by Peggy Kern
Suddenly, Harold felt a powerful shove from behind that sent his backpack flying to the sidewalk.
“Out my way, sausage,” growled Jupiter. “Yo Londell, why he here?”
Jupiter got into the car next to his brother and slammed the door, tossing a brown paper bag on the seat. He was wearing a crisp white basketball jersey and dark blue jeans. A small diamond earring sparkled below his perfect, tightly braided hair.
Londell glared angrily at Jupiter. “Under the seat!” he growled. “How many times I gotta tell you?”
Jupiter shoved the bag underneath the front seat of the car.
“Gotta go, Harold,” Londell continued. “Think about what I said. I won’t be around here for a while, so . . . the playground on 25th Street. You can find me there. ”
Londell glanced at the front door of SuperFoods and shook his head at Harold.
“Good luck with your new job,” he said. Then he hit the gas, squealing the tires as he took off down the street.
Harold stood, frozen in place, caught between Londell’s fading taillights and Mr. Marshall’s angry stare, which beamed at him through the tall glass doors of SuperFoods.
Chapter 4
Crunch!
The ten-pound bag of cat litter slammed to the floor and tore open, sending a dusty cascade of sand across aisle seven of SuperFoods.
“C’mon, Davis!” Mr. Marshall barked as he stormed up the aisle with a clipboard in his hand. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry, Mr. Marshall,” Harold answered, trying to keep the rest of the bags from falling off the overloaded cart he was pushing down the narrow aisle. It was the second time today that Harold knocked something over.
At least it’s not jars of salsa, he thought wearily. I won’t have to mop anything this time.
Harold was exhausted. He’d been working at SuperFoods for a full week, unloading crates and stocking shelves for three hours at a time. It was hard work, made worse by Mr. Marshall’s constant frustration at how slow and clumsy Harold was.
“You keep this up, and I’m gonna have to charge you, son,” Mr. Marshall said, shaking his head with irritation. “Go on, clean it up!”
“Yes, sir,” Harold answered, grabbing the broom and dustpan he’d needed almost every day. He was proud he was working, but he was exhausted from his new schedule. On workdays, he’d stop home right after school to check on Grandma. Then he’d rush to SuperFoods, spend several hours lifting crates of canned food and cat litter, and head home to make dinner.
At first Grandma refused to sign the papers Mr. Marshall needed to hire him. It was only when he told her he wanted to be more independent that she reluctantly let him take the job.
“You’re growin’ up right before my eyes, child,” she said with a mixture of pride and sadness. “I suppose I shouldn’t stand in the way of that. ” He felt guilty for lying, but he’d seen her hospital bills and knew he had to help out.
“Almost forgot, it’s payday,” said Mr. Marshall, as Harold swept up the last of the cat litter. “You can pick up your check in my office. Want me to cash it for you?”
“Yeah,” Harold replied with an eager smile. He was excited to get his first paycheck.
“Didn’t think you’d last two days,” said Mr. Marshall. “Thought you’d be trouble, like that other guy I saw you with. ”
Harold knew he was talking about Londell.
“You’re clumsy, but you work hard,” Mr. Marshall added thoughtfully. “I’ve had bad luck with stock boys in the past. Glad to see you’re trying your best. ”
“Thanks, Mr. Marshall,” Harold replied with pride. “I won’t let you down. ”
At 6:10, Harold dashed out the front door of SuperFoods. He was running late and still had to make dinner, finish his homework, and change Grandma’s bandage.
At least I got paid, he thought with excitement as he tore open the envelope Mr. Marshall had given him. He fished out the bills and counted.
This can’t be right! he thought, counting again. He had forty-eight dollars and some change. Where’s the rest?
Harold grabbed the pay stub that was in the envelope. At the top, it said he’d earned $65.25. But then there was a list of “deductions” like taxes and other things Harold didn’t understand. In the end, he’d take home only $48.20.
