like Bernie did. He smelled like pinecones and warm apple cider. Hen grinned widely. He wore normal clothes, a sweater and slacks. Hen would love to see him in his judge robe someday.
“Oh, Henry Trout! You must be here to pick up your mom’s pie plate. Come on in.” He never seemed in a hurry.
Pie plate? Hen shrugged.
He sat on the small beige couch. In less than a minute, Mom’s ceramic pie plate was in his hands. He rotated it like a steering wheel.
The judge gave an awkward grin. “That’ll be all, I think? Is your mom out in the car? Don’t want to keep her waiting now.”
As if on cue, the door flew open and Mom appeared, her cheeks wind-kissed and her eyes tearing from the cold.
“Oh my, Henry Atticus Trout. You gave me such a scare! Why did you leave the car?” And to the judge. “I’m so sorry, Carl.”
“That’s perfectly all right. I figured he came by for your pie plate. It was quite delicious, by the way. Like always.”
“Oh, good. And thank you. For everything.” She studied her shoes. “Letting Tyler come home for Christmas, I mean.”
“Well. I’m glad it all worked out,” the judge said softly. He must’ve known Tyler needed forgiveness too.
Marcella ground her heel into the rug. “Carl, I…if there’s anything you can think of. To help Tyler, I mean. Anything I can do?”