And in less than ten minutes, here came Mr. T.’s thump … thump. He insisted I come to town with him. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.
As he drove I gave him a side-eyes glance. What could he want? He didn’t say a word. The only sound was the hot wind whipping through windows, the usual rattles, the jiggling door.
I remembered his silence after he picked me up from the police station.
He was going to get me alone and give me the boot. Bye, Ben. The summer was nice. Here’s our address. Keep in touch. I’d heard it all before.
Well, I planned to say good-bye first.
Digging into my pocket, I closed a fist around my money. I had chosen the twenty-dollar bill from the second pocket of my suitcase. If we stopped for lunch, I wanted to pay my own way. I’d insist on paying, to use Mr. T.’s words. I didn’t want to take anything more from him.
We made the rounds. The hardware store, with not one customer inside. Safeway. I didn’t feel like going to the library, so we passed by.
Then Mr. T. stopped at Uddleston’s. No big deal, right? A cheap treat for the foster kid.
Except Uddleston’s was right next to the Greyhound station.
I knew why Mr. T. had insisted I come. To remind me of all the trouble I’d caused. What better place to give me the boot?
We entered Uddleston’s, chose red stools at the counter. Mr. T. ordered two milk shakes.
“Ahhh,” he said when they arrived. He poked a straw into his cup. “Nothing better than a cold shake”—he slurped—“on a hot summer day.”
I watched a silver bus pull up. That feeling was building in my chest again. I tried to blank it out. I’d do it again, I thought fiercely. I’d steal the money, the kid. I’d run.
You … could have hurt Grover, Jenny had said.
Suddenly I put my head on the counter. My chest was heaving. It was busting for sure. I cried, and under my folded arms the tears made a little pool. I heard the chuggety-chug of the milk shake machine.
Then I felt Mr. T.’s big hand on my back. Pat-pat-pat.
I tried to shrug it off, but the patting continued. Slow, steady. I didn’t want the man treating me like a baby. Ben Watson could take care of himself.
I tried to stop but the tears just came worse. All Tracey’s crying in the police station—had she felt this way, too, when she thought Grover was gone?
I thought of the kid’s almighty big grin on the whirl-go-round. The way he squeezed Lambie Pie when he was scared. How he shared his Cheese Nip with me.
Pat-pat-pat.
I cried for a long time. When I finally stopped, the counter under my cheek was warm and wet.
Mr. T. pushed a napkin close to my hand. Without raising my head, I squished it over my nose and blew.
The man continued to pat, then started talking in that slow way of his. “I did love the way Grover ate,” he said. “Happy to have the food outside and in.” Mr. T. chuckled. “Remember the time he plopped mashed potatoes on top of his head?”
Those potatoes had looked like a lumpy cap. White, lumpy cap on his Tweety Bird head.
“What did you like?” asked Mr. T.
I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want the tears to come back.
Finally I whispered from the cave of my crossed arms, “I liked how he said ‘Beh.’”
“Ahhh,” said Mr. T. “He said ‘Beh’ a lot. Grover sure singled you out.”
I blinked back tears. To the kid I’d been more than a camouflage fish. More than someone just blending in.
Mr. T. and I sat quiet as the counter dried and the tightness eased in my throat. I raised my head, blew my nose again.
Mr. T. was gazing at a silver bus through the window. “Your social worker says you want to leave.” He fiddled with his straw. “She said you want to go to that juvenile home.”
I fiddled with my straw, too.
“I know things are different with Grover gone,” Mr. T. continued. “But won’t you stay with us at least till the social worker gets you a new family?”
“No,” I said quickly. I wanted to leave. Now.
We watched as folks slowly boarded the bus. I saw one woman wave to another.
Mr. T. suddenly spoke. “Hello. Good-bye. Remember how Grover’s wave used to stand for both words?”
I nodded.
“Sometimes a person’s good-bye can be a big wish for hello.”
Were we still talking about Grover? I wasn’t sure.
“Maybe,” Mr. T. continued, “a person has heard goodbye so many times the word just jumps out of his mouth. Maybe it is the first thing he thinks to say.”
