by Susan Wilson
I lift the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pad out of the mouth of the backpack. Every page but three have been ripped out. On the first remaining page, a head study of Lucky—Dawg—and Cody has definitely captured his impish personality. On the second, a rather pretty charcoal drawing of the mill race behind the Artists Collaborative building. The last page is blank. Impulsively, I fish around in the bottom of the backpack for a pencil or pen. Finding only a broken piece of charcoal, I draw my own sketch, two stick figures, obviously mother and child, and scrawl “I Love You” in a deliberately childish hand, adding a big heart to frame it all.
A tap at the door. “Skye?”
“Come on in, Adam.”
“You’ve got a couple in the office. I tried your phone, but it didn’t ring through.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Dead. I forgot to plug it in last night, and I was hoping that the battery would last till I was in the office this afternoon, but then with all the rooms to do, I never got there.”
“Well, they’re here and waiting. I’ve been entertaining them with my local knowledge of trails and art museums.”
“You’re hired.” It’s meant as a joke, but just saying it makes me wistful. It would be so nice to have a fully functioning partner in this endeavor instead of a contentious adolescent and an MIA caretaker.
“Thanks, but I’ve got a job.”
“You wouldn’t want to trade helping worthy causes for twenty-four/seven worrying if the guests are safe and happy or if there are any guests at all?”
“You make it sound so tempting.” Adam leaves me at the office door; he and Chance head to their usual room, the first-floor room 9. The nicer room, the dog-ready room upstairs, is booked for the couple with their poodle, who are waiting for me in the office, and I’m grateful for that. Grateful to Adam for being persistent.
* * *
Mingo Ayala is standing outside his residence. He’s got his hood up, his hands deep in the pockets of his saggy jeans. He flings his backpack into the backseat and slides into the passenger seat. “Good morning, Ms. Mitchell. Nice day, ain’t it?”
“Lovely. You seem cheerful.”
“I am. It’s a special day.”
“How so?”
“I’m eighteen years old today.”
“Well then, happy birthday.” He seems a lot older than eighteen to me; his swagger gives him a certain faux maturity. This kid’s never been a little boy.
“Thing is, I’m what they call ‘emancipated’ now and I’m clearing out of this place. Time served.”
“Where will you go?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Still got probation, so I can’t go far. But, I don’t have to live in a house with sixteen other at-risk youth.” He puts finger quotes around the “at-risk youth.”
“How far can you go?”
“Got to stay in the county, or in the state. Something like that. In the country, but I ain’t got no passport, so I don’t think I’ll be doing much leaving the country. ’Less I join up. Might do that. Think that the army would take me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Would you really want to do that?”
“No. Not really. I like the construction work. Look like I got mad skills with a hammer.”
“I know you do. And I appreciate the work you’ve done for me.” I signal and pull into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. It’s become our habit, but as it’s Mingo’s birthday, I feel like I should do something more, but nothing much comes to mind other than treating him to pizza after work.
“It’s a-ite. You keeping Dawg for me, so I’m obliged.”
“So, are you willing to keep working for me? I mean now that you’re emancipated? Now that you might find a place to live where you could keep him?” Best not to mention this conversation to Adam, the fact that I’m opening the door to Mingo’s taking Dawg away.
He doesn’t answer right away. The hood obscures his face, and I hate that. It’s like he shelters himself from the world underneath his Champion tent. Protects himself from my middle-ish-class, white, do-gooder self. The thought is so sudden that I break into a sweat. Is that how he sees me? That, to me, he’s just a charity case?
As I pull out onto the street, he pushes the hood back. “I would. I’d like that a lot.” For the first time, I notice that his eyes are green, framed by sooty lashes. The shy smile that he gives me is genuine, unpracticed. He doesn’t smile much, this kid. This young adult. What kind of a life has he had?
“Mingo, this may just be the Coffee Coolatta talking, but I could really use a lot more of your help.”
