by Summer Wood
Except Lisa Fay. He gave her gonorrhea and a habit Hills Brothers couldn’t even begin to pay for.
It was 1968, and the year ripened from an innocent spring into the summer of love. Wrecker turned three and independent in June, no longer content to hold her hand, running everywhere, finding tall places to jump from. He was his mother’s nightmare and his mother’s joy. He was the only toddler who could pump the swings at the playground, pump them high and leap off to fall and tumble in the sand. He outran eight-year-olds, climbed every tree he could get a grip on or con a leg up, splashed without worry in the fountains, in the ponds. He made the city his own with the slap of his feet, the slam of his small body bouncing off its rough edges. He near-strangled the ducks he caught and smothered in affection. He stood in awe of the cranes that worked the waterfront, the cement trucks that rolled and disgorged the wet mix, the backhoes and loaders and forklifts and graders that wrestled earth and stone with yellow glee. He wanted to drive them. He was a boy in love with heavy machinery.
Lisa Fay was a woman quite taken with the idea of a little relief. She met Jerry Skink at the Fourth of July Hills Brothers cookout at the marina; he was somebody’s brother-in-law, or cousin, or business acquaintance; he was a skunk who disguised his stripe with Grecian Formula 16 and a touch of Brylcreem. She found him amusing. She rebuffed his advances until dark and the explosion of the fireworks finale—a grand display of positive attitude that everyone thought reminded them a little too much of the war going on in Asia—and Wrecker, asleep in his mother’s lap (spilling out of his mother’s lap, for he’d grown too big to fully fit) was still for once and then Lisa Fay let Jerry place his soft hand over hers and, very gently, kiss her on the cheek.
“Just so you know—” Lisa Fay mitigated, but Jerry stood and helped her up and took the baby in his arms.
“I’ve got a friend with a pad on Haight,” Jerry said, hopeful.
Lisa Fay walked with him as far as the bus stop and offered him her cheek and her address. “I haven’t got a phone,” she said. “Come for lunch some day.” She climbed aboard the bus with Wrecker, paying her fare. “Come for food.”
“Food,” Jerry repeated stupidly, and as the bus doors closed on his surprised face Lisa Fay felt certain that was the last she’d see of him.
It was all right with Belle to leave Wrecker overnight—he was sleeping already, why wake him?—although the first night Lisa Fay slept away from her son she woke up gasping, her palms wet with sweat, thinking she’d lost him. Jerry Skink went on snoring next to her on the mattress and through the open door she could see dark spots on the floor of the next room, the bodies of people (Her friends? Were these her friends?) who lay where they had fallen. They had all smoked a little much, they had done too many mushrooms, dropped a bit much acid—these were not her friends. Lisa Fay threw off the sheets and stood. She found her clothes and a clock: 3:15. On the streets at 3:15 in the morning. But it had to be better than here.
Jerry Skink showed up on the outside steps to her room the next day in time for lunch. Lisa Fay looked gray and soggy. She had downed half the bottle of Wrecker’s orange pills and felt no better for it. She was toasting white bread on the hot-plate burner, mechanically smearing on margarine and sprinkling sugar and cinnamon. She couldn’t keep up with the kid’s appetite but she was trying. Focus was hard. When she answered the knock on the door and stood looking at Jerry Skink, fresh-scrubbed and dandy in a new woven poncho, her efforts at focus slid off the plate of her mind. The son of a bitch. She stood waiting for his apology. She wasn’t sure what he should apologize for but felt fairly certain he should.
Jerry lifted his little upturned nose, nonchalant, and sniffed. He meant to say, “What’s for lunch?” but it came out, “Your kitchen is on fire.”
Lisa Fay turned and watched the last piece of sliced bread go up in a flame of glory. Wrecker cried. He didn’t like burned toast. He was still hungry.
Jerry stepped the three paces to the hot plate and switched it off. Then he smothered the flame with a cloth diaper that doubled as a dishtowel. He shot Wrecker a look that shut him up. Then he turned to Lisa Fay and said, all sugar, “I know a place on Gough makes great hamburgers. What do you say we go?”
