Of Foster Homes and Flies

by Lutzke, Chad

  Who will take care of Ingrid? Who will ever mow the tiny lawn? I’ll have to leave my collection of books behind. I’ll miss school.

  I’ll miss the spelling bee!

  That hits the hardest. An entire year I’ve spent in anticipation and regret, only to be stopped from competing once again, and less than a week away.

  I unplug the phone again. I will not be calling 911, not now. No black vans will be parking outside, no medical personnel, and certainly no social workers taking me by the hand, spewing forth some half-sincere sympathy before I’m another file tucked away in a deep cabinet of forgotten children.

  Why am I not crying about Mom?

  My next move hasn’t come to me yet. I only know that come Wednesday I will be on Maguire Elementary’s auditorium stage, reciting words that no 12-year-old has the business of knowing how to spell. I will be the best they’ve ever seen. A plaque will be hung on the wall in my honor for years to come. Generations will try and match my spelling prowess but fail embarrassingly. Denny Christopher Newman: From latchkey kid to Harvard professor.

  My throat stiffens and I swallow hard. I began to cry. Not for Mom, but because I realize for the first time in my life I believe in myself. If there really ever was a curse, then I’m ending it here. The last of it sits stiff in a plastic-covered chair in the next room.

  ***

  I know at some point I need to call someone and report that Mom died. And I realize it will include me living in an orphanage or foster home or somewhere with strange people and in a strange bed. But there’s no way I’m heading into the next chapter of my life without doing everything I can to compete in the spelling bee, to place, to win. Just one ribbon. One reminder that I can take with me that I am adequate, that Mom was wrong–reading isn’t a waste of time, and neither is anything else a 12-year-old may find interesting.

  I pack my lunch for school and Ingrid follows my every step. The gunfire and the cowboy chatter from the TV start to get to me. I plug my nose and head into the living room. Ingrid stands behind me at the threshold of the room. She won’t enter. I keep focused on the TV and I don’t look at Mom, but I can see her out of my peripheral. I hit the switch on the TV and expect her to wake and yell at me that she was watching that and how dare I turn it off. She doesn’t.

  I head back into the dining room and then the kitchen. As habit, I recheck Ingrid’s food and water. Still full, still fresh. I grab my school bag and lunch and head back to the living room, taking a deep breath before entering. I stop at the door and look around the house, making sure there isn’t something I’m forgetting. On the dining room table sits a stack of stale toasted blueberry Pop-Tarts. I walk out the front door and lock it behind me.

  Goodbye, Mom.

  ***

  The wooden porch creaks under my feet as though seeing me off to school. The air, though thick and humid, carries the pleasant smell of mown grass and fried food. My neighbor, Mr. Artwell, is out trimming his bushes–perfectly sculpted globes in a straight line dividing his lawn and ours. Though every house on the street is in dire need of repair–and even some should be condemned–Mr. Artwell tries hard to forget where he lives–his yard a lush terrarium in the corner of a pig’s pen.

  “Where y’at, Denny. Off to school?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gonna be a hot one, this day!”

  “Sure feels like it.” Every word I speak feels like too many–hints that Mom is inside, dead and rotting.

  “Less than a week. Can ya last that long?”

  I stop and hold my breath. “Huh?”

  “Before they let ya out for the summer. Got plans for it?”

  I breathe. “Oh, yeah...Uhh, no I don’t. I mean, not really.”

  Too many words.

  “Well, don’t let me keep ya. Get on, before ya catch the train.”

  Across the street in front of me is a steep grassy incline sporting train tracks at the top. Though my school is within walking distance, if I’m stopped by the train it’s at least a ten-minute wait. I hurry up the hill and cross the tracks. Through a tall meadow for the next half mile, I can see the brick walls of Maguire Elementary.

  2:40 p.m.

  Five minutes before the bell rings, I’m sitting in class, my clothes are stuck to me and all I want to do is rip them off and jump into the nearest body of water. Every window in the building is open, at least two fans in each class. School funding doesn’t allow much in the way of air conditioners so classes are limited to their use, most rooms going without. Breathing in a room full of thirty steaming kids feels like drowning above water.

