The Trouble with Joe

by Emilie Richards

  She would never hit anybody with those hands.

  Corey hoped she could find Miss Sam’s house. She knew it was on this road somewhere. She dug stuff out of trash cans when nobody was looking. She’d found a letter to Miss Sam once in the classroom trash can, and it had said Old Scoggins on it. She was just glad she could read. There were lots of things she could find out now that she could.

  She hoped Miss Sam was home. Miss Sam might give her a drink. And she might be able to help Mr. Red.

  Miss Sam could do just about anything.

  * * *

  IMPOSSIBLE WAS THE word. Impossible that one seven-year-old girl could be so filthy, so sweaty and smelly, so completely lacking in childish appeal.

  A barefooted Corey Haskins, with all the style and tact of a street urchin, stood defiantly in front of Sam clutching half a plastic milk carton in her thin arms. “I walked all this way, Miss Sam. And it’s a long way. You got anything birds like to eat?”

  “Corey, how on earth did you find me?”

  Corey glared at her. The noon sun might have sparkled in her white-blond hair if it had been clean, but as it was, the sun only pointed out suspicious specks in the chopped-up locks.

  “Don’t matter,” she said sullenly.

  “Doesn’t matter, and of course it does. You must have walked five miles or more if you came straight from town. How did you find me?”

  Corey shrugged.

  Sam stepped closer. “And what did you bring me?”

  Corey held out the milk carton, but not too far. Sam could see that she was ready to snatch it back if she didn’t like Sam’s reaction. “Just an old bird.”

  The bird in question was a male cardinal with an obviously broken wing. The last rites were in order. “Oh, poor thing,” Sam murmured.

  “I give him some water, but he didn’t want it.”

  “That was the right thing to do,” Sam assured her. “He’s very lucky you found him, but I’m afraid it’s too late to be much help. I think the best we can do is make him comfortable in the shade.”

  “He’s gonna be fine. You can fix him, like you fixed my face that time.”

  Sam saw genuine distress in Corey’s eyes. “How did his wing get like that, Corey?”

  The little girl shrugged again, but the expression in her eyes grew bleaker. Something suspiciously like tears began to form.

  Sam made an educated guess. “Did you maybe throw a stone at him and hit him by mistake?”

  “I was just swinging a stick. That’s all.”

  Sam squatted in front of her. “You can’t hit a bird, Corey. Not if you try for a million years. He must have been sick to start with. It’s not your fault, honey.”

  “I kilt him.”

  “Not on purpose. Besides, he would have died, anyway. And look what good care you’ve taken of him.” Sam looked at the bird and saw that the discussion about his death was now academic. She held out her hands and Corey set the milk carton in them. “I know just the place for him. It’s a good place to be buried.”

  Corey began to cry. Sam was immediately impressed with how foreign the whole process seemed to her. The tears made tracks down her dirty cheeks, and she didn’t even seem to know to brush them away.

  Sam set the carton beside her and gathered Corey in her arms. This, too, was obviously foreign. The little girl held herself stiffly, as if she didn’t know what was expected of her. But she didn’t try to move away.

  Sam put her head against Corey’s, despite the fact that it might mean a trip to the drugstore for medicated shampoo. “Poor sweetheart,” she murmured. “Go ahead and cry.”

  “I ain’t crying.”

  “Sure you are. It’s okay.”

  “I ain’t crying.”

  Samantha held her while Corey finished not crying. Then, when Corey’s shoulders had stopped shaking, Sam brushed her hair back from her face. “You must be hot and hungry. Come on inside and I’ll call your mother. She’s got to be worried about you. Then I’ll fix you something for lunch. How does that sound?”

  “We gotta bury him first.” Corey pointed at the bird. “Gotta.”

  “He’ll be fine out here while we eat.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere till we bury him.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Sam corrected.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Okay. Wait while I get a shovel.” Sam left Corey standing under the tree, tears still dripping down her cheeks. She wondered what Joe would say if he came home now and saw the ragged little girl one step from the impatiens he had planted in early May.

  Now that it was mid-July the summer was shorter by half, and the night of their anniversary was a month and a half behind them. They had patched up their fight the same way they communicated about everything now. She hadn’t commented on it again, and neither had he. Anyone watching would think that nothing was wrong between them, but anyone watching would have been wrong.

  Things were terribly wrong, and Joe’s absence today was proof of it. He had left the house early, just as he did most mornings, but today he hadn’t even bothered to tell her where he was going. He was probably at the school, but she didn’t need to know because she wouldn’t need to call him. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other.

  She found the shovel right beside all of Joe’s neatly organized garden tools. Organizing the tools had been just one of his summer projects. Most of them had been outdoor activities. The message in that was not lost on her. She assumed that if she found things to do outside he would suddenly decide to finish the wiring and install the air conditioners.

  When she returned she saw that Corey hadn’t moved. Joe’s impatiens were perfectly safe. “Let’s go down to the pond,” Sam said. “I’ll bring the carton.”

  “No. Mr. Red’s my bird.”

