The Least of These.

by Kathleen Neely

  “Yeah, Dad. I decided it’s better for me to take the small room. I’ll only be in here to sleep, and the larger room will give Bella space to play.” No use mentioning it offered far less space than any of the bedrooms in my Wexford home.

  “I could get a bigger bed moved in here if you’d like.”

  Where? “Not necessary. The twin bed will be fine.”

  It would be an adjustment, but perhaps a twin bed would be a better fit than my king-sized. I wouldn’t have a glaring reminder that half of it remained empty.

  The cumbersome burden had been lifted. No more juggling bills and wondering what to do. I welcomed the respite, and yet, it brought a restlessness, a craving for a future beyond the next day. How long do I wait for word from or about Andrew? He had been gone almost a year. When should I give up hope of his return?

  Before moving, I went to the police station and made sure they knew how to get in touch with me.

  While there, I asked, “Anything new in the investigation?”

  “Nothing new on our end.” The officer frowned and stared at the clock. I refused to let him hurry me.

  “Can I ask what actions you’ve been taking?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Mrs. Bassett, we told you before. We can’t put manpower on an adult disappearance without signs of foul play. Your husband left a note and told you he was leaving. No crime has been committed.”

  He was wrong. There were laws against things like jaywalking and littering. It surely must be a crime for a man to abandon his wife and children with no means of support and no way to contact him. But it became evident I would get no help here.

  I reached into my handbag and retrieved the paper I had prepared. “Here’s my forwarding address. Please contact me if you have any information.”

  I reached across the desk and almost stuffed it into his hand. He took one quick glance at the paper and set it in the desk tray amid a thousand others.

  When I left the station, I drove past the home of my sister-in-law, Jenny. No longer Bassett, she had taken back her maiden name once she and Matthew separated. The death of their only child brought the demise of their marriage.

  Andrew and his brother had been inseparable. Jenny became the sister I never had. Now I didn’t even know where Matthew had moved. Shattered. Like a mirror splintering into a thousand tiny shards, each splinter showing treasured glimpses of how we once looked but remaining forever irreparable.

  I slowed my car as I approached the two-story colonial that had once been so familiar to me. I couldn’t explain why I felt drawn to drive past there. It’s not as if I could knock on her door and share a cup of tea. Too much had occurred. Would I be welcomed? I would cry for my lost sister, but the tears I shed for Andrew allowed no others to remain.

  ~*~

  Mom finished her grocery list. “If you’re sure you don’t mind doing the shopping, I’m happy to watch the kids while you’re gone.”

  “I don’t mind. It’ll be a treat to shop without taking a baby along.”

  Shopping proved to be an outing in Slippery Rock. Accustomed to having a grocery store minutes from my home, this rural community didn’t offer such amenities. Yet it was a pleasant reprieve from the crowded house on this Saturday morning. Mom was happy to avoid the grocery task, and I was thankful to have a few minutes to myself.

  I drove the winding roads, my sunglasses guarding against the brilliance that flashed like strobe lights scattering through trees. The leaves showed the first signs of changing their color, an occasional leaf turning brown, gold, or maple red. In about two weeks, this same road would explode into the brilliant colors of autumn.

  The unhurried trip to the grocery store ended way too soon. With groceries unpacked, Drew asleep, and Isabella helping her grandmother in the kitchen, I stepped out onto the patio. The air was cool but fresh.

  “Back from grocery shopping?” My father sat on the glider, gently swaying forward and back.

  “Dad. I didn’t know you were sitting here.” He always liked the cold.

  An open book rested face-down on his lap and glasses perched on the end of his nose. His white hair didn’t age him. Instead, it presented a dignified look.

  “What are you reading?”

  He turned it over so I could see the cover. It was an economics textbook. “This, until my old eyes started blurring. Can’t wait for cataract surgery.”

  “Too intellectual for me. I like a good beach read.”

  “Sit down, Claire Bear.”

  I took a seat across from him, drew my knees close, and wrapped my sweater tighter around me.

  “Honey, it’s been almost a year.”

  My knees unbent and I sat up straighter, all semblance of relaxation gone. I wanted no part of this conversation but found myself trapped here, short of walking back inside with overt rudeness.

  “I can count, Dad. Do you think I don’t know that?” My brisk tone chilled the air like wind blowing over the patio, but I hoped it would quell the discussion about to occur. “Sorry, but I live with that knowledge every day of my life.”

  “I’m thinking we should make the most of this time while you’re here. Why don’t you enroll, and I’ll see what I can do about getting your Pitt credits to transfer?”

  Slippery Rock, a community of farmland, had nothing of significance but for the Pennsylvania state university that sat smack in the middle of nothing. My father taught economics there before retiring and now he taught as an adjunct.

  “I can’t, Dad. I can’t afford it. I’m no longer a minor, and you’re no longer an employee. I missed the time for a free ride.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Claire Bear. I’ll pick up the tuition.”

  I swallowed before taking a deep breath. “I can’t let you do that, Dad.”

  A fine line wavered between appreciating the help of my parents and guarding against the mindset of a teenager living under their direction.