Lisa Fay’s mouth watered for meat. She meant to say, “I have potatoes in the drawer. I have to get Wrecker to the sitter by two and be at work at three,” but it came out, “Medium rare. With fries and a vanilla shake and Wrecker likes pickles.”
Jerry smiled. “I have a car,” he said. “Let me take you out.”
Every silver lining has its cloud. Jerry Skink had time on his hands and access to a borrowed car and enough cash to every now and then treat mother and son to a day on the beach, to a meal out. They grew into a familiar routine. Saturday mornings Jerry Skink would come by with the car and ask Lisa Fay to cruise with him, down the peninsula some days, up to Muir Woods, and Lisa Fay would agree on the condition that Wrecker come along, and Jerry would suggest, tenderly but as the weeks went by more forcefully, that Wrecker be left with a friend, that he would have more fun with children his own age, that it was improper for a child to be kept in a car so long, that in fact much of the way Lisa Fay treated her son was not correct, that in fact the experts said—not that Jerry was an expert, what did he know about children, a single man, but he did read—the experts said, actually, to be fair about it, that Lisa Fay’s style of mothering was all wrong.
Wrecker was napping. Lisa Fay was sitting opposite Jerry at the table, snacking on the cheese sandwich crusts Wrecker had left in his wake. She was lifting the bread with her right hand and slowly, unconsciously, her left elbow slid on to the table and moved forward to shield the plate from Jerry and her left hand lifted and positioned itself on her forehead to shield her face from his view. She put back the scrap of bread and left her right hand in her lap.
“Hey. Whoa.” Jerry reached over to squeeze Lisa Fay’s upper arm. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
It was just—well. He was getting attached. He only wanted what was best for the little guy. Didn’t she?
Of course she did. And so Wrecker’s day-to-day life changed considerably as Lisa Fay submitted to Jerry Skink’s tutelage. It was not best for Wrecker to spend his evenings in the care of Yolanda’s mother in the Fillmore, and so Lisa Fay moved in with Jerry and his friends in the flat above Haight Street. There were plenty of extra people there to look after the boy while Lisa Fay worked. And it was not best that Wrecker sleep in the same room as his mother; surely Lisa Fay could see that. Jerry generously moved his crib mattress into the hall. Furthermore, it was not best that Wrecker be allowed to bulldoze freely through his environment. He needed discipline, to learn respect for other people’s time and space and property—but Jerry could take care of that, too.
It did cross Lisa Fay’s mind that it might not be best for Wrecker to have a mother so frequently strung out on the drugs Jerry dealt for a living, but some changes would have to wait.
Jerry’s income increased, and so, correspondingly, did his work schedule. It was no longer advantageous for Lisa Fay to continue to work at Hills Brothers when she could ease his load—and contribute more fully to the family’s needs—by assisting him. Life was still looser than before, it was Haight Street, it was the October of Love, but the day trips and evening excursions they took incorporated more and more business. For this, Wrecker was always welcome. And Lisa Fay, who felt like she rarely saw her son, who missed his pint-sized muscular body in bed next to hers, was glad for any chance to spend time with him. Even if it meant holding on to the stash. Even those few times when Jerry handed her the pistol and said, Put this in your belt, girl. I want you to be safe.
Wrecker didn’t mind. He liked going to the parks. He liked playing on the swings. Jerry was almost always in a good mood at the end of those days and took them for ice cream at Mitchell’s, where Wrecker could have any flavor he wanted, three scoops that came in a miniature batting helmet from the San Francisco Giants
.
It was a new park in a different part of town. It was big. Not as big as Golden Gate—which was a city in itself—but bigger than Yerba Buena, where they usually went, or the little block parks they used to go to when they lived over the grocery. It had more space between the playground and the basketball courts, it had a place to play tennis, it had a very nice slide, long and fast and curved at the bottom, that dropped the children into the sandbox. Wrecker stood and brushed the sand grains from his lap. There was some sand caught in the elastic waist of his pants and the air was starting to cool. Wrecker was hungry. He gazed away from the sun to the grassy slope, past the slope to the street and beyond that to the tall stone fronts of the school building.
