Of Foster Homes and Flies

by Lutzke, Chad

  Sunday

  7:10 a.m.

  I wake up and Sam is still sleeping, our backs turned to one another. I carefully sit up and watch her sleep for a bit. I thought she was beautiful when I first saw her at Greek’s, but as I got to know her, her personality complements her like no amount of makeup, jewelry, or hairstyle could ever do. I’m sitting here thankful that I met her, but I know that today she’ll leave and I’ll be here and that’ll be it. But just like with Dad, I try and focus on the good memories and keep the gratitude rather than mourn the loss. It’s something that rubbed off on me from Aunt Sunny. And it works.

  Eventually Sam stirs awake, and when she sees me she smiles. And there’s a twinkle there from wet eyes and the morning sun.

  “Good morning,” she says as she stretches.

  “Morning. How’d you sleep?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “Same.”

  “So where can we get some breakfast around here?”

  I tell her that Sambo’s has great breakfast but that I’m not hungry. It’s a lie. But I know she doesn’t have much money, and that even though she needs it more than I do, she’ll use half to make sure I eat.

  I help Sam with her bedroll and we pack our things up and head to Sambo’s. The place smells of old cigarettes and hash browns and already it’s half full. Most are on their way to church and some are just regulars who sip on coffee all day and eat the occasional piece of pie, maybe a basket of fries.

  I don’t think Sam believes I’m not hungry because she keeps asking me if I’m sure I don’t want anything, and then when her food arrives she tries to get me to take bites. Blueberry pancakes. Finally I tell her that even if I am hungry that I’ve got food at home and she needs every penny she can get.

  “Let me see that book I gave you,” Sam says.

  I get the book out of my bag and give it to her. She pulls out a red felt-tip pen from her backpack, opens the book, and starts writing on the inside, then hands it back to me and tells me not to look at it until later.

  “I think you should take a bus,” I say to her.

  “And why’s that?”

  I hesitate a minute, trying to figure out how best to say it.

  “Because I think you’re too nice and I’d hate to see someone take advantage of that.”

  “That’s sweet, Denny, but I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know that, though. I think you trust people too much. It’s ugly out there.”

  “Denny, I know it is, and I’ve seen much more of it than I’ve probably let on. But that’s no way to live your life, on guard like that. I can’t let the potential of something bad happening strip me of my freedom. No one should have to do that.”

  I can't argue with her. I envy her outlook on life and wish I had the same, looking past all the bad and living life on my own terms despite what may be going on around me.

  Sam reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. “You understand what I’m saying, Denny? You can’t live your life in fear. I know you get it, you’ve just spent a year in regret because of a decision you made based on fear. But you learned from it. And now look at you. You’re facing it. You’re winning! Just, don’t let it be the last time. Make it a part of you, every day in every way.”

  Hearing someone acknowledge my life like that really puts it into perspective for me and I sit there dumbfounded, considering every word Sam says, like the deepest secrets of the universe have just been revealed and I need them to soak in.

  I expect her to let go of my hand when she’s done talking but instead she puts her other hand under mine and holds it gently. “Denny, I want to thank you for your hospitality and for keeping me company last night. I’m so glad we met, and I’ll be thinking of you Wednesday while you’re at your spelling bee.”

  It feels wrong hearing her thank me. I can’t think of a single thing I did for her other than share half a pillow. I shake my head in protest and tell her there’s nothing to thank me for. Then she smiles and says she needs to go. I’m almost mad when I hear her say it, not at her but at life in general, I guess.

  Gratitude.

  I want to pay for her meal, give her a ride on my bike, hold every door open from here to Ventura, but there’s nothing I can do. I feel helpless. Sam sets $3.00 on the table and stands up. I jump from my seat and wrap my arms around her. We hug for probably a full minute, maybe two. I don’t cry–I grit my teeth, flare my nostrils, and breathe harder than I should–but I don’t cry. I’m thankful.

  “Good luck, Denny.”

  “You too….” I start to say something else and realize I’ve got nothing. I’m stalling her. She walks to the counter, pays for her food, gives me a wave and a smile and walks out the door.

