“I’ll stand out here,” he said. “And watch the bags.”
Mum looked down at all the bags they were carrying. “That sounds like a good plan,” she said. “Anneth, why don’t you stay with Lowen. I’ll just get some vegetables for a sauté and milk for breakfast. I won’t be long.”
Anneth started to object, but then realized it was an opportunity to check her phone. As far as Lowen could tell, it hadn’t buzzed in a while.
Mum was true to her word and came back only a few minutes after she went in, but Lowen’s heart had raced the entire time she was inside.
“Are you OK?” she asked him when they were reunited. “You don’t look well.”
Lowen shrugged. He wanted her obsessive observation of him to stop. “I’m just hungry again,” he said, which wasn’t entirely true but true enough.
As they finished trudging up the three blocks on Beech Street, they spotted a group of people standing by their front porch.
“There you are!” shouted a short woman wearing an oversize flannel shirt. If Lowen were going to make a cartoon of her, he’d draw droopy eyelids behind large, round eyeglasses. “We couldn’t imagine where you went off to! And with your door locked!”
Hadn’t Clem heard them knocking?
“We’re the Welcome Wagon!”
Neighbors from both sides of the road had brought them food to eat. The short woman led them all through the back door, right into the Grovers’ kitchen, and set the food down on the kitchen counter. They introduced themselves, told how long they’d lived in Millville (although as far as Lowen could tell, most of them had been born here), and exclaimed at how pretty Anneth was (“Dark hair and freckles just like her mother!”), how tall Lowen was for his age (“And would you look at those hazel eyes and dark eyelashes!”), and how exotic Mum’s accent was.
Mum invited them all to stay (despite the fact that they had no furniture or real dishes), but thankfully they declined. “We’ll let you get settled,” they said with promises to have the family over to dinner at their homes sometime soon.
One tall woman with black hair pulled back in a severe bun hung back. “You’ve been to Dollar Mart,” she said, observing the bags set down on the floor.
“Oh, yes,” said Mum cheerfully. “As we’ve discovered, there’s not much you can’t buy there.”
The woman shook her head. “Don’t shop at Dollar Mart for groceries,” she scolded. “If you do, you’ll put Roger’s out of business. Roger may be dead and gone, but that market keeps his children and their families here in this town. It keeps them clothed and fed.”
Lowen waited to see how his mother would reply. Though her English accent tended to delight, her English ways sometimes caused her to be a bit too direct. A bit, well, like this woman standing across from her.
But Mum didn’t have a chance to respond before the woman leaned over and said more warmly, “But you know all about hard times. And now look! You have a home for only a single dollar!”
Confusion crossed Mum’s face.
“Don’t you worry,” the woman said. “We’ll do our best to continue helping you out, too.”
Mum looked a bit taken aback (thought bubble: Help us out?), but she quickly recovered. She thanked the woman and said she would try to give as much business to Roger’s as she could.
“Why does everyone seem to think we’re poor?” Lowen asked, once the Welcome Wagon had gone.
Mum laughed good-naturedly. “Well, after we open the take-out, and after we pour every last cent we’ve saved into fixing up this house, we might well be.” Then she grew more serious. “I think some folks just assume that we can’t afford to pay more than one dollar for a house — that we came here because we’re down on our luck or desperate. They’re not factoring in all of the money needed for repairs, or the money we’re investing in starting up our businesses. Here we thought we were doing them the favor by moving here and investing in their town, but clearly some of the locals think that we’re the ones in need of help!”
This thought didn’t seem to sit well with Mum, who sounded short-tempered when she directed them where to put the groceries away: “Milk, juice, and seltzer water go on the top shelf of the fridge. Condiments on the door.”
Just like it was back in Flintlock, thought Lowen, but he didn’t point this out. The Welcome Wagon had not, in fact, made things easier for Mum, and he sensed that what she needed most at this moment was to be in full charge of the situation.
“Go wake your brother, Lowen,” Mum said.
