by Linda Crew
“I’ll tell them,” I said. “I’ll tell them you were at the bridge with me.”
Now I won’t try to convince you Orin and I became best buddies because of this. I’d be surprised if we ever get to be friends at all. But he did quit giving me a hard time at school, and since the day I stuck up for him in the principal’s office, he has never said one bad thing about my dad.
20
One Last Chance
“Notice anything different?” Rose asked me before school Friday morning.
“About you?”
“Yeah. Something new.”
I finished locking my bike to the stand, stood up, and checked her over.
“Oh. New shoes, huh?”
She nodded, lit up like she was standing there in her own personal sunbeam instead of the gray morning mist. “And that’s not all. I’ve even got some money for books. You know, for Powell’s tomorrow.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s great.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her the trip to Powell’s might not happen.
Actually, I was having a hard time picturing tomorrow at all. I was too worried about Dad’s gourmet dinner for Mrs. Van Gent tonight.
Now it’s easy enough to say, Oh who gives a rip what other people think, I know my dad is great. But let’s face it—my opinion was not the only one that mattered. This dinner had to be perfect.
“Robby, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“You look … sad. Aren’t you excited about tomorrow?”
“Sure.” I sighed, thinking. Could I trust her with this? “Rose, you know about Amber Hixon getting sent to a foster home? And your mom thinks it’s so unfair?”
“Well … did I say that?”
I looked at her. “Yes, don’t you remember? You said your mom told you the government took kids just because they didn’t like the way people lived.”
“Yeah …” Her eyes slid away from mine. “But she sort of changed her mind about that. After all, we haven’t been here that long. She didn’t really know the Hixons. When she heard the stories about them, she said the social workers probably did the right thing.”
“What stories?”
Rose lowered her voice so the kids walking by wouldn’t hear. “Mrs. Lukes says they used to ask her to babysit for a couple hours and then they wouldn’t come back for days. One time they’d gone all the way to Las Vegas!”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, really. After a while they quit doing that but it turned out they were just leaving Amber all by herself. All night!”
“Wow, They shouldn’t do that.”
“I know, but they did.”
“It doesn’t make sense, though. Why would parents nice enough to buy a kid a pony be so mean in other ways?”
“Oh, Robby, Amber doesn’t have a pony.”
I looked at her. I thought about the toy pony with the rhinestone bridle. “I guess not.”
“One of my sister’s friends lives next to them. She says Amber makes up all kinds of stories.”
Hard to know what to believe, hard to imagine someone lying so easily. That string of fibs I’d told Mrs. Van Gent had knotted my stomach like a pretzel.
“Wouldn’t you feel kind of sick inside,” I said, “if you told lies all the time like that?”
Rose thought for a moment. “Maybe she doesn’t think of them as lies. Maybe to her they’re more like wishes.”
I looked up at the ridgeline, a jag of treetops sticking out of the fog. I guess my situation and Amber’s weren’t as alike as I’d thought.
“Or maybe she did feel sick inside,” I said.
Rose stooped to rub a smudge off one of her new shoes. “Did I tell you we saw her at the Douglas Bay Safeway?”
“Yeah? How did she look?”
“Fine, really. She was pushing a shopping cart for this lady—I think maybe it was her new foster mother.”
“And she didn’t look miserable?”
“No. At least she didn’t throw herself at our feet going ‘Save me! Save me!’ or anything. She said hi friendly enough.” Rose stood and glanced toward the school building. We were the last kids left outside. “And also, about my mom … well, it was a social worker in Douglas Bay who finally tracked down my dad. Now we should be getting money from him, regular. The first check just came. That’s how I got new shoes. And book money.” She smiled—almost an apology. “So you can see how my mom wouldn’t be so down on social workers anymore.”
I nodded. I was having trouble taking all this in.
“Come on. We’ll be late.” Rose reached the door ahead of me, pulled it open, and looked back. “Are you sure Amber wasn’t your girlfriend?”
