I twist my fists deeper in my pockets, bristling, and finally, seeing no other option, follow this weird boy in the gigantic coat up the steps.
Mrs. Salvatore leads us through the heavy wooden doors and kneels, crosses herself, and moves into a back pew. She turns around and watches to make sure we are doing the same, which Philippe does. I am not one for kneeling or crossing myself, and neither is Harry, and so I humph and just sit down.
I swing my legs and look around. It has been ages since I’ve been here and it takes a few minutes to get my eyes right. I’ve never been here during the week—only on Sundays. The first interesting thing I notice is the church is unlocked. Why do they do that—wouldn’t somebody steal stuff? Also, there’s an oil lamp with a flame flickering up front—what about fire? The third thing—and I notice this after a few minutes of sitting here—is how peaceful you can get inside yourself when you breathe in all this quiet. It is a good place to think about things.
I accidentally thump the pew in front of me. Mrs. Salvatore gives me a look.
Philippe hunches further down in his coat. I wonder what he is thinking about and why we are even here. Then Mrs. Salvatore sighs a very big sigh, the kind I have noticed sometimes when I am over peeling potatoes or husking corn and it is the end of a very long day and all her laundry is done and the supper dishes are washed and the stove is shined and the floor is mopped for the last time of the day and she flops on the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table. Her terry slippers have holes all over. It is that kind of sigh.
To tell you the truth, I get so lost in thinking up a new plan for getting my dog that I lose track of time. Mrs. Salvatore has to poke me.
Then she leads us down the stairs to the church basement, where there is a very simple room with a couch and two chairs, a coffee table, and a cross on the wall. There are donuts on the table.
“Good morning, Philippe.” A woman in a black trench coat hurries over. Her voice has that singsong tone that grown-ups use when they try too hard. Harry never talks like this and neither does Mrs. Salvatore, but Miss Holloway uses it on her favorites. I roll my eyes.
Philippe pushes his face down so far into his coat that only his eyes show. The woman holds out her hand for Philippe. He watches his sneakers instead. This reminds me I need to have a talk with him about shaking with a firm grip.
Then she tells Mrs. Salvatore it’s highly unusual for a visitor (meaning me) to be present at a meeting, but maybe if we don’t make a big deal out of it, all will go okay.
Just as I’m trying to figure out who she is, the real reason we are here comes clomping out of the bathroom. A lady with wide cheeks and snipped pale hair rushes toward Philippe, her arms open wide. “I was in the john so long I almost missed all the fun, now didn’t I, Philippe, my baby boy?” Her laugh is scratchy—a smoker. “Now come, Philippe, come give your big ole mama a hug.”
Philippe’s mama?
Philippe dips lower into his coat and tries to sink through the floor. The lady wears a flowered blouse with buttons missing and a jelly roll of fat pops out. She holds her arms wide. My jaw unhinges from hanging open so long. Philippe stands where he is, buried inside his coat.
“What’s the matter with him, he won’t come and hug his own mama?” she says, turning to the other woman, who I now realize must be the social worker. Then Philippe’s mama turns to Mrs. Salvatore. “You did this, didn’t you? You told him things about me, made him this way. I just want to give my baby boy some love.” There’s a little whimper in her voice and she holds her arms out again. Someone should tell this woman to stop calling Philippe a baby boy.
“And who are you?” she says, noticing me. “I don’t let my boy have girlfriends.” She turns to the social worker. “Get her out of here.”
Girlfriend?
I can hardly believe my ears. If my mouth wasn’t closing up on me, I’d tell her a thing or two—like I don’t even hardly like your son. I glare at her.
“Now, now, Mrs. Brown,” the social worker says, putting her arm on the woman’s shoulder. “You remember what we talked about.”
“Don’t tell me what we talked about. I expect my son to give me a hug when he hasn’t seen me in a month.” She takes a step toward Philippe.
“Mrs. Brown, get control of yourself.”
