by Bill Cameron
Document Name: Dear Trisha.docx
I’m giving this to Denise to return to you. I understand why you don’t want to see me, but at least you’ll have your laptop back before Cooper ropes you into the corral for a powwow, or whatever he calls it.
I did make a print-out of your poem. I hope that’s okay.
I want you to know I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being there for you. I’m sorry for not trusting you.
If you ever decide you want to talk, I’m ready to listen to whatever you need me to hear.
—Joey
4.0: Thend
I find Mrs. Petty’s car in the lot outside the Department of Human Services office on SE 122nd. I haven’t been here in a while, but I don’t imagine things have changed much. Her cubicle is on the far side of the building with no view of the parking lot. The near side has a few meeting rooms. The blinds are drawn in most, but through one wide window I see people sitting around a long table. Little kids and adults, some kind of group session. The kids are drawing or writing. I can see through the glass front doors as well, but the way the diffuse light hits the glass makes it hard for me to make out anything inside. If Mrs. Petty is standing there looking out at her car, I’m busted.
I pull the slim-jim out of my new backpack—bought with smelly cash. Kristina tried to give me a bundle of hundreds, but all I would accept were twenties. “They’ll take it away if they catch me. Besides, it’s easier to deal with smaller bills.” A teenage boy showing up at Home Depot with a stack of Benjamins is asking for trouble.
“You ever need any more, call me.”
“Sure.” We both know I never will.
I slide the metal strip of the slim-jim down between the window and the doorframe on the passenger side. I’m lucky Mrs. Petty’s underpaid and overworked; the old Impala is held together by rust. I don’t have to fight too much to pop the lock. I’m in and out in seconds, take nothing, leave only one item. I lock the door and turn.
She’s behind me. Of course.
“Hello, Joey.”
I’m supposed to feel embarrassed or ashamed. She’s supposed to be angry. Instead, she seems amused and a little sad, and I feel…I don’t know what. “Hi, Mrs. Petty.”
“I’ve been worried about you.”
“No need.”
“Your chin looks—”
“I’m fine.” I don’t want to talk about how close Mrs. Huntzel’s bullet came to making me Orville’s twin.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Is she being sarcastic? I can’t tell. “What does the note say?”
“How do you know it’s a note?”
“I don’t suppose it’s a cookie recipe.”
I smile. A little. There’s a copy of Trisha’s poem, with her byline. But that’s not what Mrs. Petty is asking about. “Among other things, it says I’ve decided to withdraw from state custody on my own initiative.”
“You know I can’t allow you to do that.”
Here we go. “So…what then? Juvenile detention?” Or maybe Detectives Heat Vision and Man-Mountain would rather try me as an adult.
“You could always go back to the Bobbitts.”
“What about the cops?”
She breathes. “The investigation has advanced in a new direction. You are no longer a person of interest.”
My mouth opens and closes. “Well…Anita is a drug addict and Wayne can’t get his fill of Internet porn.”
Now her breathing becomes a sigh. “Joey, tell me something I don’t know.”
“If you know, why did you keep me there?”
“You’re sixteen. You haven’t finished high school. You need to be somewhere. We have a shortage of foster families.”
“So you stick me with the Boobies?”
“I stick you with them because I know you’ll be all right. You can handle them, and if I put you there, another spot is freed up for one of my more fragile clients.”
“He changed the locks.”
“I’ve dealt with that, I promise you.” She stares off into the distance for a moment. “Listen. I know it’s not the best situation. In a perfect world, the Boobies would be off the foster rolls. But in this world I need them. And they will provide a roof and clothes and creamed chipped beef. That gives you a chance to finish school and to grow up. You’re a smart kid. I don’t want to lose you.”
She’s never called them the Boobies in front of me. “I don’t need them.”
“If you agree to stay, you can continue at Katz. In January, you’ll apply for early graduation. By summer, you could be getting ready for college. With your grades and background, grants and scholarships won’t be a problem. But if you run, you’ll never finish high school. Life on the streets sucks, Joey. Trust me.” She directs a flinty gaze my way. “You certainly can’t live in the ruins of the Huntzel house.”
Christ. Does she know everything?
“Joey, please. If you go back to the Bobbitts, I’ll support early graduation. I’ll even help your bid for emancipation.”
“I could get my GED in a few years.”
“A year from now, you could be living in a dorm in Corvallis or Eugene.”
I’m not all that surprised she’s guessed my Plan. A lot of case files have crossed Mrs. Petty’s desk. She knows the classes I’ve taken, and she knows better than anyone how determined I am to make my own way. Still, it’s pissing me off that she’s making sense.
“I want something.”
She shakes her head, but then she laughs. “What?”
“I want you to help Trisha.”
Her face goes carefully blank. “Patricia Lee? Help her with what?”
She didn’t ask to be rescued, but then neither did I. Sometimes we all need a little help. Reid would have a stroke if he heard me say that.
“Her foster father.”
