by Rose Kent
I glanced out the window at the parking lot. There were more cars than usual parked by Building Three. But a maintenance worker carrying a toolbox was headed this way. I tapped Jordan’s shoulder to get his attention, then pointed toward the stairs. “Hurry,” I signed. “The elevator’s broken again and someone is coming to fix it.”
Quickly we climbed the stairs. Winnie stopped to catch her breath after we passed the second floor.
I turned and looked at her. “Winnie, will they make us leave if they find the turtle?”
“Oh, they’d squawk for a bit because reptiles carry germs, but they’d get over it,” she said. “No worries. We’ll keep this little fella undercover. Just like we would expensive jewelry, if we had any.”
I took the grocery bag from her arms before we continued. Her forehead already had tiny sweat beads.
Up we climbed the last two flights, slowly now—Jordan feared we were scaring the turtle. The whole time I kept thinking about our late rent. When we reached the fourth floor, I asked Winnie another question. “Have you ever known anyone who got kicked out of this place?”
“There was that retired roofer two years ago in Building Two. If you ask me, he’d baked in the sun too long, because he showed up in the laundry room buck naked on a Sunday morning. I couldn’t blame them for sending him packing. Who wants to see that sorry sight in between wash and rinse cycles?”
I giggled. “Anyone else?”
“Can’t think of any. But I’m sure they’ll make folks leave if they don’t pay rent,” she said as we reached our apartment.
In the living room Jordan pulled the tank from the box. He rested the turtle on the floor while he filled the tank with gravel and moss, and he added a tiny plastic frog from his animal collection. Then he plugged in the sunlamp and pointed it overhead.
“Turtle likes sunshine,” he signed.
Lastly he pulled a handful of twigs from the box and scattered them in the tank, using a wider one to form a bridge across the tank.
“What about food? He can’t eat mostly peanut butter like you,” I signed, and Jordan reached into the box and pulled out a bag of live crickets.
Yikes, a snack with legs.
Winnie gave Jordan an old margarine tub for a water bowl, and after he filled it, he put the turtle back into the tank. We all stood there ready to watch that red-eared slider run for its supper.
But it didn’t move. Its head was tucked in, and it stayed still like a stone, even when Jordan gave it a gentle nudge.
Jordan’s face cringed with panic. “Dead! Dead!” he signed. Then he fell backward on the carpet, kicking his legs up and shrieking à la FrankenJordan.
But Winnie reached for the ASL dictionary in her purse, thumbed through it, and signed and spoke the same words over and over: “Scared turtle, not dead turtle. Be patient, Jordan. Be patient.”
So Jordan got up and composed himself. And after a few long minutes, the turtle pulled its head out of its shell and crept toward the water.
“Not dead. Happy turtle!” my brother signed, beaming.
“The man at the pet store said you can tell if a turtle’s healthy by the brightness of its eyes. Looks to me like this fella’s fit as a fiddle,” Winnie said. “All my years nursing would’ve been a breeze if a diagnosis was that simple.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t really listening. I was back mulling over our money troubles. If only we could find a solution as easily as this turtle found food.
Winnie looked up from the tank to me. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could stick our heads down our shirts when life gets rough like this creature can?” Then she took my hand and led me into the kitchen. “Is the turtle what’s got you looking glum? I promised Jordan I’d get it for him if he didn’t scratch his pox marks, and your mother seemed to think it was okay. But if it upsets you, I’ll keep it at my place.”
I shook my head. “The turtle’s fine. Everything else is a mess.”
Winnie looked around. “This apartment sure isn’t a mess. You’ve done a fine job sprucing it up with your painting and crafts.”
I shrugged, not ready to talk.
“Sounds like something inside of you needs pulling out. But first I’m making a cookie run. I give better advice when I’m nibbling on a cookie,” she said as she walked out the door.