But Philippe’s mama is raising her voice and Philippe is backing up. He sinks so far into his coat he could touch Argentina and he wedges himself between the wall and the couch and then his mama is barreling forward, both arms out, ready to give him the hug of his life. The social worker grabs for Mrs. Brown but she shakes her off. “All you people are ruining my boy!” she screeches.
This is when Mrs. Salvatore steps in and Mrs. Brown slaps her across the cheek. You can hear Mrs. Salvatore breathe in sharply and see her lose her balance.
“Mrs. Brown!” cries the social worker, grabbing for the woman’s hands, then Mrs. Salvatore pushes us under her wings and herds us up the steps and outside. I hear a little sob from Philippe, or maybe he is just clearing grit from his throat, and that is the exact moment I get it.
I understand how if I had Philippe’s mama, I might want to hide in my coat, too.
This is what it’s like to lose your mum.
You have this hollow place inside that never gets filled no matter how hard you try. It’s like somebody scraped out your insides and left only bones to hold you together.
You know you have a hole in your life and everyone else does not. If you were only good enough when you were little, maybe she wouldn’t have left. Maybe if you didn’t cry so much when you were a baby or maybe if you didn’t spit out your peas or maybe if you weren’t such a grumpy bear, maybe then she would have stayed.
Or maybe if you tried harder in school so you could make something of yourself (like she did), maybe then she would come back.
Maybe, maybe, maybe—always the maybes.
I remember playing hide-and-seek when I was little and hiding in the lilac bushes on one of her visits and she hid behind the maple tree, then she ran and hid in the chokecherries, then she was in the car driving away.
The only thing that really helps is the mad you use to push the sad feelings away. But it’s like blocking out the sun. You cover your eyes, but the glare is always there.
As we walk home from the Church of Our Risen Lord and I am thinking about all of this, I almost tell Philippe that this is what it’s like to lose your mum.
But I have a feeling he already knows.
It turns out that Philippe has had the most interesting life of anyone I have ever known. This is what happens when your mother earns her living playing pool—you tend to travel a lot.
Here’s where he’s lived:
1. A car
2. A motel room beside the highway
3. The back office of a diner
4. The sleeping cab of an eighteen-wheeler
5. A camper
“You’re kidding.”
“Am not.”
I buy Connecticut and roll again and land on Jail, but Just Visiting. I have decided to try and be nicer to him after meeting his mama, and also my new plan means I am going to need more help.
Trying harder with Philippe is rough going, though. My skin prickles just watching him in his coat, and I get all riled up when he gives me another Monopoly lesson. I am ready to quit after ten minutes.
“Nobody ever lives in a car, Philippe. Maybe they go on long car rides or take vacations, but they don’t live in a car.”
“Shows what you know, Rosie.”
I roll the dice, land on Community Chest, turn over a Get Out of Jail Free card, and take it. “For how long, then?”
“All summer.” He shakes his head so his pale curls fall in his eyes. He restacks all the property cards. “And it wasn’t a vacation.” He buys Marvin Gardens. “We only went to the beach on rainy days, when we could sneak in.”
“Well, what did you do the rest of the time?” I roll, landing on New York.
“I’d explore. I met a man who knew how to draw maps and juggle bottles and he showed me how to do both, and a lady who could stand so still you’d think she was made of marble. She taught me how.” He puts his arm up like he is the Statue of Liberty. He is very convincing.
“Then we lived in the back of Pete’s eighteen-wheeler while my mama played pool in Portland. When they broke up, we moved on. He’s the one who taught my mama how to pick locks.”
Philippe shakes the dice, lands on Pacific, and immediately puts a house on it.
Because I am skinny as I am and always interested in food, I ask, “What do you eat when you live like that?”
He counts his money and restacks it. “You put ice in the sink at the motel. That gives you a refrigerator. You microwave macaroni and cheese—a lot. Sometimes when you’re driving you see an orchard and you steal peaches, and then you have your fruit. If you use your imagination, you can pretend it’s a piece of pie.”