Mingo takes a long swallow of his iced coffee. “I dunno. It’s…”
“I’ve got a cabin I want to rehab before the first week of July. It wouldn’t be just cleaning rooms; it would still be construction. Would you want to come on full-time? You’d get a room out of it, plus an hourly wage. More than minimum. Not a lot more, but with a free room, it’s a living wage.”
He does that thing with his mouth, sucking in his lower lip, revealing the shadow of the cute little boy he might once have been. Under the tildes of his black brows, he looks at me with distrust. “Why would you do this for me?” There is a rosy tint to his usually sallow cheeks.
“I need the help, Mingo. You’re a hard worker.”
He says nothing. He turns his face away and flips up his hood.
Has no one ever praised him? Does he think I’m bullshitting him? Teasing him?
“Think about it. You don’t have to answer now.”
I maneuver around the traffic that’s building up on this Saturday morning, both hands on the wheel, my drink secured between my knees.
Mingo takes another gulp of his coffee, rubs a moist hand on his jeans. “I’d keep it clean.”
“I know you would.”
“I’d keep clean.” He pushes his hood down. “Know what I’m sayin’?”
“I do.”
“A-ite. Probably some paperwork you gotta do, but, yeah, all right.” Grinning, he leans over to switch on the radio, finds his station, and we drive home, our heads boppin’ to the beatz.
As I drive home, I can’t help but notice that it takes a former street kid to make me feel like an acceptable parent.
* * *
To say that Cody was surprised speechless at her mother’s offering Mingo the Carrolls’ job and attic room would have been an understatement. Who knew her mother could be so crazy? But for once, Cody thinks that’s a good thing. “Great. Thanks, Mom. I know it’ll work out.” It felt so odd, this effortless compliment, but it was painful to watch the pleased look on her mother’s face bloom, as if she’d just told some little kid “Good job.” “So I guess you won’t need me as much.”
“I’ll need you just as much. He’s going to concentrate on the cabins for the first few weeks.”
“That’s so not fair.” What a relief it is to wipe that pleased look off her mother’s face, replacing it with her more usual one of battle weariness. It would be so easy to fall into a comfortable moment, allow a chink in this wall she’s built, into which would pour disaster.
“You and Mingo will do the rooms together, and after that you can go to the AC or whatever it is you want to do. Mornings, less than half a day. Not a sacrifice.”
“I hate cleaning rooms. People are so gross.”
Skye waves off Cody’s complaint. “So do I, but it’s part of the deal.”
“What deal? Your deal, not mine.”
“Our deal. Our living. Yours and mine. Something of our own.”
Cody really doesn’t want to engage in this useless and all too familiar argument. Her mother can get really worked up about her fantasy of one for all and all for one. She veered off. “What does Mr. March think about it? Bet he’ll be pissed off.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t told him.”
Because the dog will be back with Mingo, she’ll miss having him with her at night. More than she could have imagined, having the bulk of the sixty-pound pit bull beside her i
n bed had afforded her a whole string of restful nights. No one would dare touch her. Dawg was keeping her safe.
* * *
I love this time of night, when all the guests are settled into their rooms, when I can take a lungful of this pristine mountain air and let it out in a cleansing breath. One door opens. It’s Adam, letting his dog out for last call. He sees me standing there, waves. I’ve got to tell him of my decision to bring Mingo on full-time, how I’ve impulsively given the kid a place to live, this street kid, this unknown quantity.
“Hey, got a minute?” I keep my voice low, knowing that even a whisper can penetrate the quiet of a sleeping hotel, gesture toward the closed office door, unlock it.
He’s a moment, waiting for the dog to do his thing. Then: “What’s up?”
“I’ve invited—no, better word, hired—Mingo full-time.”
“What brought that on?”
“He’s eighteen now. He used a word…”
“Emancipated.” Adam strokes Chance’s head. “An adult in the eyes of the system.”
“Yes. That’s it. Anyway, I’ve really got to find a replacement for the Carrolls, and he’s a good worker. He’ll do housekeeping and help me get another cottage into shape.”
