Pay It Forward

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  He smiled.

  “Maybe it didn’t work out as bad as you thought,” he said.

  From The Diary of Trevor

  There are absolutely no words for how cool this is.

  First off, everybody’s telling my mom what a great mom she is. And everybody’s telling Reuben what a great teacher he is.

  And then they’re saying I’m a great kid, and I say, Nah. Not really.

  I mean, anybody could have thought of this. It’s so simple. Sometimes I think, How could it work? That’s so amazing. And other times I think, How could it not work? It’s so simple.

  The part about believing people might really do it. I bet that’s the part nobody could get right before now.

  But you know what? If they want to tell me I’m brilliant and special, let ’em.

  It makes Mom and Reuben happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ARLENE

  “You taping this, Mom?”

  Arlene was not only taping but counting the number of times he asked. “Yes, Trevor, like I told you the last six times.” But there was no anger or genuine impatience in her words. She understood.

  “I think we need more chips, Mom.”

  Arlene sighed. Normally, she’d have told him to get up and get more chips himself, his hands weren’t broken. But his grandma was here, having driven all the way from Redlands to share this moment. And Joe and Loretta and Bonnie and Ricky’s sister Evelyn, the boy’s aunt, were here. And Reuben was a maybe, though he hadn’t shown yet. And it was an irreplaceable, special moment for the boy, Trevor’s very own moment, so Arlene supposed she could understand how he didn’t want to miss even a minute of the program. Even though it was going on tape. Even though Chris had promised him a professionally taped version of the segment. Even though the segment hadn’t begun yet and everybody was staring in endless, nervous fascination at a story about welfare reform that would have bored them to tears on any other night.

  She brought a fresh bag of chips out from the kitchen, and the show went to commercial. Arlene pushed the long ribbony hanging strings of a few helium balloons out of her way to wade through bodies to the VCR.

  “Don’t turn it off!” Trevor shouted, and everyone jumped.

  “You want the commercials?”

  “Maybe they’ll come back and say something about the next story.”

  “Okay, fine. I ain’t touching it.” She raised her hands in an exaggerated surrender.

  She went back to the kitchen for another beer for her momma, and a 7UP for Loretta. She pulled back the kitchen curtain, staring down the empty street as if she might see him drive up. Maybe he was just running a little late, she thought. Even though he’d never been late to anything in his life, so far as Arlene knew.

  Then she heard it from the living room. A narrator talking about Sidney G. and the story they’d done before. How a bit more information had come to light. How pleased they thought the viewers would be to see the real thinker behind this wave of kindness that threatened to take over the country with sudden goodwill.

  And then they said Trevor’s name. It made her stomach tingle. Trevor’s name on national TV. My son, she thought, and her knees felt a little too wobbly to move back into the living room. Just for a moment she wondered if it was really fair to call him her son, even though he was, because it felt like taking credit for his sudden fame. Really she did not feel the least bit accountable. By all rights any son of hers should have been an average kid, and she supposed in most ways Trevor was. Which is what made all this so odd and amazing.

  “Mom, get in here, quick! It’s on!”

  She wobbled into the living room with little help from those knees. On the small screen, Trevor was riding his bike down Mrs. Greenberg’s street, throwing newspapers onto the lawns. Trevor. Her boy. The same one who sat on the couch in twitching silence, watching. Arlene tried to remember if she had ever known anyone who had been on television, but no one came to mind.

  That old bike looked so crappy. She’d have to get him a new one. Why hadn’t she already? My God, what would people think?

  She leaned both hands on the back of the couch, and her momma reached back to put a hand on Arlene’s. Gave it a squeeze and then left it there. It was such a strange moment, she almost forgot to watch the show. But it was on tape, anyway, and she’d probably have to watch it four or five times before it all sank in properly. Her momma’s hand on hers. For once in Arlene’s whole goddamned life she must’ve done something worthy.

  Now Trevor was standing in the yard beside Mrs. Greenberg’s house, showing where he keeps the dry cat food that he buys with his own money, because he knows Mrs. Greenberg wouldn’t want any of those strays to miss a meal in her absence. And the power lawn mower he uses to keep her grass neat, even though it isn’t really hers anymore. And the plastic gas can he has to tie to the handlebars of his bike when the mower runs out of gas. And most of this was unfamiliar to her. She was learning, along with much of the country, what her son did while out of the house. He had a life, and it hadn’t struck her before, at least not in such an obvious way, that he existed on his own, apart from her.

  Now the inside of a classroom. Her gut constricted at the image of Reuben in front of his blackboard. In front of that sentence. The one that started it all.

  She reached across the couch and gave Trevor a little nudge on the shoulder. “Did he say he’d come?”

  “Huh?”

  “Reuben.”

  “He said he’d try.”

  Suddenly Arlene felt the need to drive by his house, to see if he was sitting home, watching in bed alone, to avoid her company. But it didn’t seem right to duck out of the festivities. Not on Trevor’s big night. In a few minutes, when the segment ended, she had to be here to break out the chilled champagne for the grown-ups. Well, not for her or Loretta or Bonnie, but for the other grown-ups. And the sparkling apple juice for Trevor. Only, if he asked, maybe he could have just a couple of sips of champagne. In honor of his big night.

