by Susan Wilson
“Let’s go.” Cody drops the toast into the trash.
“What?”
“Sooner we get Mingo, sooner you get to open that kennel.”
* * *
Mingo is a long, lanky kid and his cropped black hair has lightning bolts etched into it, visible beneath the edges of his trucker hat, which is canted rakishly to one side. His sideburns are like a fine tracery, following the contours of his narrow jaw and meeting in the middle at the very apex of his chin. I signed him out of the group home, a place that reeks of adolescent boy. Mingo, however, reeks of something a bit more pleasant, an overdose of AXE. His clothes are clean, his sneakers—kicks—spotless, and it makes me wonder if he has no idea how dirty he’s going to get digging holes in the thick, spring-wet topsoil. He’s carrying a knapsack, and I hope that he’s got a change of clothes in it.
As a practiced concierge, I chat the boy up; all the while, Cody, relegated to the backseat, leans forward against her seat belt as if she’s going to put a hand over my mouth to stop me from making a fool of myself should it become necessary. I keep to the impersonal, really not wanting to know too much about how this kid ended up where he did, content enough to let us all pretend that this isn’t a tad unusual. Like it’s a common practice for me to pick up a strange kid with a rap sheet and take him home to do something my handyman should have done.
“I hope we weren’t too early. Cody was anxious to get going.” The gamma rays of annoyance are burning a hole in the back of my head and I clearly hear the huffing from the backseat. Cody had been impatient to get going and then, once at the residence, which wasn’t, thank you very much, easy to find, she’d pushed to get us back in the car and on the road.
When I offer a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, you might think that I’d suggested robbing a bank along the way.
“Mom, aren’t we in a hurry?”
“Enough time for a quick doughnut. What do you say, Mingo?”
“A-ite. Sound good.”
Cody fumes, but she orders a glazed doughnut and an iced coffee. Mingo lingers a bit over the selection displayed on the drive-through board, settles on the same.
“You can have more than one. Why don’t I get a box?”
Mingo, all Mr. Cool, flashes a very boyish smile. “That be dope.”
I’m pleased with myself. Dope. Cool.
When we arrive back at the hotel, Mingo climbs out of the front seat, stands with his hands on his hips, for all the world like he’s waiting for something. Instructions, I guess.
“The cabins are out back. Let me show you.”
Cody trails along, the box of doughnuts under her arm.
* * *
“So, where he at? Why ain’t he here?” Mingo and Cody stand side by side, looking at the rolls of fencing, the stack of metal posts, and the bag of dry cement material. He’s exchanged his crisp kicks for a pair of heavy work boots.
“I guess he had to leave.”
“So I’m here to do all this work and ain’t gonna get my dog back?”
“Not today. But he’ll be back. I checked the reservations; he’ll be back in a couple weeks.”
“So, what I’m supposed to do? Your mom got more projects for me?”
“She could. Besides, she’s paying you good money.”
“Good enough. This is gonna be hard.” Mingo picks up the posthole digger. “I need a measuring tape and a level.”
“I’ll get them.” Cody is relieved to have a reason to get away from Mingo, to put a little space between his disappointment and herself.
When she gets back, Mingo has marked where he will need to set posts. He doesn’t speak to her, just sets to work. In a few minutes, he removes his jacket, and she takes it without comment. She’s got the tape and the level, but there’s no need for them yet, not till the first hole is dug. She doesn’t know if he really knows how deep to dig, but she keeps her mouth shut. Mingo’s posthole digger hits rock. He spits out an expletive. “Got a shovel?”
It goes on like this for two hours. The boy works in silence, except for the occasional effort-pushed grunt. The mounds of topsoil collect; the hand-dug rocks pile up. The sun breaks through the cloud cover, and the day’s warmth pushes Mingo to pull off his shirt, leaving him in a wifebeater and sagging jeans, the deep waistband of his Joe Boxers showing. His ropy arms don’t seem up to the task. His sunken chest is like a much younger boy’s, rather than that of a young man on the edge of a raw adulthood. The heavy scent of AXE fades against the more pungent scent of sweat. Mingo jabs the end of the posthole digger into each hole like Starbuck jabbing his harpoon into a whale. Jerks the tailings out. Sweat drizzles from under the blue trucker’s cap. And he never says a word to Cody.
