No Place

by Todd Strasser

  “Uh . . .” I don’t know how to answer. Whatever they’re having smells great, but I have a feeling Noah may not be so eager to have me join them.

  “Of course!” Dr. Williams doesn’t hesitate. He clamps his hand on my arm and starts to lead me toward the kitchen. “You can have Derek’s seat.”

  In the kitchen Phillipa, the housekeeper, is preparing dinner.

  “We’ll need another setting, Phillipa,” Dr. Williams says. “Dan’s joining us.”

  The kitchen door swings open and Noah comes in with a stony scowl on his face.

  “Look who’s here,” Dr. Williams says.

  “Hard to believe,” Noah replies, shooting me his second WTF? look of the day. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  “You didn’t—?” Dr. Williams begins, then goes quiet.

  As if to compound the awkwardness, just at that moment Noah’s mom, who is also a doctor, comes in and gives me a hug. “So good to see you, Dan.”

  Is it my imagination or is she being slightly more effusive than normal?

  To spare his wife the discomfort that the rest of us are feeling, Noah’s dad suggests we sit for dinner. Phillipa serves lemon chicken, roasted potatoes, and string beans. It’s the most delicious meal I’ve had in months. “This is the best, thanks.”

  Noah’s dad smiles weakly. “Noah’s told us about your, uh, current situation. I spoke to some of my patients who I thought might be able to help find you part-time work, but they didn’t know of anything. But, if there’s anything we can do . . .”

  “I really appreciate it, Dr. Williams,” I answer.

  “It’s terrible,” adds Noah’s mom. “I mean, what’s happened to this country?”

  “We have no one to blame but ourselves.” Noah’s dad starts in about companies making more profits by automating their production lines and building factories in China and India, where they pay workers a tenth of what they pay them here. Hence American workers lose their jobs while company owners and shareholders earn more profits. “So the rich get richer and everyone else suffers.”

  “Uh, no offense or anything, but wouldn’t that include you?” I point out.

  Noah’s parents share a brief look, then his father says, “Not many people would voluntarily choose to be impoverished, Dan. We’ve been very fortunate, but we’ve also worked extremely hard.”

  “You want to get rid of poverty in this country?” Noah grouses. “You can start with the government. If they weren’t so bent on helping people not find work, it wouldn’t be this way.”

  His mom rolls her eyes and says half-jokingly, “My son, the right-wing conservative.”

  * * *

  After dinner Noah and I go outside. It’s dark and the outdoor lights are on.

  “Sorry about this afternoon.” Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of apologizing lately.

  “Sure.” He shrugs.

  “I mean it. That’s why I came over.”

  “Couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “Didn’t know if I was getting a ride to school in the morning.”

  Noah smirks. “At least you’re honest.”

  But there’s more. “Look, from now on? We’re back to workouts six days a week.”

  Noah nods vacantly, like he’s not sure whether to believe me.

  “I’m serious. The Fall Classic’s my last shot at getting drafted.”

  His eyes dart curiously at me and I know he’s wondering why this sudden change of heart. After I explain how a signing bonus could get my parents out of Dignityville, he glances back at his big, well-lit house. I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing: He may have a nice place to live and parents who have good jobs and plenty of money. But otherwise, is he really any different from me? It’s just luck. Like we were twins separated at birth and adopted by different families. He holds out his hand. The peace offering. “Okay, white boy, starting tomorrow we kick it up a notch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And one more thing?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Come back for dinner any time you want.”

  * * *

  I start to ride through the dark back to Dignityville. The way I look at it, I was on course until we lost our house. Then I got sidetracked. Now it’s time to get serious again. The reason I started pitching was because I’ve got the arm, the talent, and the head for the position. It’s pretty unusual when all three things come together, and that’s why I’ve got the full ride to Rice. That’s why Talia and I . . .

  Whoa! I hit the rusty brakes.

  Talia . . .

  I’m practically in her neighborhood.

  If I really want to get things back on track, that should include her, right?

  So here’s my moment.

  * * *

  The light’s on in Talia’s room.

  I’d love to do something dramatic and romantic, but short of riding up the walk and crashing onto the porch, nothing comes to mind, so I just climb up the steps and knock.

  “Who is it?” a female voice asks from inside.

  “Hi, Mrs. Purcellen. It’s Dan. Is Talia here?”

  “Oh, uh . . . just a minute, Dan.”

  Uh-oh . . . she didn’t come to the door to greet me. Not even a, Why Dan, what a nice surprise! or Hi, Dan, how are you? It’s obvious that mother and daughter have been talking.

  Talia makes me wait five minutes before the door opens and there she is, back-lit by lights inside, a beautiful silhouette. I instantly feel a yearning that I haven’t felt for weeks. I don’t want to talk, I just want to pull her close.

  Which is exactly what I do.

  * * *

  Later, sitting on the porch, I explain how I got derailed by everything that’s happened to my family.

  “I should have been more understanding,” Talia says.

  “No, it’s okay. The whole thing kind of came out of left field for both of us.”

  She puts her arms around me. “I’m glad we’re past it.” We kiss. She holds on tight. “We won’t let anything like this ever happen again, right?”