All I could think about all day was the dinner, even while I played soccer at recess. One thing I’ll say for sports, when you’re too worried to make sense out of the words on a page, you can still run up and down a field. So all the time I was chasing the ball, trying for a good, satisfying kick, I was worrying about whether or not Dad was right this minute cleaning the house like he was supposed to.
Because even if social workers did help people who really needed it, I still didn’t see how they could be anything but a hassle for us Hummers if they got the wrong idea.
After school I pedaled home as fast as I could and shoved open the front door.
“Wobby! Hi, Wobby!”
I sagged against the doorjamb. A scene straight out of my nightmares—the house a world-class wreck, Freddie and Lucy still going strong.
“Dad!” I dropped my backpack and ran across to the kitchen. “Did you forget? The gourmet dinner’s tonight!”
“Hi, Robby.” He was whistling while he cut up vegetables. “No, I didn’t forget.”
“But the house, Dad. You were gonna clean it all up.”
“It’s not too bad, is it?” He went to the edge of the big main room and blinked like somebody just waking up.
Oh, for Pete’s sake! Why waste time even talking to him? I dropped to the floor and started tossing toys into the wicker basket.
Freddie and Lucy started tossing them out.
“Come on, you guys. Please don’t.” If only they understood how serious this was.
Then I heard the truck on the gravel. I ran out onto the porch.
“Mom! Quick! You’ve got to help!”
She slammed the truck door and rushed up the steps, her face white. “What? Tell me! Is somebody hurt?”
“No, no, everyone’s fine. It’s the house, Mom. It’s a wreck!”
She braced herself on the doorjamb, hand over her heart. “Robby, don’t you ever scare me like that again.”
“Sorry,” I said, more miserable than ever.
But then after a deep breath, she walked in and looked around. “Oh, my gosh!” She slapped a hand over her face, then peeked out between spread fingers, maybe hoping she’d got it wrong on the first glance. Nope. Pit City. “Bill!” She aimed herself toward the kitchen.
“Hi, Honey.” Dad wiped his hands on a dish towel, all smiles.
“It’s about this”—Mom pointed, sharp and accusing—“this … trash heap we call our home.”
Dad’s smile got guiltier. He shrugged. “Not much use picking it up until we get the kids out of here, is there?”
She glanced away, then turned back. “Darn it, Bill! This is supposed to be your dinner. You’re going to be busy cooking. You know very well who that leaves to straighten all this up. Yours truly.”
Dad looked offended. “Is that so unfair? I can’t do everything around here by myself, can I?”
Mom sucked in her breath. “Of course not. Not when you’re always so busy being Mr. Fun.”
“Huh?”
Mom glared at him. “Didn’t you ever stop to think that I might be a lot more fun myself if I wasn’t always having to clean up after your fun?” She yanked her jacket zipper down. “You promised to do this and you’ve been putting it off for days. Every time I mentioned it you acted like, oh, don’t be a nag.”
>
I threw myself on the sofa and pulled a pillow over my head. This was great. Not only would Mrs. Van Gent see our house messy, she’d also find my folks yelling at each other.
“Now wait a minute,” Dad said. “I never called you a nag.”
“Well, you rolled your eyes. You made me feel like one.”
“Hey, I can’t be responsible for the way you interpret my eyeballs every time they twitch!”
“I must have been out of my mind,” Mom said, “trusting you’d have this place shoveled out by the time I got home.” She pulled her jacket zipper back up. “I have half a mind to just walk out and let you stew in your own juice!”
I pulled away my pillow and rolled off the sofa at Mom’s feet. “No, Mom, don’t!”
“Don’t worry, Robby. Mom’s not going anywhere.” Dad aimed his best apologizing smile at her.
Mom wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t you dare try to cute your way out of this.”
“Oh look, the food’ll be so good nobody’ll even notice what the—”
“And don’t give me that either! Anyone with eyes can see this is a pigpen! Maybe I should just bundle up the kids and take them all to Burger King.”
