I&#39ll Be There

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

  They’d picked a Sunday. It would be an early dinner. Even though it was just spring, they’d set the picnic table. Sam told her that eating outside would probably be easier for Riddle.

  Sam would not discuss his father, and Emily had come to accept that for now. They were at odds. It happened. Maybe because his mother had died. Maybe Sam felt his father didn’t do a good job of taking care of his wife in the end. Emily’s mom had told her about seeing all kinds of things like that in her years at the hospital.

  But Sam was different about his brother.

  He talked about him, in small ways, all the time. And he worried about him. Once Emily understood that this was part of what made Sam anxious, she felt even closer to him.

  She could see that he was always holding the thought of someone else inside. He was always balancing people, and she was now one of those people. He was sharing as much as he could. And sharing his little brother with her was a very big thing for him.

  And that’s how Emily knew Sam really cared about her.

  They showed up early.

  Sam and Riddle had gone to the laundromat that day so that they would have clean clothes.

  At noon, Sam left a ten-dollar bill on the cracked tile kitchen counter, knowing that their father, a born thief, would pocket the money and disappear. That allowed them to get dressed and leave in the afternoon without questions.

  They took the bus across town, and Riddle, holding his phone book, stared out the window, for the most part, unblinking. Sam had explained that they were going to see Sam’s new friend. Riddle had met her before. Remember? Outside at night in the rain?

  Riddle remembered. Because he remembered everything. But he kept that, like almost everything, to himself.

  They would eat dinner with the new friend and then take the bus home.

  Riddle’s favourite part was that the brakes on the bus made a loud squeak followed by a wheeze when it came to a stop. Every time this happened, Riddle smiled. Squeak. Wheeze. Smile. He saw it as some kind of joke.

  Sam watched. In his own unpredictable way, his little brother was very predictable.

  The dog saved the day.

  Riddle related to animals much easier than to people, and Felix, the Bell’s nine-year-old lumpy lab mix, got him through the meal.

  Emily came out to greet them in the front yard, and she brought Felix with her. Riddle immediately crouched down low, making himself small to meet the dog. He seemed oblivious to Emily.

  Riddle’s head moved up and down in the same rhythm as the dog. Emily at first thought it was some strange coincidence until she realised that Riddle was imitating Felix, anticipating his moves.

  Sam let him do that for what felt to Emily like a very long time before he said, in a low, soft tone, ‘Riddle, this is Emily. You met before, and I’ve told you about her. We’re going to have dinner here in this house with Emily. I want you to say hello.’

  Riddle, still moving like the lab mix, glanced up, briefly caught her eye, and then looked away.

  Done.

  Once inside the house, Riddle stayed close to Sam, appearing neither happy nor unhappy as he focused on the dog.

  Tim and Debbie Bell introduced themselves and welcomed him to their home. Jared waited across the room at a distance, sizing up the situation. Riddle scared him.

  After an awkward amount of time, filled in by Emily and Sam, they all moved outside to the picnic table. Debbie went back into the kitchen with Tim to bring out the food.

  Inside the house, Debbie turned to her husband, speaking in a whisper even though everyone else was in the yard. ‘He’s got developmental issues. Autism? Maybe Asperger’s.’

  Tim looked out the window. He could see them at the table. Sam, Emily, and Jared were talking. Riddle, sitting right next to Sam, was feeding Felix potato chips under the table.

  Tim shrugged. ‘We just met him. It might be a little early to label the kid.’

  Debbie was all about quick diagnosis. And quick response. She continued, ‘And he’s got some kind of respiratory ailment. Asthma. Maybe asthma and allergies. I wonder what meds he takes. I hope he has a decent inhaler.’

  Debbie lifted the bubbling lasagna out of the oven and placed the hot dish on a tray. She was still whispering. ‘You saw that he’s carrying that old phone book. It’s some kind of security for him.’

  Tim hadn’t seen. But then again, he didn’t notice half the things she did, even after she pointed them out. He now looked out the window and still was not able to locate a phone book. Did she mean something that was in his pocket or something larger?