  His feet stopped the movement of the glider. “Think about it. You need to plan for your future. How long will you wait?”

  How long will I wait? The question I’d asked myself so many times over. I’d struggled with that question, yet the answer came out so clear and honest it surprised even me. “As long as I have breath, Dad. That’s how long I’ll wait.”

  I stood, too cold to stay out there.

  ~*~

  On occasion, I drove Isabella to school, sparing her the lengthy bus ride. On this Monday morning, after dropping her off, I made the familiar trip through the university with its green campus and dignified brick buildings, always clean and well-kept.

  Driving past the building where Dad’s office had been located, memories competed in my mind. While I hadn’t been a student here, at times I came to work with my Dad, and I attended a few youth summer camps. I found comfort here. Perhaps I should consider enrolling.

  I slowed down to let two girls cross in front of me. They laughed at something I couldn’t hear. An oversized sweatshirt with leggings drew my attention to long, slender legs and a ponytail that bobbed back and forth as she strolled across. Her friend’s skinny jeans fit like denim leggings. I guessed them to be freshmen—perhaps eighteen years old. They moved to a grassy area where a dozen or so students gathered, played Frisbee, sat cross-legged in the grass, or just hung out and enjoyed the moment.

  No. Dad wasn’t right. I couldn’t be one of them, and I didn’t want to be a student. Nor did I want a career. I wanted to be a wife and mother. Enrolling in classes would be like giving up. Yet I needed to do something. As I passed the administrative building with its towering clock that could be seen throughout the campus, the decision grasped me like a rescue craft. A job—not a career—until Andrew returned. Perhaps something part time. I couldn’t stop into Human Resources with my jeans and sweatshirt, but I would go home and check employment opportunities on their website.

  Driving home, my mind was occupied with starting a job search. I hadn’t wanted a job. All I’d ever yearned for
was to be a wife and mother. But at least a job would offer a change from my immobile state.

  Back at home, I carried my laptop to the tiny kitchen table and opened the website for Slippery Rock University. Navigating my way to Human Resources, I located the job openings, narrowing the search to part time support positions, and began to scroll.

  The open floor plan of my parent’s home offered one large space, divided into kitchen, eating area, and living room. That didn’t allow much privacy.

  On my mother’s walk to the refrigerator, she peered over my shoulder. “Job openings? Claire, what an excellent idea.”

  I took a deep breath and held it. I’d have to remember to sit on my bed when working on anything personal. Her statement triggered my Dad to leap from the sofa as if spring-loaded. “You’re not enrolling?”

  “No, Dad. I’m not enrolling.” I said it with authority, leaving no room for discussion. He must have caught that, because he didn’t pursue. He tapped his glasses back from the end of his nose and peered at my monitor. Three of us in a two-foot space, all gazed into a tiny black screen.

  “Well, if you’re determined to get a job, go see Bob Whitten in Human Resources and tell him I sent you.”

  I sat at the top of a waterslide, descending slowly, knowing I would pick up speed and splash into a river of dependency. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I have two children and must maintain some control of my life.

  “Thanks, folks, but I’ve got this. Let me handle it my way.”

  Dad’s face went slack, and he began to speak, but then his expression turned to something akin to admiration.

  Whether from my own limited merit or from my dad’s reputation, I was hired to work in the school of education as office support on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I felt relief and regret at the same time.

  When I told my parents, Mother flew into planning mode. “Now, Claire, you must get appropriate clothing. Jeans and T-shirts won’t do.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “I never intended to wear them to work, Mom. I do have some nicer things.”

  “Maybe so, but I think a shopping trip is in order. Dad can watch the kids while we go to the outlets.”

  Mother, a sleek, stylish lady, had always been the perfect match for her professor husband. Never a hair out of place, never without lipstick. She had tried, without success, to breed her refinement into me.

  It would be such a throw-back to shop at the outlets with my mother. As a teenager, I would load up my arms with all of my treasured selections while my mother feigned reluctance. She would veto most of them, choose one or two things to purchase, and we would both go home happy.

  We drove the short distance to the outlets and began looking in ladies’ specialty shops, our roles now so reversed. My mother’s arms bulged with stylish business casual that she urged me to try on.

  “Mother, I’m working three days a week. I don’t need all of that.”

  “Well, you can’t repeat the same three outfits week after week. Try them on.”

  I enjoyed shopping again—twirling for the dressing room mirrors, walking out to model for my mom, accessorizing. It had been a long time since I’d had a carefree afternoon.

  “Now, Claire, we must do something about your hair. It’s way too ‘sixteen’ for you.”

  I’m sliding, sliding.

  Three weeks later, seated in my new office—well, cubicle would be more accurate—I sported a heather-gray pencil skirt and a soft yellow sweater with a deep cowl neck. My hair stacked in the back and angled close to my chin, its subtle highlights blended to create a glowing effect without changing my own warm shade of brown. With guilty excitement, I regarded the image staring back at me. Would Andrew even recognize me?

  It was the one-year anniversary of his desertion.

  5

  Scott Harrington

  I timed it correctly and made it through the door of the Stanwix Street shelter. After signing in, I followed the men moving toward the left into a large area set with tables and chairs. A food line had already started at the far end, similar to the breakfast at St. John’s. I took my time scanning the room before heading over.

