Jenny bounced Grover gently in her arms but her voice was cold. “And that gave you the right to take him?”
“Anyone could have,” I said.
Jenny was watching her sister. “Tracey called me at work and her voice was so … I don’t know how to describe it. I dropped everything. We searched the building,” she said softly, “the Dumpster.”
So Tracey had been scared, really scared, I thought. Good.
“We even searched the street. Tracey thought … she thought Grover might have been hit by a car.”
“He could have been,” I said, aiming my words, small and hard, at Tracey.
“It happened so fast. How could it happen so fast?” Jenny seemed to be talking more to herself than to me. She continued to bounce Grover. “Tracey ran upstairs to get a few toys and then the phone rang and …” Jenny shifted Grover to her hip. “What I don’t understand, Ben, is why, when you saw Grover alone …? Why didn’t you just stay with him till Tracey came back?”
If you helped Tracey—I remembered Mrs. T.’s question at that stupid picnic—don’t you think you’d be helping Grover, too?
I blanked out the words. “She left him alone,” I said loudly.
“Yes, she did”—Jenny’s voice was bleak—“and you took him—”
“She left him alone,” I repeated.
“And both of you”—Jenny spoke over me—“both of you could have hurt Grover.”
Not me, I thought fiercely. I was trying to save him.
“La!” Grover cried.
I handed him Lambie Pie and watched as Jenny carried the kid and his toy to her sister. When Tracey clutched them, powdered sugar went all over her T-shirt. Even then she didn’t stop crying.
Grover peered into her face, touched her cheek. “Wet, wet,” he murmured as they followed McDevitt out the door.
I heard their voices, heard the words “kidnap” and “press charges,” and then I didn’t hear anything more.
She left him alone. I held tight to those words. I was right to do what I did.
It was strange how Tracey had cried without hardly making a sound.
I blanked out my sudden mind-picture of Tracey. Her face all quivery. Her black, quiet tears.
She left him alone. She left him alone. She left him alone.
When McDevitt returned, I said the words right out loud. “She left him alone. I wrote the whole thing down. What are you going to do?”
McDevitt ran a hand over his face. “She left her child alone,” he said tiredly. “I can’t tell you how many parents do that. It was just for a minute, they tell me. After the accident.”
“Then Tracey shouldn’t have Grover, right?” I asked.
“Leaving her kid alone was stupid—and possibly dangerous.” McDevitt tossed me a few paper towels and bent to wipe up the orange soda. “I bet she won’t do it again. You saw the poor girl. She couldn’t stop crying.”
McDevitt straightened. “But I’m also wondering about you. When you saw that kid alone, why didn’t you return him to his mother? Or just sit with him till she came back? Or even call the police?”
I kept my mouth shut.
McDevitt took the soggy towels from me. “I don’t know much about you, Ben, but I know a little about people. Were you trying to protect the kid?” He glanced at me sharply. “Or get back at the mother?”
Both of you could have hurt Grover. Jenny’s words ran through my head.
The towels dripped on McDevitt’s shiny shoes. The man sighed. “Sit down, Ben,” he said. “I’ll get you a Coke.”
I was still sitting there, Coke can unopened, when Mr. T. arrived.
Everything pulsed under those harsh lights. They played tricks with Mr. T.’s face. Left his cheeks sagging, his eyes peering from folds of skin. I had to glance away.
“Ahhh,” the man said.
“A theft of two hundred dollars—and you don’t want to press charges?” McDevitt asked behind him.
Mr. T. shook his head. “I want to take Ben home.”
“You’re able to, um, watch him closely?” McDevitt hesitated. “After all, he ran away. He abducted a child.”
Mr. T. rubbed the space between his eyes. “Yes,” he said.
The glaring lights seemed to tick.
Mr. T. and McDevitt spoke in low voices; then Mr. T. signed some papers and turned. I followed him out the door. I suppose I should have said “thank you” or “goodbye” to McDevitt, but, I don’t know, those lights seemed to have zapped all my thoughts.
Mr. T. opened the car door—the one with the broken lock—for me. Shlip-shlip went the windshield wipers as he drove. The rain still slashed down, at the same pace, the same angle. That was strange. Surely days had passed since I first saw the step, step, step of those shiny black shoes. Since I had watched the silver bus pull away. Since I had followed McDevitt to the squad car.