Things have been bad in my life but never so bad I had to pretend a peach was pie. “Well, what about school?”
“I only went sometimes.”
It turns out Philippe has dabbled at school the way my papa used to dabble at crossword puzzles—a little bit, once in a while, so he never got very good at it. “Well, don’t you get in trouble for not going?”
“Not if they don’t catch you. It’s pretty hard to keep up with someone who moves so much. It’s not much fun going to school anyway, because when you move around, you get really far behind.”
I would like to wring his mama’s neck. All that moving, no wonder he doesn’t know how to act half the time.
We go around the board once more. Then I casually bring up the subject I want to get to. “I’m riding back to Swanson’s.”
“Well, don’t think that I’m going back there, not ever again.” He throws the dice, scowls.
“But I need you, and besides, I need help catching a snake. I have a new plan to distract Swanson.”
His eyes widen. “I hate snakes.” He lands on Boardwalk.
“But it will toughen you up, Philippe. Friends do things for each other. You never had a friend before, so you don’t know.”
I roll the dice.
“I have so had friends. Stop saying that.” He narrows his eyes until they are slivers of steel.
“You are lying. I can tell you never had a friend before me. Now, do you want to help me or not? I have a really good idea. If you ever had a dog, Philippe, you’d do anything to get him back.”
“Shut up, Rosie. You’re still acting like you’re the only one who ever lost a dog. Well, you’re not.”
“You shut up.” I close my eyes, try to act bored. Truth is, I don’t bother thinking much about other people and their dogs. I only have room in my heart for one.
“I had a dog once,” he says, rolling again, this time landing on my property, which unfortunately I haven’t put a house on yet.
“I found him in Atlantic City hiding in some newspapers on the side of the road.”
I sit up. Grit sifts through the window and I hold my breath until Philippe continues: “I was walking around the boardwalk one night while my mama was playing pool and there he was—little and nearly bald—shivering like he was in snow. But it was summer and very hot. I got a blanket and wrapped him up and carried him back to the camper.”
I search for a cool spot in the rug with my toes. “What happened?”
“I fed him milk from the cap of a Coke bottle. I rubbed him down with a blanket every few minutes.” He stops. He unbuttons another button. “Did you ever see the movie One Hundred and One Dalmatians, where Roger rubs the newborn pup with an old blanket and it brings him back to life? Well, that’s what I kept doing. Only it didn’t work. He lived for three days. He was sick when I got him and he just got sicker. I named him Jasper. My mama said good thing he went like that because we couldn’t keep him anyway.”
I notice how small Philippe looks in that wool coat. Suddenly I have the feeling I would like to kiss him.
This is a surprising thought, since I can’t remember ever having had it with anybody else. Just a day ago, I could’ve bitten his mama’s head off for saying I was Philippe’s girlfriend, and now I am wondering if he has ever had the thought about kissing me. Probably he has, because if I am thinking it, then he must be, too.
I roll the dice, move to Water Works, and buy it. I wait for him to look up. When he does, I lean over with my eyes closed, but I miss and hit his cheek and he jumps up and says, “Aw, Rosie, what’d you do that for?”
I jump back. “Nothing, I wasn’t doing anything.” My ears burn and I try and think of something to say, but I can’t. I roll the dice, land on North Carolina, and buy it, even though I don’t like the greens.
I don’t tell him that kissing doesn’t feel like much anyway.
It’s disappointing, like dill pickles that are sweet.
“Where’s the flashlight?” Philippe asks.
I pull Harry’s new one out of my back pocket.
“Hold it up, Rosie,” he says before I hardly have a chance to turn it on. “You keep moving it.”
“All right,” I snap. “Just do it.”
We are at the top of the stairs leading down to the dirt-floored cellar under our apartment building. Philippe is sticking a thin file into the padlock on the door. This is a very good lock and he has to jab it for five minutes before we hear the click.
“Well, that took forever,” I snort, looking down into the dark hole, kept locked for years because the exterminator can’t get rid of the snakes that slither into the crawl space under Eddie’s Barbershop every time it rains.
