Cornerstone

by Misty Provencher

  “We have an appointment? What do you mean we?”

  “I’m taking you to the Addo’s. We’ll go on to school afterward.”

  I just groan. I’m supposed to meet the Grand Pooba of fate and then, for a finale, scurry off to school so I’m not tardy for science. None of this makes a lot of sense and I grumble about it all the way through my shower and while I use my cast to pop the stitches on another shirt sleeve and fumble with trying to dry my hair.

  My mom is on the couch downstairs, hunched over a stack of copy paper. I stop at the far end from her when I’m ready to leave. Garrett goes out to warm up the car. My mom’s too absorbed in her writing to look up.

  “We’re going.” I tell her.

  “Okay.” she says, her pen still moving, her eyes still on the page.

  “I’m going to tell the guy to forget about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?” I stare at her, trying to burn an extra eye hole in the side of her head, since neither of the two she has will look at me.

  “It’s not up to me, Nali.” Her voice is on a tight rope. “Or him. It’s all up to you.”

  “But you told me you wanted me to...”

  “It’s not up to me.” she says again and that’s when I notice. The paper in her lap, filled with names and stories, is smeared and running like blue winter branches all over the page. However long she’s been crying, the paper is soaked and it has holes in it where she kept moving her pen, digging through the layers, trying to keep writing despite her sadness.

  She’s my mom. We’ve only ever had each other. I won’t do this to her.

  “It’ll be okay, Mom.” I tell her. “I’ll make the right decision.”

  “I just want you to know I love you.” she says. “No matter what.”

  ~ * * * ~

  We pull out of the driveway and Garrett turns off the radio instead of turning it up.

  “You ran out of my room last night.” he says.

  “No I didn’t.” I say, trying to make my voice sound natural. It doesn’t really work. I look out the window so I don’t have to look at the soft shingles of his hair. Or the way his shirt clings to him. Like I want to. Whatever. I punch down anything inside of me that tries to float. “My mom was sick.”

  “I didn’t want to lie to you. Everything I told you last night was accurate, but...”

  “It’s fine. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about my mom so you can keep her safe.” I hold my mouth straight and solid, even though the edges try to crumble into a frown. It’s what I do before I cry but. I. Will. Not. Cry. I grind my toes into the bottoms of my shoes and bite the inside of my cheek, the one opposite of Garrett, in case he’s looking.

  “Nalena, it was accurate, but it wasn’t everything I should’ve said.” I hate how his voice melts me. I bite harder and push against my sole until I feel my toe pop a new hole in my sock.

  “It’s fine.” I tell him. “Really. It’s all good.”

  “Come on. Don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at all.” I add a shrug. Nice touch.

  “I’m going to be able to drive a truck through the hole you’re making in your cheek.” he chuckles. I release my cheek and glare out the window. He doesn’t say anything else, which is even more infuriating. I want him to explain himself and apologize and beg for my forgiveness. Instead, he steers the car back in the direction of school and mine and my mom’s apartment, but we turn into one of the trailer parks on the way.

  Valley Estates. It is known as Smelly Mistakes at school. The nickname came from a mishap with a garbage collection agency that refused to pick up the trash for three weeks, after the park had lapsed on payment. I laughed when Jen first told me the story, relieved that I wasn’t a kid from there. But when I became The Waste, even the kids from Smelly Mistakes got booted up a notch and the whole nicknaming thing wasn’t such a crime to them anymore.

  Unfortunately for Smelly Mistakes, the nickname is pretty accurate, even though trash collection resumed its regular schedule. The park itself can pass as a landfill, full of decrepit single-wides that have been rotting there since the late sixties. Lots of them have American flags for window curtains, messed up siding, and yards so overgrown that the trailers seem hidden in them like rotten Easter eggs. One trailer has a display of huge stuffed animals, all missing their eyes, right out in the open, on the front window sill. There are even more animals leaning through the rails of the uncovered wood porch, so rain soaked and weather-faded that the things look more like pools of puppies and bears than toys. I think one was once an elephant—the trunk hosing down the front steps like it’s reaching out for help on its own.

