by Camille Eide
Bertie gave a faint headshake.
“Please, don’t send me away, Miss Susan.” Brandi’s rising voice choked on her tears. “I promise I won’t ever touch a knife or do anything like that again. I need to learn to believe in myself. I know this place is my only chance to do that. Please?”
Folding the jersey slowly, Sue mentally tallied the facts. Brandi knew the consequences.
She also knew alcohol was grounds for immediate removal and that Sue could give her a drug test, as well as talk to the high school about the other girls involved. As far as blowing her probation, she hadn’t actually cut herself.
Sue leveled her gaze on the girl, forcing Brandi to look her in the eye. “First off, no more soccer. That was a privilege and an opportunity for earning trust, which you’ve chosen to break. And second, if you ever come in contact with alcohol or have a cutting instrument of any kind in your possession again, you will be sent away without discussion. Do you understand?”
Wiping her blotchy face, Brandi nodded. “I won’t. I promise. Thank you, Miss Susan.”
Sue stepped into the hall, Brandi on her heels, Bertie following.
Jasmine waited near the stairs.
As Sue and Brandi passed Jasmine, Sue sensed a wordless exchange between the two girls. She stopped and looked at them. “And you two need to get along.”
“I know.” Brandi aimed a flat smile at Jasmine. “Little J here was just looking out for me. We’re cool.”
Brandi descended the stairs with Bertie, but Sue waited until they were out of earshot and then turned to Jasmine. “It’ll take some work, but can you try to be friends with her?”
Jasmine glanced down the stairwell, then back at Sue. “Miss Susan not see all,” she said, face grim. “Brandi not anyone’s friend.”
* * *
Dusk crept across the valley, deepening the sky. Nearing the road to the ranch, Joe downshifted for the turn. Not only had they passed inspection—news he’d gotten via text from Bertie—but, thanks to a couple hours on a Juniper Valley Library computer, he’d found old man Jacobs. John and his disabled adult daughter, Fiona, were living in Bend. Minus the ex-mom. Apparently Leia Jacobs had left the family and moved out of state. Their son, Ruben, was in prison—also no surprise. Joe would soon pay the old man a visit and tell him the things he’d long wanted to say.
But not today. Passing inspection called for a celebration.
As the truck climbed the drive, a nagging reminder dampened Joe’s mood. He still hadn’t found his brother, Ben. Finding him would call for the biggest party of all.
Pole lights blazed across the compound, reminding him of a homing beacon, and a wave of nostalgia swept over him. My Father’s House was the only place from his childhood where he’d felt like anyone cared. Like he had any hope of a future.
Unlike what he’d received in the Jacobs home.
“Thank you, God,” he said as he climbed out of the truck cab. “For showing me Your Father’s heart. For making me feel like a son.” Heading to the porch, Joe imagined Chaz and Edgar and the others going on with their lives from here. What they needed was a caring, steady, male role model, like the ones he’d had.
How hard would it be to provide that himself? Not hard at all. He could see himself working with these kids and giving them some much needed stability. The image stirred a surprising sense of joy—until he remembered he was only here temporarily. Joe stowed the thoughts and entered the house.
The foyer was empty. In the den, a couple of kids lounged on couches, reading. Chaz sat at a computer, his big glasses throwing off a bluish glare from the screen.
“Hey, guys,” Joe said. “I got some stuff to bring inside. Want to give me a hand?”
Eyes fixed on the screen, Chaz pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Just a sec. I’m IMing with the chopper pilot who flies drills over the ranch.” Grinning, he launched into a burst of key-tapping. “I’m tricking him into telling me his flight schedule.”
“No problem. I’ve got a truckload of melting ice cream and hot fudge sauce, but if you guys don’t want a party, I’m sure I could eat it all my—”
“What? Ice cream and fudge? J-man, you coulda said that!” The boy’s chair toppled over as he and the other kids scrambled for the door.
Edgar and Haley grabbed boxes of groceries, while Joe hauled in a couple of bags. He went to work setting up the dining hall, putting out plastic bowls and cups, and lining up soda bottles and tubs of ice cream.