“How about saying good job or something like that?” Philippe is very sharp since I tried to give him the kiss. I make myself stop thinking about that and wave the light, but the beam isn’t strong enough to reach the bottom.
“Hold this.” I hand Philippe the worn-out little suitcase with metal clasps that Harry keeps under his bed. It is the perfect size.
Philippe steps closer to the edge and looks down. “Isn’t there a light?”
“If we turn it on, someone might see.” I pick up my snake stick and step down the damp steps. Philippe bumps the suitcase against the wall. The old handle squeaks.
“Shush,” I snap, already frustrated that he doesn’t know better.
Philippe takes a couple more steps and stops. “Rosie, I—I don’t want to do this. I’m going back.”
“We’re not even at the bottom, and you promised. If you ever had a friend before, you’d help me.”
“You keep saying that. I already told you I have so had friends.” He sinks further into his coat.
“Well, I don’t believe you.” The flashlight flickers and I hit it against my thigh until it beams a steady light. “Otherwise, you’d help me.” I give him my meanest look, which I’m sure he can see even in the dark, and step down. I have come too far to quit now, with or without Philippe.
The dirt floor is soft under my sneakers, like beach sand, and the air is cool and wet and hard to breathe. Cobwebs hang like low clouds.
“What’s that smell?” Philippe grabs my arm. Already I hear a whine in his voice. I don’t know anything about if snakes leave a smell. The World Book of Unbelievable and Spectacular Things gives directions for making snake sticks and tells you all about the life cycle of boa constrictors and how to keep them from squeezing the life out of you, but not much else. Snakes probably leave a smell if there are a lot of them, but I keep this thought to myself.
The flashlight quits again—Harry bought the cheapest one at Walmart after yelling at me that I lost his—and I whack it against my leg. There is no other light, except for a sliver of sun that pushes through a hole in the foundation. Something crunches under my feet. Philippe tugs my shirt. I push him away and head for a pile of old wood.
“Harry says snakes hide. If I was a snake, I’d go behind this wood.” I pull at one of the boards and accidentally spew a dark wet burst of
sawdust into the air.
Philippe covers his nose with the sleeve of his coat. “I really hate snakes. One crawled in the camper once.” His breath is hot and ragged against my neck.
I wince. I can’t believe I wanted to kiss this boy. “Why are you such a lily-liver, Philippe? When you’re afraid of something, you’re supposed to do it anyway. That’s how you get over being afraid.”
He turns and starts walking back to the stairs. “No, you’re supposed to pay attention if your stomach warns you something is too stupid for words.”
I am incensed. “Don’t you see? I don’t care about anything more than my dog. If you had a true-blue friend like Augustus, you would do anything to bring him home—even this.” I pause; my chest heaves. “It’s a really good plan, Philippe.” I don’t tell him I’m a little fuzzy about how the whole thing will work.
He stops. Except for the rising and falling of his chest, he is still. “All right,” he finally whispers, turning back, “I’ll stay, but only because I had a dog once. And I’m not touching a snake, so don’t ask me.”
I nod and reach for another piece of wood. There’s an old door leaning on its side, and under that a pallet, and then a sawhorse, and then a darker, ranker musky smell, which I try and ignore. Another old door leans directly against the stone foundation. “When I pull it away, you shine the light.”
“What if there’s a snake?” Philippe’s whisper has a tremble in it.
“I’ll use this,” I snap. I hold up the snake stick, try to get my breathing right, and pull.
There’s no snake.
God’s bones.
A few minutes later, when I see the size of the thing wedged between the wall and the oil burner, I think it’s a bike tire.
Philippe backs up. I grab his coat and hold him still.
“Rosie, it’s a rattler.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. “I’ve read about them.”
Chills rise up my neck. I am transfixed by the thick coils, big around as a rolling pin. Harry’s suitcase might not be wide enough.
Chasing Augustus Page 9