Fine with him. He climbed all the way up to the third floor only to find that Clem wasn’t in bed at all. Where had he gone? Certainly he would have left a note. Nothing upstairs.
By the time he returned to the kitchen, Clem was back, eating a handful of Froot Loops and showing Mum the note he had left on the counter — the one hidden under a casserole dish. Gone to find my buds, the note read.
They’d been in Millville less than twenty-four hours and Clem had not only found friends, but had adopted their language. Back home he had “comrades.” Here, apparently, he had “buds.”
Mum served them heaping platefuls of American chop suey (still warm) with fluffy white rolls. It was a meal that their dad sometimes cooked at home, but this one was deliciously saltier.
Even though Lowen missed Dad, he found he was actually enjoying himself, eating a warm meal prepared by someone else in a kitchen owned by his family — even if it was pretty run-down.
And he remained relaxed until he bit into one of the big fudgy brownies that Mr. and Mrs. Field had brought them, the same Field as Field’s Funeral Home, and Clem said, “Do you think these moist chocolaty brownies are made with human blood?”
Their belongings arrived as planned. In addition to the boxes of clothes, books, and Legos (which Lowen still messed with from time to time) was a carton of his old sketchbooks that he’d purposefully left behind in Flintlock. He had intended for the box to stay in the apartment for as long as Dad stayed in the apartment. But here it was now with a note from Dad written in marker: Lowen, thought you might miss these.
He did miss them. Before the shooting, he’d spent every free moment drawing comics. That box Dad sent held about two years of Lowen’s work. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to open it.
He couldn’t hide the box in his closet (too small), so he carried it out to the garage where Mum was storing things that either “didn’t work in this house” or that she couldn’t deal with yet. Climbing over boxes marked TEXTBOOKS and TAX RETURNS, he tucked it far in a corner. Then he placed another box labeled KNITS on top.
Lowen hoped that not looking at the box would put an end to his missing, but it turned out that he still thought about it. It was the same way with the funeral home. Even though he absolutely refused to look out his window, he couldn’t keep his mind off the place on his first night. Lying there, staring up at the dingy ceiling, he’d wondered about the body they’d seen going into the home. Where had it gone precisely? To what room? Would there be a funeral service next door? Would a black hearse come to take the body to one of the churches they’d seen in town, or to the cemetery? (His knowledge of hearses came from reading graphic novels. He’d never actually attended a funeral. Not even Abe’s. His parents had wanted him to, but he’d refused, and thankfully they didn’t make him.)
The next day Mum gathered them in the kitchen and listed the things that needed to be done. She divided the tasks into three categories:
1) Chores to ready the house for the furniture: Scrub windows, floors, walls, and bathrooms; toss remaining curtains; tear up old linoleum and carpet.
2) Jobs that must be accomplished before the final inspection: Replace front steps, porch, and siding wherever rotten; repair windows, wallboard, bathroom tiles, kitchen cupboards, and oven door; eradicate mold from the bathrooms; paint exterior.
3) Projects we’d like to do (someday!): Enlarge and remodel the kitchen; create an herb garden in the backyard; restore the hardwood floors
; give all of the rooms fresh paint.
“Anything else?” Mum asked.
Anneth shrugged (thought bubble: Count me out) and Mum turned to Lowen and handed him the pad and pen. He couldn’t think of any practical needs, so he tried to think of something else to add to the wish list: a tree house? A tire swing? A hammock? Then he remembered that they had only one tree in the backyard and it was a flimsy evergreen. Not even a decent Christmas tree. Nevertheless, his fingers began to move the pen over the corner of the pad. A doodled circle turned into a face. Anneth’s face. He drew piercing eyes.
Make her eyebrows go up. Abe’s voice. Lowen quickly scratched out the doodle.
When he looked up, their next-door neighbor on Anneth’s side, the short woman who they learned was Mrs. Manzo, waved from her kitchen window.