  Moments later, they were back out in the yard, dishing out the lasagna, salad and garlic bread.

  Sam and Riddle were not familiar with things that didn’t come from a fast-food place or that wasn’t cooked on a hot plate. They had eaten mostly what you find at the counter of a gas station for years.

  But since lasagna seemed like a version of the fattest spaghetti with meat sauce ever made, they ate it.

  Or in Riddle’s case, Riddle and Felix ate it.

  No one said anything about the fact that half of what was on Riddle’s plate ended up in Felix’s stomach. Jared made two attempts to point out the situation, and both times his parents shot him down.

  Emily had told her mom and dad not to ask Riddle any questions. But of course they did. And Sam answered them.

  But Riddle didn’t seem to mind being interrogated. He ate food, he fed the dog, and he drank two tall glasses of very cold milk. It was very cold, because he put two cubes of ice in the glass.

  After only seventeen minutes, Debbie Bell brought out a dump cake. She only made one on special occasions, which was strange, because it was less work than making any other kind of cake. Emily turned to Sam and Riddle and said, ‘This is Mom’s famous dump cake.’

  Sam’s and Riddle’s eyes met. Did these people go to the dump? Not possible. And it was also not likely that they had any idea that Sam and Riddle knew more about rubbish piles than a lot of people who even worked in garbage collection.

  Debbie took the cake server and started to cut slices.

  ‘We didn’t make that name up . . .’ Emily continued. ‘You take a box of yellow cake mix and then you dump in a can of cherries and a can of crushed pineapple.’

  Debbie added, ‘You then mix in a bag of shredded coconut and stir in two sticks of melted butter.’

  Emily was smiling now. No one else was.

  ‘It looks crazy, but you put that all in a pan and bake it.’ Debbie offered everyone a slice of dump cake, starting with Riddle. ‘Here you go . . .’

  Despite the name, it was obvious, from the first bite, that Riddle loved the dessert. He had a sweet tooth, and his whole life he fought off hunger pains by eating candy.

  Once his plate was bare, he held it back out towards Debbie. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were. And Emily could see that. And that made her feel, for the first time all night, at ease.

  Riddle didn’t give any of his first cake piece to the dog, which was half the reason he took a second slice. He didn’t feel right about not sharing with Felix (who, two hours later, barfed in a basket of unsorted socks in the Bells’ laundry room).

  After dinner, Jared went into the house and brought out a new Verizon phone book. He gave it to Riddle, who clearly was pleased. Riddle even looked at Jared and then said, as a matter-of-fact statement, ‘I needed another book.’

  Riddle then opened up his existing phone book and showed Jared what several thousand hours of intricate, mechanical drawing looked like. Jared moved closer, no longer as afraid, and now in awe.

  Tim Bell, liberated from the invisible harness thrown on by his wife and daughter prior to the meal, went into the house and returned with his prize guitar and a bass. He passed the Martin Marquis Madagascar to Sam, and he took the bass. It was getting cold outside, but they played anyway.

  Riddle started to work on an aeronautical drawing of the inside of a cruise missile from the memory of a phot
ograph he’d seen in a magazine. Jared was wide-eyed because of course they didn’t have a cruise missile anywhere in their backyard.

  Debbie took a seat across from Riddle to watch him work.

  The dog went deep into the darkness to eat some green grass in hopes of doing something about his incredible stomach-ache.

  And Emily stared at the group and decided that they were the human equivalent of a dump cake.

  14

  Eleven days later, Bobby Ellis continued his work on his first real detective case. He had run a property check on the crap house on Needle Lane and found that it was not just in foreclosure, it was also pending litigation in a title dispute.

  And if that weren’t enough, when he called the bank to discuss renting the property, he was told that the place had a mould problem and was not considered habitable.

  How weird was that?

  So why were people living there?

  Bobby usually lifted weights after school, but on Thursday he decided to do more recon. And this time he hit the jackpot.