  I do my best to not think about Mom throughout the day and find it easier than I thought. I think more about what kind of person I must be to not be broken and in tears. I go back and forth between believing I’m feeling exactly what I should be and condemning myself for not feeling more. Though truly, the woman who gave birth to me died a long time ago. I’ve had years to mourn the loss.

  Once the bell rings, Carter catches up to me. I’ve known Carter my whole life. I guess you’d call him my best friend, though I think we’d be even closer if it weren’t for his lying. He feels the need to impress, exaggerating and sometimes just making stuff up. I’m not sure why. But despite that little wall built between us, he’s pretty special. I think it’s probably our love of books that secures our bond, though I suspect he hasn’t read half as much as he says he has.

  “Screw this heat. When I’m old enough, I’m moving north. New York, maybe.” Carter says.

  “Why New York?”

  “I dunno. Seems like they got a lot going on. Big buildings, bright lights, movie stars...”

  “There are more movie stars in California.” I argue.

  “Too hot.”

  “Nah, it’s dry there. No rain.”

  “Hot is hot.”

  “You’ve never been outside of NOLA, have you?”

  “I went to Texas with my dad once. He had business there. Mexicans and heat, that’s all it was. I’m tellin’ ya...you want to get away from the heat, you gotta go north.”

  It's like arguing with a newborn about walking. I change the subject. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Nothin’. Wanna come over?”

  It’s exactly what I want to do. Carter knows I’ll never invite him to my house, and if I did he’d decline the offer. He’s been there only twice. The first time, while we ate breakfast at the dining room table, Mom walked in front of the slider to let Ingrid out, the sun casting an outrageously detailed silhouette of her ageing breasts through her yellowing nightgown. Carter excused himself and went home. The next time he came over he couldn’t even look at Mom. Instead he fixed his gaze on the ground when passing by her chair on the way to my room. That time Mom was three fourths of her way into a bottle. She started in on Carter and his “fancy, rich boy” shoes. He had on the same shoes as me, only newer and a different color. His family–though better off than me and Mom–lived in the same neighborhood with the same train waking us at night. Carter hasn’t come over since.

  “And stay the night?”

  “Yeah, my parents already told me I could have someone stay over. We can stay up all night!”

  Something Carter always says but never does. He’s the first to drift off, always. I tell him I need to check with Mom and do some chores and then I’ll be over.

  ***

  Mr. Artwell sits on his porch in a rocker made of mint-green metal, rust bleeding from every seam, a near empty beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. He raises the beer and nods. The bushes he worked so diligently on earlier look no different. They never do. He’s on them so often they're never allowed a single branch to reach past the others. I respect his dedication but often wonder whether or not he’s trying to bury something deep down, staying occupied so as not to face it. Maybe there was a Mrs. Artwell who died, or left him for another. Which is worse?

  I climb the steps to the front porch; the wooden planks greet me. I unlock the door and
step inside to a dark and heated house packed with a putrid odor that makes the stench before a subtle musk in comparison. Our small house acts as an oven in the summer and an old A/C still hangs from the living room window, though it hasn’t worked in years.

  I gag and cover my mouth and shut the door quickly behind me. Other than a silhouette of Ingrid cast from the slider behind her, I can see nothing. My eyes need to adjust to the dark interior. I put my arms out in front of me and move past the TV and Mom and to Ingrid, who remains unwilling to enter the living room. Instead, she stays at the threshold, panting. The hair below her eyes is dark with tears. I pick her up. She is hot, much too hot. I take her to the sink and spray the back of her neck with water. I set her down and she shakes the water off. Somehow, despite all this, she seems happy. She runs in a little circle, then claws at my leg, then runs in circles again. The carpet near the slider is littered with small turds and three pools of urine cooking in the hot sun through the glass. Ingrid sees me looking at the mess and her excitement dulls, her ears down. I tell her it’s okay, that it isn’t her fault.

  I turn and look into the living room at the chair. My stomach catches in my throat. My mother is gone. I hold my eyes shut tight, adjusting them to the dark. Upon opening them, I see that Mom has slid off the plastic covering on the chair like a child slithering to the ground mid tantrum–on her knees with her back bent over the seat of the chair, her arms stuck in the air like a dog begging for a snack.