  “Mr. Red?”

  “Yeah. That’s his name.”

  “And a fine one.” Sam led the way, checking occasionally to be sure Corey was behind her. She stopped near the water’s edge at a soft clump of earth where Joe had removed a tree stump. “I think this will be perfect.”

  “You own a lake?”

  Sam wondered if Joe just might like Corey, after all. “A pond.”

  “You got kids?”

  Sam saw that Corey’s gaze was fastened on the log cabin. “No kids.”

  “How come you got a playhouse?”

  “We’ve got lots of nieces and nephews.”

  “They live here?”

  “No.” Sam began to dig. One foot down she stopped. “What do you think, Corey? Is this deep enough?”

  Corey peered into the hole. “Deeper.”

  Sam was already damp with perspiration from the walk and work, but gamely she dug on. Two feet down she stopped. “Now?”

  “I guess.” Corey knelt beside the hole and lowered the bird, carton and all, into it. “‘Bye, Mr. Red.”

  Sam wondered if she should say something. Corey looked up expectantly. Sam bowed her head. “We commend the spirit of this bird into his heavenly Father’s hands.” The image of a great red bird in the sky filled her mind, and for a moment she was afraid she was going to laugh.

  Then she looked down at Corey and saw that the little girl’s hands were folded and her eyes closed. Sam would bet that Corey had never been inside a church in her life, but somehow she had learned what was expected of her. It was another sign of the child’s intelligence.

  “Amen,” Sam said.

  “Amen.” Corey opened her eyes. “Can I fill the hole?”

  “Sure.” Sam handed her the shovel, which was longer than Corey was. Gamely she struggled with the dirt, finally figuring that scraping it into the hole was the simplest way to accomplish her mission. When she had finished she patted the dirt with her bare fo
ot.

  “What if he’s not really dead?”

  Sam had visions of being required to dig the bird up again as proof. “He was very, very dead. I’m absolutely sure.”

  “I was hoping he could be my pet.”

  “I think you’ll need to find something else.” Sam held out her hand. “Let’s go back to the house. I really do have to call your mother. She must be worried sick.”

  “Oh, she won’t care.”

  Sam was terribly afraid that the little girl was right, but she knew her duty. Inside the house she made Corey wash her hands and face, then she settled her at the kitchen table with a peanut butter sandwich and a giant glass of lemonade while she looked up Verna Haskins’s phone number. Corey, with an IQ near genius level, swore that she couldn’t remember it herself.

  The phone rang half a dozen times before there was an answer. By the time Sam hung up, she was shaking.

  “Your mother was glad I called,” she told Corey.

  The real conversation echoed in her head as she smiled and lied.

  Corey? She’s ’round here someplace. What? She’s at your house? Hell, I didn’t know she was gone. No, don’t bring her home. Make her walk. It’ll wear her out, so’s she won’t be so much trouble tonight.

  Corey didn’t answer. She was chewing so fast Sam was afraid she was going to choke. “Slow down, honey. If you eat too fast you’ll be sick.”

  Corey chewed faster, as if she was afraid that Sam was going to snatch the sandwich out of her hand.

  “What else would you like to have with it?” Sam asked, trying another tack. “Potato chips? An apple? I think I’ve got some cookies.”

  “All!”

  Sam was shaking harder by the time Corey had finished her lunch. She had never seen a child eat this way. Even in school Corey hadn’t eaten as if she were starving. But in school she had gotten a free breakfast and lunch—after the principal had threatened Verna if she didn’t fill out the necessary forms. What did she eat in the summers? The answer was only too clear.

  Corey scratched her head, and Sam closed her eyes. “Corey, you need a bath and a shampoo.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Yes, you do. And you know what? I’ve got something I think you might like to wear.”

  Corey looked suspicious, but Sam led her into the guest bedroom and opened a drawer. There was a pile of children’s clothes inside, clothes left by various Giovanelli offspring who had stayed overnight in the first years they had moved to Foxcove.

  “Look.” Sam held up a blue T-shirt and striped shorts. “I think these’ll fit. And the color will be pretty with your hair. You’ve got beautiful hair.”

  “I don’t.” Corey ran her hands through it until it stood on end. “Ma cut it all off when I got pine sap in it.”

  Sam remembered that day. As bad as the shorter cut was, it was an improvement. Corey had had a full yard of tangles before her mother had gone after her with scissors.

  “Would you like me to wash it and trim it a little? I could even it out so it would look better. I don’t think your mother would mind.” She doubted that Verna would even notice.

  Corey shrugged, but she looked interested, despite herself.

  An hour later she hardly looked like the same child. She was clean from head to toe—and to Sam’s delight she had found nothing on Corey’s scalp except dirt. Now Corey’s hair was almost as short as a boy’s, but at least it was all one length, and as it grew out it wouldn’t look ragged. She was much too thin, all eyes and legs like a newborn colt, but she looked presentable.

  Samantha stood her in front of the bathroom mirror. “What do you think?”

  “How come I’m not pretty?”

