A Drop of Hope

by Keith Calabrese

  In the end, only Sam had ever looked out for him, doing the best he could while trying to go to school and hold down a job at the same time. He taught Tommy how to work the stove and the oven, the washer and dryer.

  How to take care of himself.

  Living alone at the age of six is not a good thing for a kid. Tommy was lonely in a way that most people could never begin to grasp. He kept the TV on a lot, even when he wasn’t watching it. The voices filled some of the empty space in the house.

  Kids are resilient, a cold-comfort truth if ever there was one, and over time, Tommy adapted to his situation. He got good at being alone. So when Winston Patil first started coming home with him after school, it was an adjustment.

  When they first brought their idea to Mr. Earle, Tommy was sure that the teacher would shoot it down. Not that he thought Mr. Earle was a bad guy or anything. He definitely treated Tommy better than any other teacher at the school. Tommy was just used to hearing no from adults.

  Mr. Earle, however, not only loved the idea but offered to be their teacher-advisor on the project. For the first few days, they met with him after school. Tommy and Winston showed him sketches of what they wanted to do. Winston was very thorough. By the end of the week, Mr. Earle told them he’d heard enough. “Get to work,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.”

  Ever since, Winston had been walking home with Tommy. With the house to themselves, Tommy would work in the garage while Winston did more sketching at the kitchen table. Even though they sometimes went hours without seeing each other, Tommy still enjoyed having Winston around.

  But then Tommy’s dad got into an “altercation” with the day foreman and was moved to third shift (midnight to eight a.m.). According to the union rep, his dad would have to stay on the night shift for at least three months before he could apply for a transfer back to the swing shift.

  What this all meant for Tommy was that his dad would now be home in the afternoons, probably until dinnertime, when he would then go out and drink until his shift started at midnight.

  And that meant Tommy and Winston couldn’t keep working at his house, not any longer.

  GUESS WHO’S COMING TO SNACK TIME

  A month ago, opening the front door to find Tommy Bricks and Winston Patil standing on his porch would have seemed beyond weird to Ryan.

  Today, though, it barely registered above mild disbelief on Ryan’s things-I-didn’t-see-coming Richter scale.

  “Uh, hey, guys,” Ryan said. “Come on in.”

  Tommy motioned Winston ahead and then followed him inside.

  “Thanks, Hardy,” Tommy said. “I … kinda need a favor.”

  Back at the bottom of the porch steps, Ryan saw an old wagon filled with junk, as in actual discarded items one would find in a junkyard: pieces of metal, stones and bricks, rebar, broken home appliances, and a lot of automobile parts. Good, old-fashioned junk.

  Tommy followed Ryan’s eyes to the wagon. Then, with something between a growl and a clearing of the throat, he explained. He and Winston were doing a project for school (he didn’t offer specifics) and they needed somewhere to work. Until recently they’d been at Tommy’s house, where they had the place to themselves. But last week Tommy’s dad got moved to third shift, meaning he now might be around when the boys came home from school.

  “And, you know,” Tommy said, nodding his head in Winston’s direction.

  Ryan knew. How Tommy’s dad would react to seeing a kid like Winston in his house was anybody’s guess, though everybody’s guess would be some variation of very, very badly. In addition to being mean, violent, and alcoholic, Tommy’s dad was also, like a lot of people in Cliffs Donnelly, a person who divided the world into stark categories of “us” and “them.” And the “them” all looked more or less like Winston Patil.

  “My house is no good, either,” Winston chimed in. His grandmother had just come all the way from India to live with Winston’s family, and her two preferred ways to settle into her new environment were cooking and telling Winston that whatever he was doing was too dangerous, too messy, or a dubious use of his time. Since Tommy pretty much personified each of those three categories all by himself, Winston’s house wouldn’t work.

  “So,” Tommy said, cocking his head toward the wagon. “You got anyplace we can unload all this stuff?”

  Ryan led them around back to the garage. Strangely, it never occurred to him to say no. He did wonder, though, why Tommy had come to his house. Ryan figured it was probably a combination of three things: (1) Tommy felt like Ryan owed him one for not beating him up that day after school, (2) he felt a unique connection to Ryan as someone he had once considered beating up but didn’t, and (3) there wasn’t anyplace else to go within walking distance.