Sonja, Tatiana, and Cori came in and squealed when they saw all the stuff.
Grinning like a kid at his own birthday, Joe handed out balloons to blow up. He set out syrups, whipped cream cans, and candy toppings on the sideboard.
Chaz counted eight buckets of ice cream aloud and read off the flavors, the pitch of his voice rising higher with each one. A chorus of excitement filled the dining hall.
“Oh man—cookie dough? I love cookie dough!”
“Whipped cream in a can!”
“M&Ms!”
Edgar toted in a box of groceries. “Dude, this stuff don’t look like party food. It’s like … regular food.”
Jasmine watched the activity, eyes wide. She followed Edgar and pulled a gallon jug of maple syrup from his box. “This for party too?”
“No, that’s for pancakes—”
The door to the kitchen swung open. Sue entered the dining hall but came to a standstill when she saw the commotion. She stared at all the food, her eyes huge.
Joe smiled.
“What’s going on? Who—”
“Hey! Miss Susan, check this out!” Chaz grabbed a pair of whipped cream cans and shook them like maracas. “Ice cream par-TAY!”
Sue’s gaze swept around the tables laden with party ware and frosty tubs of ice cream. Her eyes widened even more when Cori danced around with two squeeze bottles of hot fudge.
Which reminded Joe of the special bag he’d stowed under the driver’s seat. He dashed outside to the truck and retrieved it. When he returned, Elena and Linda were in the dining hall, watching the jostling teenagers.
Sue turned her attention to Joe and the room quieted.
Oh, right. She probably didn’t like ice cream parties any more than she liked birthdays.
“Mister Joe,” she said quietly, eyebrows on the rise. “What is all this?”
“It’s a party.” He tried for his most disarming smile. “We passed inspection.”
Bertie nudged Sue with an elbow. “See? Some people know how to stop and smell the chocolate-covered roses.” She grinned at Joe. “You got hot fudge over there? Nuts?”
“I got it all, Miss B.” He raised a brow at Sue. “Say the word, boss. Ice cream’s melting.”
Sue shook her head as if to clear a fog. “Okay, yeah. Everyone, please thank Mister Joe for the—” She glanced around the room, still taking it all in. As the kids hollered their thanks and stormed the goods, Sue moved toward the boxes of groceries deposited near the kitchen.
“Hey!” Bertie hollered. “What are we—a herd of wild hogs? Make a line! Manners go for parties too.”
With a grin he couldn’t contain, Joe watched the kids scoop ice cream and slosh soda and squirt whipped cream in bowls.
Jasmine stood back and stared at all the food, palms pressed to her cheeks.
Sue wove her way through the buzzing mob. “Joe, I …” She stood there looking as if she wanted to speak but had forgotten how.
Joe grinned. Seeing her speechless was the cherry that topped his day. “Hang on, I have something else.” Joe slipped the package of chocolates out of the grocery sack and offered it to her. “Congratulations.”
She looked at the package and then at him, her expression deeply puzzled.
He nudged it into her hands. “Hope you like chocolate. It was a guess.”
“A guess? Dark Lindor balls?” She kept looking at the bag as if she’d never seen chocolate balls wrapped in shiny blue wrappers. Sue turned and watched the kids licking fudgy spoons and
squirting whipped cream into each other’s bowls.
Ah, crud, here she comes. Miss Thou-Shalt-Have-No-Fun.
“Joe, this is really nice of you.” A frown creased her brow. “But I wish you would have asked me first. The kids are actually … better off without this kind of stuff.”
Better off? “Oh, right. Sugar high, I get it. But really, would it hurt just this once?”
A pair of luminous brown eyes met his. “What hurts is the hope this kind of thing stirs up. They probably won’t get a treat like this ever again. It’s a lot easier on them—on us all—if they don’t have it to begin with.”
Something in him deflated. He spoke lightly. “It’s just ice cream, Sue.”
