by Bill Cameron
Assuming I can get in. The way the day’s gone, I’m not hopeful.
Trisha never made it to coffee. After her time with Detectives Heat Vision and Man-Mountain, Mr. Vogler hustled her away from school. I was in the hallway when they left, math book open in my lap. I heard heels on tile and looked up in time to see him guiding her out the door, hand on the small of her back. She looked my direction, but I don’t know if she saw me. Later, I asked Denise if she knew anything, but she hadn’t talked to Trisha since Day Prep.
In Trig, Moylan took it upon himself to alert everyone to the fact I was sitting on an M. “Joseph. Your work has fallen off.” My name isn’t Joseph. In terms of grade-point average, a Katz M would be a C at an actual school. My test scores have all been mid-nineties, quizzes high too. No way had two days of missing homework done that much damage. He was just being a dick. I handed in the day’s homework, nailed a ten out of ten on the pop quiz, and kept my mouth shut. Moylan could suck balls.
In her screwball way, Harley May was worse. She caught me in the Commons during lunch and suggested a check-in on my DI project. My next milestone, a list of sources on Reconstruction and the Compromise of 1877, wasn’t due ’til Monday, so I knew she really wanted to talk feelings. I was a clam in response to her interrogation, but I couldn’t avoid the OMG<3 hug at the end. Her chest felt mushy against my cheek. I think I picked up a mild contact high which eroded into a brutal headache by the time I arrive at the Boobie Hatch, where I find myself wishing I’d built an outside hide for my tools. In theory, it’s a good idea, especially since in an emergency move you may get no chance to crack open your hides. If you cache off-site, you can go back later without having to worry about getting into a house you no longer have access to.
In practice, it’s not so straightforward. When I was yanked from the Natrones, it was a month before I could sneak back. By then, my hide in the crawlspace of a neighbor’s outbuilding had been found and looted. With indoor hides, at least your stuff is close—ready access can be critical. If you have to pack in a hurry, just fake a few tears and ask for a minute to be alone. That’s what I suggested to Trisha, anyway.
Of course, I didn’t anticipate present circumstances.
The easiest way in would be to break a window. But that’s ammunition for Wayne. Besides, I don’t want them to know I’ve been here—though my empty dresser might provide a clue. Wayne’s security bars are going to be a problem, but there is one possibility. If it doesn’t work, my only other option may be the Goodwill bins and lice-infested clothes sold by the pound.
The house is quiet, sealed up tight. For the hell of it, I try my key on the front door again. No good. Wayne added a second deadbolt for emphasis. Ferrell claims he knows how to pick locks, but every time I’ve asked him to teach me he makes some shitweasel excuse.
The backyard is axe-murder private due to the seven-foot cedar fence and a couple of shaggy willows in the corners. The flower beds are bare earth and a few shrubs. Behind an overgrown azalea I find what I’m looking for, a metal hatch inset in the foundation at ground level. An old coal chute, according to Wayne. Anita says that’s not possible, because the house isn’t old enough. Whatever, Bicker Twins, all I care about is whether I can get it open.
I pull a pry bar out of my backpack. If someone found it on me at school, I’d be on the fast track to expulsion. The padlock is about five hundred years old, rusted solid. Before I can I jam the pry bar through the shackle, I hear a voice.
“Joey. I didn’t think it would be you.”
I jump back and almost trip over myself. Anita is standing at the top of the back stoop, leaning on her cane, watching me.
“They cancelled my physical therapy. Can you believe it?”
I’m thinking about how there were no cars in the driveway. I straighten up. She had to have seen the pry bar, but I try to hide it behind my thigh anyway. “Where’s the van?”
She throws up her free hand, waves in a fluttery way. “Oh, you know. In the shop. Brakes or something. Wayne handles that stuff.”
I smell smoke.
“Joey, you upset your father.”
She’s holding a cigarette.
“He’s not my father.”