“We’ll spend the night at a motel,” Mr. T. said, pulling into a drive and parking beside a pink neon sign. “I don’t trust myself to keep driving.”
The first words he had spoken to me since “Ahhh.”
Mr. T. checked us into the Montgomery Motel and lead me to a blue door the same as every other blue door in the long row of blue doors.
Part of my brain still seemed to be stuck. In the motel room I could see two beds covered with blue spreads, a painting of a sailboat on the tan wall, one skinny chair— but they didn’t seem real. I unwrapped a teeny soap and washed my face and hands. I watched the dirty suds swirl down the drain. Watched the clean water run for a while.
When I came out of the bathroom, Mr. T. was hunched in the chair. His cap was still on his head, his big hands on his knees. He looked like Papa Bear in Baby Bear’s chair.
He glanced at me, then glanced away.
I crawled into bed and listened to Mr. T. get ready. I shut my eyes. On my closed lids I kept seeing pictures: Grover alone in the dirt. Tracey’s black tears. Mr. T. hunched in that spindly chair.
I woke up suddenly. The pink neon glowed, like a weird night-light, through the curtains. It dimly lit the next bed and Mr. T.’s sleeping back, and settled on the shorts I had slung on a chair.
Carefully, I slipped out of bed and dug into my four pockets. I drew out the bills—$153—and tucked them on the bureau beside Mr. T.’s keys.
Mr. T. snuffled once as I crept back. I froze, not wanting to wake him. That’s when I noticed the pink light shifting over my bedside table, over a cup of water and a sandwich in a plastic bag. Crunchy peanut butter. Jif. I could tell from the first bite. I sipped the water, ate half the sandwich.
I thought of Mr. T. putting the snack on the table while I slept. A little pick-me-up, Gram would have said. I thought of Mr. T.’s hand on my shoulder in the hardware store and the warm smell of Gram’s Ben-gay. I thought of Grover, all sticky, snoozing against me on the bus. The cut feeling came back to my insides again, but I finally fell asleep.
The next morning on the way back to Greenfield, Mr. T. once asked why and how, but “I don’t know” was all I replied. I wasn’t being sarcastic. It’s just that everything was jumbled.
A, B, C rattled in my brain.
No sooner had Mr. T. parked the Torglemobile than Kate and Lenora were out the door. Lenora waved her Barbie, still wearing the rubber-band shoes I had made. Kate asked, “Are you going to jail?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Blank. Blank. Blank.
I willed myself to continue floating in sleep. Un-awake. Unaware. I squeezed my eyes against morning; the light pushed at my lids. I tried to shut out birdsong, the clatter of dishes. But to shut them out completely meant I’d have to close the bedroom door and window, which meant I’d have to push myself up from the too soft mattress, feel the wood floor under my feet, feel Charmaine’s nubbly rug, walk. I’d have to be awake. Aware.
I opened one eye, then the other. The trophy guys stared back at me; the little flashlight gleamed. The curtains stirred at the window. I could feel sweat on my back, the heat wei
ghing me down. Everything was the same as before Mr. T. and I went to town.
The last two days could have been a dream.
But they weren’t.
The clock on the table said 9:05. I got out of bed and dressed, then pulled my suitcase out of the closet, smoothed the brown vinyl, quickly unlocked the second pocket. I counted out one ten-dollar bill, six fives and seven ones: $47. Exactly what I had paid for the bus tickets and supplies for Grover, minus the nineteen cents in change that had been mine. Here was the money I still owed Mr. T.
I slipped it on top of the cluttered desk in the Torgles’ empty bedroom. I was going to write a note but I couldn’t think of any words.
Blank. I blanked out all thought of packing my suitcase. I knew I’d have to do it soon. I was temporary. Besides, after what had happened, why would the Torgles want me to stay?
As I slipped down the stairs I heard Mr. T.’s mumble from the dining room, then Mrs. T.’s voice, tired and without any tone. “I still don’t understand why Ben didn’t return Grover to Tracey. Or call us.”