Like a squire, Cody holds whichever lance he isn’t using—the shovel, the posthole digger—swapping one for the other as he works. Her legs are beginning to ache and she longs to sit down. Mingo keeps going. The grungy white wifebeater is soaked through, a Rorschach pattern of dark sweat wings on his back. And his angry silence does not abate. Cody is guilty of a bait and switch and she knows it. It wasn’t her fault, God no. But maybe she should have let Mingo know that the dog might be gone. That Mr. March was leaving. She hasn’t been fair. And then it hits her.
“You know, if you’d bailed on us today, there’d be no way I could get you back up here when Mr. March comes back. Mom wouldn’t give you a second chance.”
Mingo stabs the posthole digger into the last hole, pauses to wipe the sweat from his forehead, then rests it against the handles. “Girl, I don’t like being played. You played me.”
“I didn’t. How was I supposed to know he’d leave before you could get here? I’m not a psychic.”
“Next time, come up with a better plan. One that don’t involve hard labor.”
“A-ite.”
“Girl, you ain’t black, so don’t you be usin’ the talk.”
“Sorry.” Cody hands Mingo the shovel. “And don’t you be calling me girl.”
“Yes, miss.” He flashes her a grin, and Cody knows that they’re past the hard part.
By noon, all of the holes are dug. As if on cue, Skye appears. “You kids hungry?”
Mingo pulls a blue bandanna out of his pocket, swipes it across his forehead, stuffs it back in his pocket. “Yes, ma’am.” Mingo scoops up his discarded shirt and pulls it on.
Cody shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Good. Come on into the cabin. I’ve got lunch ready.” Skye heads back to their cabin.
“The bathroom is over there.” Skye points Mingo to it, and looks to Cody to finish setting the small table. She’s got a green salad and bowls of chicken and tuna salads on the counter. “How’s it going?”
“Good. He’s done with the digging.” Cody puts plates down, jerks open the drawer to find utensils.
“I hope that he measured. Would be a shame to have to dig more.”
“Don’t worry, he did. Twice. Says it’s better to measure twice and dig once.” Figures her mom would find a way to throw shade on Mingo’s abilities.
Mingo comes back into the room, wiping his hands on his jeans. Cody catches the look on her mother’s face, can’t quite read it, wills her not to say anything. But she does. “Did I forget to put towels in the bathroom?”
The boy doesn’t answer, just shrugs and finishes drying his hands on his shirt.
“Mingo, you can use the towels.”
Cody is mortified.
* * *
The kids have gone back outside to work on the fence project, leaving me to clean up. I have to say that I’m pleased with things so far. The boy seems nice enough, has enough manners to say please and thank you, something Cody failed to do. Obviously, I’m still not 100 percent happy about Cody’s fascination for this street kid, but as long as he does the job he’s been hired for, I’m okay with it for today. Sometimes you just have to give kids what they want in order for them to change their minds.
Unfortunately, Cody has blown off doing up the rooms, so I’ve
spent the morning doing it all. I’ve got Adam’s room—funny how I’ve begun thinking of it as his—done. I’ve got another dog family coming this afternoon, a couple from the Midwest with a Sheltie, which more than makes up for Adam’s early departure financially. It seems like dog people need to identify their dogs by breed or breed type; it’s not enough just to say they’re bringing a dog. They always say they’ve got a dachshund, or a shih tzu rescue. Rescue is the key adjective, and when it’s deployed, I know that these are not owners; these are pet parents. They are always surprised that someone like me, who has opened—some of—her doors to them has no animal of her own. I tell them that having a teenage daughter is animal enough. I’ve yet to get a laugh out of that one.
I’m just finishing up room 15 when Cody comes up to report that the one bag of cement mix isn’t enough. Looks like it’s back to the lumberyard. At first, I think that I’ll just leave the kids here to hang out while I’m gone, but they both pile into the car before I suggest it. Evidently, a run down to North Adams with me is an attractive idea. This time, Mingo climbs into the backseat, plugs in earbuds, and looks out the window. When I have to remind him to fasten his seat belt, he bops his head in time to whatever is worming its way into his ears, but he does what I ask.
“Can you drop us off at the dollar store, Mom?”
“What do you need there?”
“We just want to look around.”
“At the dollar store?”