She inhaled as if gearing up for a speech. “I know, and it really was nice of you to do this. It’s just that next time they want it, I’ll have to say no, and then they’ll be disappointed. These kids don’t need any more disappointment.”
His heart sank. “So you’d rather keep them used to going without?” He tried to stop himself but couldn’t. Her logic was killing his joy. “Do you really think denying them treats will keep them from wanting them?” A thought crashed over him like an icy wave. She’s the one who’s afraid of wanting. Sorrow tugged at his chest.
Sue studied the shiny blue package in her hands, touching the cellophane window that offered a glimpse of the wrapped candies inside. “I wouldn’t call it denying them. More like avoiding disappointment. And needless longing.” She met his gaze. “I’d think you of all people could understand that, Joe.”
The quiet resignation of her tone caught him by surprise. Clearly, her need to protect them from disappointment came from something much deeper and far more personal than balloons and hot fudge. “I understand life can be cruel, Sue. Bad things happen. I also know how tough it can be for a kid to bounce back when life repeatedly knocks them down. But this isn’t one of those times.”
Some of the kids were already wound up and showing signs of sugar overload. Jasmine licked her spoon, giggling at Haley.
Sue looked back at Joe, her expression torn. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I’ve been trying so hard to guard them from broken promises that I …” Glancing at the bubbling teens, she eased out a sigh. “You’re right. It’s just ice cream.” She kept watching the kids as if wrestling to believe her own words, then glanced at the boxes of groceries. “I don’t know how to thank you for all this. I hate to think of what all this cost, especially considering how little you’re getting paid to work here.”
“It’s no problem. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hey.” Edgar sauntered by carrying a bowl heaped with ice cream and offered Joe a fist bump. “You rock, J-man.”
Sue gave him a look.
He sobered. “I mean, Mister Joe.”
Joe smiled. “You’re welcome, Edgar.”
Edgar ambled off, shoveling a giant mound of dripping goo into his mouth.
“That’s an awful lot of groceries,” Sue said quietly.
She probably wouldn’t like the reasoning behind it, especially since she seemed to have trouble accepting his help. “Well, I’m living here and eating your food. I just want to keep eating while I’m here, if that’s okay with you.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, it’s okay if you eat, especially since no one would dare try to stop you.” Then she examined the chocolates again, another frown forming. “Who told you?”
“Told me what?”
She stared at the bag as if deciding what to do with it. “Nothing. Thank you.”
When she looked up again, her hesitant smile melted him in a way that spread through his limbs and threatened to take him out at the knees.
She limped away, bag close to her chest.
Whatever had just happened, a serious crack was forming in Miss Susan’s wall.
Chapter Eleven
Joe glanced at the silent passenger seat, expecting to see her asleep, and found Sue staring out the window instead. Probably had a lot on her mind. He wasn’t in the mood for talking either. The folded map in his back pocket pulsed with every heartbeat, beats that quickened as the truck edged closer to Bend.
Today he would face them. Whether old man Jacobs wanted to or not, today he would hear the truth about what had really happened and the damaging choices his family had made.
Once Sue was inside the therapy clinic, Joe pulled the Google map out of his pocket and read the directions to Goshen Road. Seemed clear enough.
What wasn’t so clear was what Joe would do once he got there. Would the old man let him in or would Joe have to force his way inside? Would he get a chance to speak his piece? Would Fiona remember him? And if so, how much did she remember?
And though he’d heard Leia Jacobs was no longer in the picture, who knew? Maybe John’s wife had come back. Joe had thought plenty about what he’d say to the woman who, in order to save her own skin, had heaped lies and accusations on Joe like burning filth. He’d ask her how she slept at night after abandoning a scared kid at a time when he needed his family the most.
Joe pulled out onto the main road and headed north. Regardless of the reception he’d get from the Jacobs family, he had only one goal: to make them hear the truth. And while he was at it, to let them know that, despite their accusations, he’d turned out to be a decent, responsible man. What they did with the information was their business. He wanted nothing from them. Clearing the air was something he needed to do.
