I try to assure myself that he just needs time, but it feels like I’m screwing up everything lately.
Maybe we should have stayed in Charlotte, where we lived when his father left us. We certainly shouldn’t have moved to Asheville in the middle of the school year. He’s not adjusting well to the change. Back in Charlotte, he barely ate anything; here, his diet resembles that of a baby bird. Well, no, I don’t do the whole chewing-up-food thing for him. It’s just that he barely he eats anything, even when I ply him with hot chocolate and gingerbread and other foods he used to love. Although he approves of his occupational therapist (Mondays at 4:30) and his teacher, Ms. Liu, whom he tells me wears “an agreeable mix of colors,” he hasn’t had much else to say about school.
Ms. Liu tells me he’s struggling. On Monday, she called to encourage me to sign him up for this program called Butterfly Buddies. It sounds like Big Brothers, Big Sisters but it’s specifically for kids on the autism spectrum. She thinks he’s lonely, and I know she’s right. It’s never been easy for him to connect with people, and inside, he’s a mess of emotions that he doesn’t know how to process.
These people work miracles, she said, and it took everything I had not to say, Oh, yeah? Can they give him his father back? Because that would be a true miracle. But none of this is her fault, so I didn’t, of course. I didn’t give her an answer either, because the idea of sending Aidan off with a stranger gives me hives. What if he hates his buddy? What if they’re a kidnapper? What if they’re a weirdo, or they steal Aidan’s social security number?
My sisters would tell me I’m going to be carried away on a river of what-ifs.
Ms. Liu did assure me that there’s a strenuous vetting system. Maybe it’s time to take a chance. Aidan needs something, and as much as it kills me, I’m clearly not giving it to him.
I don’t regret bringing my son here, though. Glenn doesn’t even live in Charlotte anymore, and although his parents do, and they’re great, I wanted to be closer to my family. Being near my sisters is good for both of us, and I’ve arranged for Aidan to spend every other weekend with his paternal grandparents for a dose of normalcy. That’s all we need, really—a new normal. Once we find it, everything else will fall into place.
A hateful little voice in the back of my head asks, What if this is your new normal?
Thankfully, we get home without any more mishaps, and after we get the tree set up in its stand and go through our nightly routine, I sit at my laptop with a glass of wine and email Glenn for the first time in weeks. Not for my own sake. I don’t want him anymore, if I ever really did.
It’s an entreaty for him to be a father to his son, or at least someone to his son.
If I had a Christmas wish, that would be it, but I know deep in my heart that, like the dozens of other messages I’ve sent, it’ll go unanswered.
Chapter Two
Jace
“Jace.”
I look up from the wall I was building to find my boss, Chuck, standing a couple of feet away.
“Got a minute?” he asks.
Nodding, I set down my nail gun. I’m not surprised by the interruption. I’ve been expecting him all day. If I’m right, he’s here to fire me.
I’ve had this job for six months, and things have been going well, but I’ve been down this road before. When something goes missing on a site, I’m the first person the boss interrogates. And Travis, one of the other rough carpenters who’s working with me now, told me this morning that a circular saw disappeared off the truck yesterday.
When I look at it from Chuck’s perspective, I get it. I mean, I did do time for stealing a car. But damn. I’ve paid for my crimes. I’ve served my time. I haven’t been that person for a long, long time, and I’m fucking tired of being everyone’s scapegoat.
I follow him from the gutted living room of the Vine Street house into the kitchen, which is only slightly less noisy. Given there’s currently no real wall between the two spaces, the sound of Led Zeppelin—Travis’s favorite group—and the rhythmic pounding of Trav’s stud gun are still deafening. The band is in the middle of a guitar riff, and Travis is shaking his ass so much his pants fall halfway over his butt cheeks.
He isn’t wearing underwear, and he seems in no hurry to cover up.
“I didn’t know there was a full moon tonight,” Chuck says in a dry tone.
I can’t help quipping, “I think that’s technically a half moon.”
Chuck presses his lips together as he surveys Travis’s ass. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
He shakes himself, then turns his back to my coworker. Crossing his arms over his chest, he levels his gaze on me. “I got a call this morning.”
“Oh?” I say, slightly confused. Had someone called in an anonymous tip claiming I’d taken the saw?
“Butterfly Buddies. They called for a reference.” He narrowed his gaze. “You looking at taking a job with a conservation group?”
I stare at him wordlessly for a moment. Then the name registers, and I rub the side of my jaw. “No.” I give him a half smile. “It’s a volunteer organization that works with kids on the spectrum.” When I see his blank look, I add, “Kids with autism.”
His eyes widen. “Oh.” Then they widen even more “Oh. Why would you do that? I thought you were done with parole.”
“I am,” I say, hating that I have to explain myself, especially since I’m so caught off guard. I never expected to hear from Butterfly Buddies after submitting my application a few months ago. The organization has been on my radar for a couple of years, but it wasn’t until my nephew’s fourteenth birthday that I took the plunge and applied. Given that I’d had to consent to a full background check and provide them with fingerprints, I hadn’t expected them to take me seriously, let alone call my boss. “I just like giving back.”
