“What’s with him trying to close us down?” called Clem from the table. “That’s the dumbest law I have ever heard of!”
“There must be some way to change it,” said Luna, her voice as rich as her cello playing.
“Changing laws takes time,” Mum said. And then she muttered, so that only Lowen could hear her, “More bloody time than I have to make this shop succeed.” She wrapped four pasties in foil and slid them toward the girls Sami had been talking to.
Sitting down that night to a Dad-cooked meal of chicken piccata and risotto, the Grover kids took to brainstorming Cornish meals that would require a knife and fork to eat. Under roast? Pease pudding?
The kids shook their heads. Way too strange for Millville tastes.
“What do you think we should serve, Mum?”
Mum put her fork down, took a sip of her water, and then rubbed her forehead. “I’m thinking that even if we can think of dishes that require a knife and fork — a law that demonstrates the sometimes ludicrous thinking of this little town — I still can’t fit four tables in the front of the shop. Trust me, if I do, Mr. Avery will be back citing me for fire safety violations.”
He didn’t know if it was the tension from the dinner conversation, but Lowen lay awake that night for hours. The full moon was a headlamp beaming into his room. He reminded himself for the millionth time to ask his mother for window shades.
On the other hand, Clem, whose snores traveled down the stairs to Lowen’s room, apparently had no trouble sleeping.
Clem, who was so clearly in love. He’d been giddy at dinner. . . . Every comment, every random thought expressed led straight back to Luna.
It goaded him. It wasn’t that he believed that a girl who was three years older would actually choose him over Clem; it’s just that he hated the thought of her choosing anyone. Her smile, the way she moved her hands when she talked, the texture of her voice, her music . . . She was just . . . just . . .
Definitely too good for Clem.
Dad kept a promise to stay in Millville through Sunday night to attend the Winter Concert. Lowen sat next to him during the first half when the kids in first through fourth grades sang “jolly songs” — that’s what Mum called them anyway.
During intermission, Lowen led his father into the hall to see the poster he and Sami had constructed when doing their research on the history of Millville.
“This was the Wood Room,” Lowen said, pointing to the first in a series of sepia pictures that he and Sami had photocopied. “Men had to feed the logs into this machine here that cut them into four-foot lengths. Then the smaller logs were fed into another machine to remove the bark. If a log came out with its bark still on, men used this tool — this long pick — to lift the logs off the belt and load them onto another.”
Mr. Avery was suddenly behind them. He pointed to the photo of the men wielding the picks and said, “See here, we Millvillians have had a long history of working hard. We’re not afraid to roll up our sleeves.”
“It does look hard,” said Lowen.
“That’s right, young man. We don’t expect anyone to give us handouts.”
Lowen’s eyes snapped from the poster to his father’s face. Was Mr. Avery implying that he and his father were not hardworking? Why? Because they hadn’t started the big house repairs? Did he have a problem with Mum making a go of the restaurant without Dad’s help? (Not likely, since Mr. Avery was trying to stop her progress.) Or was he somehow saying that buying a house for one dollar was charity? (And when had charity become such a bad thing?)
Lowen shifted from one foot to the other. Dad was always super friendly, until he decided that you didn’t deserve his friendliness.
“Yes, sir,” said Dad.
Lowen’s body tightened. Dad was whittling his words, which only served to sharpen their point.
Dad nodded. “You and I are a lot alike, Mr. Avery,” he said. “I see that now.”
Mr. Avery pulled his shoulders back and tugged on the waistband of his pants.
“Oh?”
“We tend to oversimplify.”
“Well, I don’t know where you think I’m coming from —”
“And,” said Dad, interrupting Mr. Avery, all friendliness gone, “we tend to underestimate the opposing forces.”
Mr. Avery scowled, but Dad was done. He put his arm around Lowen’s shoulders and led him back into the gym, where Lowen headed up onstage to lip-sync all six verses of “Winter Wonderland” (due to the fact that Sami had told him that he had a voice like a fish — and you can’t tuna fish) and then to sit back down, only to have his heart busted wide open.
Luna came out onstage in a long gold dress. She sat in the chair in front of the pianist (another high-school kid) and stilled herself, lifted her head, and began to play her cello. While her right hand slid the bow up and down over the strings, her left hand danced over the fingerboard. Lowen’s stare moved away from her hands to her face — her face that dove and lifted, dove and lifted, following the trail of each note. The room was full of people, but Luna was in her own world of sound and sensation.
It wasn’t Luna’s beauty — though he would admit that she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen — but the quivering of her bow that affected him most. It was as if she were playing strings in the center of his body, in his chest, under his ribs. It made him feel open, vulnerable, raw. There was no other way for him to describe it: the music peeled his skin off.
Dad turned to him, his face filled with curiosity, and Lowen wondered if he’d been moving — matching Luna’s swaying. He didn’t feel embarrassment. Instead he felt that all-too-familiar sting in the back of his eyes, and staying in his seat suddenly became impossible.
He excused himself and went to wait in the hall, where the music could still be heard, but remotely. Like a memory.
When he arrived at school the next day, Kyle and Joey were waiting for him, Joey with a basketball in hand. Coach had given the boys permission to play a little ball in the gym before the first bell rang.
“Dylan quit the team,” Kyle said as Lowen placed his backpack by the bleachers and peeled off his coat.
“No way! How come?”
“Who knows?” said Joey. “He used to be fun. Not anymore.”
“It’s like he’s always proving something now,” Kyle said.
“What does he have to prove?” Lowen asked.
Kyle shrugged. “That he’s not a screwup like his old man . . . or too starry-eyed like his mom was.”
“How does quitting the team prove either of those things?” asked Lowen, accepting the ball and moving up the court. “I mean, quitting seems like the opposite.”
“Like Joey said, who knows? He sure isn’t thinking of the team.”
Lowen’s head was full of Dylan: Where was his mother and —?
“Traveling, Grover!” Joey yelled. “We won’t have a team if we can’t get your head in the game.”
“What do you mean? I scored on Wednesday.”
“Yeah, but you always look like you have no idea how the ball landed in your palms,” said Kyle, not unkindly.
Joey laughed. “Or what to do with it when it does get there.”
Lowen couldn’t dispute their accusations. Even though he had made some improvements, his mind still wandered.
And his mind was still wandering, thinking about Dylan’s quitting, when he walked to Mum’s shop that afternoon.
“Hey, shrimp,” said Clem when Lowen came through the door of the Eatery.
He and Dad were sitting at the table . . . no, make that four tables. All were fairly small. One had a wooden top with years of scratches. Another had a brightly colored tile top and had probably been used on a patio or porch. Two were square and two were rectangular, but pushed together they fit like a puzzle, making one large table.
Lowen laughed. “Where did these tables come from? And what are you doing here, Dad?”
“Two of the tables came from Rena’s shop,” Mum said, com
ing out from behind the counter. “And the third one, the tile one, Dad found at the dump.”
“The dump?” Lowen said, wrinkling his nose.
“Yup,” said Mum. “And your father stayed here in Millville yet another whole day to repair the wobbly legs on it.”
“It’s amazing what you can find out on YouTube,” Dad said.
“So now . . . ?”
“So now your mother is in compliance,” said Dad. “She has four tables and food that must be consumed with a knife and fork.”
Lowen looked up at the menu on the wall. She still offered all the same flavors: classic, chicken potpie, sweet potato, veggie, shepherd’s, but next to each flavor were two options: pasty or full pie. And the pie had to be eaten with a fork.
“But what about the knife?” Lowen asked.
Dad’s eyes sparkled. “Mum sets the pies out on the cutting board. You have to use a knife here or at home to cut your pie.”
Lowen laughed at his parents’ cleverness in outwitting the Millville ordinance.
