Where Do You Stay

by Andrea Cheng

  “Probably just hanging around somewhere.”

  “By hisself?”

  “With his friends.”

  “He doesn’t have any friends,” Monte says. “Nobody much gets along with Damon.”

  “You do,” I say. “And the kids in the neighborhood.”

  “Not really.” His voice is squeaky. “Not anymore. Ashley and Marc told me they’re not hanging with Damon anymore. Wesley either.”

  “Why not?”

  Monte’s rubbing his eyes and I think we better talk about something else.

  “It might rain,” I say.

  “You think it stays dry in Mr. Willie’s when it rains?” Monte asks.

  “Mostly.”

  “You think Mr. Willie likes staying over there?” Monte points up the hill.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you like staying here?” Monte asks.

  “Like it or not, doesn’t matter.” I liked it in my old house with our piano in the living room and David across the street.

  “But do you?” His grip is tight on my shoulder, his fingernails digging into my skin. I know what he wants me to say, but I’m not ready to say it.

  “You’re hurting me,” I say, twisting away.

  He drops his hand.

  18

  Monte crawls onto my bed and falls asleep. Hard to believe he’s nine, the way he’s afraid of everything.

  I’m seeing all those polka dots like eyeballs again. I close my eyes for what seems like hours, but sleep still won’t come. Why was it my mama who got cancer? Why wasn’t it somebody who smoked cigarettes all day long, somebody who deserved it? Mama said Nobody deserves illness, Jerome, nobody. Even if they smoke? Even then. My chest is feeling tight every day now, like the air’s too thick. Concentrate on each breath, Mama said, one, two, three, like Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, the first movement, slow and steady. I need a piano so bad. I need to move my fingers on the keys and hear the sound and know it’s me that’s making that music, nobody else but me.

  I put on my shorts and shoes, and go down the steps to the basement. There must be something down here I can use to take out more of those glass blocks. Uncle James has his tools hanging neatly on a pegboard. There’s a whole set of screwdrivers. I take the biggest one off the board and stick it into my back pocket. Then I go quietly up the stairs and out the front door. If I can just pry out two more glass blocks then I can fit inside. I bet Sharon’s piano is back there somewhere. I bet it is.

  Damon is crouched under a street lamp smoking. His back is to me, but I know it’s him by the hunched shoulders and the long arms. I duck behind the garbage cans and watch. Another kid walks up and they whisper together. It’s a boy even taller than he is who I’ve never seen before. Damon helps him light a cigarette. I see the orange light and then white smoke. They are standing close, whispering I think, and reaching in their pockets. After a minute, Damon heads one way down the street and his friend goes the other.

  With the screwdriver, I can get one more glass block out, but the rest are rock solid, and the hole isn’t near big enough for me to fit through. I try to put the tip of the screwdriver into the small crack between the blocks, but when I push down, the metal bends. I try to bend it back and the screwdriver turns in my grip. Uncle James will be so mad. He’s particular about his tools.

  A car moves slowly down the street. Maybe somebody heard me and called the police. Breaking and entering. Jerome stays far from trouble, Mama told Aunt Geneva. She rubbed my head with her dry palms. Yes, I’m lucky with that boy, I sure am. Aunt Geneva said It’s not all luck. And Mama said There’s luck in it too, you know.

  I hear footsteps behind me and whip my head around. There is Monte, in his pajamas and bare feet. “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  He puts his hands up like he’s protecting his face or something. “You weren’t in the bed.” Monte looks down. “I was scared in the room by myself.”

  I want to tell him not to act like a baby, but I stop myself when I see he’s shaking like a leaf.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, coming closer.

  “Nothing much.”

  Monte sees the three glass blocks on the ground and the hole where they were. “You trying to get in there?”

  “Yup.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m looking for a piano.”

  “In this old house?”

  “Mr. Willie said they used to have a white piano.”

  Monte looks at the hole and the glass blocks on the ground. “I can fit through,” he whispers.

  I look at his skinny shoulders. I bet he really can get himself through. He sticks his head into the hole, wriggles his shoulders, then scoots so only his legs are out. “It’s dark in here, Jerome.”

  “Wait a minute and let your eyes get used to it,” I whisper.

  He stays like that, half in and half out. Then he starts wriggling his hips through the opening until finally he is inside.

  “You see anything?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I cup my hands around my eyes and peek in. “What do you see?” I ask.

  “Boxes. Lots of boxes and stuff.”

  “Look for a piano.”

  “I’m looking. But I don’t see one.”

  “You have to walk around. It’s big. And white.”

  “I know. I still don’t see one.”

  Monte moves forward, then stops. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “That noise.”

  “There’s no noise. Keep looking.”

  “There’s no piano that I can see.”

  “How about in the basement?”

  “I’m scared to go down there by myself,” Monte says.

  “Hurry. Just take a quick look.”

  Monte moves forward, then turns back. “I’m scared, Jerome. Can I come out now?” He’s wriggling his way out just as fast as he can. His pajama shirt gets caught on something and tears, but he’s in such a hurry he doesn’t care. Finally he’s next to me, holding onto my arm, trembling. “It’s haunted in there,” he says. “It’s a haunted house.”