  He turned off River Road onto Needle and saw the two boys again heading down the sidewalk. Bobby pulled over to the kerb and watched.

  Riddle carried a phone book, but it was his new one. He also carried something that he was quickly becoming even more attached to, an environmentally friendly hydrofluoroalkane inhaler filled with Proventil.

  Debbie Bell had insisted the night she met Riddle that she drive the boys home. Riddle was disappointed that he couldn’t ride the squeaky bus but of course didn’t say anything. They all piled into the Subaru, and soon it was clear that Debbie Bell had her own ideas about the trip home.

  She drove straight to the hospital. Emily, once she realised what was going on, was as alarmed as the two boys.

  So it was with some real effort that Debbie managed to get the three of them out of the car and inside the building.

  After flashing her employee badge and explaining that she was giving a quick tour of where she worked to the three kids, Debbie entered the emergency room through the back entrance.

  Dr Howard was on duty. Goldie Howard was one of Debbie Bell’s favourites. She was a kind doctor and into medicine for all the right reasons. Emily’s mom, in complete violation of all rules and regulations, had the doctor spend fifteen minutes examining Riddle. A friend-to-friend thing. A worker-to-worker thing. An I’m-asking-for-a-big-favour thing.

  No forms, no parental consent, no paperwork, just a doctor examining a kid who (unknown to them) had not seen a doctor since his immunisation shots just after his second birthday.

  Riddle, who was silent throughout the entire ordeal, ignored all of Dr Howard’s questions, which Sam answered.

  Her diagnosis was the same as Debbie’s: asthma. Possibly complicated by some form of acute allergy. She wanted Riddle to go see a pulmonary specialist named Dr William Wang who was on Eleventh Street.

  Dr Howard wrote it all out on a referral form and then put two Proventil inhalers from the medical dispensary closet into Debbie’s hands, signing the memo that they were taken out by Deborah Bell for Riddle Smith. Emily, who was friends with Dr Howard’s son, thanked her. Sam, at her side, did the same.

  At the Bells’ house, Riddle had been given a piece of the cake (wrapped in tinfoil and then placed on a paper plate as a take-home treat). He’d refused to leave it in the car and had it with him throughout the entire exam.

  They had all said their goodbyes (except for Riddle, who said nothing) and started down the back hallway when Riddle abruptly stopped. He turned around and went back to Dr Howard and wordlessly handed her the piece of wrapped cake.

  Done.

  Now, in day eleven of the Proventil therapy, Riddle was feeling as if he could breathe. The thick spit that was always in his mouth, and forever stuck like a liquid hairball somewhere in the back of his throat and halfway down his chest, had thinned.

  It was crazy how strange he now felt.

  It was like someone had been sitting on his chest for ten years and then had decided to climb off. Riddle was so used to the tightness, the pressure, the literal squeeze it took to get a gulp of air, that he almost felt dizzy from the relief of being able to have oxygen flow.

  Sam watched his brother and wondered if it were possible that Riddle had never spoken very much because it was literally a strain.

  Because now he was really talking.

  He could say what was on his mind, not just express himself in times of need or panic. Much of it involved repeating thoughts, sometimes obsessively. But he didn’t seem like a fish out of water, gulping wide-mouthed in the air. He just seemed like he had opinions and ideas and now he wanted to share them. Sometimes over and over again.

  That morning, they’d slept late. After they got up, eaten half a box of stale cereal (with no milk), and each drank a Pepsi, they’d gone to the dump.

  Sam spent an hour helping an angry guy unload a U-Haul truck filled with stuff from an eviction. The guy gave Sam three bucks. It was better than nothing, but it wouldn’t get them much of a meal.

  When Sam and Riddle headed down Needle Lane they didn’t know that Bobby Ellis was watching. The dead-end street had flooded frequently in the days before the Army Corps of Engineers put in the reservoir, and even though years had passed, the street held the memory. The soil was soft, rich from years of river runoff and thick with weeds and long-term neglect.