I’ve never seen Anita smoke. Now in the space of a day I’ve seen both her and Mrs. Huntzel light up.
“He could have been. You never gave him the chance.” She looks at me through bloodshot eyes. If the cigarette didn’t smell like Marlboro, I’d wonder what was in it. Still, her voice is slurred enough to tell me she’s gotten into something. Painkillers…vodka? Who knows? I still need my clothes and my tools.
“The police asked about you.”
Sudden disquiet swells inside me.
“What did they want?”
“They wanted to know if you could drive.” She spits out a giggly trill that makes my nose hurt. “Wayne told them you don’t have your license.”
That’s not an answer that helps me. “Is that all?”
“Well, you know how Wayne is. He was emphatic that you had no access to either vehicle. He showed them that cabinet where he locks up all the keys.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m the perfect target. Foster kid, violent family background, prior arrest record. Of course I’m a person of interest. Next time they talk to me, they’re not going to accept half-answers. The question then is what do I tell them? The truth blows The Plan all to hell. But that’s better than having Duncan’s hit-and-run pinned on me.
“Don’t worry, Joey. They don’t think you hurt your friend. They just have to check everything. Routine, they said.”
Yeah. Right.
“I need my things.”
She inhales cigarette smoke, blows it into the still air. The gray cloud lingers longer than it should.
“I expected Mrs. Petty. Is she with you?”
I stare at the stoop, where she stands in precarious balance. “No.” The word comes out slowly.
“He feels terrible about what happened.”
I close my eyes. A notion flickers to life in the back of my mind. Not quite a light bulb turning on. A flickering CFL.
“It was an accident.…”
They haven’t called Mrs. Petty because they figured I would. And now they’re hiding behind new locks and silence.
“Surely you understand that, Joey. Just an accident.”
“There are no accidents.” But I’m not talking to her, not really. My thoughts are churning. The Boobies don’t know I’m in the wind. Neither does Mrs. Petty.
I’m…on my own.
She ejects a final long stream of smoke, then throws her cigarette butt into the grass. “I’ll get your things.” She turns and goes into the house. I notice she fails to grimace, doesn’t seem to need her cane. When she returns, she’s holding my suitcase.
“I did your laundry.” Her voice is apologetic. “It seemed the least we could do.” She offers me a sheepish smile, then turns away. Closes and locks the door behind her.
I stow my pry bar, hoist my pack. It’s good to have my clothes, such as they are. But my tools—well-hidden in the narrow brown cell upstairs—are probably gone for good.
1.13: Default State
I spend two hours on the animal heads, plus my usual Thursday duties. Philip and Mrs. Huntzel seem to be lurking all over the place. Every time I turn a corner, one of them is standing there. At one point, when I’m at the top of a ladder choking on moose dust, Philip walks into the rec room. He’s not wearing his mask, but I wish he was.
“You’re stupid. No one cares about those heads.”
“Thanks. That’s very helpful.”
“Just stating the obvious.”
Obvious for him, maybe. He never has to worry about where he’ll be living tomorrow, or what’s for dinner tonight. This is one of those moments when I understand why Trisha talks shit about him. A
s good as she has it, she knows a foster placement can end at any time. None of us has the certainty Philip takes for granted.
He leaves the way he came before I can bean him with my dustrag. After he’s gone, I slip off to scope hiding places. I intend to keep my stuff close by, in Kristina’s room. But the debacle of my tools at the Boobies makes me wish I’d already built a few backup hides in Huntzel Manor.
There are storage rooms, the boiler room, a couple of dark cellars, and the laundry room. None offer what I’m looking for. Too much foot traffic or, in the case of the boiler room and cellars, nothing but bare concrete walls. The old, bank-style vault offers more promise. Its door is wedged open—does anyone know the combination anymore?