I puzzled over Mr. T.’s words. They were as confusing as his talk about taking and giving that day we fixed the torn card. As confusing as that stuff about people destroying what they wanted most. The man better watch it. He was starting to sound like Ms. Burkell.
Mr. T. smiled. “Just think about it,” he said. “Now, would you like to split a sandwich or something?”
After we had eaten, I tried to pay my share but Mr. T. closed my fingers over the twenty-dollar bill.
I didn’t even fight him. I tried to dig up that old feeling, that feeling of refusing to take. But somehow—it was strange—all that crying must have rearranged my insides. I couldn’t make the hardness come back.
We settled into our usual quiet as Mr. T. drove, heading not home, but out on Route 3. When he stopped at the new shopping center, I could see why this place was taking the business from Greenfield. The shops downtown were tiny and old compared to these gleaming stores.
When Mr. T. had parked, he sat, hands on the steering wheel, checking out that hardware store. It stretched out, all shiny clean, with lumber stacked neatly outside. “Why don’t you check out the toy store,” he said, not turning his head, “while I pick up a part for the mower?”
“Why don’t you buy it—,” I began, then cut myself off. Most likely Mr. T.’s dusty store didn’t carry the part.
Staring at this nuts-and-bolts mansion, I realized—and maybe Mr. T. did, too—that the old store downtown wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later Mr. T. would have to move on.
“Thirty-eight years,” he said.
Jeesh, the man had been working at that poor hole since way before I was born. He’d never had Job Number Two or Five or Seven. He’d been at Number One all this time.
It must be hard for him to blank out and move on. I thought about patting his back—but didn’t. Instead I borrowed some of Mrs. T.’s tone. “A part for the mower,” I said. “You mean something’s going to get fixed?”
My joke worked. Mr. T.’s face lightened. “Now, don’t you start,” he said, shooing me out the car door. “Bad enough there’s Eileen.”
I headed to a huge toy store. The doors parted, just like Safeway’s, and then the noise hit. Whirring, beeping, buzzing, popping. And kid squeals like Kate at her loudest. I’d never seen so many toys crammed into one place. Video games, action figures, stuffed bears, cars. And Barbies. Stacks and stacks of Barbies. Pink Ice Barbie, Hula Hair Barbie, Cool Shopping Barbie. The shelves gave off a glow like a UFO.
Maybe I’d get a present for the twins. A good-bye present. I remembered the yellow Lambie Pie ribbon they’d given Grover. They might like something fancy for their dolls.
I checked out the shelves. Barbie clothes, skis, shoes, phones, and cars were stacked in pink boxes clear to the ceiling. I grabbed a box with a long gold dress, long gold gloves, and teeny gold sandals. The whole getup glittered like the crown of a princess. Kate would love it.
Shopping for Lenora’s Barbie took more time. Those chewed-on feet were a challenge. But after thumbing through about a thousand boxes, I found one called Swinging in the Rain. It held a yellow slicker, umbrella, and best of all, high yellow boots. This footgear sure beat those rubber-band shoes I had made. Now no one would know that Lenora’s pitiful Barbie once had doubled as a thumb.
After paying, I still had some time, so I decided to check out the little-kid toys. Ta
lk about pint-sized. The play rakes were hardly bigger than forks. I touched a green bucket with a grinning sea horse. I’d had one like it at my Number Two.
Suddenly a banshee yell came from the next aisle, followed by “Po! Po! Po!”
And then I heard “No. Give it to Mama.”
G rover.
And Tracey.
Chapter Twenty-six
I scooched to the edge of the aisle and peered around the corner.
“Po! Po!” Grover clutched a toy phone. He shook his head so fiercely his yellow curls bobbed.
“Please, Grover,” said Tracey.
Still shaking his head, the kid skedaddled down the aisle. Tracey followed, clutching Lambie Pie. She swiped at the phone. Grover speeded up, turned.
Saw me.
“Beh! Beh! Beh!”
He came at me full tilt. Nose-dived into my knee— whack!—with the force of Charmaine’s wagging tail.