  “There’s no such thing as a haunted house,” I say, taking his hand.

  “Damon says there is.”

  I grab his arm. “There isn’t. My mother said.”

  Monte looks into the dark hole where the glass block was. “Later I’ll look in the basement. I promise.”

  I put the glass block back in place. “Come on,” I say to Monte, pulling him down the hill.

  •

  I take the screwdriver back to the basement and hang it on the pegboard. Maybe Uncle James won’t notice that it’s bent. In the corner is a crowbar. Next time I’ll use that and make the hole big enough so I can fit inside and find that piano myself. Then I’ll start fixing up the front room, cleaning out the spiderwebs and washing down the walls. The floor is the last part to clean, Mama said. Work your way toward the door or you’ll clean yourself into a corner, Jerome.

  19

  Mr. Willie has a lot of work to do before fall. He’s painting Mr. Loman’s porch and fixing Ms. Alonzo’s windows. Then there’s lots of raking and sweeping and planting bulbs all over the place. I take care of our garden, and Monte follows me everywhere, chattering the whole time.

  “How come you plant the cucumbers in little hills? How come the beans are all bent over like that? Who taught you how to play the piano? When can you start teaching me?”

  Sometimes I stop answering and he says, “Jerome, are you mad?”

  Damon’s been going out almost every night after dinner. Sometimes he comes home late at night and sometimes he doesn’t come home at all. Uncle James took off his belt the other day, getting ready to whip that boy, but Aunt Geneva said, “A boy that big is too old to be whipped.” Uncle James said, “Then he’s too old to be staying under this roof,” and Aunt Geneva got all teary-eyed. She used to ask did we know where he was, but since we never did, she stopped asking. Sometimes I se
e her gazing up the street and I see sadness in her eyes like how Mama looked when Daddy stopped coming around. First he had to go out of town on business for a day or two, then a whole week. I always pushed a chair to the window so I could wait for his car to turn the corner. It’s late, Jerome, time for bed. No, I’m waiting for my daddy. Jerome, go to bed now. Will Daddy be here in the morning? Mama sat at the piano and played the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata over and over into the night.

  I go out early one morning before Monte wakes up and before the sun and head up the hill. The skinny lady is in front of the carriage house, poking around.

  “You’re up bright and early today,” she says. “Looks like a nice garden you got there.”

  “Thank you.”

  She reaches into her bag. “I brought these for you,” she says, handing me a plastic bag of black seeds.

  “I already got most of the planting done,” I say.

  “These are flower seeds. Four o’clocks. They grow pretty much anywhere.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Ginny,” she says. “Call me Ginny. And this is Tom.” She points to the silver-haired man. He’s fixing the front door hinges.

  Mr. Willie comes up the street and sees us.

  “You’re early today,” he says to me.

  “I’m Ginny,” the lady says. “Ginny Bossard and Tom Owens.” She reaches out to shake Mr. Willie’s hand. “Your new neighbors.”

  I see Mr. Willie flinch. “Neighbors?”

  “We signed yesterday,” Ginny says. “Hey, Tom, come over here and meet our new neighbors. What did you say your name was?”

  “Wilson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Wilson’s the first name,” Mr. Willie says.

  Tom sets the drill down and stands by Ginny.

  “I was just telling Wilson here and his friend—” Ginny looks at me.

  “Jerome.”

  “—Jerome, that it’s official.”

  “When are you moving in?” Mr. Willie asks.

  “Moving in? Oh, we’re not going to actually live here.” She takes Tom’s hand. “We’re starting a school in September.”

  My breathing feels tight. Me and Mr. Willie need three rooms, one bedroom for each of us and a big room for our concerts.

  “A school in this old house?” Mr. Willie asks.

  “It’s perfect,” Ginny says. “We’ll have the smaller children on the first floor, the bigger ones upstairs. We’ll cook wholesome food in the kitchen.” Her face moves as she talks and her hands too. “We got a government grant to get started.”

  “What grade is it up to?” I ask.

  “We’ll start with kindergarten and first, then add one more grade each year.”

  “I see,” Mr. Willie says.

  Ginny is waiting for him to say something else, but Mr. Willie is quiet. Tom goes back to his drilling. She takes some boxes out of the van. “We are in a real hurry to get at least the front room ready for the beginning of the school year,” she says.

  “What about the rest of the house?” I ask.

  “That may have to wait,” Ginny says. “How long?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Ginny says. “First we’ll have to see how it goes.” That’s what the doctor said. See how it goes. You’ll lose your hair after the second treatment. For sure? Nothing’s ever sure, Mrs. Mason. That’s what I’ve seen happen.

  Mr. Willie is starting across the street. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I have some business to attend to,” he says, heading toward the bus stop.

  “Can I go with you?” I ask.

  “Not today,” Mr. Willie says firmly. He puts his hands in his pockets and turns the corner.

  Ginny asks if I’d like to help.

  “With what?” I ask.

  “I was thinking you could help with the sanding,” she says, “if it’s okay with your mom.”

  I almost tell her that I can’t ask my mom because she passed. Then Ginny will look at me like my teachers at school, whispering behind the door until I come close, saying Poor boy, what’s he going to do now?