Harold crumpled the pay stub in frustration. He had barely any money, and already it was being taken away. Even if he worked all year, he realized, he still wouldn’t be able to pay the bills he’d seen.
What about groceries? he wondered, suddenly feeling hopeless. Then there were the tests, medications, and procedures he knew Grandma would need. And he’d need money for his own things too, clothes and shoes and lunch. How could he pay for everything?
“You can’t do that workin’ in a grocery store. ” Londell’s words haunted him as he crossed the street to his apartment.
* * *
“I’m here, Grandma!” Harold yelled as he unlocked the door. “Sorry I’m late. ”
He was surprised to find Mr. Harris chopping vegetables in the kitchen. A large pot of water boiled on the stove, and the room was filled with a rich buttery scent that made Harold’s mouth water.
“I was startin’ to worry about you, child!” Grandma yelled from the living room.
“Did you test your blood, Grandma?” Harold asked as he looked for Grandma’s Glucometer.
She was sitting on the couch watching television. Her eyelids sagged sleepily. A fresh white bandage covered her wound. “Mr. Harris is cookin’ dinner for us tonight. Ain’t that nice of him?” she said.
“I had tonight off and figured I’d stop by,” said Mr. Harris as he sliced an orange-colored squash into small cubes. “She tested her blood, and we changed that bandage. Thought maybe you could use a hand. ”
“You have no idea,” Harold replied, grateful he didn’t have to spend another evening trying to cook dinner with Grandma yelling instructions at him from the other room.
Mr. Harris smiled and tossed a handful of brightly colored vegetables into a shallow dish.
Harold hadn’t seen him since Grandma came back from the hospital. Already the two days he’d stayed in Mr. Harris’s apartment seemed like a foggy memory. Harold had left each morning for the hospital and returned at night to find a plate of food waiting on the kitchen counter. Mr. Harris would be sitting on the couch, quietly reading or writing in his notebook. Harold had been too upset to talk much.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you. For all you did,” Harold said. “We didn’t mean to bother you with our problems. ”
“Glad to help,” he replied. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” Harold admitted, looking at the bowl of strange vegetables. “What’s for dinner?”
“Pasta and roasted veggies. Eggplant.
Butternut squash. ”
“Sounds good,” Harold lied, not wanting to admit that he hated vegetables.
“Don’t look so excited,” Mr. Harris said with a knowing smile.
“Sorry. I never had eggplant before. Or squash,” Harold admitted, feeling silly. He watched Mr. Harris chop the vegetables into neat, even cubes. The knife blade moved in a silver blur across the cutting board. It reminded him of a cooking show Grandma used to watch on TV.
“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” Harold asked.
“Overseas,” Mr. Harris said vaguely. “Let’s set the table. ”
Harold grabbed the plates and silverware, while Mr. Harris carried in the food. Once the table was ready, Harold brought Grandma her wooden crutches.
“Dinner’s ready, Grandma,” he said softly. “Let me help you up. ”
“Oh, baby, I think I’ll eat here tonight. I’m just so tired,” she said, patting his face. “You look tired too. They’re not working you too hard at SuperFoods, are they?” she added. “I don’t want you running yourself ragged. You got your studies to worry about. ”
“I’m okay,” he insisted. “I’ll get you some food. ”
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Harold carefully filled Grandma’s plate and took it to her. Then he sat at the table with Mr. Harris and devoured his dinner hungrily. He was surprised at how much he liked the sweet orange squash and meaty chunks of eggplant.
“That was good,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Really. ”
“It’s a good meal for your grandma. Healthy,” Mr. Harris said.
“The doctors gave us a list of foods, but I don’t know how to cook most of ’em,” Harold admitted, looking over at Grandma, who was scratching her leg.
“Tell you what,” Mr. Harris replied, folding his napkin neatly on the table. “I’m going shopping Saturday. Why don’t you come with me? Maybe I can help you make sense of that list. It’s important that your grandma eats right,” he paused, staring directly at Harold. “You, too. ”
Harold nodded, suddenly embarrassed about his weight. For a moment, he thought maybe Mr. Harris was teasing him. But his face was sincere.