“No, Mom, you can’t. Please!” I was on my knees now. “It was so awful last week when Mrs. Van Gent came. If she finds the house like this again, and then if she gets the idea you’re not here because you guys are fighting …”
Mom and Dad turned from each other and stared at me.
“Robby, what is it?” Dad said.
Concerned Looks! For once I was glad.
Mom pulled me up. “Honey, try to calm down.”
“I can’t.” I was ready to cry. “I can’t because—you guys just don’t understand. This is our last chance. If you can’t show that counselor we’ve got a good home, they might—” My dumb voice trailed off to a squeak … I gulped hard. “They might ship us kids off to some stupid foster home!”
“What kids?” Dad said.
“Us! Me and Lucy and Freddie!” Then it all came pouring out. About Amber being put in a foster home, about me worrying the counselor thought our family was strange. How Dad had been doing such a super job of proving it.
“And Mom,” I said, “remember when we were goofing off right before Mrs. Van Gent showed up last week? You said yourself about police officers at the emergency room and all that.”
“Oh, Honey, I was just kidding. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“And what about that stuff on TV, Dad? All those people trying to get their kids back?”
“But that hasn’t got anything to do with you.”
“Well, it might if we’re not careful. I don’t want to be sitting in some stranger’s house, watching you and Mom on TV crying to all those government people about losing us.”
Dad and Mom gave each other sad, guilty looks. This sure had put a lid on the house-cleaning fight.
“Robby,” Dad said, “I don’t know why those people lost their kids, but I do know that’s not going to happen to you.”
I sniffed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. This is a happy family, isn’t it? Aren’t you happy?”
“Well, I was. Before all this.”
“When kids get sent to foster homes, it’s because their parents aren’t taking care of them. We take care of you, don’t we?”
I nodded.
“We’re talking about parents who may even be beating up on their kids.”
I cringed. I didn’t even want to think about that.
“You know,” Mom said, “Amber’s parents must have been incredibly young when they got married. They’re still just like kids themselves.”
“Maybe if they do some growing up,” Dad said, “she can come back. In the meantime, she’s probably better off with someone else.”
“But Dad, that’s just how you are. Even Mom’s always saying you’re just like a kid.”
“Oh, but Honey, that’s different,” Mom said. “It’s okay to be like a kid when it comes to having fun.”
“It is?”
“Sure. Just as long as you act grown up about the grown-up stuff. See what I mean?”
“I guess so.” I wiped my hand across my eyes to catch a couple of tears that had sneaked out. “But you know what? I was so scared when I talked to the counselor that … well, I lied. I told her Dad was getting a job. They don’t like it when dads are unemployed.”
“Oh, Robby,” Dad said, “I think you misunderstood. They’re just hoping all the families have enough money to take care of their kids right. They probably don’t realize I’m staying home for a couple of years because I want to.”
“Well, I tried to tell Mrs. Van Gent that, but she doesn’t believe me.”
“I’d be glad to talk to her, if it’ll make you feel better.”
I nodded, and right then I had kind of a weird, guilty thought. “You know what, Dad? Sometimes I kinda wish you did go off to a job. Just to be like other dads.”
“Well, I’ll probably go back to teaching in a couple of years.”
“The thing is, Robby,” Mom said, “this is such a precious time for us, having you kids. We don’t want to miss it. We don’t want to be working so hard at our jobs that we wake up one morning and say, ‘Hey, what happened? They all grew up on us!’ ”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “I won’t get another chance to be a daddy. That’s the main thing I don’t want to blow. Even if we do go into debt.”
“What do you mean, go into debt?” Mom said. “We’re going to make a fortune in greeting cards!”
“Right!” Dad said. “So. Robby, are we clear on this? That you don’t have to worry about being taken away?”
“Well … if you say so.” I let out a huge sigh. Then I looked around the room again. “But Dad? Even if she isn’t going to ship me to a foster home, could we still try to make things nice for Mrs. Van Gent, just so that, you know, we won’t feel so … embarrassed?”