  “Right.” I agree.

  “We’ll tell each other when something’s wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  She leans her head on my shoulder and we sit quietly. I’m relieved that she doesn’t bring up Meg.

  A rattling old pickup pulls into the driveway and Talia’s dad gets out wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. Because of a bad hip, Mr. Purcellen walks with a cane. The pickup’s from back in the days when he first started building houses.

  Talia and I slide apart just enough to make it obvious that moments ago we were sitting closer. Mr. Purcellen glances at the bike lying on the curb. “Hello, Dan.”

  Talia’s dad can’t be more than five foot eight. The whole family’s small. But what they lack in size they make up with ferocity.

  “Hey, Mr. Purcellen.” I jump up and shake his hand.

  “That your bike?”

  “No, sir, just a communal thing anyone at Dignityville can use.”

  Mr. Purcellen purses his lips thoughtfully. “How’s that going for you?”

  “It is what it is, sir.”

  He turns to his daughter. “Going to be out here long?” It isn’t really a question—more of an order disguised as a question.

  “I’ll be in soon, Daddy.”

  Her father nods curtly. “Good to see you, Dan. Excuse me while I get some dinner.” He goes inside. It’s after nine o’clock and he’s just gotten home from work.

  I drop my voice. “Pretty late for dinner.”

  “He’s been putting in long hours.” Talia glances at the door as if to make sure no one’s listening, then whispers, “Business isn’t so good.”

  It’s hard to know what “isn’t so good” means to Talia. The place they rented last summer in Hilton Head was pretty mind blowing. Mr. Purcellen may putter around town in that old pickup, but when he and his wife go out, they take the big Mercedes in the garage.

  So, business may not be
great, but the Purcellens are about as far away from Dignityville as any family in Median. Truth is, I doubt Talia’s ever seen the inside of a tent.

  But then a thought strikes me—I don’t want Talia to see the inside of a tent. At least, not my tent. I don’t want her, or any of my friends, to come to Dignityville. I don’t want them to be part of my homeless life because . . . well, because I don’t want to be part of it either.

  We gaze out at an orange harvest moon. Once again I’m struck by how strange it’s all become. For most of our lives we’ve just been kids going to school, fooling around, making friends and being social, living in this protective bubble where whatever’s going on in the outside world hasn’t had much of an effect on us. But things “out there” change—a company goes out of business or moves its factories to China, a country spends too much money fighting wars and as a result has to cut back on social programs, parents lose jobs, families lose homes, people go broke paying for medical care. The next thing you know, you’re still a kid who’s supposed to be doing kid stuff, only the protective bubble has burst and now you’re living in a tent, never passing a penny without picking it up, and searching for coffee shops with free Wi-Fi so you can do your homework.

  At first you think, This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

  Then you slowly figure out that there’s no such thing as “supposed to be” anymore.

  There’s just the way it is.

  Talia stretches up for one last kiss, then whispers that she better go inside.

  You hate to see the moment end. You don’t want to leave this comfortable porch, or let go of this warm, pretty girl. And you realize that it isn’t just the comforting softness of the girl beside you, but that for a few precious moments you were back inside the protective bubble.

  And now you have to get on that rusty bike and ride back to Dignityville.

  28

  For the rest of the week Noah and I work on my pitching. Aubrey is still in a coma, and even though the doctors say his scores are improving, there’s no way to know for certain if he’ll ever wake up. I see Meg at school and at Dignityville and we talk about her brother, but don’t really spend time together. She sees me at lunch and in the hall with Talia, so she must get the picture. I feel kind of bad about that, but what can I do?

  Just as Mom had hoped, more and more Dignityville residents have gotten involved in the garden. When they’re not tilling or weeding, they sit around at meals and talk about what varieties of cabbage and beets to plant and what fertilizers to use. Meanwhile, Dad sold the Subaru to the junkyard, but a few days later developed a really bad toothache and had to go to the dentist. That was the end of the two hundred dollars. Easy come, easy go.

  The good news is that he’s gradually getting more involved in Dignityville—introducing an exercise program and giving his opinion when it comes to some of the political issues. Maybe, like Mom, it will be good for him to have something to latch on to, something that will help him feel productive and useful.

  In fact, in Aubrey’s absence, Mom and Dad have sort of become the ad hoc spokespeople for Dignityville. Residents come to them for advice, and when the town engineer decides to build a bike rack for all the donated bikes, he and Dad walk around looking for the right place to put it. When the mayor of another town comes to see the place, Mayor George asks Mom to give him a tour.

  The downside is publicity. Two days ago the local paper did an article about Mom and the garden, and I think she’s going to be interviewed by the TV station soon. So more and more people are learning that we live in Dignityville.

  As a result I’m not just a promising high school pitcher anymore. Now I’m a homeless promising high school pitcher.

  29

  A MEETING

  “It’s not easy to get in touch with you.”

  “We lost our phone service.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully, if things work out, you’ll get it back.”

  “How?”

  “I know lots of people. We’ll find you a job.”

  “What about the house?”

  “You’ll still get that, too. Think how much your family will appreciate it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. . . . So what do you want me to do now?”