  The houses on Needle were mostly built in the forties.

  Some were vacant; none were well-kept. One of the neighbours had been busted for selling drugs back in September. Someone had spray-painted graffiti of a happy face on the side of the drug-bust house.

  Sam and Riddle walked past, and Riddle held up his inhaler, saying, ‘What do I do when it runs out?’

  Sam considered. ‘You have a second one.’

  That didn’t satisfy Riddle. ‘What do I do when the second one runs out?’

  Sam answered, ‘We’ll get you a new one.’

  Riddle was troubled. ‘From the sweet-cake lady?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Emily’s mom. Her name is Debbie. Debbie Bell. You know that.’

  Riddle’s anxiety was not lessened. ‘And what about when he makes us leave? What about when we can’t find Debbie Bell, the sweet-cake lady?’

  Now it was Sam’s turn to be quiet. He had no idea what they’d do when Clarence announced, as of course he would, probably any day now, that they were on the run.

  Sam looked over at his little brother. And this time he couldn’t answer.

  Bobby watched as the two boys slipped inside the house at the end of the road. Only moments later, a truck appeared on the street. Bobby sank a few inches lower in his seat and grabbed a handful of papers from his backpack. He pretended to be looking them over as the black truck passed by and pulled into the driveway of the last house.

  The truck looked like it had been driven hard. Bobby watched as a man emerged. He was in his early forties; tall and thin, all angles.

  Bobby quickly dug his phone out of his backpack and, as the man headed towards the back of the house, Bobby took a picture.

  His phone was still raised when the man suddenly turned around. Bobby clicked again. The man now stared at him, defiant. Bobby dropped the phone and started his SUV. The man then turned back towards the house, and Bobby put his foot on the gas, pulling away from the kerb at a speed that he hoped didn’t look panicky.

  With one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand wrote on the weekly crime report map, License number, 7MMS 924. He next jotted down the make, colour and model of the truck.

  And then, because he was taught to do so, he quickly noted that there were two dents on the back of the vehicle and a cracked side-view mirror on the passenger’s side.

  It wasn’t until he was three blocks away, waiting at a stoplight, that he looked at the photos he’d taken.

  The man was small in the shot, and in shadow, but even from a distance it was clear that he was intimidating.

  Sam was interest
ed in the idea of school. For himself. And for his brother.

  But he was interested in all kinds of things that seemed completely out of his reach. He’d thought about walking on the moon, but that didn’t mean he’d taken any steps to make it happen.

  Now someone else was taking the steps for him.

  Tim Bell was obsessed with Sam.

  Debbie Bell was obsessed with Riddle.

  Jared Bell was in awe of Sam and sort of frightened by Riddle’s obsessive drawing.

  Felix the dog liked Sam and was in love with Riddle. But his obsession was the English setter named Cricket who lived three houses over.

  And Emily Bell was finding herself more and more unable to control the situation. She was frightened by the obsessive nature of her own family. What was going on with these people?

  After school on Tuesday, Emily came home to an empty house. Jared had basketball practice. Her parents were at work. She’d sent Sam a text message and hadn’t yet heard back.

  She let in the dog from the backyard and went into the kitchen to make herself a piece of toast. Debbie Bell’s laptop was in the kitchen, and Emily opened it up. She wanted to go online without going to her room.

  The screen brightened with the page that Debbie Bell had been looking at when she’d closed the computer. Emily found herself staring at it.

  In order to enroll in PUBLIC SCHOOL

  you will need:

  Proofs of Age, Identity, Residency, Immunisations

  One or two of the below list:

  • Birth certificate

  • Passport/visa

  • Hospital certificate

  • Physician’s certificate

  • Family Bible

  • Church certificate

  • Parent’s affidavit, legal notarised identification

  Proof of Identity of Person Enrolling Student and Relationship to Student

  Person enrolling student must present legal identification and proof of established relationship to student. Anyone other than parent or legal guardian must complete OCRM Form 335-73s along with: