Mom lets out a long, defeated breath. “Oh, Dad.” Then she turns to me. “Hi, honey.”
I hand Mom the bouquet of toilet paper roses, hoping it will make her happier.
She looks at the roses and tilts her head. “Toilet paper roses, huh?” An odd sound comes from her throat, and I’m not sure if it’s crying or laughter. “Appropriate,” Mom says. “Oy vey. How appropriate.” She kisses the top of my head, then drops the saturated roll of toilet paper into the trash can. “Your zeyde just soaked an entire roll of toilet paper in the sink.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering why he’d think that would make the toilet paper softer.
“Dad,” Mom says, her voice high and tight, “you left the water running in the sink. If I hadn’t come home, the place could have flooded. That’s the last thing we need.” Mom presses the heel of her hand against her temple, like she’s pushing back a headache. “I’m sorry I didn’t buy new toilet paper with the money you gave me, Dad. I was waiting until we ran out of the other stuff. I didn’t want to waste it.”
Zeyde stands there, running his hand over his bald head, his lips moving, like he’s working out a difficult problem.
I wish Zeyde would at least say something. I wish I’d have come home earlier instead of messing around at Toothpick’s house, wasting time. I could have stopped Zeyde before he even got to the sink. I could have given him a good roll of toilet paper from the stash in my closet. I could have kept this from happening.
“Soaking toilet paper doesn’t make it softer,” Mom says, as though she’s talking to a little kid. “It ruins it. And we can’t afford to waste anything right now.”
The worry line forms between Mom’s eyebrows, and I can’t blame Mr. Katz this time.
“Sorry,” Zeyde mutters. He reaches into his pocket. “I’ll pay you for that, Shelley.” But when Zeyde pulls out his money clip, there’s no cash in it, which makes me feel sorry for him.
I can almost hear Dad telling me I need to do something to fix this situation.
I run to my room and come back with a roll of Royal-T from my closet. “Here.” I give the roll to Zeyde. “Nice and soft.”
Zeyde’s eyes get misty. “Thank you, boychik.” Zeyde presses his dry palm against my cheek, then shuffles down the hall.
When Zeyde is out of earshot, I whisper, “Mom, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on”—Mom collapses onto a chair—“is I’m worried about your zeyde.” She gnaws on a thumbnail.
I sink onto my chair and remember the other night when Zeyde called me Mary. “I’m worried, too.”
“Aunt Abby was looking for a place for Zeyde to live. A place with a memory-care unit. That’s why he moved down there, so he’d have someplace safe to live if things got worse. I checked out places around here, but they’re way overpriced.”
“What are we going to do?” I ask. “Send him back to Florida?”
“I’ll figure something out,” Mom says.
“We’ll figure something out,” I say, getting up and making a small amendment to our Grand Plan. I add the words “and Zeyde” to the fourth point, after “Benjamin and Mom” and before “will have a better life.”
Mom stands behind me, reads what I wrote out loud and squeezes my shoulder. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
I duck my head.
Mom holds up her droopy toilet paper rose bouquet. “All I need is a cardboard toilet paper roll vase to hold them.”
“I think there’s one in the trash. But it might be a little wet.”
“Ha ha,” Mom says, but she’s not really laughing.
I shrug.
“Hey. On the bright side, I signed up for the fourth and final test. Can I get a ‘Woot! Woot!’ people?”
Since I’m the only “people” in the room, I give Mom a seriously loud “Woot! Woot!” “When’s the test?”
“October seventeenth.”
That’s nearly three weeks from now. I wish it were sooner but try to look on the bright side, like Dad would have done. “That gives you another two and a half weeks to study.” I give Mom a fist bump, almost expecting her to have a pencil plunged into a wound on the back of her hand. But she just has a few freckles there, like I do. Then my stomach gnaws a little, because I wonder where we’ll be living October 17. I push the thought out of my mind.