“I hope I’m here when Mr. Avery comes back to see if Mum is in compliance,” said Clem.
“Now, now,” said Dad, but Lowen could tell that his father was not really reprimanding his brother. In fact, his father probably wished he could be there, too.
When the door to the shop opened, everyone in the family half expected it to be Mr. Avery. But it wasn’t. It was the entire Grey family. Mum jumped up to take their order.
“I’m afraid this is our last order from the Cornish Eatery,” Mrs. Grey said.
“Why?” asked Mum, somewhat alarmed. “Has Mr. Avery found another way to shut us down?”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Grey said. “It’s that —”
“We’ve decided to throw in the towel on this experiment,” Dr. Grey said.
Mrs. Grey pulled her kids away from the chair where Lowen was sitting, afraid that they were being intrusive. “We’re heading back to Hawaii.”
“The cold?” asked Dad.
“Not that,” said Dr. Grey. “There just aren’t enough people left here in Millville to support a veterinary practice. I knew that. I knew that I would have to open one office here and another in a nearby town. I just hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to travel one hundred twenty miles in a day to get to that other office. And neither office has many clients. People in this part of the country can’t afford to bring their pets to the vet unless it’s a dire emergency.”
Lowen couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But you’ve done all that work to your house!”
“Our kitchen is lovely, but the additional renovations — the ones required for inspection by the town — are just too costly,” said Mrs. Grey.
“We’re going to cut our losses while we can,” Dr. Grey added.
Lagi slipped away from his mother and climbed up onto Lowen’s lap.
“And well, we thought we better go back before the kids get too attached to life here.” Mrs. Grey pulled a sad Wanda close.
“I never should have quit my practice back home,” said Dr. Grey. “It was foolhardy.”
Lowen lowered his chin onto Lagi’s shoulder.
“I’m genuinely sorry to hear that,” Mum said.
Dad nodded in understanding.
Lowen didn’t know if the news was making him really sad, or really scared — scared that they wouldn’t be able to make this move work, either.
Either way, he knew that he didn’t want to say good-bye to this little guy who made him laugh.
The Grover kids already knew what the Millville kids had had to learn in the past few years: Christmas can be just as much fun with a few small but well-chosen gifts. Instead of spending the morning unwrapping, the Grovers played games, recited all in their favorite lines the Santa Claus movie on TV before the actors did, and retold their favorite family stories.
“Remember when Clem put Lowen into the clothes dryer?” Anneth had asked as she was folding her new sweater. “Mum nearly freaked!”
Lowen was too young to remember the incident — he’d been a toddler at the time — but he’d always enjoyed hearing the story. After all, it was pretty funny . . . or was it? Up until their move to Millville, he’d assumed that Clem had liked having a younger brother around. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.
The middle-school team didn’t have basketball practice over break, so Lowen helped Dad (who had taken the week off as well) move some of the boxes they had been storing in the garage, which, due to the wide cracks in the siding, got covered in snow whenever there was a storm.
It was early in the morning, before his brother and sister were scooped up in their plans, when he opened a box of papers, and right there on top was a faded newspaper article about the shooting at Georgio’s Grocery. With the article was a picture of a poster that had hung on Georgio’s wall with photographs of all four of the children who had been shot. Above their faces were the words You will always be in our hearts.
Lowen froze. Stared at the picture.
Curious, the others came up behind him.
Dad placed his hand on Lowen’s shoulder. If there was any warmth coming from Dad’s fingers, Lowen couldn’t feel it.
“I sometimes forget there were kids other than Abe,” Anneth said when the quiet no longer seemed bearable.
“You didn’t know them like you knew him,” Dad offered.
“Remember how Abe used to snort when he laughed?” Clem asked.
“Or ask the same questions over and over and over?” Anneth added, wrapping her arms around her body.
Lowen looked up at Dad. Surely he would reprimand them for being disrespectful. But he was just smiling, seemingly lost in his own memories of Abe.