  Sam didn’t know what to say. Corey might very well be pretty someday. But now, despite Sam’s efforts, she still looked underfed and awkward. “You’re pretty to me.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Your hair’s a wonderful color, honey, and your eyes are such a dark brown your hair looks even lighter. It’s a very nice combination.”

  “I wish I looked like you.”

  “If I had a little girl I’d be happy if she was as pretty as you are.” She heard herself say the words, then she heard them echoing through the room when she looked up and saw that Joe was standing in the doorway.

  “Joe.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  Corey whirled. “Who the hell’s that?”

  “Corey!” Sam couldn’t imagine a worse introduction.

  Corey glared at Joe. Joe stared at Corey. His face was a blank mask.

  “Joe, this is Corey Haskins. She was my student last year. Corey, this is Mr. Joe, my husband.”

  “Why is Corey here?” Joe asked. He continued to stare at the little girl.

  “It’s a long story. I was just about to take her home.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” He disappeared.

  “How come he don’t smile?” Corey asked.

  “How come you didn’t?” Sam got to her feet. She suddenly felt very tired.

  “Don’t have to.”

  “I wish you’d wanted to. You’d like Mr. Joe if you got to know him.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Joe was in the living room when they walked through. “Why don’t you come with us, Joe?” Sam asked.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got things to do.”

  She was sure he did. Anything he could find. “Well, I’ll be back in a little while.”

  He nodded at Corey. “Goodbye, Corey.”

  She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Miss Sam’s a good teacher. Are you a good teacher?”

  “I’m a principal.”

  “Same thing. ’Cept you spank kids and stuff.”

  “I don’t spank anybody.” He lifted a brow. “At least, I haven’t spanked anybody yet.”

  “Look like you would.”

  Sam put her hand on Corey’s shoulder. “We’re going right now.” She glanced once at Joe as she left the room. He was staring at the wall.

  She measured the miles to Corey’s house. The little girl had walked nearly six miles to bring her Mr. Red. Six miles on a July afternoon along country roads with no sidewalks. By the time she reached the dismal old house that had been sectioned off for three separate families, Sam was steaming. But there was no one home at Corey’s to vent her anger on. The door was locked and Verna wasn’t there.

  “It’s okay,” Corey assured her. “She don’t need to be home. I can get in through the window.”

  Sam turned back to the car. “We’ll wait.”

  After dark, after three walking tours of Foxcove’s small downtown, a hamburger, fries and a giant milk shake, one trip to the grocery store and another to the park to swing, Sam passed by Corey’s house for the fourth time and saw a light in the Haskins’s portion. “I think your mother’s home,” she said.

  “Looks like it.”

  Sam walked Corey up to the door. The woman who opened it was overweight, prematurely aged and only slightly better groomed than her daughter had been before her bath. Verna snatched Corey inside and began to scream at her. Sam stuck her foot in the door so that Verna couldn’t close it.

  “Now listen and listen good,” she said quietly. “I’m reporting your behavior to the authorities. And when they come to check on Corey tomorrow, I’m going to tell them to look her over carefully to be sure you haven’t beaten her tonight. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Verna screeched.

  “I’m the mother she should have had.”

  Sam took one last look at Corey, who didn’t seem nearly as upset by her mother’s behavior as Sam was, then she turned and walked down the front steps.

  * * *

  IF I HAD a little g
irl.

  Joe poured rye over ice and swallowed it without a pause. It was hours since Sam had left but he still heard her words as if she had just said them. If I had a little girl.

  But, of course, she would never have a little girl. She would never have a child of either sex. He had cheated her out of the opportunity.

  When the door closed he poured himself another drink. The room was nearly dark, but the liquor was easy to find.

  “Joe?” Sam came in and turned on the lights. “Did you start dinner? I called to tell you I was going to be late, but you must have been out. Did you get my message?”

  “No.”

  “I hope you weren’t worried. Next time check the machine.”

  “Where in the hell have you been?”

  “Corey’s mother wasn’t home, and I couldn’t just leave her there, although that’s obviously what they both thought I should have done. I waited until she got home.”

  “She’s not your problem.”

  “What?” Sam’s voice was soft. It was usually soft when she was ready to explode.

  “I know you couldn’t just leave her. I understand that. But she’s not your problem. You’ve got to let go. You shouldn’t have brought her here today.”

  “I didn’t bring her. She came on her two little feet carrying a dying bird she wanted me to fix.”

  He swallowed another drink. Three burning gulps, and somehow, the pain was welcome.

  “Next time should I just turn her away?” Sam asked. “Is that what you would do? Tell her to walk the seven miles back home, never mind that she’s only a baby and she could get killed by some joyriding teenager?”

  “No.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “You should call child protective services and report her mother. Then let them handle it.”

  “What a great idea. So great, by the way, that I’ve already done it. I called the abuse hotline and told them the whole story. They’ll investigate and they’ll find out that Verna’s just inside the law. They’ll check for a while, maybe even do a little counseling, then they’ll close the case.”