“And we’ll get the test results a week or two later.”
“That sounds good,” I say, but think that November’s rent will be just about due by then … if we even make it that long.
Zeyde comes in and puts a check on the table.
I can see from Zeyde’s eyes that he’s thinking more clearly now.
“What’s this for, Dad?” Mom asks.
Zeyde points his thumb toward our front door. “I saw the notice on the door. I’m not blind, you know.”
“I know,” Mom says quietly, not touching the check.
I crane my neck and see the check’s for $300. I do some quick mental math and realize Zeyde’s contribution will bring the $2,650 we’ll owe on October 1 down to $2,350. And when the $600 social security check arrives, it will be down to $1,750. I wish Mom could spend all her salary and tips on rent, but I know she has other bills to pay, like electric, food and Dad’s medical bills. Still.
“Take it, Shelley,” Zeyde says. “It’s all I have right now, because that plane ticket here was so expensive. Last minute and all. And I gave Abby quite a bit of money last week to pay for a major car repair. But when I get my next monthly check and pay off my credit card, I’ll be able to give you more.”
I feel a wave of relief. I don’t know if it will be enough, but I’m so glad Zeyde can help.
“Thank you, Dad.” Mom looks like she’s going to cry, or maybe she’s just tired.
Zeyde nods once at Mom and once at me, then walks toward the bedroom.
Mom bites her bottom lip, takes the check, kisses the top of my head and walks toward her bedroom.
That’s when I make a decision. I’m going to spend the fifty dollars in my underwear drawer. I’m going to buy more candy bars. And I’m going to sell them at school.
No matter what Mr. Sheffield said.
I’ve got to help Mom, too.
I promised.
The next week goes by too fast.
I don’t want October eighth to arrive. That’s when, according to the eviction notice, Mom has to pay all our back rent and the current rent … or else.
At the library, I enter as many online contests as I can. I even enter a couple mail-in contests, with prizes that make it worth using the stamps.
Unfortunately, even though I touch Dad’s nameplate on the mailbox every day for luck, I don’t win anything. Not even a small win, like a baseball cap or a coupon for something at the market.
On the bright side, Mrs. Schneckle makes us dinner three times during the week. And there are enough leftovers for the other days.
Zeyde has good days and bad days. I play War with him and talk with him about some of the fun stuff we used to do together, because I think it will help his brain work better at remembering things. At least, I hope so.
Mom looks really tired every day when she comes home from work and studying, but the rent envelope is filling up with her daily tips and biweekly salary, and that’s a good thing.
Except it makes me feel guilty, because the one thing I do not do all week is sell candy bars.
Every day I come up with a different excuse: woke too late to buy the candy at WaWa, legs too tired from running in PE the day before to carry an extra-heavy backpack, etc.
The truth is, I’m too scared of getting in trouble to start selling them again.
It feels like we’re right near the Grand Plan finish line and I’m letting everyone down.
Especially Dad.
Today’s the day—Thursday, October 8—when Mr. Katz will come to collect all the money we owe. Mom’s close. We talked about it last night. With the money from Zeyde, the social security money an
d her work money, we only need five hundred dollars more.
Turns out Zeyde didn’t have much left over to give Mom after paying his credit card bill, but he promised her more money in November.
We can’t wait that long.
Mr. Katz will be here any minute.
I should have sold candy bars. It still might not have been enough, but it would have gotten us closer.
At the mailbox, I touch Dad’s nameplate and pray there’s something good inside that might change everything—a five-hundred-dollar contest win, for example. There is something good: another letter from Royal-T, about Zeyde, and a coupon for a free four-pack of their toilet paper, and a dumb fish joke, which actually makes me feel a little better.
Mrs. Schneckle comes downstairs to the foyer. “Anything good, bubeleh?” she asks, hoisting an overstuffed pocketbook onto her shoulder.
“Just another free four-pack of toilet paper.”