It’s a lame answer, but it’s the only one I’m capable of providing right now.
“That’s awesome,” he says. “Will you need to take off work for that?”
“They say the time commitment is minimal. Mostly after school and some evenings or weekends. We usually wrap up our jobs by three at the latest, so I shouldn’t need to take off.”
His hands drop to his sides. “You’re a damn good worker, Jace. Mitch Pincher was a fool to let you go, but his stupidity was my gain. If you need to take off an hour or so early so you can volunteer, just let me know. Maybe you can come in early to make up for any lost time.”
“Thanks.” This isn’t going anything like I’d expected.
He turns pensive, looking me over. “Are you happy working with my crew?”
I hesitate, unsure where this is going, and warily answer, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he says with a smile. “I’d like to start giving you more responsibility. You up for that?”
I blink, sure I’ve heard him wrong. “Yes, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. I’d like to try you on finish carpentry. When I hired you, you said you had experience.”
“I do.” I learned carpentry with my dad, and he was bitterly disappointed when I refused to take over the family construction business…until I was forced to and ran it into the ground. I’ve spent more time than is probably healthy wondering what he’d think of his son scraping for jobs. Part of me is glad he’s not alive to see it.
“Good,” he repeats, nodding. “I’ll start you at the Hudson house next week. You’ll work with Darren installing cabinets and trim.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Chuck studies me for a long moment and then starts to walk away. But he only takes a few steps before he stops and turns back. “Jace?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Keep an eye on the equipment, will you? I heard a saw went missing.”
Was this all an act so he could get me to lower my guard? But before he walks out the door, I find myself telling him that I will. For a couple of seconds, I just stand there soaking it all in—Chuck not blaming me for the saw. Chuck offering me a promotion. Butterf
ly Buddies calling for a reference. Does this mean they’re actually going to let me volunteer?
When I get off a few hours later, I check my phone in the cab of my old pickup. Sure enough, there’s a voicemail from Butterfly Buddies.
As my truck warms up, I return their call. An older woman answers and introduces herself as Susan Duckworth. She immediately asks if I can come in today for an interview.
“I know this is short notice,” she says in a kind voice, “but we’ve had several new applicants, and we’re short volunteers.”
“Yeah,” I say, still in shock. “I just got off work. I can be there in an hour.”
“Splendid,” she says. “I’ll see you then.”
Fast forward an hour, and I enter the waiting room in my best pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. There are adult-sized and child-sized chairs, all empty. In the corner, there’s a tacky white plastic Christmas tree, and a peeling plastic menorah sits on a table beside it. It’s not exactly the kind of scene to spread holiday joy, not that I find the holidays joyful anymore. I guess at least they tried. A twenty-something woman is sitting at a desk behind a glass partition, so I walk over. She gives me an appreciative smile as she opens the window.
“Jace Hagan,” I say. “I’m here to see Susan Duckworth.”
The door next to her workstation opens, and a cheerful woman with snow-white hair steps into view. “Jace. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice.”
She looks me up and down, appearing slightly taken aback. I sent a photo of myself with my application, but I’m not surprised by her reaction. I know how I look. I’m tall, and I have broad shoulders and big arms, both from my job and from working out. It’s probably for the best my tattoos are currently covered by my shirt and jacket.
When people find out I’m a felon, they’re usually intimidated, but Susan, despite knowing my history, quickly sheds her surprise at my appearance and gives me a bright smile.
“Somebody’s been eating his Wheaties,” she teases.
I offer her a tight smile and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me in.”
“And polite too. I think we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Jace. Follow me.” She leads the way down the hall and into a small office. As she circles the desk, I take in my surroundings. The whole office is covered in ducks. Rubber ducks, ceramic ducks. Photos of ducks line the walls and are perched on top of her hutch. She takes a seat, then motions to the two chairs that face her. “Close the door and have a seat.”
I do as she asks, then rest my hands on my knees, surprised by how nervous I am.
“I see you’ve noticed my ducks.”
“Kind of hard not to.”
She releases a laugh. “Touché. Someone bought me a duck as a gag gift after I got remarried about fifteen years ago, and now I just keep getting them.” She leans closer and whispers, “I much prefer cats.”
I grin. “I have a cat. Bingo.” Then I add, “He came with the name, and I didn’t change it. He’s a rescue.”
It’s a wonder I’ve said so much without being asked a single question. I learned to keep my mouth shut in prison, and the trait kind of followed me back into society.
“I’d love to have a cat, but my husband’s allergic.” She rests her hands on her desk and looks me in the eye. “I confess, your application has been passed around the office over the last few weeks. There are some of us who weren’t keen on letting you volunteer.”
“If I’m honest,” I say, “I didn’t expect to hear back from you.”
She smiles. “If I hadn’t read your application, then I would have assumed you’d applied to earn brownie points somewhere. That was the biggest question,” she says. “Your motivation.”
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing more to add to what I wrote in my application.
“I was moved, Jace, and I believe in second chances.” She continues to stare at me, like she’s performing a CAT scan of my soul. “We’d like to try you on a probationary period. As I mentioned in my voicemail, we’ve had an influx of new applicants, and there’s a boy who needs someone like you. His name is Aidan Fisher. He moved here from Charlotte about a month ago, and his father left him and his mother just after Christmas last year. He’s six.”