I froze on the bottom stair.
“What if the baby had gotten sick?” asked Mrs. T. “What would Ben have done?”
Both of you could have hurt Grover, Jenny had said.
Not me, I wanted to cry. Never. Never.
“Stealing, kidnapping,” Mrs. T. continued. “Of course, Ben will never be able to visit Grover. Tracey won’t allow it. He’s lucky Jenny talked her out of pressing charges.”
I turned quickly and retraced my steps. Tracey was free to hurt me any way she could. Let her press charges. Let her damage my record. I didn’t want to be grateful to her.
Were you trying to protect the kid? Or get back at the mother? I blanked out McDevitt’s words as I sat on Jake’s bed. I focused hard on my rules. Blend in. Keep cash in a safe place. Keep secrets to yourself. Keep holding on to thatmind-picture of you at eighteen, leaving the system. Walking away from it all.
I’d let myself get mushy, that was the problem. Kissy-kissy. Huggy-huggy. If you care in the system, you’re a goner. Leave me alone, that’s all I ask.
From the open window came the jibber-jabber of the twins. I bet they were playing their usual silly game of princess under the sweetgum tree.
I heard “Bang” and “Aargh” and then Kate said, “You’re under arrest, Ben.”
The twins were acting out what had happened to me.
Cop Barbie and Outlaw Barbie. Guns, shooting, blood, handcuffs.
I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to tell them they had the story all wrong.
Instead I continued to sit. I’d rather go to the juvenile home than stay here any longer, I decided. I’d rather go back to sorry Saint Stephen’s. If the Torgles thought I’d stick around, weeping and wailing and waiting for the boot, they had another thought coming.
I’ll call Ms. Burkell. I’ll pack my suitcase right now.
Thump … thump. Mr. T.’s Frankenstein footsteps stopped outside my door. “Ben, do you want any breakfast?”
When I didn’t answer, I heard him thump … thump away.
After a while, I got up and turned all the trophy guys to face the wall. All those eyes—it was too much. I didn’t want anyone staring at me. I wished I could just blend into the brown-plaid bedspread.
I heard another set of footsteps. A rap at the door.
“Ben, may I come in?”
My social worker.
She would have to come nosing around. And I knew Ms. Burkell wouldn’t leave till she had Ben-ed me at least a hundred times and clicked her beads a hundred more. I might as well get her yak-yak over with, I figured, opening the door. I’d just blank out everything she said.
Of course she opened with a question—“May I sit down?”—and waited till I gave a teeny nod before settling into a chair. She rested her hands on the notebook in her lap.
Ms. Burkell asked me to tell her what had happened, and I gave her the facts. It didn’t take very long.
She leaned forward. “And now you want to go to Saint Stephen’s?”
“Yes.”
“Ben.” I could tell she was working up to some meaningful contact. Her beads trembled. “Is that what you really want?”
What I really wanted. What did I really want? Well, it sure wasn’t this. Chaos with a capital C. Two motormouth girls. An old Frankenstein and his flea wife and their needy-greedy mutt. A baby who wasn’t even there.
I didn’t want anyone giving me flashlights or eating my pancakes or reaching up to hold my hand. I didn’t want anyone hollering, all happy, “Beh! Beh! Beh!”
I crossed my arms tightly. My heart felt ready to bust with all I didn’t want.
And another thing I didn’t want. I didn’t want anyone to ask me what I really wanted. Like it mattered. Like it would make a difference. And I didn’t want any more questions—not one more—from this woman. This woman with her talk of fairy god-awful mothers. With her stupid-looking hair.
All those didn’t wants built and built in my chest.
I opened my mouth. “I hate your beads!” I yelled.
Chapter Twenty-five
Ms. Burkell blinked. She touched one of her hair beads. She glanced down at her notebook like it held the right things to say. Her face was still in meaningful-contact mode but her lips twitched.
“So, what you want—let me get this straight—what you really want is for me to remove my beads?”
Why was she smiling? Didn’t she realize she’d just been insulted?
I looked away. I didn’t care what she did with her dumb beads. Leave me alone, that’s all I ask.
And that’s what I told her I wanted.