  “Cool. Thanks, Hardy,” Tommy said in a way that suggested Ryan wouldn’t be sticking around.

  Ryan left them to it and went back inside through the kitchen, where his mom was filling a juice cup for Declan.

  “Ryan,” his mom said, a bit perplexed as she peered out the kitchen window at the two boys meticulously assembling pieces of trash in the middle of the garage. “Do you have friends over?”

  “Sort of,” Ryan said, plopping down at the table. As his mind worked over how to explain things to his mom, he found himself stuck on an unwelcome thought. Tommy had banked on Ryan understanding his predicament concerning Winston. Was it because Tommy assumed that Ryan’s dad was a lot like Mr. Bricks? Statistically speaking, for their neighborhood, it was probably an even bet on Tommy’s part. Would his own dad have a problem with Winston being over at their house?

  It was a thought Ryan never would have had a year ago.

  “Is the big one Tommy Bricks?” his mother asked, still staring out the window in curious confusion.

  Ryan explained the general situation—school project, Winston’s overbearing grandmother, and Tommy’s father (which needed no further explanation beyond the words shift change).

  “Okay,” his mom said, turning her attention back to Ryan. “Grab the bread from the pantry and help me put some sandwiches together.”

  “I think they just want to be left alone, Mom,” Ryan tried to explain.

  “I don’t care. They’re still our guests,” she said, taking the bread from him and going to work on some PB&Js. A few minutes later she opened the back door and called out to Winston and Tommy. “Boys! Come in for a snack.”

  “Mom …” Ryan groaned.

  Though one had been raised by carrot and the other by stick, Winston and Tommy had both learned well to come directly when a mother calls. Winston promptly introduced himself to Ryan’s mom, which earned Ryan a disapproving look for not being quicker on the draw, manners-wise.

  “And, Tommy,” his mom said warmly. “Nice to see you again.”

  Ryan wondered if she’d still be saying that if she knew that not so very long ago Tommy had been mere moments away from pounding her firstborn son into a thick, gooey paste.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hardy,” Tommy said, looking down at his plate. “Um, thanks for the sandwich.”

  Though Tommy kept his more antisocial tendencies in check at the Hardys’ kitchen table, Ryan knew the most feared kid at Rod Serling Middle School wasn’t going to become a warm and fuzzy person over one and a half peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and two glasses of milk. Though Ryan didn’t quite fear him in the same way he had a few months ago, Tommy was not the Grinch and his heart had not grown three sizes since befriending Winston.

  There was no telling any of this to Declan, however, who seemed inexplicably drawn to Tommy. At first he just stared at Tommy from his booster seat while he sucked all the apple juice from his sippy cup. Then he hopped down, toddled over, and started slapping Tommy on the thigh and raising his hands in the air.

  “Hardy,” Tommy said to Ryan. “What’s he doing?”

  “He wants you to pick him up,” Ryan said.

  “Why?”

  “He likes you.”

  Tommy scowled down at
Declan, then back at Ryan. “Why?”

  Ryan shrugged. Tommy returned his attention to Declan, who was slapping Tommy’s thigh again with unflagging determination.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  HOME EARLY

  Tommy was the one who spotted the car first.

  It was a Monday, around five o’clock. About two weeks after Tommy and Winston had converted Ryan’s garage into their secret art studio.

  Tommy and Winston were with Ryan, Ernest, and Lizzy in the den watching TV.

  “Hardy,” Tommy said. “Your dad’s home.”

  Ryan’s dad hadn’t been home before seven thirty in nearly two months. He and Mr. Wilmette were practically working around the clock on this bank prospectus. Since he’d gotten so used to not seeing his dad around while his friends were over, Ryan had forgotten about his earlier worries regarding Winston. But the flat tone in Tommy’s voice brought them back in a hurry.

  Ryan’s dad came in through the front door to find his den crowded with kids, roughly half of whom were strangers to him.