  I needed to strike up a conversation and was scoping out my options when I saw the kid from under the bridge. He inched his way up the food line, his backpack secured over his shoulders. I joined the line hoping to catch up with him before the seats filled up.

  I reached the front and picked up an empty plate. A lady behind the table tossed a slice of ham onto it. The line kept moving as helpers plopped a scoop of mac and cheese, salad, and a roll onto each plate. I picked up a pre-poured cup of coffee from the end of the table.

  Recognition lit the kid’s eyes as I approached his table. I set my plate down across from him. “Hi. I’m Scott. I think we stayed at the same hotel a few nights ago.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. The Bridge Resort. A real one-star facility. I’m Tyler.”

  I tested my coffee. Strong, black, and slightly warm. “I can’t say I slept much under the overpass. This is the first night I’ve made it through these doors. Tonight I made sure I arrived early enough. How about you? Have you been back under the bridge?”

  “No. I stayed here last night. Can’t say it’s much better.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “How could it not be better than hard concrete and traffic whizzing overhead?”

  “Wait ’til tonight. You’ll see. It’s filled with hacking coughs and body odor. I’ve got to get a job and get out of here.” He took a bite of his mac and cheese. “Artificial cheese. Probably powdered. And the ham’s almost too salty to eat. I guess I shouldn’t complain. It’s free.” He picked up his water and drank.

  I looked at my coffee and wished I’d opted for the water. “It’s a hard life. Some of these fellas look like they’ve been at it a while.”

  He nodded. “Well, I don’t plan to be one of them. I’m trying to get a job.”

  “Good for you. It’s tough without an address.”

  “I give my e-mail and check it every day at the library. It’s a good place to hang out. I can sit there and read if I have time to kill.”

  We were interrupted when a man spoke to the whole group. We ate while he provided a reminder about restrooms, showers, cots, and the time for breakfast. Anyone who remained sleeping past eight-thirty would be woken. Breakfast would be served until nine, and everyone had to be out by nine-thirty.

  When he’d finished speaking, I picked up the conversation. “How old are you? How’d you end up here?”

  “I’m eighteen. How’d I end up here? I keep asking myself that question. I guess it’s part of a long story.”

  I pushed my empty plate away and leaned back. “I like stories.”

  Tyler crushed his napkin and placed it on his empty plate. “You want the long or the short?”

  I glanced at the clock that read six thirty. “Looks like we have nothing but time.” This would definitely be one of the three biographies. I couldn’t take notes, so I’d have to listen carefully, remembering details until I could commit them to paper.

  “I was nine when my dad took off. My mother liked her beer and drank too much of it. When she did, she’d holler and throw things. My dad always tried to get me out of the house. We’d grab our fishing rods and head down to the river. Sometimes he’d take me to a baseball game. We’d climb up the stairs to the cheap seats. He called it peanut heaven. I guess he couldn’t handle life with my mother, so he took off.”

  I interrupted his flow of words. “Do you see him now?”

  “Nope. He left me a note that said he’d get a place for us and come back for me. But he didn’t come back. I guess he settled somewhere and managed to forget he had a son.”

  I saw him glance at his backpack on the floor. He reached his foot and pulled it closer.

  “My mother managed to go from one man to another. She moved us around so much that I never stayed in a school for more than one year. You can’t make friends that way. I was in three d
ifferent schools during my junior year. Since I didn’t have friends to hang out with, I read. I’d bury myself in a book. That’s how I coped. I’d hang out in libraries, and you can imagine the teasing that brought. Even my mother thought I was weird.”

  I nodded. “Something we have in common. I’ve always been a reader.”

  “What’s going on with you? You’re younger than most of these guys.”

  I squirmed, not liking the shift. “Just a little down on my luck right now. So where’s your mother now? Could she help you out of this mess?” Hopefully, the topic would stay right where I needed it to be.

  Tyler sat back. “About a year ago, she met Bob. She thought she hit pay dirt, but he’s scum. He used to rough me up when she wasn’t around. Never hit me in the face or anywhere it would show, but if I said one wrong word when she wasn’t there, he’d punch me in the gut or push me up against the wall. Well, she married him, and we had to move again. Who moves their kid in the last quarter of his senior year? He shook his head.

  “As soon as I graduated, Bob took a job in Corpus Christi working on an oil rig. They gave me a polite invitation to move to Texas with them, but I declined. I took a job with a landscaper and rented an efficiency room. It was pay-as-you-go. When the seasonal work stopped, I couldn’t pay, so they made me go.”

  “Can you contact your mother? Maybe she could help you financially.”

  “I wouldn’t even if I could. She left and didn’t give me an address. Said she’d call, but my phone’s been turned off.”

  “If you know Bob’s last name, it shouldn’t be too hard to reach them.”

  “Not a chance. She wouldn’t help me. Besides, I’d rather stay here than live off of Bob’s money.”

  Eighteen years old and he had no one. “Have you ever looked online for your dad? Shouldn’t be too hard to locate him. He might be living right in this area.”