  11:30 a.m.

  I stick around Sambo's for another two hours, order a cup of coffee–because it’s the only thing I can get with $1.25–and watch people come and go. A man and woman sit in the booth beside me and I can hear them talking about baby names. They’re expecting. She wants a girl and he wants a boy. But when it comes down to it she doesn’t really care either way. She just wants to be a mother. The two eat their breakfast and leave and a group of elderly women come in. They talk about the church service they just attended and how they like the old pastor and the way he did things and that the new one is just too worldly and they’re not sure they want to go to that church anymore, that maybe the church on Olive Street should be their new home, and besides, that church has that program that helps feed the homeless while the other church only raises money to send their youth group to rock concerts, festivals, and camps.

  I never drink coffee and the caffeine hits me. It gets harder to sit still and I want to leave but I dread going home so I get a refill, knowing I won’t drink it. Instead, I end up sipping on it and the next thing you know it’s gone and I can’t sit still anymore so I leave and I decide that coffee isn’t for me.

  I head to Carter’s but then as I near his driveway I remember he and his family go out to eat every Sunday after church, so I go to the dirt trails behind the school instead. I’m not sure if it’s the caffeine or me doing everything I can to avoid my house, but I spend the afternoon working on the dirt trails, packing new dirt on the jumps, pulling weeds, and hunting for hazardous rocks on the trail. Then I head into a large group of trees, clear an area in the grass and declare it a new meeting place for Carter and I. It’s in the shade, it’s private, and now it’s homey and inviting. I take some string I find hanging from a tree and make a cross out of some tall, nearby reeds and hang it on a tree in the new fort, like a flag declaring this property owned by Carter Scofield and Denny Newman. The cross is something I learned in Sunday school when Dad used to take me. I guess it’s fitting seeing how it’s Sunday and all, plus there’s not much more you can make with a piece of string and some tall grass.

  After the coffee wears off I sit in the new fort and think. I sit and think for much longer than I ever thought I could. While I’m here I realize that everything I’ve done all day is a waste of time. Come Wednesday, this won’t be my stomping grounds. And the cross and the clearing will be nothing more than a salute to Carter and our times together.

  4:30 p.m.

  Instead of cutting through the field, I go out of my way and take the long way home. I pass by Ron’s barbershop–the shades are pulled and the sign reads “CLOSED -WE’LL CATCH YOU TOMORROW.” I can see 32nd Street from here and I get sick thinking of the Humane Society and Ingrid still being caged until tomorrow. I pass by Sambo’s and I can only see two people in there. I look at the booth that Sam and I sat in this morning. It’s empty.

  The whole way home my stomach feels hollow; I’m starving and shaky. As I draw closer to my house I half expect to see it surrounded by a posse of coroner’s, police officers, and social workers–the area taped off like a crime scene, my mother on a gurney, her arms still out and forming a tent under a bleach-white sheet. I come to my street and turn the corner. There’s no such scene. Mr. Artwell
is out washing his car and my porch sits jutting out from the row of houses like an eroding maw waiting for its prey. Me.

  As I pass by Mr. Artwell’s house he doesn’t see me. Good. I’m afraid he’ll ask about Ingrid. He’s outside so often he’ll notice I haven’t been home since I left with her, and here I am without her. I fumble with the keys to unlock the door when Mr. Artwell spots me. He calls my name but I pretend like I don’t hear him and I charge into the house, slamming the door behind me. I probably don’t need to tell you what another forty-eight hours of Mom stewing did to the air in the house. I dry heave and run for the slider and head outside. I stand on the back porch and look inside. It’s all surreal: The Pop-Tarts on the table, Ingrid’s turds on the floor, Mom a sheeted ghost in front of the TV. Each scene holds its own merit in telling the same terrifying story.

  A shadow grows tall to my left between my house and the next. I freeze, knowing it’s Mr. Artwell. I can hear the shuffling of his feet and that humming. All day he hums. Humming old TV theme songs: Mary Tyler Moore, The Flintstones, MASH. And right now it’s like the scream of a banshee, calling me to a world of utter darkness. I stand mashed against the slider glass, my eyes shut tight like an ostrich with its head in the sand. The humming grows louder.