“How’s your dinner, Mrs. Rose?” he called into the living room.
“Why it’s wonderful, Markus, thank you!” she answered. “Now don’t y’all worry about me. You just go ’head and enjoy yourselves. And Harold, don’t you forget about your homework. I don’t want this job of yours interferin’ with school!” she added.
“I know, Grandma,” he groaned, thinking of his small paycheck and the mountain of homework he’d yet to start.
I know.
* * *
After dinner, Harold washed the dishes and found a cutting board Mr. Harris left in their apartment. He went down the hall to return it, knocking gently on the door.
“It’s me, Mr. Harris,” Harold said. “You forgot something. ”
Mr. Harris opened the door. “Thanks, Harold,” he said, taking the cutting board. Behind him, Harold saw the glow of a computer screen surrounded by a stack of books. “C’mon in. I’m just doing some homework and could use a break. ”
“Homework?”
“That’s right. You’re not the only one in class right now,” Mr. Harris said, returning the cutting board to his kitchen.
Harold was confused but didn’t want to seem nosey. Wasn’t he too old to be in school?
Though Harold spent two days in the apartment, he didn’t realize how neat it was until now. A small couch and leather chair were arranged against the wall. Opposite them was a large wooden bookshelf. Next to it was the computer desk. A thick textbook called Aviation Mechanics was open face-down in front of the computer. Beside it was a stack of notebooks. The top one was open, its page filled with small angular handwriting.
Harold spotted photographs on the wall he’d barely noticed the nights Grandma was in the hospital. One showed Mr. Harris standing in front of a large black helicopter, the two massive blades sagging just over his head. He was wearing beige and brown fatigues. Behind him, a dry sandy desert stretched to the horizon. Another photo showed Mr. Harris walking down a narrow street made of rounded gray stones. A street sign over Mr. Harris’s head had a strange word Harold couldn’t pronounce: Landstuhl.
“That’s Germany. I was stationed there for a while,” said Mr. Harris, straightening up his desk.
Harold studied the picture. He couldn’t imagine being in such a faraway place. He’d never been more than an hour from the city.
“What’s it like there?” he asked eagerly.
“It’s beautiful. ”
Gotta be better than here, Harold thought as he glanced at a photo of a group of men posed in front of a helicopter. Some were holding large guns.
“Who are these guys?” Harold asked.
“That’s my crew,” said Mr. Harris. “And my chopper. ”
“You owned that helicopter?” Harold asked.
Mr. Harris chuckled. “No. I mean, I took care of that helicopter. I was the crew chief. I repaired it. I made sure the men inside were flying a safe aircraft. ”
“Did you get into actual fights?” Harold asked. “I mean, were you in battles and stuff ?” He imagined Mr. Harris in fatigues, ducking gunfire and racing to reach his downed chopper and injured men.
“It’s not like what you see in the movies,” Mr. Harris replied gravely.
“Yeah, but still,” Harold persisted, his mind drifting to a place without Londell or Mr. Marshall, without endless stacks of bills, without the social worker’s questions. “Don’t you miss it sometimes?”
“No, I don’t,” he replied flatly. “I’m glad to be home. I’m in college now. ”
“College?” Harold asked. “That’s why you doin’ homework?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Harris smiled proudly. “Thirty-six years old, and I’m finally getting my degree. ”
“Cool,” Harold said, glancing back at the photo of the men and their guns. “Maybe I should join the Marines. ”
Mr. Harris shut his textbook and glared at Harold. “Maybe you should just go straight to college. ”
* * *
That night, Harold couldn’t relax. Alone in his bedroom, he counted and recounted his pay, scribbling numbers on a notepad, searching for a way to make them add up.
It’s hopeless, Harold thought miserably. Even if he worked an extra day per week, he couldn’t afford groceries. And what about the other bills Grandma was hiding?
