by J. A. Little
Eventually, Kayla, Andy, and Claire are the only guests left other than me. Caleb fell asleep in Aiden’s arms about an hour ago and is now in bed. Ashley is sitting quietly on the couch watching a movie with the doll I bought her tucked under her arm. I’m glad she likes it. I was worried it would freak her out. The lady at the store assured me that wouldn’t happen, but I’m a paranoid motherfucker. For some reason, I kept picturing Chucky from those Child’s Play movies.
While everyone is saying their good-byes, I start to clean up so that I can avoid the pleasantries. I’m not in the mood to smile and shake hands with people I don’t know. Emily frowns at me, but lets me escape.
As I bend down to pick up a pretzel hiding under the coffee table, a pair of shoes appears next to me. I know exactly who they belong to. Shoes aren’t something I usually pay attention to—unless they’re on her feet.
“Hey,” I say, standing up.
“Hi.” She smiles at me. It’s a genuine smile, not an I’m-being-polite smile. “We’re heading out.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to do. I try to recall how I usually say good-bye to my female friends…but then I realize I don’t really have any. Kayla rolls her eyes and laughs before leaning in and sliding her hands over my shoulders. At first I’m completely motionless. Her touch feels amazing, but she’s caught me off guard. I come to my senses just as I feel her starting to let go. I quickly wrap my arms around her. She’s fucking tiny. If I squeeze too hard, I might break her, and yet my body aches to hold her tighter.
“I’ll see you Wednesday,” she whispers in my ear just before planting a kiss on my cheek and pulling away.
As I watch her guide her little sister out, smiling at Emily and thanking my brother, I find myself wishing I could be more for her—that I could change my past. But I can’t. I have nothing to offer.
Regardless, I like her, and I want her to stick around. I guess I’m gonna have to make this “friends” thing work.
* * *
I call to check in with Tracy around nine and then take a seat next to my brother on his couch. He hands me a beer.
“Everything okay?” he asks, turning on the television to check the hockey scores.
“Nothing Tracey can’t handle.” I pop the top of my beer and take a swig.
“So, what’s up with you and Kayla?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t help but notice that both you and our little caseworker cutie disappeared for awhile there. Where’d you run off to?”
“The study. I wanted to apologize for last weekend without an audience.”
“Apologize?”
“Yeah. I said some shit, okay? I was an asshole. We’re trying to work together to help Matty and that won’t work if we can’t get along.”
“Okay. Did you work it all out?” he asks.
I nod. “We’re friends.” Aiden laughs. “Shut up, douche!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s funny. You don’t have female friends. How long do you think that’s gonna last?”
“It’ll last,” I mumble over the lip of my beer. “It has to.” I say this last part so quietly that I know he doesn’t hear me.
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it?”
“Dude, I told you I wasn’t going to keep bugging you about it. I was just curious.”
We sit for awhile watching the week’s sports highlights before he speaks again. “You like her though, right?”
“Aiden.”
“Sorry,” he chuckles, hands up in surrender.
I spend the night on the couch, not eager to drive back to my lonely apartment. I wake the next morning to the sound of Ashley shrieking. It’s horrifying.
“Uncle Dean,” she squeals, bursting through the guest-room door. “Caleb says the doll you gave me is his!” She climbs up into bed with me and buries herself under my arm.
“Is mine!” Caleb shouts before running away. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh. Little shit.
“Where’s your mom, half pint?” I ask, throwing my arm over my head.
“In the kitchen.”
“This is definitely mom territory, not uncle territory,” I groan. She whines, sticking out her lower lip. It’s my fucking kryptonite, and my niece knows it.
“Caleb!” I shout. “Come here.” I see his little head poke around the door. “If you give the doll back to your sister, I’ll take you for an ice cream next time I come over.”
His eyes light up, and he throws the doll down at Ashley’s feet. Picking it up, she hugs it tightly with a satisfied smile.
“That’s great parenting, Dean. Thanks,” Emily gripes from the doorway as Ashley jumps up and runs out of the room.
“Hey, I’m not their parent. I can bribe and spoil all I want,” I laugh.
“Just remember, payback’s a bitch.”
“That would only work if I planned on having kids, Em. I don’t.” I opt not to look at my sister-in-law as I say this. I don’t want to see the look on her face. She doesn’t comment, thankfully. “I guess I should get up and go rescue Tracey.”
“There’s coffee in the kitchen whenever you’re ready. And Aiden made blueberry pancakes.”
“Thanks.” I yawn. It’s kind of nice to be a part of a traditionally domestic lifestyle for a morning.
* * *
When I get back to the Wyatt House, music is blasting, which means the boys are doing their chores.
“It’s Costco day. I was thinking of taking Logan and Matty,” Tracey tells me.
“Why don’t I go and take just Matty? Kayla said to spend more time with him. Maybe he’ll open up a little. We’re working on getting him to trust me.”
“I think she meant go play ball with him or something,” Tracey laughs.