  We turn onto Hellman, which is now just Hell, since someone has blacked out the rest of the name with spray paint. The new name seems a more accurate description anyway.

  Garrett pulls into the driveway of a single wide that looks as bad as any of the others, except that it is sitting length-wise across two lots instead of lined up, forward-facing, like the rest, so there is more of it’s bad to see. It is dingy white with an even dingier yellow pinstripe running down the length of it. Rickety fiberglass steps lead up to the bare front door in the middle. At least there are no stuffed animals.

  “This is it.” Garrett says. We get out and I let him lead the way up to the door. Our hands dangle free at our sides. The stairs rock like a balance board, but Garrett doesn’t seem worried about the steps falling over like I do. He knocks the usual thump-dada-thump-thump and pushes open the unlocked door.

  “C’mon.” He reaches back and takes my hand without asking for it. A trillion tiny synapses fire through me. I should let go. I should be working harder at hating him for using me. I just don’t want to.

  Right off, I see that there’s a million weird things about the inside of this trailer, but the most noticeable is that the whole thing seems to be one huge kitchen, with two closed doors at the far right end, side by side. There are no partitions, just a huge yellow room that is so brightly white and yellow that I feel like I need to squint for the first sixty seconds. The walls are canary-artificial-banana-sunshine-lemons yellow. The countertop and the appliances are all white. The floor is off-white with lemonade diamonds.

  The table, which runs the length of the entire sprawling kitchen, is probably larger than the one used at the Last Supper. There must be at least twelve chairs on each side and the entire table top is covered in one continuous yellow linen cloth, under a clear plastic cover.

  “Addo!” Garrett calls. It sounds like he is announcing us at a frat party, not at some holy man’s house. I touch his arm but Garrett seems to take the gesture as something it’s not and pulls my hand closer. I fight the tickle of a smile. I really hate myself. Garrett shouts again, “Hey Addo, you’ve got company!”

  One of the back doors opens with a toilet flush and a man steps out, wiping wet streaks from his hands onto the front of his gray sweatshirt.

  “Company! Fabulous.” he says.

  The man is chubby, but only in the middle. He has a deep brown mushroom cap of hair that doesn’t cover his ears. Knowing he’s a wise man, and with hair like that, I expect him to be wearing a flowing monk robe, but instead, he’s wearing gray sweat pants, bunched up just under his knees. His glaring white knee socks are strapped into brown leather sandals. I’m embarrassed the second he catches me looking at them.

  “I call these my Jesus slippers.” He grins, raising one foot in the air. I smother a laugh even though Garrett doesn’t.

  “Isn’t that, uh...” I stop, realizing how rude I might sound without meaning to at all. The man doesn’t just laugh, he guffaws and chortles and busts a gut. I’ve never heard a laugh as full of laughter as his.

  “Do you mean disrespectful? Blasphemous?” he asks. “Like Jesus, Jesus, bo-beesus, banana fanana fo-feesus, me-my, mo meesus...blasphemous to Jesus?”

  I just stand there like an idiot, not sure what to say to this strange man. He se
ems more of a wise guy than a wise man. After all, he just Name-Gamed a third of the Trinity.

  “Uh, yeah.” I manage to squeeze out. The man giggles.

  “I doubt that Jesus ever minds his name being said. I sure wouldn’t. Especially when it’s this funny.” He giggles again, placing his foot back on the floor.

  While I am still speechless and blinking at him, Garrett introduces us.

  “Addo, this is Nalena.” he says.

  “Nice to meechya, Nalena. You can call me Larry. Or Addo. Or Addo Larry. I’ll answer to most things, so it’s up to you, really.”

  “Okay.” I say. I decide on just Addo in my head, since it sounds more holy. And I know this is supposed to be a Holy Thing I’m doing. Even though the Addo seems less holy than my socks and his kitchen-trailer seems more screwball than anything else.