  “Hey, Dad,” Ryan said cautiously as Declan hopped off the couch and hurled his little body onto his father’s pant leg.

  As Ryan’s dad pried Declan off his thigh, Lizzy and Ernest waved and said hello. His dad’s face unclouded a bit in recognition. Meanwhile, Winston rose from his seat and, just as he had done with Ryan’s mother, extended his hand and introduced himself.

  “Hello, Mr. Hardy,” he said. “My name is Winston. Winston Patil.”

  Ryan felt a chill run through his veins as Winston’s hand hung in the air. But it wasn’t fear, or at least it wasn’t the kind of fear he’d felt when he had faced down Tommy. Or even the fear Tommy felt about his own dad. It was the fear of never seeing his father in the same light again.

  And maybe Doug Hardy saw that fear. Maybe he read in his son’s eyes what the boy was thinking, and had been every day for the past several months. How his own anger had conditioned Ryan to steer clear of him. How he’d allowed weaker men into his TV, into his home, into his mind. Allowed them to frighten and agitate him, alter him. Make him less than himself.

  Or maybe he just remembered who he really was.

  “Hello, Winston,” he said, taking the boy’s hand firmly in his own. “Nice to meet you. I’m Doug Hardy, Ryan’s father.”

  Mr. Hardy surveyed the room. “Where’s Mom?” he asked.

  Ryan said, “In the kitchen with Mrs. Wilmette.”

  “All right, then,” Mr. Hardy said. “Anybody up for pizza?”

  By the time the pizzas arrived, Lizzy’s mom had finished work and come over to join them. It was a fun night, one of Ryan’s all-time favorites. Because this was the night he got his father back. For the first time in longer than Ryan could confidently recall, he saw his dad joke around, and laugh, and smile. At one point Ryan’s dad even made Tommy laugh. It was a deep laugh, a man’s laugh, and it surprised everyone, even Tommy, who then laughed again at the sound of his own laughter.

  In its own way, it was a perfect night. But it was also the night before everything began to fall apart.

  GIRL CRUSH

  “Class, today we have a special guest,” Mr. Earle said, looking out his open door and into the hallway. “Her name is Andrea Chase and she’s a television reporter.”

  Andrea walked into the room with broad, confident strides. She introduced herself and talked a little about her job. She told the class the places she’d been and the stories she’d covered. She said she was doing a piece on the Holyoke Red Diamond, and that she was in town looking for a fresh angle.

  “Now, I noticed in several interviews Mr. Hought said that as a boy he’d gone to a local wishing well, Thompkins Well?” Andrea Chase said searchingly. “Have any of you kids ever made any wishes at Thompkins Well?”

  She may as well have just said, Simon says everybody raise your hand and start talking all at once.

  Lizzy looked down and sank into her seat. Because it was all she could do to keep from raising her hand, too. Because although she knew better, Lizzy was dying to tell this woman everything. Andrea was beautiful and smart and successful. She was strong and confident, and Lizzy wanted the reporter to notice her, to like her.

  Andrea Chase was a winner. Lizzy was positive there wasn’t a man in the world who could make her cry.

  Nevertheless, Lizzy could almost feel Ryan’s eyes bearing down on the back of her head, telepathically shouting at her not to say a word about the well or the attic or, most of all, how they really found the sock monkey.

  Lizzy held her tongue and was the first out the door when Mr. Earle dismissed them for lunch.

  But then, at the end of the day, Mr. Earle caught her in the hallway.

  “Lizzy, there you are. Do you have a minute?”

  He led her into his classroom, where Andrea Chase was sitting on the edge of his desk.

  When Lizzy entered the room, the reporter stood up and offered her hand.

  “Hi, Lizzy,” she said warmly. “We didn’t get to meet personally earlier. I’m Andrea.”

  “Hi,” Lizzy said nervously.

  “I thought we could talk a bit, just one-on-one?” Andrea said. “Marcus here says you’re one of his brightest students.”

  “Ever,” Mr. Earle added.

  “Ever, wow,” Andrea said, impressed.

  Lizzy blushed. “So, um, how do you know Mr. Earle?” she asked.