There was a backhoe parked by a barricaded hole on the street. Wrecker’s eyes widened. A yellow backhoe with an open cab—just a canopy—and big wheels in the back and its stabilizers extended to keep it steady while the operator dug. But there was no driver Wrecker could see. It called to him. Oh! He glanced around to try to locate his mother, but quickly his gaze returned to the machine. He left his toy sword in the sandbox. He moved quickly. Lisa Fay had said Stay there, don’t move from the playground, but he couldn’t help himself.
A backhoe. A yellow backhoe.
His mother had said Don’t go in the street, Wrecker. Never go in the street.
But he had to get under the barricades to be able to climb up the big tire, gripping the treads, and scramble his way into the cab.
There was some noise. People arguing in a corner of the park. There was a big bang like an explosion, and then a lot of police cars with sirens and flashing lights. Someone was running and someone was chasing. There were dials and levers and pedals in the cab. There was a torn black seat Wrecker stood on and tried to reach the switch for the light but he was too short. He looked over to see a policeman tackle the running person. Wrecker wished he could turn the machine on. He wanted to move the arm; scoop dirt with the bucket. The policeman handcuffed the running person. He looked back again at the controls; pumped the pedals and pretended he had the key. He made a growl in his throat like the diesel engine warming up. When he looked up again, that corner of the park was deserted and the sky was dark.
Slowly a thought elbowed its way to the front of his brain. He rubbed his nose and tasted salt and dirt and snot.
That familiar shape? The one they had taken away?
That was his mother.
CHAPTER FOUR
They all sat around the kitchen table with the letter planted in the middle like a ticking bomb.
“Well,” Willow began. “It could be worse.”
“How?” Melody’s eyes were rimmed with red. She struggled to get a grip in spite of the tears that kept streaming down her face.
Ruth shot a worried glance at Johnny Appleseed. He’d been home for a week and was still wild-eyed with the look of the woods. It would take time for him to remember how to function like a human. Time they didn’t have.
Len could barely stand to look the others in the face. It was his fault the news arrived so late. The letter had come the week before, preceded by a slip in the mailbox that informed him he had certified mail and must appear at the Mattole Post Office between the hours of 8:00 and 4:30 to sign for it. Len quit work early and washed up before he drove to town. The postmistress showed him where to sign and he deposited the envelope in the chest pocket of his twill shirt. He stopped at the Mercantile and went around back to the feed store and dropped his laundry at the Wash’n’Fold on his way out of town. Back home, he cooked pork chops and scalloped potatoes while he rambled to Meg about his day, and then he washed the dishes, ran the water in the tub, undressed Meg and settled her in the bath, and began to undress and climb in with her—until he saw the green certified tag attached to the envelope in the pocket of his shirt. He hesitated. The return address was Children’s Protective Services. Meg was splashing happily, humming with gusto. He stepped out of his shorts and socks and slid in behind her. It was the only way she would allow him to wash her hair, and now it was the rare night they didn’t bathe together. He wet the washcloth and squeezed the water down her back. She squealed with delight. He dampened her hair, poured some shampoo into his palm, and began to rub it into her scalp. She melted against him. He would deal with the letter tomorrow. He gently scrubbed behind her ears and used the suds to soap under her arms and his own.
The next day he forgot the letter. It wasn’t until the following week—until today—when he brought the next load of dirty clothes to the Wash’n’Fold that the envelope slid out from between his work clothes and Meg’s rumpled blouses. He slid his thick nail under the flap to open it. He hunched slightly to read the small print and then he straightened up and ran the heel of his hand across his brow. He ignored the laundry he had just lifted onto the counter and he got in his truck and drove directly to Bow Farm.
“Len.”
He looked up at the sound of Willow’s voice.
“Come on. This was the idea, wasn’t it?” She shifted her gaze from his face to consider each of the others in turn. “We’d look after him for a few days, or weeks, or a month? Until Len got something settled with the state?” Willow lifted the letter and read it through again. “It’s not like he’s going to an orphanage or anything. They sound like nice people.”