  Maybe Reuben would arrive in time for the postprogram celebration.

  Reuben did not arrive, though. And Arlene did not drink champagne. She brought out more dip and waited for a moment alone with Trevor, so she could tell him how damned proud she was. But the company stayed, and the program got shown three more times, with Trevor fast-forwarding through the commercials. Between the excitement and the half glass of champagne, Trevor was asleep long before that moment could present itself for real.

  ARLENE WOKE UP SICK. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if Momma had not been in the house.

  Momma had been sleeping on the Hide-A-Bed sofa in the living room, yet the sound of Arlene running to the bathroom first thing seemed to bring her out of hiding. That radar of hers. When Arlene came back through the bedroom, with the blood all drained out of her face, there was Momma sitting on the side of Arlene’s bed. A vision in polyester. But Arlene got back into bed anyway. That’s how bad she felt.

  “Been drinking?”

  “Momma, I ain’t had a drink in over a year. You know that.”

  “Big celebration last night. All that excitement.”

  “You were right there. You saw me drinking apple juice.”

  “Don’t know what you did after we went to bed.”

  “My God, Momma. Can’t you never cut me no slack?”

  “Okay, okay. Just asking.” A long, ringing silence.

  Arlene wondered if she should ask Momma to call her in sick to work. No, she wasn’t a kid anymore. She should do it herself.

  “Stomach flu?”

  “How the hell should I know, Momma? I just woke up sick.”

  “Been happening a lot?”

  “This is the first I seen of it.”

  “Just thought you might be pregnant.”

  “Don’t even think it.”

  “Just asking.”

  “Do me a favor, Momma. Go make breakfast for Trevor. I got to call in sick to work. I got to get some rest here.”
/>   When she left the room, Arlene felt breath drain out of her in relief. If Momma didn’t volunteer to drive back to Redlands today, Arlene might have to suggest it.

  After the call she drifted back to sleep, but the nausea woke her again. As she climbed back into bed, Trevor came in to kiss her good-bye. His grandma was ready to drive him to school.

  “You too big a celebrity to ride your bike now?”

  “Aw, Mom. She just wants to.”

  “We’ll get you a better bike real soon.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and she parted his hair with her fingers and brushed it aside.

  “One I got’s okay.”

  “Nah, you deserve better. Just blow me a kiss, okay? I don’t want you gettin’ sick.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “I’m real proud of you, Trevor. Just so proud I could split. Know that thing about how everybody gets fifteen minutes of fame? That’s just about how much time they gave you on that show, huh?”

  “School today’s gonna be real fun. I bet Mary Anne Telmin won’t even talk to me.” His face twisted into a satisfied smile. “Mom?” he said on his way out the bedroom door. “I like my bike okay. Really.”

  Then he blew her a kiss.

  SHE WOKE UP LATER THAT MORNING feeling better. So she called work and said she’d be in for the afternoon. Only just so much work she could afford to miss.

  But the next morning she felt bad again, only she dragged in to work anyway. Low-grade bug, she figured, though the boss said maybe stress.

  Arlene couldn’t imagine what she had to stress about when everything in life seemed so amazingly good. She spent the morning half working, half wondering if she should call Reuben to see if he’d caught the show. How could he have missed it? Or for that matter, how could he have missed seeing it with them?

  When she got home from work Momma was finally gone. But she’d left a note by the phone in that distressingly perfect penmanship of hers.

  That reporter fella called. Really needs to talk to you. He wants to fly out and see you in person. Something concerning Trevor, and some mail and something I didn’t quite get, only that it was about the White House in some regard. Call him collect if you want. As soon as you can. Maybe you should see a doctor. Could be an ulcer. Maybe you inherit that from your old man.

  Love, Momma

  Arlene took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Thank God this was Friday, so she could wake up feeling like hell for two more days and it wouldn’t matter on payday. She didn’t feel right calling Chris collect. It would have made her feel poor, like a beggar. The phone rang five times, then his answering machine picked up.

  “This is Chris Chandler,” the machine said. “If this is Arlene McKinney, I’m on my way to the airport to grab a red-eye to California. I’m sorry to catch you off guard, but we really need to talk in person. All kinds of stuff going on. I promised you I wouldn’t give out your address and phone number, but now I’ve got all these important messages for you. They want me to start the interviews for the Citizen of the Month spot right away. You have no idea how much timing is involved with this. This story may not stay hot for long. See you in the morning. If it’s anybody else, please leave a message.” Beep.

  Arlene glanced at the clock and wondered if she could stomach food. Wondered how long Trevor’s fifteen minutes of fame was destined to last.

  THE KNOCK CAME BEFORE 8 A.M. Arlene lay very still and listened to Trevor’s footsteps running to answer the door. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, half thinking she would not throw up this time. Her thinking proved too optimistic.

  By the time she’d managed to dress herself and get out to the living room, Trevor had nearly buried himself in a mountain of envelopes, tearing them open like a kid unwrapping Christmas presents.

  Chris stood when she entered the room, but she waved him down again.

  “You don’t look too good,” he said.