“Hey, big guy.” I palmed his head.
“You.” The word slapped me. Frowning, Tracey strode up the aisle.
“Po! Po!”
“I suppose you were spying on me.” Tracey tried to loosen Grover’s grasp on my leg. “Sneaking around. Trying to find out what I’m doing wrong.”
“Po!” screamed Grover.
As fast as Tracey lifted the fat little fingers, they’d clamp down again. The octopus grip.
I waited for the old anger at Tracey to hit me. It wasn’t there.
Instead I felt almost sorry for her. Her face was as red as Grover’s. As the kid shrieked people turned to stare. Shoot, I knew what she was going through. Grover had screeched “keam” in the same piercing way.
“Want me to try?” I asked, hunkering down. I held my fist to my ear. “Brring. Brrring.”
Grover closed his mouth, blue eyes on me.
“Hello. Hello.” I nodded, listening to my fist. “What? You want to speak to Grover?”
The kid’s eyes lit up.
“Wait, I’ll see if he’s here.” I held my fist out to Grover. “Call for you, big guy.”
Grover brought my fist to his ear. “Hel-wo.” The toy phone dropped. Tracey pounced on it, placing it high on a shelf.
“Hello, Grover.” I put on a deep voice. “This is Mr. T.”
“Tee!” cried Grover. He blinked, waiting for more. His whole body trembled with excitement.
“Um,” I said.
Tracey stroked Grover’s head. “You’re stuck now,” she told me, but it didn’t sound mean.
Then Grover brought my fist close to his chest. “Beh!” he cried, hugging it.
His shirt was apple-juice damp and sticky, but I let the hug go on. “Yeah, okay,” I mumbled. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
Tracey crossed her arms, squishing Lambie Pie. The pitiful toy was now missing an eye. “You could have hurt him, you know,” she said suddenly. “Where would he have slept? What about food?”
I thought of the yellow room and animal stencils and meals full of pancakes and Jif. A dream I knew I couldn’t make real.
Tracey smoothed Lambie Pie’s ribbon. “Food, rent—I think about them all the time. Insurance, clothes, new shoes. Sometimes I wake up at night—”
“You left him alone,” I broke in. “You hurt him, too.”
“Yeah.” Tracey’s face closed over. “I made a mistake, a big one.” She reached for Grover. “Time to go, baby.”
Rrriiipp.
“Oh, Grover. No.”
“Po,” he said defiantly.
That fast, he had grabbed and opened a box. He hauled out the plastic horse inside.
Tracey reached for the toy. “Honey,” she said, “we can’t afford—”
“Neigh, neigh.” Grover galloped the horse through the air.
I thought of my horse salt and pepper shakers at Gram’s. “Let me buy it for him,” I said.
Tracey’s jaw tensed. “I don’t take handouts.”
“Neither do I.”
The girl tried to stare me down, but I stared right back.
“I still won’t let you see him,” she said.
“I know,” I answered. “I just want to buy him a present.”
When I got back to the Torglemobile, my twenty-dollar bill was down to a few pennies and dimes. Mr. T. pointed to my bag. Something for the twins, I explained. I didn’t say anything about Grover, the toy horse, and Tracey. I wanted to puzzle that out myself.
Tracey hadn’t wanted to take that toy horse from me. But she did. For Grover. Mrs. T. had said we competed over Grover. I remembered how I’d tried to keep Tracey away. I liked it when Grover pushed her aside and reached for me. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I had taken Grover that day because I wanted to get back at her. I wanted to protect the kid, yes, but I also wanted to hurt Tracey. Show her what a lousy mother she was. Prove she should never have left him.
I remembered riding high with Grover on that Greyhound bus, escaping Greenfield just like my mother. Only she had left me behind.
Chapter Twenty-seven
That evening I asked Mr. T.’s permission to use the phone in their bedroom. I said there were two calls I needed to make. In private, I added, with a glance at the twins.
Of course Charmaine had to follow me and lie panting at my feet. “Okay,” I said, “but don’t blame me if you hear yelling from the other end.”