He added a fourth category to the list: Things to buy. Below that he wrote window shades.
Lowen spent the rest of the day washing windows (being almost tall enough to reach the tops), helping Mum pull up the remaining linoleum in the kitchen, and scrubbing his bedroom floor. That night he wondered how many bodies might be stored next door. Perhaps all the tiny black flies around their house had something to do with the bodies.
The next day, Lowen pulled up stubborn, deeply rooted dandelion weeds in the front yard, helped unpack boxes, and rearranged furniture until Mum shouted, “We’re done!”
The modern furniture that had occupied their living room in Flintlock looked out of place in this tired, worn house. Mum stood back to survey their work and huffed, “Someday, it will all come together.”
That night, he fell into bed, too exhausted to do more than wonder if the body they’d seen had been a man’s or woman’s. . . .
While Clem and Anneth waited the next day for the arrival of a stackable washer and dryer (and instructions on where to install it in the mudroom), Lowen accompanied his mother to her shop. Mum suggested they take a route they hadn’t walked previously, so they went down one block to Church and followed it west for two blocks. Lowen took stock of each house they passed. Sure, the Albatross (as they’d taken to calling their house) was in pretty bad shape, but so were the other homes in town. Many had sagging roofs, chipped paint, and front porch railings that looked like smiles with missing teeth. The front steps of two of the homes had grown so rotten they’d had to be removed. In both cases, the detached steps remained off to the side on the overgrown front lawns.
But one house in particular, on the corner of Church and Cedar, stood out from all the others; not because the house was so dilapidated — just the opposite. It seemed untouched by the town’s bad luck. The stately white house (which was even grander than Field’s Funeral Home) sat slightly higher than the others around it. Its lawn and shrubs were trimmed, and several flower gardens were bursting with color. There was a little wishing well in the backyard, and a decorative windmill that was lit by early morning sun. Lowen was staring at the windmill as it slowly turned in the whispery breeze when an older man came out the front door to retrieve his newspaper. It was the selectman from the lottery: Mr. Avery. He glanced at the two of them, gave the tiniest nod of the head, and then disappeared inside.
“I bet all of the houses were that well-kempt at one time,” Mum said.
It was easy to imagine.
They turned left on Cedar, which brought them directly to Mum’s shop. She placed her load of cleaning supplies down on the sidewalk and searched for the key in her handbag.
“You could just finish the job,” Lowen quipped, nodding at the starburst of broken glass on the door. No doubt a decent shove would send the glass tinkling to the ground.
Mum frowned. “I’ll start a list of repairs for the landlord.”
“Good morning, you two,” said the hennish woman who had shown them the house on the first day, the one who owned the Busy Bee. She appeared to be returning from an errand.
“Good morning, Mrs. Corbeau,” said Mum. “How was the breakfast crowd this morning?”
“A little slower than we’re used to in July. We’re thinking of making some changes.”
“Change can be exciting,” said Mum. “I’ll be eager to hear what they are.”
There were many boarded-up storefronts on Main Street in Millville, each of which Mum could’ve rented for a song. But Mum purposely chose the space next to the Busy Bee. She had read that it’s better to be clustered with other thriving businesses — even other restaurants — than try to operate on a block where there are boarded-up storefronts. When folks went to the Busy Bee, they’d be reminded that Millville had a new lunch shop in town.
That’s what Cornish pasties were intended for: lunch. When Lowen and his siblings were little, Mum made the small tarts with steak, potato, onion, and sometimes (when she could find it) rutabaga. The small circular pie dough would be folded over the filling and then, at the place where the two halves met, pinched to make a handle. This, too, was a Cornwall tradition. Backalong, as Mum would say, Cornish miners had taken the pasties to work with them. The handle allowed them to eat most of the tart without getting the coal grime in their mouths. As the kids got older, Mum started experimenting. She made lamb and mint, pork and apple, and vegetarian curry pasties. That’s what she planned to do in Millville. She’d start with the traditional pie and then introduce others.