Inside, the walls are white-painted brick. There’s a wine rack on the left, a few dusty bottles here and there. The wide grate in the floor at the back is part of a drain system that runs throughout the basement. Once, when a noxious smell arose in the laundry room, Mr. Huntzel suggested I wriggle in and clean out whatever died down there. Lucky me, Mrs. Huntzel put the kibosh on that idea. Five gallons of bleach water through the grate seemed to clear out the smell.
But what interests me are the floor-to-ceiling shelves on the right, with lots of nooks and crannies—perfect for a false back, hinged and latched. Without my tools, I can’t do much, but there are enough loose boards behind the grimy Mason jars that I might be able to fake something up in the short term. I pull out a couple of splintery planks at the back of the bottom shelf to reveal a shadowy recess behind.
Someone got here before me.
I listen for approaching footsteps, but the basement is quiet. Philip has found somewhere else to sulk. From the recess, I retrieve a black nylon duffel bag covered with cobwebs and crud, smelling of foot odor. No telling how long it’s been in there. My first thought is to put it right back where I found it. None of my business. But it’s a good hiding spot. For all I know the duffel is filled with long-forgotten laundry.
Or, well…money.
Twenties and hundreds bundled into stacks with rubber bands, with a few loose bills mixed in. It’s not new money, not fresh bills wrapped at the bank. At a glance, there are several dozen bundles, each about an inch thick. Most of the stacks are hundreds.
A lot of money.
For a moment, I imagine what I could do with this kind of cash. The tools I could buy, the distance I could put between myself and the wonderful world of foster care. It’s like I’m holding a winning lottery ticket. But almost as quickly, paranoia boils through me.
Normal people don’t hide duffels full of cash in the walls.
I look around, unable to shake a sudden feeling I’m being watched. No one is there, but the paranoia lingers. With a tremor in my hands, I jam the bag into the recess and replace the boards. For now, I stick my suitcase on a high shelf in the shadows. I’ll deal with it later.
Mrs. Huntzel runs into me as I exit the vault. “Joey! You startled me.”
When my heart dislodges itself from my throat, I manage to croak out, “Just grabbing supplies.” As evidence, I show her a wad of rags I’m carrying around.
“I see.” She peers past me into the vault. I expect her to ask why I was looking for rags in there, of all places. But then she shakes her head. “You boys need to slow down in the house.”
I let out a breath. When she turns away, I call after her. “Hey, Mrs. Huntzel. When I’m done, would it be okay if I take a quick shower?” She turns back and I hold out my arms. I look like Cinderella’s dodgy brother.
“Of course. I believe there are towels in the guest bathroom at the top of the stairs.” Then she’s gone.
Philip can say what he wants about the animal heads, but I needed the excuse as much as I needed the hours. Another day without a shower and they wouldn’t let me through the door at Katz. When I come out of the bathroom, his bedroom door is closed. I stop in the butler’s pantry to note my time—four hours. Forty bucks. Or, about a million less than I found in that bag. I don’t want to think about it, so I poke my nose into the fridge. Mrs. Huntzel’s sandwich from the night before is still there. I grab it, go open and close the back door in case anyone is listening for the security system tone. I pass back through the basement, stopping to snag my suitcase—moronic to go snooping in the vault in the first place.
When I shut Kristina’s door behind me, I wish there was a latch.
Some time afterward, I’m snuggling the unicorns, staring at the dark window and listening to the silence, when my phone buzzes.
only gonna try this once. answer or dont, txt only
I deserve that. I draw a breath and reply with unexpected honesty. Unexpected to me.
I missed you today
She takes her time answering. I get the feeling I said the wrong thing.
bullshit. u just wanna know what they askd
I sigh into the empty silence. Deserve that too. I make a point of not asking what she told the police, even though she’s right. I do want to know.
how come txt only?
Another long wait. Outside, the darkness deepens from blue-gray to black.
dads in a weird mood. keeps opening my door. checking on me.
Pause.
he doesnt knock
Wayne wouldn’t either, but in the days when Anita could still climb the stairs, she always knocked. Before I can figure out the best way to tell Trisha it’s seriously creepy for a man to barge uninvited into a girl’s room, she texts again.
did he say something 2 u?