Adam doesn’t say anything at first, then leaves off petting the dog, who flops to the floor with a sigh. “Are you sure about this? Have you thought it through?”
“That’s really not your concern. With all due respect.”
“No. You’re right. I just don’t want to see things get worse instead of better.”
“You mean worse than having to rely on Carl? Worse than running this place and doing all the housekeeping, too?”
“You’re not worried?”
“Of course I am. Worried that next week we won’t have enough bookings to pay the electric bill. Worried about the damp patch on the ceiling of room eleven. Worried that the washing machine won’t make it through the season.” Worried about Cody. I don’t say how worried I am. That her behavior toward me is getting worse, not better. That she treats me like I’m the enemy. That my touch is painful, my concern, my being her mother, is intolerable. When I try to give her a good-night kiss, she turns her cheek so far away that all I can reach is an ear, and then she pulls away, as if I’ve burned her.
Chance pushes himself into a sitting position and throws a look at Adam, then at me. He’s taking the temperature of the room. Analyzing the rising tension to see if there’s anything he should do about it.
“I mean about his history. Mingo.”
“No. Yes.” I point at him. “Aren’t you the one who helps organizations that give people down on their luck second chances?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Yes. And I’ve been the recipient of second chances. But, Skye, with a kid like this, you have to be prepared for backsliding. It’s not a smooth transition.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
As if he thinks I’ve spoken his name, Chance gives me a look, sits up, waits to see if I have something in mind, then stretches his front legs out until he’s back on the rug, sphinxlike. He lowers his head onto his paws, blinks, closes his eyes.
“Do you still think he fought that dog?”
“I don’t know. Someone did. Maybe not him, but that’s not to say I trust that Mingo won’t ever fight that dog. If his circumstances change.”
“You mean if he goes back on drugs.”
“Yeah. Or falls in with his former crew.”
“Then I guess I’d better keep him busy here.”
Adam shifts, pats his knee. His dog is immediately there beside him. “You’re a good woman. You remind me of someone.”
I don’t have to ask whom he means.
CHAPTER 30
It’s the last day of school and Cody waits at the edge of the parking lot for the yellow school bus that will carry her to her place of torment for the last time this horrible year. The texting and social media posts have been relentlessly mean, but she’s gotten immune to them and to the perpetual poking, teasing insults and remorseless harrying. She never lets them see her looking upset, even when she is sitting right in front of them as they invent more and more ways to insult, offend, and demean her. Their fast-moving thumbs constantly sending evil messages to her on devices hidden beneath notepads and in sweatshirt pockets, right in front of teachers. How they trust her not to show anyone what they’ve sent is proof that Cody Mitchell is the perfect target for their animus. She’s invisible. She’s no one.
Its being the last day of school, a half day, things are fluid—teachers returning final papers, chatting and jokey, music blasting out of computer speakers in every other room, the air fairly bursting with the promise of summer. The seniors are gone; the juniors are standing tall with their elevation to seniors. Freshmen are no longer the little kids they were when they walked through those doors for the first time, frightened and shy, now sophomores armed with experience. Sophomores are fledged into juniors, at the midway point in their high school careers, and will return in the fall with all the rank and privilege of upperclassmen.
Taylor and Ryan come down the hallway hand in hand. They look like everyone’s idea of a high school couple, the beautiful people. The chosen ones. Her blond hair is loose, swinging with every turn of her head as she, with queenly serenity, greets classmates right and left. Ryan is hand-slapping and shoulder-butting his classmates, firing at them with a pointed finger, king of the little world he inhabits.
Cody is cleaning out her locker, stuffing her backpack with the detritus of the year from hell that is high school. Lost homework, scraps of sketches. A sock, a shirt. The gym shorts she refused to wear. There’s the book she thought she lost, the one she had to pay for, jammed way in the back, wedged in such a way that she has to kneel on the floor to reach it.