When Ms. Burkell left, taking her notebook and her cheery beads, I went back to sitting on Jake’s bed. Why did she have to come? If I was down before, now I felt lower than the floor. What did Ms. Burkell know about wanting? Wanting was like blabbing and boo-hooing. Never changed a thing. It just busted you up inside.
I tried to blank out all my didn’t wants before they could mess with me again. I bent my mind to some plans. School would be starting in about two weeks. And I’d be leaving soon for Saint Stephen’s. I should start blanking out both Torgles now. Right this minute. Blank. Blank. And the twins. Kate. Blank. Lenora. Blank.
I tried to hold on to that mind-picture of me at eighteen, walking away from Greenfield. Walking away from it all.
The next day I stayed in Jake’s room as much as I could. Mrs. T. wouldn’t let the twins tease me out. “Ben needs his privacy,” I heard her explain outside my closed door.
“But I have to show him the Roman dress I fixed for my Barbie,” Lenora said, adding loudly: “It goes with the shoes he made.”
Toga, I wanted to explain, though I kept my mouth shut. A Roman dress is a toga.
“Ben’s busy, dear.”
“Doing what?” asked Kate.
“He’s packing, isn’t he?” asked Lenora. “I heard you talking to that lady with the beads.”
“We don’t know—” began Mrs. T.
“Packing?” Kate cried. “Why?”
“He’s leaving,” Lenora said flatly. “Everyone does.”
Yeah, kids, I thought. Welcome to the system.
Strays. We were all strays. Actually, we were lower than strays. We were gumballs. No-good-to-anyone gumballs. Plopping down at one home or another. Stepped on and kicked and carted away.
Riding high on that Greyhound bus, I had thought Grover and I had shaken the system. Right. Our escape had been pitiful. And I hadn’t helped Grover at all. He was right back with Tracey.
Well, boo-hooing wasn’t going to help. I gave myself a shake and jumped off that plaid bedspread. If I was leaving for Saint Stephen’s in a day or two, I might as well clean Jake’s room now. Get it ready for the next gumball kid to plop down.
I got out my suitcase and counted my money. I wanted to make sure the count was accurate before I brought my hard-earned cash anywhere near those light-fingered Saint Stephen’s bo
ys. Then I checked under the bed. A few dust bunnies, one sock, and two books: Where Eagles Dare and Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. The first was weeks overdue and the second … well, I almost tossed it. But twenty-five cents was twenty-five cents. I decided to resell it to the library.
I could hear Kate and Lenora tiptoeing up and down the hall. There were a few whispers and a rustle. A piece of paper slid under the door.
I let it lie for a minute; then I picked it up.
At first that note made no sense at all. The page was covered with big, loopy writing and more exclamation marks than a houseful of shouts. Each letter was a different color. That page looked like some fool rainbow had spilled over it.
Dear Ben!!
BON VOYAGE!!!!!
xoxox,
Lenora and Kate
P.S. We miss you! Don’t go!!!!!
I read the note again. I pictured the girls choosing each crayon. Fighting over whose name should go first. Lenora and Kate. Well, it was clear who had won that fight. Maybe the old Barbie-biting Jango had ditched both her nickname and her place as Kate’s shadow.
Bon voyage. The girls must have remembered the message on Grover’s party balloon. We miss you. That busted-chest feeling was back. I tried to blank it out. I’d never thought of being missed when I moved on. Of someone feeling sad. Sure, I’d gotten a good-bye present from Myron the Chihuahua, but that was just Mrs. DeBernard acting cute.
I folded the note and tucked it carefully into its very own pocket in my suitcase. It might be nice to have at Saint Stephen’s.
Over the next few days, I tried to call Ms. Burkell but ended up leaving messages on her answering machine. Why was my move taking so long? Saint Stephen’s was bound to have an opening. After all, foster families might be scarce, but the juvenile home could always cram a kid in.
Finally Ms. Burkell called. My paperwork was completed. I’d be moved in two days.
Good, I told myself as I listened. Good, I repeated as I passed the phone to Mr. T. at Ms. Burkell’s request. Good. Good. Good. I marched up the stairs and into Jake’s room and started packing.
Grover G. Graham and Me Page 11