“Ma’am, I need some stuff. Personal care.” Mingo pops the left earbud back into his ear. “I don’t get time to shop.” Implication, what with the quasi-incarceration of a group home and an on-the-job training program.
I really don’t know if I’m supposed to leave the youth on his own, and really don’t know if I should trust him. That’s an awful thought, but it’s true. What’s to keep him from bolting? Then again, no one told me I had to be watching him every minute. The resident counselor at the house just told me that he needed to be back by curfew, a reasonable nine o’clock, not that I’m going to take him back home that late. Three trips to North Adams in one day is enough, and I’m going to get him home before dark.
“How about we all go? I’m sure there are a few things I need.” Offer a compromise, my best defense with Cody.
“Mom.” Cody is using her reasonable voice, the one that will soon enough pitch itself into a squeal of invective. “That’s not efficient. You go get the cement; we go and get the stuff he needs, and we don’t spend so long that we’ll lose the light and Mingo won’t be able to finish the job.”
“Are you sure you aren’t on the debate team?” Keep the discussion light. After all, I wouldn’t want to embarrass Cody in front of the boy. Again. “Okay. Okay. Against my better judgment, I’ll drop you guys off and be back in twenty minutes. Be there out front.”
“Got it.”
“A-ite.”
“Do you have money?” I ask Cody.
“Enough. It’s a dollar store.”
* * *
Skye drops the pair off at the entrance to the Dollar Tree, reminding them, yet again, that she’ll be back in twenty, don’t keep her waiting, don’t make her go in and find them. She’s mortifying. As soon as the car pulls out of the parking lot, Cody and Mingo make a beeline for the McDonald’s across the street. As arranged by a couple of texts, there are two boys loitering outside, the giant cups of soda with the McDonald’s logo giving them leave to remain on the property. They greet Mingo with all the pomp and circumstance of a returning hero. Cody has a hard time following the conversation, peppered as it is with hip-hop slang and Spanglish. She stands aside, smiles. Waits for an introduction that is clearly not going to happen. The boys are a bit older than Mingo, she thinks. Pretty close to being grown-ups. Like Mingo, they sport the rapper chic of hoodies. Precious minutes go by while the trio catch up. Cody feels more and more invisible. Finally, Mingo turns to her. “This is my man Dre, and my man Kareem. This is Cody. She’s cool.”
Cody feels an unaccountable sense of pleasure at the grace of Mingo’s introduction. She’s cool. Nobody’s thought that of her. Ever.
“Man, it’s good to see you.” Dre punches Mingo in the shoulder and the pair drop into a boxing stance. Feint, laugh, feint. “You missin’ some good stuff.”
“I’m done with that. You know it.”
“Where that dog at, man?” The guy called Kareem sucks the last few drops of soda out of his cup.
It takes a beat before Mingo replies. “He’s okay. Gettin’ taken care of. You know, while I’m”—he smiles—“tied up.”
“You know Russell is looking for him?” Dre shoots his crumpled cup into the trash with a three-pointer. “Not too happy with you.” He laughs, puts a big hand on Mingo’s shoulder, and the age difference becomes more obvious. “Best return the man’s property.”
“He’s good where he is.” Mingo shoves his hands into his pockets, twists away from Dre’s grip.
“Russell says you stole him.”
“It was a deal. Fair and square. I gave Russell what he wanted and he gave me the dog. End of story.”
Cody is starting to get nervous. She doesn’t like the way these two guys are looking at Mingo. “Hey, Mingo, we should get back. Mom’ll be there in a couple of minutes and you should have bought your stuff.”
She’s broken the spell. Dre knocks knuckles with Mingo. “It’s good to see you, man. Stay outta trouble, a-ite?”
“You, too, man.” Mingo claps Kareem on the shoulder. “Keep it real, home slice.”
Departing takes the same ceremonial handwork as greeting, and Cody’s heart is beginning to race against the dread of blowing this whole charade by being late to meet Skye.
“Hey, look, it’s Smelly Melly’s BFF. What brings you here?” It’s Ryan, her most consistent tormentor. Ryan’s greeting is accompanied by girlish giggles. He’s amusing Tyler and Taylor. The girls are dressed in their lacrosse uniforms, their hair wrestled into tight, high ponytails. “Don’t you look cute in those shitkickers. Very fashion forward,” Taylor—or Tyler—teases. “Bet your BFF loves you in those. Very B.U.T.C.H.”