The blow shoves her right into the locker, the sharp edges scraping at the tender skin of her arms. She bangs her head trying to back out, and feels herself pushed back in, someone’s foot against her rear end. Laughter rackets off the metal interior of the locker. Cody kicks as she wriggles free, hoping to prevent a third shove. The laughter sounds like a jet plane taking off, louder and louder, until Cody just wants to put her hands over her ears and crawl deeper into the locker, shut the door after herself, and die.
A pipsqueak voice pipes up. “Knock it off, Ryan. That’s not cool.”
She backs out of the locker, successfully this time, and turns to face her assailant. Ryan and his squeeze, Taylor. Facing them down, that kid, the brother, Devin.
Taylor punches the kid in the arm, a sisterly gesture of sovereignty. “What? You got a crush on Miss B.J. here?” Her laughter is not queenly at all, more crow than crowned head.
“Yeah, no accounting for taste. Tay, you’d better coach him; unless…” Ryan strokes his chin contemplatively. “Dev, are you, perhaps, looking for a little head? Or is the hand more your speed?”
Devin doesn’t come up to Ryan’s chin. He’s a couple of inches shorter than his sister. He’s a kid, with a half day left as an eighth grader. A rising freshman who hasn’t transitioned into a proper teenager. Cody holds her breath. She should slam her locker door shut, stalk off, forget this last round of insult and injury. Except she doesn’t have to. “So, Taylor, how do you feel about your boyfriend cheating on you with your best friend? Kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck you.” Ryan leans toward her, braces one arm on either side of her, trapping Cody against the locker.
“No, I think that Ryan is fucking Tyler. Why don’t you ask him what they were doing out at Tannery Falls. Just the two of them.”
“Shut up, you bitch.”
His face is close now; she can smell the Altoid on his breath. She doesn’t flinch. She’s got the whip hand now. “Don’t touch me.” Cody shakes the hair out of her eyes. “Don’t you ever touch me.”
Taylor steps up, grabs Ryan by an arm but doesn’t pull it away from where he braces it against the red locker. “What does she mean? What were you
and Tyler doing at the falls?”
“Nothing. It’s not important. She’s a liar and a—”
“Tell her, why don’t you? Clear your conscience.” Cody smiles into Ryan’s face. His ears are red, the skin of his throat.
“Ryan. What about you and Tyler?” Taylor’s voice has gone all Minnie Mouse.
“Nothing. I swear. She’s crazy.” He shouts the words into Cody’s face.
“Go ahead, Ryan, tell her the truth.” Cody gives him an encouraging nod. It feels good. “Tell her. Ask her why Tyler hasn’t been wearing that little pink T-shirt from Banana Republic lately.”
“There’s nothing to tell, you whack job. You’re crazy. Taylor, she’s crazy.”
What’s crazy, Cody thinks, is how afraid he is of Taylor.
Taylor lets go of Ryan’s arm. Flips her hair back over her shoulder, affects her best look of boredom. “Yeah. She’s nuts. Mental case. Loony tunes. Let’s go.”
Cody watches them, arm in arm, continue their regal progress down the long freshman hall. “Yeah, but I planted some doubt, didn’t I?”
Devin shoulders his backpack, gives Cody a halfhearted smile, and follows.
* * *
Carl doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that this Hispanic kid with the tattooed neck, further embellished by clunky fake gold chains, is being asked to do most of the chores that he had been given over the winter and somehow never found the time to accomplish. Carl’s “So what?” attitude is actually a relief. I hate confrontation, and really didn’t want to have to tell Carl that he was fired. This half measure is just fine. Mingo needs some guidance for the part of the rehab work that isn’t just demo, and Carl is a pretty good teacher, showing the boy how to properly cut the Sheetrock, how to mud it to cover the seams. Mingo, for his part, seems to enjoy the tutelage. I can’t afford two handymen, however, so it’s also a relief when Carl decides that the trout are calling and vanishes once again into the wild. If things work out with Mingo, Carl will have quite the surprise the next time he returns to pick up a few bucks between disappearances.