  Mr. Earle and Andrea looked at each other and laughed.

  “Right away with the tough questions. I think we might have a future journalist here, Marcus,” Andrea said. “Well, Lizzy. The truth is that Marcus and I went to college together. We even dated a little,” she said in a tone of mock scandal.

  “You and Mr. Earle were boyfriend and girlfriend?” Lizzy laughed.

  “You know,” Mr. Earle said, his turn to blush now. “I think I’ll just grab some coffee and leave you both to it.”

  After he left, Lizzy said, “How long were you guys …”

  “About a year,” Andrea said, a hard-to-read smile on her face. “He was sweet,” she added in a way that was both affectionate and a little dismissive. “Anyway, the reason I wanted to talk to you, Lizzy, is that it’s important for a journalist to find balance in a story. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” Lizzy said. “You want to make sure you cover all sides. That you don’t just report on one point of view.”

  “Exactly,” Andrea said. “Now, all the kids in your class today, they all really believed in this Thompkins Well business. That it grants wishes. And I have to admit, that girl with the brother who couldn’t read and the Colorforms, that was pretty amazing. But I noticed you were … less than interested in the whole thing. Skeptical, perhaps?”

  Lizzy shrugged, sensing these questions were going somewhere but not yet sure just where. “I’m not big on fairy tales,” she said.

  “Good girl,” Andrea said. “We make our own happy endings, right?”

  Lizzy smiled. It was like someone finally understood her. Saw things the way she did.

  “The men who found the Holyoke Red Diamond,” Andrea continued. “Mr. Hought and Detective Donan. Do you know them?”

  Though it was asked in an offhand way, Lizzy knew there was weight behind this question.

  “No,” Lizzy said, looking away. “Never met them.”

  “Okay. Have you ever heard anything about them, though? Any, you know, small-town gossip? Anything like that?” Andrea gave her a just-between-us-girls smile that nearly made Lizzy blab the whole story right then and there.

  “Sorry, no,” Lizzy managed.

  Andrea backed off after that. She started asking Lizzy if she might like to be a journalist herself someday, offering to help her along any way she could. Then Mr. Earle came back in.

  “Safe to return?” he joked.

  “Oh, I think so,” Andrea Chase said, giving Lizzy a wink.

  INCONVENIENCES

  “What are you doing here?” Ernest’s
mom asked as she met him at the front door, going out just as he was coming in.

  Ernest considered reminding her that he did live here, but she seemed harried and not in the mood.

  “Ryan’s mowing Mrs. Haemmerle’s lawn today,” he said instead. “So I figured I’d just come home.”

  Mrs. Wilmette frowned slightly the way parents do when kids have a perfectly reasonable answer that inconveniences them.

  “Well,” she said. “I have to go to Grandpa Eddie’s house.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m meeting with a realtor,” she said. “We’re putting Grandpa’s house on the market.”

  A number of thoughts ran through Ernest’s mind, most of them revolving around how he didn’t want Grandpa Eddie’s house to be sold, how he felt left out because his parents didn’t tell him it was going to happen, and how this was just the latest in a growing list of important things his parents never told him.

  But the one thought that rushed to the front of the line was this:

  A realtor means a For Sale sign in the yard. It means open houses, and most of all, it means people coming into the house with the freedom to go anywhere they wanted.

  Including the attic.

  “Can I come along?” Ernest asked quickly.

  WOBBLY, CALM, AND GETTING CLOSER

  Aaron’s eyes were getting wobbly on him. When you stare at a computer screen for long periods of time, it helps to look up every so often and focus on something farther away.

  Aaron frequently forgot to do this.

  He’d been going at it for weeks, ever since the day Jamie had so publicly mocked him and his footage from the woods. Aaron had isolated a five-second section that featured the mystery figure in question emerging from the woods and running past Aaron’s camera.

  There are thirty frames in an average second of video, but each one of those frames actually contains two images, which meant Aaron had a total of three hundred images.

  So he started going through each one of those three hundred images, pixel by pixel, de-blurring and de-speckling so he could get a clean look at whatever was running out of the woods.