I picked up the black phone and quickly punched in the number. As soon as a voice answered, I said the words before I could chicken out: “I’m sorry.”
“Who is this?”
“Ben Watson.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Silence on the other end, then: “I don’t want you to call.”
“I just wanted to say what I did.”
“And that’s supposed to make everything all right?”
“I didn’t think—”
“You still can’t see Grover.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s not why I called.”
More silence, then click … click … click. I pictured a blue-moon fingernail tapping the phone.
“Jenny says maybe I’m being too hard.”
Stubborn can make you tough or hard, I remembered Jenny saying. I had been hard, too.
Tracey continued, “And Eileen Torgle told me you’ve been knocked around a lot.”
I was surprised. “That’s what Mrs. T. says about you.”
“Ha.” Tracey’s bark of a laugh. “Everyone’s a shrink.”
Click … click … click.
“You going to steal Grover again?”
“Not unless you leave him alone.”
A long pause. I waited for Tracey to hang up, but instead she said something so low I had to strain to catch it. “We both did something we won’t do again,” she said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
I could hear “Po! Po! Po!” in the background.
After hanging up, I rested my head on the wall. “One call down,” I said to Charmaine, who thumped her tail. The dog was like my own private cheerleader. Even without yelling, the next call was going to be hard.
I hated to lay out my plans and not follow through. I hated not wanting to say good-bye. That busted-chest feeling was back. Shoot, I hated that, too.
I dialed superfast and, when I heard “hello,” rushed out all my words.
No sooner had I finished than Ms. Burkell started talking. I pictured the bounce-bounce-bounce of her beads. She said she would deal with the paperwork immediately. Then she asked what the Torgles had said.
I swallowed. “They don’t know.”
“You mean they haven’t asked you to stay past the summer?” Ms. Burkell sounded surprised, then her voice softened. “Ben, this arrangement was just temporary, you know. I’ve heard the hardware store could close any day now. What if the Torgles can’t take you for more than an extra month or so?”
“Then that’s all the time I have.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “At least you can ask, right? Meanwhile, I’ll keep looking for something more perma
nent.”
I wanted to tell her not to bother—I was used to impermanent—but I knew she was just doing her job. Besides, there was something else I wanted to say.
“Um,” I began, “about your beads.”
“The ones you hate.”
“I don’t hate them,” I said.
Ms. Burkell laughed. “Ben, when I ask you a question— any question—your answer is usually ‘nothing.’ I was glad to hear you say anything else.”
“So you’re not insulted?”
Ms. Burkell laughed again. “You should hear what my mother says.”
That night in Jake’s room I tried to work out the asking-to-stay scene with the Torgles in my mind. I tried it A, B, C. Then I tried it B, Z, Q. I had the trophy guys act out different parts. I must have worked that scene a hundred possible ways. Who would say what when. How the Torgles would look if they said yes. What I would do if they said no.
The reality was chaos with a capital C.
I’d decided to talk to the Torgles at breakfast. Except Kate and Lenora were fighting over how to spend their dad’s forty dollars. Charmaine was woofing at a speck on the floor. And Mrs. T. was leveling some tone at her husband because the screen door still wasn’t fixed.
I must have tried to break in a hundred times: “I wonder if you …” “How about if…” “What would you say …”
Finally I took a deep breath. “I want to stay past the summer,” I practically hollered. “If that’s okay with you.”
Then it was chaos with all capital letters: C-H-A-O-S. Underlined. In fact, only one person said the words I’d imagined. Mrs. T. kept repeating, “Okay? Okay?” The twins jabbered and leaped. Charmaine barked like a crazy dog. But Mr. T., with his hands on his knees, winked and made the very sound I’d hoped for. He said, “Ahhh.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
October. It’s been two months since I made those two phone calls.
Mr. T. and I are off this afternoon to downtown Greenfield. Of course, the twins are as jealous green as two grassy lawns, but Mrs. T. sweet-talked their sulks away by promising to help make new Barbie clothes.
“It’s not fair,” Kate grumbled at breakfast.
Grover G. Graham and Me Page 12