He didn’t have to. His look of disgust in the Katz office was loud and clear. I wonder if she has any idea of the speech he gave me that day in their driveway.
no.
I almost add, “not today.” Decide to stick with the lie of omission. It’s an hour before she texts back, a period long enough for my skin cells to recycle a dozen times over.
sorry. cant talk. no school tomorrow. going 2 coast. c u monday
Is he keeping her out of school so she can’t talk to me, or because of something the cops said? The Voglers spend a lot of time at their house in Manzanita. But they also take school seriously. I can’t remember Trisha ever skipping to go to the beach. Even weirder is c u Monday. Manzanita isn’t Turkmenistan.
Text me from Manz?
No response. Alone, in that dark room, stripped to my underwear in a stranger’s bed, paranoia is my default setting.
At least the underwear is clean.
1.14: Snoop
Three days squatting. I wonder how long before I’m considered a legal resident.
The detectives haunt the school all morning Friday, but Katz is in an old building with lots of back hallways and odd corners. I avoid any close encounters. They seem to be focusing on staff—fine with me. Still, my stomach stays knotted until I catch sight of them shaking hands with Cooper on their way out the door shortly before lunch.
After school—early Friday—I spend three hours in the computer lab working on sources for DI and writing an AmLit reaction paper—expressions of the American Dream in Of Mice and Men. (What dream?) Stuff I should be doing at the coffee shop on my laptop. The lab is run by a misanthropic gargoyle who calls you a cultist if you own something with an Apple logo on it. I bought my phone at 7-11, so he usually leaves me alone. While I work, he noisily slurps a Cup Noodles and lectures no one in particular about open source software. A pair of earbuds may be a necessary investment next time I get paid. Maybe I can pick up a hot iPod on craigslist and really piss him off.
As soon as I click SEND on the reaction paper, I’m gone. On my way out, I peer through the office door. Mrs. An is alone, frowning at her computer as she bangs on the keyboard. Cooper’s office door stands open, but there’s no sign of him.
Mrs. An lets out a sudden exasperated sigh. “Joey?”
I startle and look at her. “What?”
; “Keep an eye on things for me? I need a coffee.”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, blows through the door. The phone rings, but since she didn’t say anything about receptionist duty, I ignore it. My eyes shift to Cooper’s doorway.
My laptop is still on his shelf.
It’ll only take a minute.
I check the hall. Empty, but from somewhere in the distance I can hear the murmur of conversation. Far away, Commons distance. It’s six long strides into the corral, but when I reach the shelf, I hesitate. I feel like I’m poised at the edge of a trap. Any second, the floor could drop out beneath me. Trapdoor to the Katz Dungeon Annex.
“Were you looking for me, Joey?”
I spin. Cooper stands in the door.
“Um.”
As he crosses to his big leather chair he claps me on the shoulder.
“Something I can help you with?” He leans back, eyes glued to mine. The smell of pomade tickles my nose hairs. His gaze flicks to the glass case.
“Duncan!”
The name spills out of me like falling rocks. His eyes turn back to me.
“Did you want to tell me something?”
“I, uh, just wondered what you’ve heard.”
He studies me for a long moment. I feel like an insect pinned to a board. “I just spoke to his mother, as it happens. There’s been no change.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Is there anything else?” His eyes flick toward the case. I silently thank my own paranoia and shake my head.
“I gotta get to work.” I manage to not knock the returning Mrs. An onto her ass as I make my escape.
When I arrive at Huntzel Manor a little after three, Caliban greets me at the door. I brush the mud off his back, tell him to go terrorize children in the park or something. Friday is my day to clean Mrs. Huntzel’s office, the kitchen, and the utility areas. My easiest day.
More important, Friday is the day Mrs. Huntzel takes Philip to the Portland Chess Collective—the only time he faces a real challenge on the board. They won’t be home ’til late.