“He was so young,” Dad said finally. “They all were. Way too young.”
“Do you ever think of how often we went into Georgio’s?” Anneth asked. “I mean, all it takes is one decision, one moment, and your life is entirely different.”
The snake hissed. He’d thought that many, many times. Only he didn’t just think it. He wished a thousand million times that he could have changed the one decision he made on the day Abe was murdered.
“Did they ever find out why the Jensen kid did it?” asked Clem. They’d stopped asking these types of questions after they moved to Millville. Perhaps they were afraid that talking about Oliver Jensen would mean bringing Abe’s murder with them — as if keeping quiet about it meant they could forget it.
“From what Georgio could recall,” Dad said, “he thinks some kids had been teasing Oliver earlier in the day. It’s not certain whether it was these kids here.” Dad tapped the article. “But Georgio believes Oliver brought his father’s gun to the store to scare the kids — get them to stop. Unfortunately, his rage took over.”
“I know Abe wasn’t one of the kids that teased him,” Lowen said. And then added, “Because he was with me earlier that morning.” He turned away from Abe’s face, the face that seemed to see everything.
It was weird. While alive, Abe seemed pretty clueless when it came to Lowen’s feelings. Lowen would be drawing Globber Dog, and trying to figure out whether his slobbering was actually acidic or just plain gross, when Abe would pepper him with questions. It didn’t matter if Lowen answered him with short, cursory responses, or sighed heavily each time a new question was asked, or ignored him altogether — the questions kept coming.
Once, Lowen had barked at Abe, “No more questions! Let me draw in peace!”
Abe had gone quiet, but the last thing Lowen experienced was peace. Instead his mind had been trapped in a continuous loop of self-reprimands: he’s only a little kid; he’s only curious; his questions help you to come up with good ideas. And justifications: I can’t concentrate; he asks the most random stuff; he doesn’t even listen to my answers.
Lowen felt as if Abe had forced him to snap back, and that the snapping had made him less kind, less accepting, less the sensitive person his father claimed he was. He felt like Abe had changed him.
&n
bsp; And here was the kicker: the moment Lowen had lifted his head from the work, the moment he glanced at Abe, the questions had started all over again.
Now, in the garage, the others wandered off.
Lowen put the clipping back in the box and headed up to his room. He had a new idea for a comic:
Now that Abe was dead, Lowen no longer thought of him as clueless. Instead, he feared that he had attained some sort of superpower: the power to read minds, to be all-knowing.
Last week the marquee at the First Baptist Church had read You can run from God, but you cannot hide. That was sort of how Lowen pictured Abe: as someone who could see everything he did, know all of his thoughts — even thoughts he’d had in the past. The Unseen Force.
If that were true, did he know that Lowen had often wished Abe didn’t live across the hall? That he had wished he could walk past the big elm after school and that Abe wouldn’t be standing there? Did Abe know that while he had been asking Lowen questions, Lowen’s internal voice was usually screaming, Shut up!
What would it be like to die, only to find out that the person you considered your best friend had never really wanted you around?
Right then and there, Lowen decided that when his mother asked him whether he’d like a birthday party for his thirteenth birthday in ten days, he’d say no. It would be his way of honoring the fact that Abe never got the chance to grow older.
Later that morning, Lowen returned to the boxes and opened one full of children’s books. Because they didn’t have any bookshelves in the living room of the Albatross, Lowen was supposed to determine which books belonged to which kid and place them in the appropriate bedroom. Of course this job was nearly impossible, because many of the best books had been read by Clem and then later read by Anneth and then passed on to Lowen. Mum had read a few of the books aloud to all three. How could he possibly decide ownership?
“Just divide them in three piles,” Dad said, “and then you can do some swapping.”
Easier said than done. The first books he pulled out of the box were part of a trilogy. Should he give all three to one of them, or divide them up? Would book three be considered the best or the worst of the series?
The Dollar Kids Page 16