I swallowed, surprised by the way this news tugs at the loose thread in my heart. The one that’s been unraveling for years. “Six?”
For some reason, I expected an older kid.
“Yes. He’s receiving occupational therapy, but we feel like what he really needs is a buddy. Especially since his father is no longer in the picture.”
I nod.
“Just so we’re clear: your sole responsibility is to be his friend. Give him some stability. We’d like you to see him two or three times the first week. The first few times, you’ll meet in the school library. One of us will hang back and watch you two interact, and if all goes well, you’ll be able to leave the school and walk to the park. How does that sound?”
“It sounds…” Warmth spreads through my chest. “It sounds great.”
“Good!” Susan says, clapping her hands together. “How about we start tomorrow? We’ll meet at four o’clock at Thomas Edison Elementary. Plan on spending about an hour with him.”
“Okay,” I say, still amazed this is happening. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Jace. Now, let me tell you a little bit about Aidan.”
The next day, I show up at Thomas Edison Elementary a few minutes early, surprised that my hands are sweaty. Susan is waiting for me just outside the entrance. The temperature dropped today, and she pulls her coat closer to her body.
“Ms. Duckworth,” I say, acknowledging her with a nod.
“Hello, Jace. And call me Susan. Aidan is in the library.” Her gaze drops to the reusable shopping bag slung over my shoulder.
“I brought a few games my nephew enjoyed at that age. Since I’m a stranger, I figured he’d feel more comfortable if we had an activity or two.” Conversations with new people can be difficult for kids on the spectrum, so an activity will help. At least I know Aidan is verbal. There’s extensive training for buddies who are paired with nonverbal kids.
Her smile brightens. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. We had some activities prepared, but I think this is better.”
I follow her inside and down a hall until we stop just outside the library. The wall is lined with windows on the top half, and I can see a dark-haired little boy sitting at a small table. He’s staring at a spot on the wall and running the zipper up and down on his sweatshirt. Two women are talking behind the librarian’s desk, next to a stack of fake presents that probably have been owned by the school since the ’80s. There are several holiday displays on top of the five-foot-tall bookshelves. One is a twelve-inch pink Christmas tree with silver and hot pink paper clips for decorations, and another is a Hanukkah display featuring a menorah with a few dreidels scattered around it. But it’s the foot-and-a-half-tall Santa surrounded by smaller elves that catches my eye. It looks like some older kids have made a few alterations. Santa is holding two dreidels in his hand like they’re craps dice, and a couple of elves have Monopoly money in their hands as if they’re placing bets.
“Aidan’s nervous,” Susan says. “His teacher, Ms. Liu, is going to introduce you. She’ll leave soon afterward if Aidan feels comfortable. He knows you’re coming, but he’s anxious.”
“Understandable,” I say. I’m nervous too, but I don’t admit it.
She opens the door and motions for me to enter.
The little boy’s dark eyes flit to me, but he looks away quickly. One of the women behind the desk glances up at me. She’s young, probably younger than I am, and the look in her eyes goes from friendly to speculative as she walks over. “Hi, I’m Rebecca Liu. I take it you’re Jace, Aidan’s new buddy?”
“Jace Hagan,” I say, offering my hand.
She shakes it, and I notice her gaze lingering on my bicep, but then her cheeks flush, and she says,
“Aidan is a little anxious.”
“No worries,” I say, shifting my focus to him. He’s staring off into the distance, but Susan is watching me. She’s taken a seat next to the librarian’s desk. I feel like Aidan and I are in a fish tank at an aquarium, and I can’t help thinking it will make him more nervous.
Ms. Liu has turned her attention to my new friend. “Aidan, this is Mr. Jace. He’s come to hang out with you for a bit.”
Aidan glances up at me as if I’m an algebra equation he’s supposed to solve.
“Can I sit with you?” I ask, motioning to the chair across from him.
He nods, then resumes working his zipper and peers down at the table.
I pull out the chair and realize my legs won’t fit well under the table, so I spread them wide as I scoot closer and set my bag on the floor. “I thought we could play some games today while we get to know each other.”
His gaze lifts to my mouth. “Can we play Minecraft?”
“Not today,” I say. “We’ll have to ask your mom about that. I don’t want to break any of her rules.” I know some parents don’t want their kids to play video games, and the last thing I want to do is alienate his mother.
“But we’re at school,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’re supposed to follow school rules.”
“That is true,” I say. “But I didn’t bring Minecraft. I brought some other games. We’ll see about next time.”
He doesn’t respond.
I pull out a box from my bag and set it on the table. “This is a matching game. Can you help me get it out and set it up?”
He nods, but he’s still messing with his zipper, not that I’m surprised. I’m a pretty big guy—a stranger at that—and he’s pretty small. I consider the fact that he’s still sitting here a win.
We take the cards out of the box, and he helps me turn them over, using one hand. I start to explain the rules to him, but he says, “I know how to play this game.”
Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club) Page 2