One eyebrow rises slowly. “What are you saying?”
“What do you think?”
She’s quiet for a long time, but I can see the calculation working in her eyes. “Based on what?”
“Based on her telling me, that’s what.” I gesture toward the printout in the car. “It’s all there.”
Enough of it, anyway. Mrs. Petty doesn’t need to know about the Krugerrands. Trisha earned them, end of story. But she shouldn’t have to keep fucking a fifty-year-old pervert.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Thank me for telling you? That’s what you have to say? Screw that. You need to get after that old perv. Go in hot. Use bad language. Make him crack.”
“Joey—”
“I’m serious. Don’t let the fucker wiggle out.”
“You like her.”
“So what?” There’s more snap in my voice than Mrs. Petty has ever heard from me.
“She likes you too.”
My face goes hot. For a long time, she stares at me—until I feel like I’m going to melt into the ground. Then she lets out a long, slow breath.
“Joey, the situation is already being addressed.”
“What?”
“The day after you ran away from the Bobbitts’, she came forward about Mr. Vogler. The details of that are none of your business, but, as an aside, in her statement, she revealed where you were when Duncan got hit. Apparently she saw you sneaking into the chess room with the master key you kept hidden inside your laptop.”
Obviously I have no secrets. “Cooper won’t let me stay at Katz if he knows about that.”
“Joey, we’ve both known about that key for months.”
For the first time in my life, I have nothing to say. She seems to enjoy it.
“You’re going to have to pay for a replacement laptop battery.”
“Those batteries are crap.” But I’m thinking about Trisha, about sitting across from her at the coffee shop next to the fish tank. About her s
himmering eyes, about spending the day just looking into them. Then the amber melts into emerald and I feel confused all over again.
“Joey.” Mrs. Petty puts a hand on my arm and I surprise myself by not flinching. “The Boobies. You’ll go back?”
She’s relentless. “Where is Trisha now?”
“She’s safe.”
“What does that mean?”
Now it’s her turn to snap. “It means her situation has been addressed and she’s working through it, and we’re helping her.” Then her voice softens. “I’m sure she’ll be in touch when she’s ready.”
If she’s ever ready. And if she’s not, so be it. Safe is what matters. I just hope she had time to pack her things—including the contents of her hide—neatly, in suitcases, without someone looking over her shoulder. Maybe she even took my advice and faked some tears, asked for a moment alone so she could grab her loot in peace.
“I think her next foster parents should be gay.”
She laughs. “You have this all figured out, don’t you?”
Who the hell knows? It’s obvious I’ve been wrong more than I’ve been right.
I stand there as she unlocks her crappy old car. “There’s one more thing.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
I whistle. Caliban dashes out of the bushes at the edge of the parking lot and hip-checks me. “I have a dog now. I’m keeping him, no matter what Wayne says.”
Mrs. Petty offers us a wry smile. “Are you two coming or not?”
I climb into the car, settle back as Caliban jumps up on my lap.
If we survive the drive to the Boobies, I guess I’ll give it a try.
Thend
Author’s Note
Many of the locations in Property of the State are real, including Mount Tabor Park and Pioneer Courthouse Square. Stately Huntzel Manor, alas, is not. I placed the house in a spot on the edge of Mount Tabor Park which is in fact only a hillside. Uncommon Cup and Katz Learning Annex are also made up, though Katz is modeled very loosely on some actual schools in the Portland area. Uncommon Cup is not unlike many of the independent coffeehouses found throughout the city, including the Rain or Shine Coffee House in Southeast Portland where much of the novel was written.
A couple of times Joey mentions SWAT. The Portland Police Bureau doesn’t use the term SWAT, but rather SERT, for Special Emergency Response Team. Joey says SWAT because it’s the more familiar term to most people and essentially refers to the same thing. And, in any case, despite his brushes with law enforcement, Joey hasn’t had to deal with SERT himself. At least not yet.
Many characters in this book are named for people who’ve inspired me: writers, readers, and friends of extraordinary kindness, talent and insight. The characters are not based on these real life people. Rather, I’ve borrowed their names (first or last) as a way to show my respect, admiration, and affection. Given some of what happens in these pages, you might think I have an odd way of saying, “I like you.” Nonetheless, my affection and respect are genuine and heartfelt.
This book wouldn’t have happened without the critical eyes of Andy Fort, Candace Clark, Corissa Neufeldt, and Theresa Snyder. More than once they chewed through drafts and gave me the business, and the book is better because of it.
Thank you to Brett Battles for being a great friend and listening to me whine at length by phone and in person during some of the rockier moments of the writing and revising.
Huge thanks go to Ellen Larsen for loving Joey, and for guiding him and me both to the finish line.
As always, thank you to the Shark, Janet Reid, for sticking with me and helping make this book happen. It remains and honor and a privilege to be counted among the Chum.
And of course I couldn’t do this without the love, support, and endless patience of my lovely and brilliant wife Jill. Thank you, sweetie!
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