Minutes later she returned with a plate of cookies and a thermos full of Chocolate Heaven. She called the cookies snickerdoodles, and I wolfed down three big ones at the kitchen counter with her. They were left over from the Salty Old Dogs jam session, and they sure tasted buttery sweet and full of cinnamon.
There was no getting Jordan to sit still. He stuffed a whole cookie in his mouth, picked up his turtle, and charged to the bathroom. “Turtle swim!” he signed.
A few sips of Chocolate Heaven later, I was pouring my troubles out to Winnie again. Everything from the melted ice cream to Ma’s overspending and how I was afraid we’d get kicked out of the apartment. I even admitted that I was picked to be a peer mediator, but I was afraid that I’d be awful at it. I swear Winnie could make a tree talk about why it was mad at the wind.
“Kids scream and fuss in peer mediation, and it’s my job to keep things calm and under control. I’m not sure if I can handle it,” I said.
But Winnie said I had the perfect disposition for the job—steadfast and patient, and nonjudgmental. “It makes sense that you’d feel nervous about this, Tess; you’ve never done it before. Sometimes nervous energy is good. Kind of like a runner who’s trembling before the race starts, and then it turns to adrenaline when the gun goes off. I think you’ll help those kids, and you’ll help your ma.”
“But I don’t know how to help Ma. And even if I did, she wouldn’t listen!”
Winnie nodded. “Maybe you can apply some of that peer-mediation training at home. Think carefully about what you say to your ma and the way you say it. Maybe you can help her make good choices for herself.”
I looked over at Winnie’s hand wrapped around her mug and noticed the snake ring. She’d said her son gave it to her. “Did Elston listen to you?” I asked.
Winnie chuckled and fiddled with her ring. “He listened about one out of every five times I spoke—and that was on a good day. Right now he’s stationed in the Middle East on combat duty—Marine Corps. He didn’t listen to what I thought about that, even if I am proud of him.” Her eyes got glassy, and I felt bad for bringing it up.
But just as quickly she smiled again and reached over and touched my hand. “You know what I see when I look at you, Tess?”
I shook my head.
“I see a smart, strong young lady who’s sitting up taller than she did on that cold winter day I first met her. Your ma, too, even if she’s hit a few bumps in the road.”
“But they might kick us out of here. Then we’ll be homeless!”
She shook her head. “People move slowly in Schenectady in the spring. They need to thaw out, just like the ground. And those folks in the rental office—well, they put their pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us. They can be reasonable if they’re treated that way.”
With that, Winnie stood, saying she had to get going. “Melvin’s taking me to dinner. And after all the cookies I just ate, I better wear control-top panty hose—extra heavy on the control,” she said, grinning and patting her blouse.
As she was leaving, Jordan ran over and wrapped himself around her leg.
“I love turtle—and Winnie!” he signed.
Winnie’s eyes lit up as she hugged him back. She didn’t even attempt to sign something.
She didn’t have to.
Chapter 20
Invest in your operation. Don’t cut corners, don’t scrimp on quality ingredients, and don’t use cheap equipment.—The Inside Scoop
Jordan named his turtle Lucky, and wouldn’t you know, we got lucky shortly after he arrived. Not only did I survive my first session as a peer mediator, but I earned high praise! When it ended, the disputants, two eighth-grade boys,
agreed to stop scribbling nasty stuff about each other on the bathroom stalls and then came over and thanked me, saying I made them feel comfortable enough to actually talk to each other! Ritchie, my co-mediator, shouted, “Way to go, Texan!” like I was Sam Houston himself.
“Fine work,” Mr. Win said, high-fiving me afterward. “That could’ve easily turned into a shouting match, but you got them listening and considering each other’s feelings.” I thanked Mr. Win and told him Ritchie deserved plenty of the credit too.
Not only did the session go smoothly, but afterward, Peer Mediation Club voted unanimously to make the team shirts I designed, and that decision required no mediation. I’d proposed an off-white collared shirt with “Ottawa Creek MS Peer Mediators” stenciled on the front in sparkly red and yellow paint (the school colors), and “Peace in Progress” on the back, encircled in all our handprints. Gabby offered to host the shirt-making session at her house, providing that Mr. Win brought cookies and I showed everybody what to do.