“If I did that, he’d automatically know I was trying to connect with him. A trip to Costco is unassuming.”
“Smart man.” Tracey smiles. “Here’s the list.”
Matty agrees happily, probably because it gets him out of cleaning the boys’ second-floor toilet. Logan’s not quite as happy, but for some reason, he doesn’t complain. Not once in all the time I’ve been working at Wyatt House has a kid not complained when having to pick up someone else’s chores. Even if it’s for his brother. Something’s up. But today I’m focusing on Matty.
“You ready?” I ask as Matty pulls on his coat.
“Yeah.”
In the car, I set my phone in the cradle and connect it to the stereo. When I turn it on, the car is flooded with music. Matty turns his head slightly to look at me.
“What?” I ask, putting the car into drive.
“You listen to classical music?”
“Why’s that so surprising?”
He shrugs. “I guess I thought of you as more of a, I don’t know, hardcore music fan.”
I laugh. It’s an honest laugh that rattles my whole upper body. “Classical music relaxes me,” I explain. “Why? What do you like to listen to?”
“Eminem. Wiz Khalifa. Chris Brown.”
“I listen to them, too—when I’m in a different mood.”
“You do not. You’re just trying to pull that bonding bullcrap.” This kid is smart, but he’s wrong.
“Look through.” Matty leans forward and starts scanning through my playlists. “See?”
“That’s just weird.”
“It’s not weird,” I chuckle. “It’s good to have music for every mood.”
“This stuff really relaxes you?”
I nod. “Do you ever listen to music when you’re anxious?” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Matty tense up slightly. “You don’t have to answer, Matty. I’m just curious.”
He’s quiet for longer than I expect, so I’m surprised when he answers me. “I don’t get anxious. I just have panic attacks.”
His answer is clinical and unemotional. I’m treading on thin ice here, so I have to make sure I pay attention to his body language. It’s hard
when I’m driving and have to focus on the road, too, but he’s talking and I don’t want to lose my chance.
“Do you know what causes them?” Matty starts fidgeting. “Is Kayla the only one who can bring you down?” I ask, changing direction slightly. He nods, biting down on his lip. “Have you always had them?”
“No. Not really. Well, since my mom—” Matty stops abruptly. I’m not gonna push this.
“You should try classical music every once in awhile. I’ve got it on my desktop in my office. I can download some for you if you want.”
Matty shrugs. “Whatever. What’s The Carpenters?”
I laugh. “Pray you never find out.”
Twenty minutes later we pull into the Costco parking lot.
“This is a grocery store?” Matty asks, his eyes wide.
“You’ve never been to Costco?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh, well, you’re in for a treat then,” I laugh.
Matty and I grab a cart and a flatbed and begin wandering through the warehouse. He opens up some, although not totally. But he doesn’t need to—what he doesn’t say speaks volumes. He says he used to like school, but because he didn’t talk much, people called him stupid. So now he hates it. I find out he enjoys playing basketball, but won’t try out for the team because they change foster homes and schools too much.
“Why do you think you change foster homes so much?” I ask. I know the answer; it’s in the record. Only once has the move has been because of Matty. He knows, too, but he shrugs. I let it go. Matty eyes me warily when I pick up five huge packages of toilet paper.
“You guys go through a lot of TP,” I tell him.
He reads the list off to me as I grab shit. This must be a quarterly trip, because Tracey has things like toothbrushes and deodorant on it. Matty stops reading, and I look at him in question.
“What’s next?” I ask. He hands the list to me. Condoms. Yep, it’s definitely a quarterly trip. I grab the economy-size box of condoms and hand the list back to Matty. His face is bright red.
About two hours later, I’ve spent almost three grand on food and supplies. We load up the back of Tracey’s Suburban and head home.
“My brother snuck out last night,” Matty says quickly and quietly. It takes a moment for what he’s just said to sink in.
“What?” I snap.
He looks at me blankly. “Logan snuck out to see his girl after Tracey went to sleep. I heard him go.”
“How?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “He wasn’t gone that long. He left at about eleven and was back by one. That’s all I know.”
“Thanks for telling me.” I’m seething inside, but I don’t want Matty to see it, so I grit my teeth together and breathe through my nose.
“You gonna tell him it was me that told you?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Matty’s quiet the rest of the ride home. He notices when I turn the classical music back on, though. Now I know why Logan cleaned that toilet without complaint. As much as I want to beat some ass when we get back to the house, I can’t. If I do, Logan will be able to figure out exactly how I found out. So I won’t. Not today, at least. Tomorrow is another story.
* * *
The following evening, when Logan gets home from his first shift at work, he pops into my office.
“I’m back,” he mumbles.
I curl my fingers. “Come on in. How was the job today?”
“It was cool.” He shrugs. “I didn’t do shit, but they showed me where everything was and made me fill out paperwork. By the way, I need help.”
“Doing what?”