  I peek with one eye, just slightly. Mr. Artwell has turned off his faucet and now stands at the back of his house winding up the garden hose. I grip the slider handle tightly and pull. Slowly. The thing has a squeak that is much louder than any TV theme hummed if opened too hard. I pull at the door slower still and it opens inches. I can smell Mom and begin to worry that it’s only a matter of time before Mr. Artwell can too. Squeak or not, I have to get inside. I can’t stand there any longer while the rot of my mother slips through the door and into the face of my curious neighbor. I yank the door open and run inside, shutting the slider behind me along with the heavy drape, darkening the house all the more.

  In my panic, I’ve stepped in every turd Ingrid left on the floor. But I’m not worried about it. The smell in the house can get no worse. I take my shoes off. I want to toss them out back, but I picture Mr. Artwell’s face pressed against the glass, waiting to inquire about Ingrid, wondering about the reek and humming the theme to Three’s Company.

  Come and knock on our door. We’ve been waiting for you.

  Instead, I lock the door and leave my shoes there on the floor and head to the fridge to get some milk. As soon as I put my hand on the handle of the fridge I realize it’s not running. I open it and am hit with a wall of spoiled eggs, milk and meat. I shut the door and go to the pantry where the circuit breakers are. There’s a breaker that has popped. I realize it must have happened when I messed with the A/C on Friday. I flip the breaker and the refrigerator kicks on. I’m thirsty and need a drink. I know there’s coke in the fridge, but I’m not about to open it again. Not right now. I grab a quick glass of water and a package of crackers from the cupboard and head upstairs.

  My room barely provides sanctuary from the odor, and only if my door is closed and the window open. Now my appetite is gone and I set the crackers on my dresser. I grab my school books from the bed and sit propped against my headboard. I open a folder that contains every word that has been on a spelling test for the past two years. The words have gotten too easy by now and so I just glance through them, taking a bit more time on the ones that used to be difficult.

  Necessarily.

  Eloquence.

  Acquaintance.

  I grab a book that my English teacher let me borrow. It has both 5th and 6th grade spelling lists in it. I’ve been studying it through most of the year and am near the end of it for the third time. I know every word. If the contest has any of the words on any of the lists here on my bed, then I’m sure to win. No doubt there will be some that aren’t, but overall I feel more than prepared. I study for another ninety minutes. I recite them, use them in a sentence, then close my eyes and spell them.

  I feel weak, almost faint, and start to doze off. But before I do I grab some sticks of incense and light a few, planting them firmly into candles Mom had in her room. The incense is several years old and smells of musty vanilla, though the package reads “Midnight Rain.” Mom would light it on special occasions, like when we used to celebrate Thanksgiving and Easter and have people over for dinner. Even then she’d drink all day, but she’d always dress up. And even cook the meal.

  Monday

  3:40 a.m.

  I wake up suffocating. I’d been holding my breath in a dream. Mom had crept up the stairs, the sheet still over her, arms fixed in their armchair position. She took each stair unusually slow, her feet pounding harder than they should have, rattling my bedroom window. It seemed to go on for hours. As she climbed the stairs she screamed about Ingrid.

  Where’s my baby? What did you do with my baby? You killed my baby!

  When she finally reached my room, the sheet had fallen from her, and her nightgown was lit up bright as though a lamp were stuffed underneath. Every contour of her body, every hair, bit of flab, sag, and wrinkle could be seen through it. She reeked horribly. But not of feces or urine, not of infectious bacteria and rot, but of alcohol. It burned my throat, my eyes watered. It was as though I were swimming in it. Mom stumbled to the bed, feet pounding, window rattling. She attempted to get in bed with me but every time she tried part of her would fall off. One of her arms, her nose, a foot. Her teeth dropped from her mouth and crashed onto the floor, scattering under the bed like a shattered plate.