After peer mediation, I stopped in the Mohawk Valley Village rental office to speak with the manager. I was ready to apply the same conflict-resolution principles that had just served me well. And so while the manager finished talking on the phone, I reviewed the peer-mediation checklist in my head:
Present opening statement of facts.
Tell your story clearly and without anger or judgment.
Identify the problem.
Brainstorm for a win-win solution.
Build an agreement together.
When the manager got off the phone, I took a deep breath and introduced myself, making sure my body language was clear and nonthreatening.
“Tess Dobson, as in the Dobsons in Building One, apartment 418?” he asked in a deep voice, his fingers rubbing a mustard stain on his tie.
I nodded and started in with my opening statement about a “matter involving monies owed.” So far so good. He listened as I explained how my family was having difficulty coming up with this month’s rent on time because my mother was launching a new business. Onetime business costs had led to a family budget deficit, I explained, which led to late rent.
Having defined the problem, I assured him that we intended to be trustworthy tenants, if we could have a slight extension to the due date. “My ma’s taken a second job, so the money is coming. It should be no more than two weeks.”
Then, in case that wasn’t convincing enough, I upped the ante, appealing to his side of the win-win solution.
“I happen to be a nice sewer and decorator, and no offense, sir, but residents in Building One can’t stand the lobby’s dull decor. If you give my family extra time to pay, I’ll make cheery curtains and slipcovers to spruce things up. No charge.”
The manager nodded, then spoke in a deep, intent voice. “I appreciate your honesty, Tess. We don’t like to see a pattern of late rent, but we understand circumstances arise. Okay, we’ll give your family an extension for this month only. I’ll expect to see full payment in this office in fourteen days.” Then he grinned. “As for your additional offer, I can’t contract work with minors. But let me say that if some new pillows just so happen to show up on the love seat, I certainly wouldn’t throw them out.”
“You’ve got a deal, sir,” I said, shaking his hand and making direct eye contact. “And a favorite color?”
“Dark blue. Like the Mohawk River,” he said.
That same week Ma started at Little Miss Muffet’s. The bad news was that she worked seven nights straight, and she hardly ever made it back to the apartment before two a.m.
On Friday night, she didn’t show up until three-thirty.
I was up, battling my insomnia, plus I was worried that some drunk might bother her. The good news was she had made a lot of tip money.
“One hundred fifty bucks of liquor loot. Yahoo!” she shouted as she pulled a wad of cash from her bra and threw it on the counter.
“You smell like beer,” I said, yawning as I stared at the stains on her white button-down blouse. I wanted to tell her all about my good grades and my first peer-mediation session.
But Ma didn’t ask about me. She just kept counting cash and humming a country song. And when I told her how Winnie took Jordan and his deaf buddy Russell to Central Park to feed the ducks, she didn’t say a word. She was too excited about tallying up her liquor loot and figuring how much she still needed to buy a dipping cabinet.
That got me mad. Important events were happening in my life and Jordan’s, too. The whole world didn’t revolve around ice cream!
Ma made up the money she owed the Mohawk Valley Village like I promised. And she set May 5 as the new Grand Opening—she even had fancy flyers printed. Her late-night work as a barmaid didn’t seem to squash her business drive. She’d leave the bar at closing time and go straight to A Cherry on Top and work into the wee hours. She was soaring high again, racing too fast.
One night she didn’t return at all. She showed up as I was pouring cereal for Jordan at breakfast.
Calmly as I could, I looked right at her and stated that being out on State Street all night was dangerous.
Her face was pale, the circles under her eyes so dark that she looked like a vampire.
“For starters, working too many hours will get you burned-out and sick. And you’ve said it yourself: that part of Schenectady has more than its share of troublemakers. A mother with two children shouldn’t be putting herself in harm’s way.”