  “No, I’m fine. Just stress.”

  “Look, Mom. I got four hundred and nineteen letters. And that’s just the first two days. And not only that, but Chris says the network wants to tape an interview with me for Citizen of the Month. You know that thing they do on the six o’clock news? Well, next month it’s me. I’m going to be the Citizen of the Month! Cool, huh? Chris’ll tell you all about it. And that’s not even the best part. I get to go to the White House! The president invited me. To meet him. Me!”

  Trevor stopped and gasped for breath. Arlene wanted to shake herself more fully awake. Probably some parts of this were happening and other, less likely parts were not.

  “The White House?”

  “Yeah! Cool, huh?”

  “The White House?”

  “Yeah, the president wants to meet me. And Chris says it’s gonna be on all the news shows and in all the papers. Me shaking hands with the president!”

  Arlene looked away from Trevor’s breathless expression to Chris. “All by himself?” she asked Chris, who opened his mouth to respond, but never got a word in edgewise.

  “No, Mom, you get to go too, on account of you’re my mother, and Reuben’s invited too, because he was the teacher who got us to do that assignment in the first place. All expenses paid. We get to stay at the Washington Arms Hotel. Chris says they’ve got a doorman. And he says somebody from the White House is going to come get us at the airport in a big car and tour us around the city. Isn’t that just totally cool?”

  “You and me and Reuben?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that just totally cool?”

  Out of the corner of her eye Arlene saw Chris smile shyly. A trip to Washington with Reuben. Who she couldn’t even call to ask if he’d seen himself on TV. She felt a slight wave of nausea again and wondered if she should get closer to the bathroom.

  “That’s pretty cool, all right, Trevor.” She tried to sound sincere. Because it was cool, unbelievably so, to the point that it hadn’t all quite settled in yet. But with Reuben…

  “Remember when you said we’re all supposed to get fifteen minutes to be famous? Chris says I’m gonna get, like, hours. Boy, I better start answering some of this mail.”

  Arlene excused herself to the bathroom, silently noting that even the coolest things can cause a sickening amount of stress.

  From The Diary of Trevor

  Well, this is the last I’ll get to write in this diary for a while. ’Cause I am leaving it home. Shoot, I got a president to meet. I won’t have time to write in a silly diary.

  But, boy. When I get back. Watch out.

  Reuben says I have the rest of my life to write down everything that’s about to happen to me.

  I just hope that’s enough time.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  REUBEN

  They took the train to Santa Barbara, then a shuttle bus to LAX, the only part of the trip to come out of their own pockets.

  On the train Trevor wanted to sit by the window, and it only seemed right to seat Arlene beside him. Reuben ended up alone one seat back. He couldn’t read on a moving vehicle, it made him queasy, so he sat quietly, watching the backs of their heads.

  He could hear the endless litany of Trevor’s tapping foot. The boy was wired for sound. As Reuben supposed he should be, on his way to the White House.

  He couldn’t help but notice that Arlene, by herself, looked like a relative stranger, or at least somewhat estranged, while Arlene and Trevor together still looked like his family. An odd sensation, one that left his discomfort no room to breathe.

  In the airport Trevor talked to him. And talked and talked. Endless strings of breathy speculation. What the president would be like, what sights they would get to see. Would they have to go through a metal detector or show ID to get in?

  He asked Reuben several times, in several different ways, if Reuben thought his Citizen of the Month interviews had gone okay. Then he showcased his knowledge of White House history.

  “Did you know there was a fire there?”

  “I think I might have
heard that.”

  “That’s why they painted it white.”

  Reuben thought Arlene was not listening, but she broke in on that comment. “You’re making that up.”

  “No, really. The War of 1812. And in 1929. I think they painted it that first time. Is it okay to call him Bill?”

  “Who?” Arlene asked absently.

  “The president.”

  “Oh, God, no! Oh, my God, Trevor, don’t you dare. Don’t even think about it. You call him Mr. Clinton, or President Clinton, or Mr. President, or just plain ‘sir.’”

  “What if I get to meet Chelsea?”

  “Cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “I hope I get to meet Chelsea. She’s a major babe.”

  On the plane Trevor opted for the window again, and Arlene sat next to him, which put Reuben on the aisle, beside her. It seemed awkward not to talk, but he didn’t.

  Trevor looked out the window and Reuben fingered the little ring box in his pocket and wondered again why he’d brought it. And wondered, if she knew he’d brought it, would she then understand that his silence wasn’t cold, or wasn’t meant to be, but rather a trench he’d dug himself into? A trench that only seemed to deepen with his movements. Maybe at some point in the trip he would tell her, just so she would know that for a moment, while packing, he had missed her, and his thoughts had been kind.

  But that was a big bite for a man who couldn’t even seem to discuss the weather or their itinerary.

  The flight was a smooth one, so he read his book.

  AT THE AIRPORT, A very young, fresh-faced man in a suit and tie held a sign that read McKinney Party. The man, whose name was Frank, loaded their luggage in the trunk of a black American-made car and asked if they’d like to stop at the hotel to freshen up. Arlene said that sounded good, but Trevor looked so crestfallen, they asked what he’d like to do first.

  “See things.”