  I just stare. And I can’t stop. Mom’s eyes look to the ceiling now. At nothing. Mouth still agape. My mother, once full of selfish pride, now shamefully on the floor in an ironic pose of worship in front of the very device she spent most of her time with, the TV. I break my trance and run upstairs with my book bag. I empty it on my bed and fill it with a change of clothes, my pillow, and a few books. I grab a sheet from the hall closet and go downstairs and try and cover Mom with it. I do it without looking, my head turned. I miss. I reach down to pick the sheet up and see Mom’s nightgown is stained brown and yellow. I nearly puke and so head for the slider, go onto the back porch, and take in deep gulps of the wet New Orleans air.

  Ingrid follows me and whizzes in her usual spot out in the yard. She holds her nose in the air and wiggles it as though taking in fresh air. Leaving her outside isn’t an option, and I can’t leave her in the house. She could die in the heat without some A/C. I’d ask Carter but he has two dogs already and his father always complains about them–the expense of dog food, the vet bills, and the shed hair. I think of asking Mr. Artwell–he could use a companion–but I’m scared of drawing attention to the situation with Mom.

  I take a deep breath and head inside, then run into the living room. I grab the sheet and toss it over Mom again. This time it covers her completely, her arms propping it up from beneath like a child under covers, reading past bedtime. I have a few moments of self debate on whether I’m out of my mind or doing the right thing. Ultimately I know I’ve done nothing wrong and no one will blame me for waiting just five more days to report Mom’s death. I hope.

  Ingrid stands there at the threshold and watches me. She’s miserably hot, panting with no sign of stopping. Mom normally sprays her down with a water bottle throughout the day, keeping her cool. I walk over to the A/C and take the front panel off. I look for any obvious reason it may not work, loose wires, stuff like that. There’s nothing but deep holes and what looks like a filter caked thick with mold, nicotine, and dust. I realize I’ve no idea what I’m doing and replace the panel. I follow the cord, plug it in then, give the unit a good whack with my hand. I turn it on. It doesn’t make a sound, but I hear a small pop from somewhere in the house. I think I blew a fuse but the lights are still on.

  Sorry, Ingrid. I tried.

  I grab my bag and pick up Ingrid. She reeks of two packs a day. She whimpers a moment then licks my face, making everything more difficult. I leave the house with her and my stuff. Mr. Artwell still sits in his metal rocker. He raises his beer and I nod, then approach his picket fence.

  “Say, Mr. Artwell...you like dogs?”

  “Love ‘em.”

  “You want one?”

  “‘Can’t…’llergic. I’ll catch myself sneezin’ into the wee hours, wake up with crust in my eyes. It’s not pretty.” He points at Ingrid in my arms. “You’re not getting rid of that little one are ya?”

  “Uhh...No. I just know someone who has some puppies is all...told them I’d ask around.”

  Whenever I lie I think of Carter, and then I feel bad for thinking of him regarding lies. But he did it to himself, I guess.

  I go down the road four blocks until I hit 32nd Street and turn right. I’m staying out of the sun and under awnings and in the shadows of trees as much as I can; toting Ingrid in my sweating arms, her hair sticking to me, irritating my skin–a little panting furnace just as miserable as I am. Maybe more so.

  Another six blocks and I hit the Riverview Humane Society, a brick building painted with a mural of various animals on the sides. They close early on Fridays, but I know about the drop boxes–little chutes for both dogs and cats where people can deposit animals into their own separate pen, until Monday when they’ll be prepared for adoption.

  There are two large boxes attached to the side of the building. They both have signs above them crudely painted. One reads DOGS; the other reads CATS. I look into Ingrid’s eyes and try to make her understand that I’m saving her, that she will find a better home, that whether I drop her off tonight or some stranger does it next week, it needs to be done. Leaving Ingrid alone with Mom in a stifling house is far more cruel. This is the right thing to do.

  I hug Ingrid, squeezing her hard and smelling her yellowed fur. I hate my mother for leaving this burden on me. Ingrid turns her head toward me and licks the salt from my face. I lift the hinged wooden door and place Ingrid inside. She sticks her neck out toward me, trying hard to lick my face. I shut my eyes tight and let go. She slides down a short metal ramp and disappears. I can hear what sounds like chained links and a metal latch clicking into place. I let go of the lid and scream until my throat burns. For a moment I think I’ll lose control and that people will gather as I writhe on the ground, releasing every bit of pain within me. I groan through gritted teeth, my jaw clenching tight enough for my teeth to chip if they were decades older. I scream again and punch the muraled wall. My fingers instantly release from the fist they’d made and pain shoots through my knuckles. Two flaps of skin adhere to the rest of my hand by blood that seeps through two cuts. I look at the wall where I hit it, hoping to see damage–a reflection of the pain I just caused myself. The paint remains intact and shiny, mocking me.

  4:10 p.m.

  As I sit on Carter’s bedroom floor playing a board game, I feel more alone than I did earlier. With everything in me, I want to tell my friend about Mom. But I don’t. I consider how this may be the last weekend I ever spend at Carter’s house, and I want nothing more than to take advantage of it. But while my best friend is excited about having me over, I’m preoccupied with the thought of Mom’s death and the imagery of Ingrid trapped in a cage through the weekend, surrounded by broken-hearted pets who once held such admiration and trust for those who fed them, now confused and distressed.

  “Did you sign up for the bee next week?” I know he hasn’t, but it’s my way of entering the topic.

  “Nah. That’s your thing. I think I’m going to join the drama club, though. Suzie Wellings did it last year and said you get to wear all kinds of costumes and makeup and stuff.”

  “Why would you want to wear makeup?”

  “You know, like old age makeup, appliances, maybe some gore. Stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’d be cool.” I think about it for a moment. “I don’t think I could stand up in front of people and act. I’d be way too embarrassed.”

  “Oh, not me. I’m ready. I’d be all into it. I bet I could even make myself cry.”

  “How would you do that?”

  �
��Easy. Think of something really sad, like a bad memory or something.”

  Maybe it is easy.

  “I'll think about my Grandpa,” Carter says.

  I recall Carter’s grandpa. He was a real nice guy–took Carter and I gigging for frogs a few times. If I lost someone like that I’d cry too.

  “Yeah, I liked him.”

  Carter looks at me and almost doesn’t say it. “You….you could think about your dad.”

  I consider whether or not I could cry on cue by thinking of lost loved ones, and I feel heartless. I think of Ingrid and my throat constricts, my jaw tightens.

  “I’m sorry, Denny. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s been a while now. I’m fine.”

  Carter quickly changes the subject. “I’m glad you could stay the weekend.”

  I feel like what he really wants to say is that he’s glad I could get away from my drunk of a mother, that he hates her and no kid deserves a parent like that. He doesn’t say it, but he would have been right.

  “Me too.” I make my move in the game. It’s a dumb move, but I do it on purpose. I want the game to end. I can’t concentrate.

  “Nobody’s ever beat me at this game,” Carter says.

  It’s a lie. I beat him at least twice last summer. But I don’t argue. “When we’re done here, how about some bikes.”

  “It’s a little hot for that, isn’t it?”

  “You and the heat...what gives? You’d think you were born in the arctic.” I get Carter to laugh at himself and he gives in. After the game we end up on the dirt trails behind the school until supper.

  Saturday

  8:10 a.m.

  I wake to the smell of bacon and toast. Carter’s mom has been cooking breakfast. She always does that when I stay over. I’m not sure if she does it every morning or my staying the night is a special enough occasion for it. Carter is still asleep. I think he made it to 1:00 a.m. That’s pretty good for him. I didn’t doze off until around 3:30 and even then I needed to have the TV on. I couldn’t get my mind off things. I kept thinking about the nights I’ll have to spend at home, with Mom in the living room. Thankfully I’ll be at school through the days. But it’s the nights I’m worried about. When everything is still and my ceiling acts as a projector for my mind’s eye, and I’m alone and it’s quiet. No snoring, no Ingrid. Just my thoughts, my what-ifs. But last night, as I tossed and turned on the floor of Carter’s bedroom, one thought gave me enough peace to finally drift off into sleep: The prize ribbon.