Logan starts digging in his backpack and pulls out a crinkled piece of paper. “They want my Social Security number, but I don’t know it. They gave me this to fill out.” He hands me a W-4 form and sits down. “What’s it for?”
“Taxes.”
“What taxes? I gotta pay taxes?”
“Yes, Logan, you have to pay taxes,” I chuckle, trying to smooth out the paper. “Well, you have to at least file them.”
“How come? Wait, are they gonna take it out of my paycheck? That’s bullshit! What if I don’t want to pay them?”
I spend the next ten minutes explaining the little bit I know about taxes.
“That’s messed up,” he grumbles after I’ve finished. A few more profanities escape from under his breath as he starts to leave.
“Before you go, you and I need to have a little chat.”
Logan turns back toward me. I can see him scanning my face, trying to figure out what this conversation is going to be about, but I’m not giving anything away.
“Sit back down,” I say firmly, not giving him the option to decline. He sits down slowly. His body language tells me he’s just put up his guard. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about Saturday night?”
“What are you talking about?” he asks innocently.
“I’m not playing games with you, Logan. We have rules for a reason. You can’t go around breaking them whenever you feel like it.”
“They’re stupid rules,” he spits.
“I let a lot slip by in this house, but there are limits. No drinking, no drugs, no breaking curfew, and absolutely no blowing off restriction.”
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite. It’s not like I’m in jail for being a fucking meth junkie.” His words hit me hard—I wasn’t expecting them so soon. My arrest and subsequent sentence was in the papers—there’s nothing I can do to prevent anyone from finding out—but usually the kids live here a bit longer before trying to throw it in my face.
“Do not try to use me as an example to defend yourself,” I say sharply. “I wasn’t in jail at your age, and I wasn’t a junkie.”
“Bullshit!” he yells. This kid’s about to push me to a place I’d rather not go.
“Regardless,” I snap. “This isn’t about me. Prison is not the direction you want to go.”
“I snuck out. I didn’t rob a fucking bank.”
“You live under my roof, you follow my rules. You’re on restriction for the rest of the week and all weekend,” I say, rubbing my hand over my face. “You go to school, you go to work, and you come home. Do you understand? This weekend you do not leave this property. Period.”
Logan glares at me, his jaw clenched. He’s shaking his head. “Fine! What-the-fuck-ever. Doesn’t matter this week anyway.” He storms out of my office. This is precisely why I need someone strong in this new position. Logan’s size and attitude alone would be intimidating to most. Luckily, I’m not most.
* * *
“You heading out?” Emily asks as I pass her office the next morning.
“I’ll be back in a little over an hour.”
“No rush.” She smiles and looks back at her computer.
I don’t have to drive to where I’m going. It’s only a few blocks away, and the cold winter air clears my head. I smile at Mrs. Thibodeau, a little old lady with white hair and a quick wit, and offer her my arm as I climb the old stone steps.
“Thank you, Dean. You’re such a sweet boy,” she says, patting my hand. She says this frequently—every time I have the urge to tell her she’s the only one who thinks so, but I don’t because I like her company. I help her to her pew and then sit down a few rows ahead of her, kneeling and bowing my head.
I’ve been coming to church most Tuesday mornings for the last six years. When I was a kid my parents made us go every Sunday, but I never understood why. It wasn’t until I was locked up that I found my faith. It’s cliché, but it’s true. I spent a lot of time talking with the priest, sorting out exactly what happened to me. It helped a little, so when I started working at Wyatt House, I found my way here, to this little neighborhood church. I use the time to focus and look for forgiveness. I’m hoping I’ll find it someday.
A little later I try to call Kayla to confirm our lunch for the next day only to get her voicemail. I don’t leave a message. A couple of minutes later,
I get a text.
In a mtng. What’s up?
I snort to myself and type a response.
Should U B texting in a meeting?
No. UR right. C ya
Hold up!
C what U get? LOL.
Don’t tease. I have a serious issue.
That sounds dangerous. Lol. What can I do for U?
Are you cumming tomorrow?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Tell me I did not just send that. I immediately start typing again.
Coming. I meant COMING. Stupid phone.
That’s right, blame it on the phone and not my filthy fucking mind. Kayla doesn’t respond. I hope to God I didn’t just land myself with a sexual harassment charge. Twenty minutes later, my phone rings.
“You got me into trouble, mister.”
“I did?”
“I was in the middle of Sensitivity Training and spit my soda out all over the table. The presenter figured out I was texting and not paying attention. Not cool.”
“It was an accident,” I say as convincingly as possible. “My phone did it.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. You realize that autocorrect jumps to words you use regularly first, right?” she teases. Before I can think of a clever retort, she starts talking again. “Now what was your question?”
“Are you coming for lunch tomorrow?” The line is silent. I think I might have lost her. “Kayla?”
“Doesn’t sound any less dirty when you actually say it,” she giggles.
“Yes or no, dammit?” I laugh.
“Yes. I’ve got some things to do in the morning, but as far as I know, I’m good to go.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