  When I wake, I shoot up in bed and catch my breath. The smell of Mom has grown worse. Even with my door shut it penetrates my safe haven. I can’t get back to sleep and I remember the book that Sam had given me. I grab it from my bag and open the cover. There on the first page, written in red ink, it says: “Denny, I believe in you. Love, Sam,” followed by a ten-digit number–her number in Ventura. I can feel tears coming and I fight them back. I read what Sam wrote over and over again. I dissect each word.

  Believe.

  Love.

  I’ve studied words upon words, easy words, difficult words. But these two seem foreign to me. I try and start the book and keep reverting back to the profound red ink. Finally, I close the book and cry until I fall back asleep.

  7:20 a.m.

  My school bag is packed and my bed made. While brushing my teeth I feel like I can’t get my teeth clean, like having my mouth open in the house is just filling it with the thick reek of death. I’ve smelled death once before. It was a swan that Carter and I came across near Kemper Park. The poor thing still had most of its linen-white feathers intact, its feet still bright orange, yet death had taken it–the opposite of my mother in every way. And the smell was of old wet, rotten cardboard with an underlying sweetness. The smell now that threatens to stain my teeth and soak my tongue reeks of the plaque from used floss and the unflushed toilets of a million beaches, yet somehow still carries that tinge of sweetness.

  I plan out my every next move before heading downstairs, and with bag in hand I take a deep breath and head down. I’m famished. I need to get something to eat, but nothing that’ll keep me in the house, and definitely nothing from the fridge. As I pass the dining room table, I note the blueberry Pop-Tarts that still sit stacked on the paper plate. I grab them and dump them in the trash–the last bit of love Mom could muster–then fetch four more from the cupboard and run for the front door. I’ll eat them on the way to school, then grab some water from the drinking fountain.

  “Have a good one, Denny.” Mr. Artwell yells from his porch as I cross the street. I’m startled but wave at him and run for the tracks. For a moment I think I left the slider unlocked, maybe even open. I can’t chance Mr. Artwell smelling Mom. I stop and begin to turn back when I hear the train coming.

  No way it’s open, maybe unlocked but not open. He can’t smell her all the way from his house. I’m being hypersensitive. Hypersensitive: H.Y.P.E.R.S.E.N.S.I.T.I.V.E. Hypersensitive.

  The movies always make it look like bodies do
n’t smell for weeks.

  Yeah, but the heat.

  The spelling bee is the day after tomorrow. I’ll figure something out after school to help with the smell.

  What, exactly?

  As the train grows louder, I run toward the tracks, opening the Pop-Tarts on the way.

  3:40 p.m.

  I take my time getting home from school. I walk along the bike trails behind the school and then I stop into Hudson’s Hardware. I have no money and there isn’t a thing in here I need, but the A/C is on and the store always smells good. Like wood and fresh paint. Twice Mr. Hudson asks me if I need help finding anything, and then I spot a giant roll of plastic. I’m not sure what it’s for, but the morbid thought of wrapping Mom in it to dull the odor crosses my mind, so I leave for home to search Mom’s purse for money.

  When I get home, surprisingly, Mr. Artwell isn’t outside. Only two things ever tear him away from his porch–outside of natural human necessities or tending to his lawn: Getting low on cigars and beer or playing bingo. But not even the bingo hall keeps him away from his beer. Everyone knows he sneaks his lidded cups full of flat beer into the hall, but nobody says a word because Mr. Artwell isn’t your average drinker. Sure, he may never have an empty hand, but you’ll never find him drunk. Not ever. He’s a sipper and that’s it. He can make a single beer last an entire day, from noon to nightfall. And I suppose TV time can be added to the short list of things that’ll pull Mr. Artwell away from the outdoors. People aren’t born humming tunes like that.

  I unlock the front door, take a deep breath, hold it and then head inside. Mom’s purse is always right next to her chair. I bend to quickly grab it and stir a congregation of flies that have discovered her. I run back out with the purse and sit on the porch steps. I open Mom's purse, and two ripped halves of a post card catch my eye. The writing on the back is unreadable, blocked out with thick scribbles from a marker. But the signature says it's from Aunt Sunny. I piece together the card and gaze at the beautiful sunset they form. "Greetings from California." I think of Sam and wonder how far she's gotten.