Fueled by a fresh blast of determination, he drove to the north end of town, navigating through sparse stretches of commercial neighborhoods.
This area didn’t match the clean, upscale look of downtown Bend. Graffiti and gang-tagging covered buildings. Steel bars guarded doors, and beater cars littered vacant lots. At a bus stop, a guy bundled in ratty coats slept next to a shopping cart loaded down with junk.
Joe found the address and stopped across from a sagging apartment building.
Garbage surrounded the building. Litter stuck to patches of dirt and weeds like faded postage stamps. Four skinny punks sat on the front step of an apartment that had cardboard stuffed into broken windows. A cussing brawl between a man and a woman, punctuated by sharp screams, carried through Joe’s closed truck window. Somewhere else, an infant squalled. The ragged siding and peeling roof were worse than anything he’d seen, and he’d seen plenty of dumps.
Number seventeen was the last apartment on the lower level.
The baby’s cries weakened to a listless whimper. The punks leveled glares at Joe.
He ignored them and took a closer look at the apartment.
No one went in or out, and no one seemed to be moving around inside. What kind of life did they live?
He stepped out of the truck. The smell of decay roiled his stomach as he crossed the street, keeping an eye on the guys at the other end who continued to stare.
If John Jacobs lived in this place, he must have hit rock bottom.
Doesn’t matter how they live. They’re going to hear what I have to say. He aimed for the door and marched across the “yard.” An accidental strike from his boot sent a baby bottle with congealing contents skidding across the dirt. He could picture a grimy toddler picking it up and sticking it in his mouth. Don’t look. Doesn’t matter. But his footsteps slowed in spite of the mental pep talk, and he stopped a couple of yards from the door.
A wooden ramp, splintered and sunken in the center, hung askew on the front step. No sound came from inside. No TV, no conversation. No lanky old man downing a case of Bud on the front porch.
The odor of rotten trash assailed him, coating his nostrils and throat with the stench. He focused on the door.
The baby’s wailing resumed, the weary, monotone cry of a child who knew no one is coming.
What am I doing here?
He’d come a long way, spent a lot of time preparing for this. He needed to do it.
So why did he feel like trash?
Someone was crying, this time a woman. Crying and
moaning. He couldn’t tell if it came from the brawling couple or from apartment seventeen. Could be Fiona, a mentally and physically disabled woman with the mind of a child, who lived in filth and saw drug deals, neglect, and who knew what else outside her front window.
What had forced Jacobs to live here? Because no one would willingly choose this.
Maybe he was reaping what he’d sown. Had God brought Jacobs low because of his family’s sins? It didn’t get much lower than this.
And now Joe was going to march in there and tell them off. Lay down a list of all the wrongs they did to him.
A wave of nausea rolled through Joe’s gut, dousing the fire that had driven him hundreds of miles to this door. Father, what am I doing? Forcing down the queasiness, he marched back to the truck and started it, then jammed the stick into gear and floored it.
* * *
Pure Torture, as Layne had called it, was a painfully accurate nickname for what Sue had just endured. Why would anyone choose a career as a physical therapist? It had to take a certain kind of person. The sadistic kind, obviously.
Sue spotted Joe pacing near the clinic entryway and crutched toward him, gritting her teeth to keep from hissing at the shards of pain. They’d told her to take something before coming in, but, like an idiot, she’d ignored the advice.
Joe opened the door for her and followed her out.
She climbed into the truck, all the while vowing that next time, she’d swallow her pathetic need to prove she wasn’t a wimp and take the meds. By the time she settled into the passenger seat, a film of perspiration coated her face and neck. As she reached for her buckle, Joe barreled out of the lot, knocking her off balance. She grabbed the armrest on the door and shot him a look. “Good grief, where’s the fire?”
He turned south on the main highway without a word.
Why was he in such a hurry to get back to the ranch? His new duties as daily work-crew boss had been divided among the other staff today, and the kids would be finished with their chores by the time she and Joe returned.