“What makes you think that?” Ruth wasn’t buying any of it. She eased out of her chair and started bustling about the kitchen, giving the clean counters another vigorous wipe. “A husband and wife who live up in Eureka. They could be ax murderers.” The idea spawned a flare of fear and a sudden headache. She straightened up, pinched the bridge of her nose. “For all we know, they could have forty other children they’ve adopted this way. We don’t know a thing about them.”
Willow arched an eyebrow. She didn’t suppose the agency would give out children without doing a background check, she said.
“They didn’t check Len.” Johnny Appleseed squatted in the corner with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped pensively under his chin. Len looked over, startled. “Sorry, man,” Johnny told him. “No offense. But they didn’t exactly make sure everything was copacetic before they shipped Wrecker up to you.”
Len was confused. He wasn’t sure if he was being accused of something specific or if the tree planter was just making a point.
He felt terrible about all this. He couldn’t take care of the boy. The first day had proved that, and nothing had changed on that front. But the girls could, and they’d proved that, too. He’d just forgotten about the state. He’d thought—if he thought about it at all—that they’d forgotten about him, too. He was fraying at the edges. He wondered what else he might have forgotten. What if he forgot something Meg needed? What if, one day, he forgot Meg? He flicked his gaze toward Willow but quickly dropped his eyes.
“What did you tell them, Len?” Melody’s eyes searched his face. “Did you tell them Wrecker wasn’t doing well? Did you say he needed something better?”
“Leave him alone,” Willow warned. Her voice sharpened with irritation. “He took the boy because he was the only kin Wrecker had, and he believed it was his duty. You all know that.” She looked around at them; waited for someone to challenge her. “Look,” she said, and breathed out. She laid her hands flat on the table before her. “Len’s been trying to work out the best thing for Wrecker. The boy needs a solid, reliable home.”
Melody’s eyes flared. “This isn’t home?”
“This is summer camp.” Willow’s tone matched hers. “And all of us”—she moved her hand wearily to indicate them all—“we’re all just camp counselors.”
“Speak for yourself,” Melody said, her voice low and angry.
“Melody.” Willow shook her head when the young woman wouldn’t meet her eye. “I know you’ve grown fond of him,” she said. “We all have. It’s hard to let him go.” She softened her voice. “But you’re not his mother.”
Melody stood up abruptly. “And she is?” She jabbed a fin
ger at the letter. “She is? She doesn’t know a thing about him. She probably picked his picture out of a catalog. And you, Willow. You don’t know him, either.” Ruth lifted her chin in warning, but Melody blundered forward. “No wonder you’re willing to let him go so easily.”
Len wanted to cry. It was his fault alone that Wrecker was leaving. He opened his mouth to defend Willow but the look on her face made him clamp his jaw shut.
Willow paused several beats before answering. “It’s possible that I know a bit more about children than anyone here,” she said, her voice clipped, her face a shade darker with emotion. “But that’s not the point. The point is Len is required to bring Wrecker to the CPS office in Eureka tomorrow. If he doesn’t appear he’ll be held in contempt of a court order. If he doesn’t respond at all they’ll send someone down to take Wrecker and they’ll likely arrest Len.” She took in each of them with her measured gaze. Those were fairly high stakes for a man with the responsibilities Len had, she said. Perhaps they could tell her who else stood to lose as much?
Melody swiveled toward Len. “Listen,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Tell them you’ll keep him. That you made a mistake.” She stilled her hands from their reflexive action and, gawky but deliberate, brought them together in appeal. “I promise you we’ll take care of him.” She looked at Willow and then back at Len. “Not just for a day or a week or a month. We’ll stick with him. I swear.”
Len felt her appeal slice at his heart. Yes; if only. But his throat was too swollen to let the words pass.
There was a long pause. When Willow broke it, her voice was softer than before. “Melody? Don’t make this hard for him.”
“I’m making this very easy.” Melody leaned forward and addressed Len. “I’ll take total responsibility. If you adopt him, I promise you we’ll raise him. Ruth? Johnny Appleseed? Tell him. Please, Len.”