  I want so bad to go into the old mansion, to search for the piano that must be there in one of those back rooms. “I’ll ask,” I say, running down the hill to Aunt Geneva’s.

  “If they’re making a school out of that mess, I’m all for it,” Aunt Geneva says. “Just be careful, Jerome. I don’t want you using any power tools, saws, nothing like that. You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  20

  Tom has taken off the boards so there’s no door there, just a doorway. “Welcome,” Ginny says, ushering me into Miss Myrtle’s house. I can’t believe I am actually inside. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. “It’ll take some elbow grease, Jerome,” she says, “But this is one beautiful building.” She points to the staircase. “Marble,” she says.

  “Mr. Willie told me.”

  She looks at me sideways. “You mean Wilson?”

  I nod.

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was a good friend of Sharon’s. She used to live here a long time ago.”

  I start coughing from all the dust. Ginny hands me a mask to wear over my mouth and nose. “Here, this’ll help a little,” she says. Then she gives me a block of wood and a piece of sandpaper. “Have you ever sanded before?”

  I shake my head. I’m not sure if I can talk with this mask on.

  She wraps the wood with the sandpaper and moves it up and down on the wood floor. “Make sure to follow the grain,” she says. She smoothes a spot. “See the lines, how they go this way? You have to sand with the grain or you’ll scratch the wood.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My voice is muffled.

  “No ‘ma’am,’” she says.

  “Yes, Miss Ginny.”

  “Just Ginny, okay?” Even with the mask over her mouth I can tell she’s smiling by all the little lines around her eyes. “I’m going to work in the other room. You call me if you need anything, okay?”

  I nod.

  “Any questions?”

  Suddenly there’s something I have to know. “Is there a piano in here?”

  “A piano, did you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean Ginny.”

  “I haven’t seen one,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one in here somewhere. We haven’t explored the half of it yet. Some of the back rooms are still locked.”

  “There used to be a piano,” I say.

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Willie used to play it. A while back.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for it,” she says.

  “There are some sculptures too. Bach and Brahms.”

  “Is that right? We’ll look around.”

  I sand with the grain. Busy hands heal a broken heart, Mama said. You don’t see me sitting idle, do you, Jerome. You don’t see me sitting around and waiting for things to happen. The only place Mama ever sat for longer than a meal was on the piano bench.

  I wipe away the dust with my palm. Mama had a smooth wooden bowl on the dresser that Daddy gave her for her birthday. When she was getting ready for work, I sat on the bed holding that bowl, feeling the inside and the outside as smooth as skin.

  I stand up straight and look around. The ceiling is really high and there are designs carved into the woodwork. Me and Mr. Willie will put the grand piano in here. The chairs can go in a semicircle around the side of the room. Or maybe long straight rows would be better.

  “Finished?” I jump.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ginny says, touching the wood floor where I sanded it. “Nice job. It looks professional.” She hands me ten dollars. “Thank you, Jerry. You are a big help.”

  I put the money into my pocket. I’m not Jerry, I’m Jerome. Jerome William Mason. I’ll show Mama I have a real job now. No, not Mama, not anyone. I’ll save my money until I can buy my own piano. I’ll look in the newspaper for an
estate sale. People are dying all the time, and some of them have pianos to sell, I know that.

  Mr. Willie is still not back. What if he decided to leave now that Ginny and Tom bought the mansion? Maybe he’s already found some other place to stay. Maybe he won’t even come back to say good-bye.

  Business to attend to, he said. He didn’t say work to do or a job on the other side of town. I stand in front of the carriage house and my breathing feels tight. Suddenly I have to know if Mr. Willie has already moved out.

  I open the door. Beethoven is there on the small shelf. The bed is made. The container I brought the chili in is empty and washed. Mr. Willie’s shirts are hanging on the hooks. I pull the door shut. He would tell me if he was leaving. I know he would.

  I dig up the dirt around the carriage-house door and plant the four o’clock seeds all around.

  21

  Aunt Geneva tells me to put on a button-down shirt because we have an appointment with a lawyer.

  “What appointment?” I ask.

  “Hurry, Jerome.” She hands me a light blue shirt that’s too tight across my stomach. “The lawyer might charge us if we’re late.”

  “Can I come?” Monte asks.

  “We won’t be long,” Aunt Geneva shouts over her shoulder.

  I look back, and Monte is standing in the doorway looking so small and skinny. Uncle James is asleep. Damon is who knows where. Aunt Geneva is hurrying me along. The bus pulls up just as we get to the stop, and we find two seats near the front.

  Aunt Geneva puts her arm around my shoulders. Then she looks at her watch. “We should be just on time.”

  “Why are we going to a lawyer?”

  “To help us make things legal.”

  I stiffen.

  Aunt Geneva looks out the bus window. “You know, Jerome, you are a blessing to us. Monte smiles every time he looks at you.”

  “Not Damon,” I say.

  I can feel the sweat from her arm on my neck. “That has nothing to do with you.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Aunt Geneva sits up straight. “I don’t want you thinking like that, Jerome. Damon was going his way long before you came to stay with us.”