When Mum pushed open the broken door of her shop, glass fell to the ground.
“Top of the list,” she said.
She reached for the switch and clicked on the light, but the place still looked dark. It took a minute for Lowen’s eyes to adjust before he could make out the table in front, the counter in the middle, and the big restaurant-size oven in the back. The room obviously hadn’t been used for a very long time. There was dirt, accumulated grease, and cobwebs. It smelled sour — and a little fishy.
Mum gave a little laugh when he mentioned this. “Good nose. It used to be a seafood store.”
Lowen looked at his mother. Despite the little laugh, she sounded depressed.
“A bigger window, in the front — that’s what you need,” Lowen said optimistically. “So people will feel invited.”
She nodded. “Brilliant,” she said faintly. “We’ll add that to the list, too.”
Lowen grabbed the broom from her hands and began moving it around. He was getting used to cleaning up, and sweeping seemed the easiest way to start.
Mum grabbed a rag and went to the large sink in the back to wet it. The faucet groaned. “No water,” she said, giving a great sigh and resting her arms on the sides of the sink.
“Why did it close?”
“What’s that?” And then, “Oh, the fish shop. I don’t know. Perhaps I should have found out.” Her head dropped. “I did research, but I also let my imagination get away from me. I dreamed a place, then made what I discovered online fit my dream.”
Lowen stopped sweeping. “Is it nothing like you thought?”
Mum closed her eyes. Shook her head. “Maybe I wanted to go back in time.”
“But it can still work? Right? You can still have your restaurant. We can still have a house.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “That’s right.” She grabbed a bucket and said she’d be right back. She was going next door for some water.
Back in Flintlock, Lowen had done very little deep cleaning. Oh, sure, he’d picked up his room when told (that is, until he watched Clem shove everything under the bed and he started doing the same), and once a week it would be his turn to wash the pots, but that was it. Since he’d moved to Millville, all he’d done was chores. Yet it was so much more satisfying. Each time they washed and scrubbed and swept, the place looked transformed.
After a morning’s worth of work, Mum’s shop looked much better, more welcoming. She’d opened the door and the three small windows and rays of sunshine — not to mention an earthy breeze from the Grand River — began to slip in.
When Lowen and Mum lifted and centered the table, Mum said, “It’s a bit like playing We
ndy Houses, isn’t it?”
Lowen smiled. That’s what Mum had called pretend play when she was a girl.
That night Mum suggested to Lowen and Anneth (who had done two loads of laundry in the new washer and dryer) that they walk down to Roger’s for an ice cream. Lowen knew that he couldn’t avoid walking into Roger’s forever. If he did, his mother would surely be searching for a grief therapist again. So instead, he preoccupied himself with the kinds of ice cream they might have: Creamsicles, Nutty Buddy cones, ice-cream sandwiches, Chipwiches . . .
When they passed the park, Lowen saw his brother with a group of Millville kids, Mason, and Luna.
Something stirred deep inside of Lowen. It wasn’t the snake this time. It was a longing and a bit of fear mixed together. Like preparing to jump from the high dive at the pool. He wondered if Clem felt the same thing when he stood in that group and talked with Luna.
Clem gave the tiniest of nods as they passed.
When they got to Roger’s, Lowen stuck as close to Mum and Anneth as he could without it being obvious. He picked out a Blue Bunny caramel chocolate bar from the freezer and handed it to Mum. He knew Roger’s probably had candy right next to the counter, but he was going to avoid looking at it. So instead, he made a point of checking out the bulletin board in the front of the store and read about a church supper, a generator for sale, and carpentry services.
He felt relieved and even a little proud leaving the store. He’d faced one of his fears, which seemed like a pretty good start to “addressing his anxiety,” as the therapist constantly said. Maybe he wouldn’t even think about the dead body next door that night. Maybe, he wouldn’t think about anything unpleasant at all.
The Dollar Kids Page 5