  “Not much of a talker, are you?” he giggles. This whole thing seems so ridiculous—from the blazing yellow kitchen, to the food smear on his sweatshirt collar—that I can’t help but smile at him. “Tea?”

  “We’ll both have some.” Garrett says. Addo raises an eyebrow.

  “Oh, so you think I’m letting you stay?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I can. This once.” Addo shrugs. He pours a cup of hot water from an electric kettle, plugged into the wall. He loads a tea ball and drops it into the cup that he hands me.

  “I’ve got the Contego sign.” I blurt.

  “Let it steep a bit and then we’ll see.” Addo motions to my cup. “A Cusp might be fun in my golden years. I assume your mother knows? What did Evangeline have to say about it?”

  He says my mom’s name so easily, as if he knows her better than I do. It shocks me and while I start to sputter an answer, Garrett answers the question instead.

  “It involved vomit.” he says.

  “I bet it did.” Addo laughs. I take a drink of tea, watching this strange little man. “The Alo are born Alo for a good reason. No balls for fighting.”

  I nearly spit my mouthful of tea across the table. Instead, I choke, and Garrett claps me on the back.

  “Sorry, sorry.” The Addo apologizes with a grin. “It is your parents, after all.”

  “Just my mom.” I cough. “I don’t have a father.”

  “Not true.” he says. “We all have fathers. That’s the way things are. Even if Roger hasn’t earned any awards.”

  “You know my father?” I ask.

  “Indeedy.” Addo hums over the rim of his tea cup. The steam curls around his face. He lowers his cup and points to mine. “What do you think of the tea? I think it’s not bad, if you’re not expecting much.”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “Hmmm.” He says. “What do you know about your father?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I know more than that.” Addo says. Then, all he does is hum and thump his fingertips on the table.

  “Would you tell me about him?” I ask.

  “Certainly.” he says. “After you drink your tea.”

  It strikes me as incredibly rude, teasing me with a father I’ve never even known. I pick up my cup and slam the contents. I have never even seen my father, aside from the five-by-seven frame in the living room, and for this wise guy to tell me I have to drink my tea before he’ll dish his details, is infuriating. Even so, I instantly realize how stupid my decision is. The tea is so hot, it sends sparks down my throat. My uvula shoots up in flames. I’m back to choking and Garrett pounding me on the back. My stomach is a fire bomb.

  “Well, then, let’s have a look.” The Addo sounds delighted as he grabs my cup. “We don’t have to check to see if you’re impulsive.”

  The Addo opens the tea ball and dumps the contents into the bottom of my cup. He examines it as my eyes weep and burn. Garrett keeps his hand on my back and starts rubbing in slow circles. It’s the only thing on my entire body that feels any good.

  “Huh. Ironical.” The Addo says. His shoulders jerk backward as he says it. “Contego, you most definitely are.”

  “I’m deciding against it, though. I just want a normal life.” I cough. Saying it out loud sends a jolt of nausea through me. What makes it worse is that Garrett’s hand falls from my back. Everything about his face is wide open and stunned.

  “Aren’t you even going to listen to the options first?” Garrett asks.

  “Maybe there are none for her.” The Addo shrugs.

  “There isn’t.” I say. I want to tell Garrett I’m sorry about not doing the right thing—like he is. I just can’t do it to my mom.

  Garrett stands up and walks to a back window, overlooking a tangle of thorny branches and leaves that cover what might’ve been a backyard. I stare at the inverted triangle of his back, my stomach rolling with how I’ve let him down. I don’t know how long a time has passed before the Addo finally breaks my concentration.

  “Well, kids, the show’s over. That’s it for today.” Addo says, weirdly cheerful. I look back at him and his smile cuts through the sickening static that crackles between Garrett and I. “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

  “Why?” I ask. Dizzy and sick. “I made my decision.”

  “Why, why, why?” Addo chortles as Garrett heads toward the door without looking at me. I get to my feet wishing I could sit a while longer. Addo is still rambling. “Why anything? Why do we all have our jobs to do? It’s a day off school, isn’t it? Come. I’ll have cookies. Good ones. The kind without nuts.”