Ma told me not to worry so much. Hard work and late hours ran in her genes, thanks to those early years on the ranch. “I grew up roughhousing with horse wranglers; I can handle myself,” she said.
Attempt number one at Ma mediation didn’t produce the best resolution. She didn’t quit working long hours late at night. But from then on she did leave a note taped to the fridge with what time she’d be home. And mostly she stuck to it.
One Saturday morning, Ma got me up early to go to the secondhand-restaurant-equipment dealer with her while Jordan went with Winnie to a Salty Old Dogs jam session. We found a used dipping cabinet in like-new condition that was bigger than the old one and came with an extended warranty.
Ma bought a couple of fire extinguishers too. “I learned my lesson with that broken dipping cabinet. We’re turning over a safety-conscious leaf. Starting tomorrow, I’m reviewing safety procedures and conducting fire drills at the shop. We gotta be ready for the good, the bad, and the ugly,” she said as she handed the cashier a big wad of bills.
I told Ma to hurry up because today was the Peer Mediation Club shirt-making session at Gabby’s house, but she just kept talking to the cashier as usual. She wanted to avoid paying a hefty delivery fee, so she asked if they could hold the dipping cabinet until we could figure out a way to pick it up.
Then Lady Luck visited again, or so I thought. We bumped into Chief in the mailroom after we got back. Chief told Ma that he’d just bought himself a gently used Ford truck. Navy blue, fittingly, with new brakes and less than fifty thousand miles. One thing led to another, and Ma explained about the dipping cabinet, and he offered to pick it up with the truck later.
“Mmm. Something smells chin-lickin’ good!” Ma called when we returned to our apartment around lunchtime. The Temptations were blasting “The Way You Do the Things You Do” from under the coffee table, and Jordan and his friend Russell greeted us wearing aprons with WAITER signs taped to them.
Winnie had made chicken cutlets with scalloped potatoes and fresh asparagus, and Jordan and Russell had set the counter with five place mats. So what that they forgot forks; it looked nice. I couldn’t wait to dig in.
The phone rang just as we sat down to eat. It was Gabby. “Can you come a little early today, Tess? I need help setting up all the paints and brushes. This will be a blast!”
“Let me check,” I said, and I asked Ma if she could take me after lunch.
“Take you where?”
“To Gabby’s house. We’re making the Peer Mediation Club shirts today, remember?”
“Please, Ma. Everyone in Peer Mediation Club is going. They need me to show them how to make the team shirts.”
“I need you more. The Grand Opening is riding on us getting the dipping cabinet.”
“Could I take Tess’s place?” Winnie asked.
“That’s awful sweet of you, Winnie, but freezers weigh a ton. I need her young muscles.”
I felt my face redden. And then in an instant, poof, I turned into FrankenJordan’s witchy older sis.
“Well, I need to go to Gabby’s!” I roared. Jordan’s and Russell’s eyes got all big. No need to sign to them that I was angry.
Ma put her napkin down. “Can’t you do that another day? The family business has to come first. Decorating some pretty shirt isn’t a good enough reason to abandon your duties.”
The family business? Abandon my duties? Ma had hit my detonation button, and I blew up.
“I haven’t abandoned my duties. I’ve got fudge calluses and varicose veins from working at that shop!”
My eyes burned through Ma’s like lasers. Winnie stared at me, her fork frozen. I wouldn’t look back at her. I knew she was thinking, Where’s all that peer-mediation training gone?
“This is so unfair! It’s your business, not mine. I never wanted anything to do with A Cherry on Top!”
Caught up in the moment, I hadn’t been signing like I usually do around Jordan. He and Russell looked at me like I had four heads.
My appetite was gone. I picked up my full plate and brought it over to the sink. “Excuse me,” I signed and spoke.
Then I stormed out of the apartment, down the elevator, and into the woods behind the building, where I cried until my eyes puffed up like pink balloons.
Chapter 21