by Meg Moseley
She tried to remember being a happy, noisy kid playing on the jungle gym. She couldn’t. It was like trying to remember being a Martian. She sort of remembered the school lunches, though. Syrupy canned peaches. Meatloaf Mondays and Taco Tuesdays.
Earlier, in half-day kindergarten, they’d only had morning snack. She’d loved kindergarten. It was all crayons and games and funny stories, and then a nap on a striped mat. Even the talent show was fun until she had stage fright. She’d practiced her song at home for days, but then nothing would come out of her mouth. Her brother had acted as if she were the star of the show, though. Stu had whooped and whistled and clapped, hollering “Melly, Melly, Melly!” like she’d done something special just by showing up.
He’d even taken the morning off work so he could be there, but her dad—her ex-dad—hadn’t bothered. She didn’t remember her mom’s reaction. She’d probably been embarrassed.
She stepped over weeds growing in a crack in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
She’d never wanted to hurt her mom, and her mom probably hadn’t meant to hurt her. Doormats didn’t hurt people. They only lay there. They could keep a clean house and cook great meals and raise beautiful tomatoes, but in the end they were something for somebody to walk on.
Carefully stepping over another crack, Mel daydreamed about sneaking into a classroom and making it a free motel room for the night. The kindergarten classroom might have nap-time mats to soften the floor under her sleeping bag. First, though, she’d stop in the school kitchen and raid the humongous refrigerators. Her dad would call it stealing, but she wouldn’t feel guilty. After all the hours he’d put into school-board business, she’d just be collecting a little bit of what they owed him.
She’d wash her hair in one of the gigantic stainless-steel sinks. She’d have to use dish soap for shampoo. Maybe she’d find some kitchen towels to dry her hair with, or she could use one of the hot-air hand-dryers in a bathroom. Then she’d find a cozy spot to spread out her sleeping bag.
Except none of it would happen. She didn’t dare trespass on school property. That was a federal offense, she was pretty sure.
Not letting herself think about all the food in those giant fridges, she tried to read the street signs as she approached the corner. She couldn’t stay on any one street too long. People didn’t want scruffy people with bedrolls hanging out in their precious neighborhoods.
Third and … Mimosa? Good. She hadn’t walked down Mimosa yet.
She picked up her pace, partly so she’d look like she knew where she was going and partly to warm up. The hoodie was paper-thin compared to her dad’s big black jacket.
“He’s not my dad,” she said under her breath. “Not anymore.”
Tempted to stop and dig out a cigarette, she slapped her right hand with her left. She didn’t have a light anyway, and she didn’t want to draw attention by asking somebody for one. If she bothered people, they’d call the cops. Then the cops would have to crack down on her. Besides, she had to make her cigs last. Once she ran out, she would quit for good.
Mel kicked a stone off the sidewalk. If she could find a way to get into her folks’ house, she’d take some things from her room. Some to keep, like clothes and shoes, and some to pawn or sell so she’d have cash for food. Everything in her room was hers too. It wouldn’t be stealing.
But Noble didn’t have a pawnshop. She’d have to hitch a ride to Muldro, and hitchhiking scared her every time.
At Mimosa and Fourth, she got the idea of walking to Fifth and all the way to the dead end where Hayley’s family lived. The Mitchells used to be so nice to her. They wouldn’t kick her out, would they?
Probably. Mel made a face, remembering the last time she saw Hayley’s folks. Senior year. She and Hayley had been out all night, which the Mitchells didn’t appreciate. They’d called her incorrigible, over and over, like it was one of Mr. Stinchfeld’s weekly vocabulary words and they’d get extra credit every time they used it. Before that, they’d worried that Mel wasn’t a good influence on Hayley—Mel’s bad grades probably had something to do with that—but her dad’s status around town kept them from banning the friendship.
When she stopped at the corner of Mimosa and Fifth, the sun had nearly faded behind the trees. Once it was really dark out, she might find an unlocked vehicle to hole up in. But she couldn’t try it until most people were sound asleep, and by then she’d be so frozen she wouldn’t warm up all night.
Mel turned toward Main. If she hung out where there’d be more people, she might run into somebody she knew. Somebody who didn’t hate her. At least she wasn’t on drugs or sick or pregnant. She was just hungry and broke and cold.
The cold went all the way to her core when she remembered that morning in the park, just after she’d lost her job at Fishy’s and had to move out of the apartment. The palm trees and flowers made her feel like she was on vacation, soaking up the same sun that the rich folks soaked up on the balconies of their million-dollar condos. She’d just unzipped her sleeping bag and spread it out on the grass to air out when an old man walked by and gave her a sad smile that reminded her of Grandpa John. Standing there in the sun, she’d shivered. She’d become one of those homeless people he’d always felt sorry for.
There but by the grace of God …
But there she was. She kept going, trying not to step on the cracks.