At 3:17, Harold gave up on sleep and got out of bed. He could hear Grandma snoring gently from her room as he went into the kitchen to get some water. In the shadowy living room, he noticed Grandma’s stack of papers near the couch.
“I don’t want you snooping around. That’s my business,” Grandma’s words bounced through his head. He remembered the envelope he’d seen with his name on it. Was it in the pile? The stack of papers seemed to call him.
It’s my business too, Grandma! He wanted to say. How can I help if I don’t know what’s happening?
Moving quietly, Harold crept over to the sofa. His heart was racing. He was about to reach for the stack when a siren screamed outside. Harold sat motionless as it passed, listening for several minutes to make sure Grandma was still asleep. He’d never disobeyed her on something so serious.
But that envelope has my name on it! I deserve to know what it says.
His hands started moving then. In the darkened living room, Harold rifled through Grandma’s papers.
There were more bills, even more than before. They were nearly $10,000 in debt. There was even a threatening note from a collection agency. And buried in the middle of the stack was the envelope. Harold held his breath and opened it:
Dear Mrs. Davis,
The state must be advised as to custody or guardianship of your grandson, Harold Davis, 15, in the event of your disability, death, or if you are otherwise unable to provide for him.
Please complete the attached form and return it to our offices promptly. Should no guardian be available, the state will take custody of Harold Davis until permanent placement can be found.
“No! ” Harold gasped. He flipped to the next page. Grandma had filled out the top portion, but under “Appointed Guardian,” the form was blank.
“Do you have any other family, Harold? Is there someone you can stay with?” The social worker’s questions taunted him.
Harold reread the letter, staring again at the bold words: “the state will take custody of Harold Davis. ”
Harold trembled as the truth crushed down on him. With their bills, Grandma couldn’t afford to live in the apartment. There was no way she could provide for him. The collection agency would come and take everything. There was no way out.
Harold gripped the carpet and let out a soft cry as Londell’s words crashed through his mind like thunder.
“We’re all on our own. Might as well be orphans. ”
Harold buried his face in Grandma’s blanket and sobbed, the scent of her perfume filling him with a deep, aching loneliness. He wished he could crawl into her lap and hear her say that everything would be okay, like she had so many times. He wanted to be eight years old again, home from sch
ool with a scraped knee and Grandma as strong as ever. But those days were long gone.
I’m not a kid anymore, Harold thought desperately. He felt like something had ripped deep inside his body, leaving him bleeding and defenseless, though no one else could tell.
Harold staggered back to his room, his shoulders heaving with waves of grief. He grabbed the candy bar Londell had given him and tore into the wrapper. Harold knew he shouldn’t eat candy, but he let the sweet, dark chocolate fill his mouth as he collapsed on his bed.
I got no other choice, he thought, rocking back and forth.
It doesn’t matter what I want. I got no other choice.
The following day after school, Harold walked to SuperFoods and straight into Mr. Marshall’s office.
“I quit,” he said plainly, and walked out.
Chapter 5
Harold’s hands were wet with sweat as he climbed aboard the bus to 25th Street. He’d taken the bus many times, but never to where Londell told him to go, a neighborhood Grandma often warned him about.
Twenty minutes later, the bus hissed to a stop, and Harold climbed down onto the dirty sidewalk. The streets were eerily quiet. There were no kids running home from school, no mothers carrying groceries, no delivery trucks or people walking dogs. All Harold could see were blocks of small dingy houses huddled close together. On the corner was the burnt-out skeleton of a bar.
Harold headed up the block, looking for the playground Londell mentioned. He was amazed at how desolate 25th Street was. Many windows were boarded up, as if the houses were hiding their eyes. Rooftops sagged at dangerous angles. Crumbling porches gave way to tiny yards of dirt and garbage.
Harold passed a rusty car whose tires had long been removed. Up ahead, a skinny cat scurried across the street toward a spilled garbage can. Harold walked faster, nearly tripping over an empty beer bottle, which rolled noisily into the gutter.