Cody can’t carry off the impression that these kids don’t bother her, and she’s angry at the hot flush of embarrassment that she knows has painted her face crimson. “Shut up.” It’s lame, but the best she can do. “Just shut up!”
Ryan makes a kissy noise and a rude gesture and is suddenly on his back. Mingo has one foot pressing firmly on his throat, and the lacrosse girls are screaming. Mingo’s friends are watching, laughing, high-fiving each other. The takedown has them amused.
Mingo leans over, putting his face close to Ryan’s terrified one. “You ain’t much of a gentleman, are you? Why you pickin’ on this kid? Ain’t cool. Got it? I hear you be disrespectin’ her again, you best watch your back.”
“I’ve got witnesses; I’m going to press.” At that point, it’s Mingo doing the pressing, and Ryan’s attempt at regaining some dignity is cut short.
“Ima lettin’ you up now. You get the fuck outta here.”
The girls haven’t waited for Ryan. They’re run-walking away as fast as they can.
Ryan is a little slow to get back to his feet, and Mingo offers a hand. After a moment’s consideration, Ryan takes it.
Mingo jerks Ryan to his feet, keeps a grip on his hand, draws him close in a hostile hug. “You tell my friend here you be sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“Say her name.”
“Cody. Sorry, Cody.” Ryan yanks his hand away from Mingo’s and follows the girls.
“Who the fuck is he? Why he all up in your grill?”
“Ryan. He and the Bobbsey Twins there love nothing better than to pick on me. I’m not like them, I’m not like anyone around that stupid town, and they hate me.”
Mingo gently places a hand on Cody’s shoulder and she thinks she’s going to melt with gratitude.
CHAPTER 23
I was enjoying a quiet car doze along with my pal when
the car stopped. Not having a proper human sense of time, I couldn’t tell if we’d been on the road for hours or minutes. I didn’t have the need to relieve myself and I wasn’t hungry, so I think that it wasn’t a long period of time since we’d left the hotel. Half a day? An hour? Even though I’d been completely asleep, I had been aware of the voices coming out of the car, and Adam speaking to them. My kind haven’t evolved enough yet to discern the words that come out of cars, or the other sounds that have Adam tapping his fingers against the wheel. In this case, the words coming out of the car, just above my head as I lounged in the front seat—thank you, Lucky, for being in the back—did sound more male than female, like the female voice that Adam listens to without answering. This voice Adam had been responding to, and the only words I understood out of his mouth were the usual: Okay, good, fine. Another day. Then Adam pulled to the side of the road and shut the car off and made some noises that suggested that he wasn’t certain of himself. This almost never happens. In the car, I mean.
Aren’t we getting out? I rumbled the question and got a pat on the head. We did get out then, and Lucky and I made ourselves busy sniffing around, marking territory in this place I had never seen before, while Adam sat on a bench and watched us. Eventually, Adam stood up, called us to him, and we climbed back into the car. Where I had sensed indecision before, now I knew that Adam was focused again. After another short stop for gas and a package of those sublime beef sticks, we were headed toward the sun.
* * *
When the potential adopters had had a sudden conflict and couldn’t meet today, it just seemed more logical to go back to the LakeView than drive all the way to Boston. Adam hadn’t even gotten as far as Orange when he got the cancellation from the would-be owners. Not even halfway home. And the idea of turning around appealed deeply. He dropped a quick text to Skye to see if he could get his room back, got a quick answer: Yes.
Skye is nowhere to be seen, her car gone, so while he waits, Adam takes the dogs around back to get a closer look at how this dog-run project is going. Lucky puts his nose to the ground like a tracking dog, inhaling with audible huffs; his tail is wagging, as if he’s reading a good story. He keeps looking up, checking the air, then back to the ground, sniffing the ground hole by hole. Chance just goes from post to post, making his mark against each one, clearly less interested in whatever it is that has the other dog’s full attention. He looks bored, yawns, and flops down on the springy grass, then rolls over and does his supine alligator imitation. Lucky circumnavigates the perimeter of the future pen, not bothering to lift his leg, just wagging his tail. He goes around once, then again. Twice around and he begins transecting the flat area between the posts.