  “Exactly what you’ve been doing. Gain their trust. Be their leader.”

  “And then?”

  “When the time is right, I’ll let you know.”

  “But no one else gets hurt. Swear it.”

  “I swear.”

  30

  It’s Saturday afternoon and I’ve just gotten back from my weekly run with Noah. In our tent Mom’s sitting cross-legged, folding laundry. When Dad’s not around these days, it could mean he’s refereeing a baseball game, or it could mean he’s collecting bottles and cans. Mom looks up. “Meg was just here.”

  Feeling awkward about leaving her so abruptly the night before, I go down to her tent and call in to her. When she comes out I can tell by the turmoil in her face that she must be feeling something similar.

  “Can I ask you a really big favor?” she says. “Come to the hospital and talk to Aubrey?”

  I try to keep the surprise off my face as she continues: “We’re supposed to talk every day. It’s important that he hears familiar voices. But it gets hard to think of things to say. It would be a big help.”

  By bike it’s twenty minutes to the hospital, but I’ll never get used to riding through town on two wheels. Bikes are for kids and grown-ups. Not teenage guys who should be cruising around in cars.

  At the hospital the nurses, techs, and assistants wave or say hello like they know Meg, and I guess now that she’s spent so much time here, most of them probably do.

  Aubrey’s room is decorated with posters of rock bands, Greenpeace, and a colorful one that says HATE-FREE ZONE. Framed photos of family and friends crowd the nightstand. Instead of a hospital blanket, the orange and blue bedspread looks like something from home. Aubrey’s sitting back on a slant with eyes closed and tubes in his nose, mouth, and right arm, while his left is in a cast. His skin is deathly pale and there are scabs on his face where the scrapes and wounds from the beating have started to heal. He looks like he’s asleep, only with neatly combed hair.

  A radio is playing rock, a monitor is beeping, and the machine that helps him breathe wheezes robotically. I look back at Meg. “What do I say?”

  “Anything. It’s not what you say, it’s the sound of your voice.” She turns down the radio.

  An unexpected tightness in my chest makes me realize I’m nervous. I’m not sure why it should feel so weird, but it does . . . the idea of talking to someone in a coma. Meg comes closer. “Hey, Aubs, look who’s here. You remember Dan.” She gives me an encouraging nudge.

  “So, uh, must be kind of a drag hanging out here all day,” I begin. “Bet you really miss Dignityville, huh?” I mean it as a joke, but it doesn’t work when the person you tell it to can’t respond. I talk about Mom’s garden, and how Dad’s gotten involved in running things. Aubrey just lies there slack-jawed and unresponsive. I can see why Meg asked me to come. It’s hard to imagine what she and her mom could possibly spend the hours talking to him about.

  “So listen,” I continue. “Know how we hear about machines replacing people and jobs being sent overseas? Get this: They’re creating tables with screens for restaurants. So instead of a waiter, you pick from the menu on the screen. And you still get all the choices—rare, medium rare, well done, dressing on the side, no pickles—whatever you want. And after you place your order, they can estimate how long it’ll take, so you don’t have to sit around wondering. But here’s the thing, what if half a million waiters and waitresses in this country get replaced by tables with screens and a bunch of minimum-wage busboys to serve meals and clean up? Even if the companies that make those tables create ten thousand new jobs, it’s still a loss of four hundred and ninety thousand jobs.”

  Meg nods and smiles encouragingly.

  �
�And the Chinese? They have factories with dormitories so the workers can live right on the premises,” I continue. “If a rush order comes in the middle of the night, they wake up three hundred workers and within half an hour they’re in production. So not only do they pay workers less over there, but they’re way faster.”

  Meg’s still smiling appreciatively.

  “And that reminds me,” I go on. “Do you know your sister’s talking about skipping college and getting a job after high school?”

  Meg widens her eyes at me and stops smiling.

  “I mean, what’s up with that?” I ask, now speaking to both of them. “You want her to be a waitress who’s going to get replaced by a smart table? Or maybe she’ll wind up in some factory dormitory getting up in the middle of the night to assemble widgets because that’s the only way we can compete?”

  Aubrey doesn’t respond, of course, but Meg wrinkles her nose. “There are other kinds of work.”

  “Where you don’t need a college education?” I challenge her. “School-bus driver? Construction? Lunch lady?”

  Meg rolls her eyes dismissively.

  “How do you like that?” I ask Aubrey. “She invites me here to talk and then doesn’t like what I have to say.” Then I have a brainstorm and look across the bed at Meg. “Hey, seriously? What about something in the medical field? I mean, considering how much time you spend here, right?”

  Meg blinks and her expression crumbles.

  Oh, crap . . . her dad’s dying and her brother’s in a coma. What was I thinking?

  Her eyes start to glitter and she looks away. I feel horrible. “I didn’t mean it that way. I—”

  She leaves the bedside and presses her face into her hands.

  I turn to Aubrey. “Listen, man, I know this is going to sound like sick coma humor, but I really hope you didn’t hear any of that.”

  Meg sits down in the only chair in the room, so I have to kneel to her eye level. “Hey.”