She pinches my cheek. “You’re so talented, bubeleh!” Then a worried look crosses her face. “How’s your zeyde doing?”
Did Mom tell her about the toilet paper soaking incident? “He’s okay,” I say, but he’s really not. He’s been repeating things and forgetting things. The other day he called me Barkley and didn’t know who the real Barkley was when I tried to explain. And other times he’s great—making sense and cracking jokes—and I think everything’s going to be fine.
“That’s good to hear. I worry about him sometimes.”
I nod. Me too.
“Well, I’m off to run the Wii Bowling competition today.”
I tilt my head.
“At the Jewish senior center. I run the Wii Bowling and some other activities for the residents there.”
“Oh.” I never thought of Mrs. Schneckle as having a job. That sounds like a fun one. “Have a good time.”
“Always do.” Mrs. Schneckle pats my cheek and heads outside.
Along the bottom edge of the orange eviction notice on our door, someone has written in tiny block letters: MR. KATZ IS A SHMENDRIK.
I wonder how long that’s been there and who wrote it. Then I know. “Mrs. Schneckle?” I shake my head. “You totally rock!”
Inside the apartment, Zeyde’s at the kitchen table, staring off at nothing. There’s sweat on his bald head, and he wipes it off with a hankie. “I’m fine,” he says, even though I didn’t ask. “How was your day, boychik?”
“Okay,” I say, not mentioning that today’s the day Mr. Katz returns. Not mentioning that I was too much of a wimp to sell the candy bars. I throw my backpack on the couch, sit next to Zeyde at the table and pat his veiny hand. “Want to play War?”
“What?”
“War?”
“What’s that?”
My heart skips a beat. “It’s a card game,” I say, wondering if he’s putting me on or if his memory has gotten that bad. What I don’t add is we’ve played it together since I was little.
“All right,” he says, putting his palms on the table. “You’ll teach me how to play.”
“Um, okay,” I say, taking off my jacket. “It goes like this.… ” And I teach Zeyde how to play a game he taught me how to play a long time ago.
Zeyde keeps messing up, though—taking the cards when he’s not supposed to—and I’m relieved when Mom comes in.
She whips off her paper piggy hat. “Not again,” she says, shoving it into her pocket.
I walk over and give her a hug. She smells like bacon.
“What was that for?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Mom looks over at Zeyde. “Everything okay?”
“Definitely,” I say. “We were just playing War.”
“All right,” she says, looking suspicious.
“It’s a fun game, Shell. You should try it sometime,” Zeyde says.
“I’m sure it is,” Mom says.
I don’t tell Mom Zeyde didn’t even remember what the game was. She has enough to worry about today.
Before Mom even has her coat unbuttoned, someone knocks at the door and my heart seizes.
Zeyde walks toward the door. “I’ll get it.”
Mom puts a hand on his arm. “I’ve got it, Dad.”
And she slips outside to deal with Mr. Katz privately.
“Come on,” I say to Zeyde. “I know another card game.”
“What’s it called?” Zeyde asks.
“War,” I say, joking.
“Oh, I don’t know that one.”
I don’t think he’s joking, and it makes me so sad I can’t even shuffle the cards.
Zeyde and I wait, the deck of cards lying on the table between us.
Mom comes back in, goes to her room, returns with an envelope, hands something to Mr. Katz and closes the door.
Then she nods and walks back toward her room.
“Excuse me, Zeyde,” I say.
I catch up with Mom at her bedroom door. “So?”
We go into my room and sit on my bed.
“It’s done, Ben.”
I look up at the stars, then at Mom. “What’s done?”
Mom takes a breath before answering. “Mr. Katz said he’s going to file papers with the court.”
“But we only owe him five hundred dollars.” Mrs. Schneckle is right. He is a shmendrik.
“Oh, Ben, I don’t think it’s Mr. Katz. He’s a decent enough guy. He let us slide for a while. His partner is bearing down on him, not letting him give us any more time.”