“I’m all for that,” Mom said. But she didn’t seem mad at Dad anymore. “Come on, I’ll drive you kids over to Mrs. Lukes’s and your dad and I’ll get to work.”
“No way,” I said. “I’m staying right here. You guys need all the help you can get.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Dad said. As Mom herded the little guys toward the door, he put on the zippiest record we have and started throwing pillows here, tossing toys there. I pitched in at breakneck speed, filling a wastebasket with half-eaten snacks and trashed junk mail.
Zydeco housekeeping!
21
The Fancy Romancey Dinner
Well, Dad was right about the kerosene lamps. In the soft glow that lit the room, Mrs. Van Gent would never notice that he’d decided to skip dusting in favor of giving me table-waiting lessons. And she’d never guess that behind every closet door was an avalanche of stuff waiting to bury anybody thinking to be tidy and hang up their coat.
Or anybody thinking to spy.
Right on the dot of seven the doorbell rang.
I hung back while Mom opened the door. Mrs. Van Gent was standing there in her trench coat, her husband beside her. I saw her eyes flick past Mom, a quick once-over of the house.
“Mrs. Van Gent,” Mom said. “Come on in.”
“Oh, please, call me Heidi.”
Heidi? Whoever heard of a spy named Heidi?
“Well,” she said, stepping inside. She looked relieved. “This is my husband, Steve.”
Mom nodded at him. “Dr. Van Gent.” He was a dentist, see.
“No, Heidi’s right. Make it Steve.” He smiled. Big white flashing teeth. Probably helped him get patients.
Dad came out and we all got introduced to each other.
“Here, let me take those.” Mom helped them get out of their coats. She headed for the closet.
“I’ll do it!” I grabbed the coats and detoured to the hall tree. Whew. Guess Mom forgot we were on avalanche alert.
Mrs. Van Gent—er, Heidi—shook out her h
air. Good grief! It went all the way to her waist. She was wearing a thick white sweater and jeans tucked into tall boots—a lot more relaxed looking than at school.
“Your house is gorgeous!” she said.
I glanced at Dad. He winked.
“I just love what you’ve done with the recycled wood.” She turned to her husband. “Wouldn’t it be fun to redo your waiting room like this? The Country Look is so popular now.”
The Country Look? I thought this was the Picked-Up Look.
“Well, we like it,” Dad said. “It’s home.”
“It’s a great home,” I said to Mrs. Van Gent, hoping she’d know I wasn’t just talking woodwork and stained glass.
She nodded without looking at me. “Are the twins here?”
“If the twins were here,” I said, “believe me, you’d know it.”
“Oh, too bad.” She smiled at Mom and Dad. “I’ve heard so much about them, I was really looking forward to seeing them.”
“Well,” Dad said, “I don’t think we’d have a prayer of pulling off a nice dinner with them around.”
They all laughed these funny little heh-heh laughs. Then it was quiet. Dr. Van Gent coughed. Dad went into his headwaiter act. “Table for two?”
Heh heh. They all looked like they felt silly, pretending this was a restaurant. Dad pulled out a chair for Mrs. Van Gent and seated her at the table he’d set up in front of the wood stove.
“Isn’t this nice?” she said, but watching from the kitchen, I thought she seemed stiff. No wonder. She and her husband couldn’t really talk like in a real restaurant, not with us hearing every word.
Next Dad sent me in with a bottle of wine and a dish towel hung over my arm like he’d showed me.
“From the Nehalem Winery,” I said in my snootiest voice. “Nineteen eighty-eight. A very good year.”
“Sounds fine.” Dr. Van Gent smiled. Those teeth!
Dad had already loosened the cork for me, so I took it off and poured a little in a glass.
“Really the waiter’s supposed to drink this,” I said, “to make sure you don’t swallow any little cork gunkies. But Dad told me not to.” I fixed a meaningful look on Mrs. Van Gent. “My dad would never, ever let any kids drink wine.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Robby.”
“I just wanted you to know. I wanted to make sure you understood that my folks take good care of me.”