  When I think of returning tomorrow, the idea seems to soothe my stomach instead of upsetting it more. Addo gives me a devilish grin as I step out onto the rickety stairs behind Garrett. I remember that I didn’t get to hear anything about my father, but when I open my mouth to ask, the Addo closes the door on me. There is nowhere else to go besides following Garrett to the car.

  ~ * * * ~

  Garrett’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. I keep my mouth shut. We speed out of Smelly Mistakes and at the main road, he goes in the opposite direction of the school. He jerks the wheel at a side street and the tires squeal with the turn. I lurch sideways.

  “Could you not do that?” I ask. A muscle hops in his jaw but he slows down a little. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’d like to go someplace normal.” he says. His tone sends a flare through me.

  “What are you so upset about?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” Garrett says. The jagged edge in his voice doesn’t sound as angry as maybe, annoyed. Which in turn makes me more angry with him.

  “You’re mad that I didn’t pick what you did.” I tell him.

  “Nooo. Why would that bother me? It’s your decision, right?”

  “That’s right.” I shoot back at him. “It is my decision. And why do you care so much anyway? Just take me back to your house. Then you can spy directly on my mom instead of using me to do it. You don’t need me for that anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? I wasn’t...”

  “Just take me back.” I say. “Then you can go do whatever you want, wherever you want...with whoever you want.”

  Garrett snaps his mouth shut and turns the car toward his house, but the ride back isn’t any smoother.

  ~ * * * ~

  Garrett unlocks the door for me, swings it open, and then turns away. He leaves without another word, tearing down the street in his car. I dump my purse and my backpack on the floor near the door and kick the pack with one foot. My mom has moved from the downstairs couch up to the kitchen table. There is a four inch stack of paper beside her, all filled with her micro-font.

  I drop into the seat across from her and her pen pauses.

  “What are you doing back here?” she asks. “Garrett was supposed to take you to school after the Addo’s.”

  “Tell me about Roger.” I say.

  “Your father?” she murmurs.

  “Yes, Mom. My father. The Addo said he knows him. I thought he was gone. I thought you didn’t know
where he is.”

  “Not until recently.” She lays her pen down.

  “What? Where is he? Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “What did the Addo tell you about him?”

  “Nothing yet. I don’t want to hear about my father from the Addo. I want to hear it from you.” My mother sighs, sits back in her chair and frowns at me.

  “Okay. What do you want to know?” she asks.

  The phone rings. It works like a bell in a boxing ring. I look away and my mom pushes herself up from the table. She picks up the receiver on the third ring.

  “Hello?” she says. I think it is probably Jen, mistaking my mom’s voice for mine. Good. My mom can finally hear what I hear all the time. She listens, the pause stretching, and her eyes slide up to stare at me.

  “It’s me.” she says into the mouth piece. Her tone is metal: cold, inflexible. “Yes, Evangeline…What do you mean you keep calling…well, this isn’t my house. I don’t answer the phone…I know she went to see the Addo…of course for counseling.”

  “Who is it?” I whisper to her, but my mom turns away from me, lowering her voice to a growl.

  “I am honoring our agreement…Roger…Roger…Listen to me.”

  I gasp. It’s one thing to think you have a father and it’s totally another for him to suddenly be real. He hasn’t been around for seventeen years. To have him come alive now, a 3D version of a framed photo, makes my nerves go thin and tight.

  I yank on my mom’s sleeve and whisper, “What does he want?”

  She puts up her wait a minute finger. “Roger…you’re not listening…I am…”

  It’s only a second more before my mom’s shoulders drop and she slams the receiver back onto the cradle.

  Instead of explaining anything, she picks up the receiver again and calls Mrs. Reese.

  “Miranda? Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry to bother you at work...Yes, we’re okay, but Roger just called...yes, Roger...mmm hmm...I’m sure it’s nothing but…maybe that would be best...all right. We’ll see you soon.”

  She hangs up the phone and her eyes find mine.