I bite my thumbnail. “If Mr. Katz is going to file papers with the court, that actually buys us a little more time. I looked it up in the library. Now you have until the court date to pay everything we owe.”
“And if the court date is next month, we’ll have to pay November’s rent, too.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say.
Mom’s shoulders slump. “We’re so close. I’m going to take the test on the seventeenth.”
“And you’re going to pass.”
Mom looks up at the stars on my ceiling. “With flying colors. Then a week or two later, I should have the results, then—”
“You’ll get that great job at Mr. Daniels’s firm,” I say.
“Making more than twice what I’m making now.”
“And you won’t have to wear that stupid pig hat.”
“Best part of all,” Mom says, running a hand through her wild hair. “We just have to make it till then.” Mom leans back on my bed and stares at the ceiling.
“We’ll make it,” I say, flopping onto my back next to Mom and looking up at Dad’s universe.
I know we will, because I’ve decided that even if I’m scared—terrified, actually—of getting caught, I’m going to spend the fifty bucks from my underwear drawer at WaWa tomorrow.
I, Benjamin Epstein, enterprising entrepreneur, am back in the candy bar business.
The next day, I touch the fifty dollar bills that are practically exploding from my pocket and walk quickly to the closest WaWa. I can’t be late for school, because I can’t do anything to attract attention to myself. Not now.
The WaWa is jammed with people buying coffees, ordering breakfast sandwiches and purchasing newspapers. Seeing the Inquirer on the counter reminds me of Dad. I remember how cool he looked in his uniform when he worked as a security guard there.
Thinking of Dad gives me new resolve for selling the candy bars.
When it’s my turn at the register, I say, “A hundred candy bars,” and grab them from the boxes under the counter as fast as I can.
It feels like the people behind me in line are getting annoyed, because it takes a while to count out a hundred candy bars.
The lady rings me up and holds out her hand for payment. “Whoa. That’s a lot of candy bars,” she says, cracking her gum. “Stocking up early for Halloween?”
I nod, pay, grab the bags and zoom out of the store. I’ll wake earlier Monday and go to the other WaWa. I don’t need anyone getting suspicious about why I’m buying so many candy bars.
> By the time I arrive at Remington Middle, I have a backpack full of a hundred candy bars, my books in my arms, and I’m in business.
“Why are you carrying your books?” Pick asks when he sees me in the hall.
“I’m selling candy bars again,” I whisper.
“But—”
“Shh,” I say.
He looks around. “Be careful, Ben.”
“I will.”
At lunch, I start at Trevor Duxbury and Brice Reid’s table. As I hand out the candy bars and take people’s money, I tell each person to keep it out of sight, but I see some people eating them right away, behind books or not even trying to hide them at all.
I hold my backpack close and look around for Mr. Sheffield.
“You sure you want to do this?” Pick asks as I sit at our table.
No, but I have to. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“Here comes Delaney,” Pick says, and I shove my backpack by my feet under the table.
“Thanks.”
“Hi, Delaney,” Toothpick says, which is weird, because he’s never nice to her.
“Hi,” she says, as though she’s suspicious. She stops, her box of Golly Pops under her arm. “Why are you being nice?”
Pick shrugs. “ ’Cause I’m a nice guy.”
“No you’re not.” She whirls around and heads off.
I don’t know why, but this makes me laugh.
“I don’t like that girl,” he says. “Even if she is cute.”
“Right,” I say. “But she is. Totally adorable.”
“I know,” Toothpick says. “Why can’t cute girls ever be nice, too?”
I shrug, thinking that would be a question I’d probably ask my dad.
“Hey,” Toothpick says, “maybe you could sell your candy bars in the neighborhood instead. Door to door. Tell them it’s a fund-raiser for school or something.”
“That’s amazing.”
“What?” Toothpick asks.
“You actually had a good idea.”
Death by Toilet Paper Page 8