Climbing into her car with a double order from Bag-a-’Cue, Tish still couldn’t figure out what was going on. The teenagers behind the counter were friendly enough this time, but several of the customers gave her the evil eye.
How could they tell she wasn’t one of them? She’d purposefully worn a plain black sweatshirt instead of anything from U of M or her old Red Wings shirt, and surely nobody could tell her origins by her speech. She’d hardly said anything.
With growing frustration, she searched for the ignition key among the many other keys on the ring. Why couldn’t the front door, the back door, and the cellar door all be keyed alike? Then there were the padlocks for the garage.
After finding the right key, she started her car and pulled onto Main. The streetlights had come on, stretching out before her in an orderly line of white. After a long day of unpacking, she could hardly wait to eat one of the barbecue sandwiches. She would heat up the second one for lunch tomorrow. The stuff was addictive.
Yawning, she slowed for a traffic light, and her brain switched gears with a jolt. On her way to pick up her order, she’d seen that skinny young woman again, this time near the park. Still carrying a dirty bedroll, she’d looked lost. And she must have been freezing.
The light changed. Tish pulled through the intersection. Keeping her speed at a crawl, she scanned the shops and sidewalks on the block before the park. A man and a woman jogged east. Another man strolled west with a large brown dog on a leash.
There was George’s shop. She hoped Daisy was safe at home.
She’d better make up her mind about the garage. She didn’t need the extra storage space, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to have some guy out there all the time, working on an old car. Maybe it would end up on blocks in the yard. But George was no redneck. He was a reputable businessman and a longtime citizen of Noble—and she couldn’t help but notice his good looks too. His dark, almost black eyes with long eyelashes. The olive skin that gave him a perpetual tan. That thick, black hair curling over his collar.
Tish smiled at the direction her thoughts had taken. Maybe she did want him to hang out in her backyard.
If she agreed to rent out the garage, his old car would have a better sanctuary than the girl with the bedroll—assuming she was homeless. Tish knew some young people who chose to backpack across the country, like a rite of passage or something. Maybe this girl had a home to go back to.
Tish could practically hear the lecture her mom would deliver: If she needs help, some kind policeman can handle it. Or maybe a church. They’re better equipped. A lot of homeless people are addicts or
worse.
But anyone could lose a home. A lot of people were one paycheck away from eviction. If Tish didn’t find a job before her savings ran out, she could be in a tight spot too. The bank job would materialize, though, and Farris would be a good employer, although that persnickety Marian would be a pain to work with.
Nearly to the park now, Tish took her foot off the gas and searched the benches, the dark shrubbery, the gazebo—and there was the girl with the bedroll strapped to her back. She was moving slowly up the steps to the gazebo, her shoulders slumped. At the top, she stopped as if she didn’t have the strength to move farther. Her ankles were exposed, and her skinny thighs in those pale orange leggings reminded Tish of the yellow-orange, spindly legs of a sea gull. But a sea gull would have made a racket, crying for someone to feed it. The young woman stood motionless. Silent.
Tish remembered the promise she’d made to herself and the man in the moon. She would fill that big, empty house with people, one way or another.
Her mom wouldn’t approve. She would say it wasn’t safe, and she might be right about that.
The temperature would only keep dropping. The night would only get darker.
Sure, a church could handle it, but it wasn’t a church that happened to be driving by at the moment. It was Tish.
Well aware that she was heading toward a potentially disastrous situation, she parked at the curb and climbed out. The girl didn’t react to the sound of the door shutting. Lost in her own world, deaf to outside sounds, she looked utterly defeated.
With no idea of what to say, Tish walked across the grass to the gazebo. She planted one hand on the railing and one foot on the first step. “Hello up there.”
The girl spun around, fists raised and eyes wide. “Oh! You scared me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
The girl lowered her hands but kept them clenched by her sides. Thin and short, she had dark brown eyes in a heart-shaped face that made Tish think of a painting by some Renaissance artist. An angel, maybe. Or a teenage Mary Magdalene.
“And?” the girl asked.
“Well, I think I’ve seen you hanging around for a couple of days. I was wondering if you’re okay. If you have a place to go.”
Tish heard a vehicle approach nearby and slow to a crawl. She turned to look. A police cruiser pulled just past her car and stopped. The window rolled down, and a young officer with a chiseled jaw and a crew cut studied them.
“Everything all right here?” he called out.
“Just fine,” Tish said.
“Fine,” the girl echoed, giving him a big smile. “It’s cool that you found a job back here, Darren.”
“Mel?” He let out a startled laugh. “Is that you?”
“Sure is.”
“Welcome home, then, and behave yourself.” He smiled, tipped an imaginary hat and drove away slowly.
“You know him, huh?”
The girl nodded. “I went to school with his little brother.” She shrugged her backpack off her shoulders and lowered it to the gazebo’s floor. “He’ll probably come back later and warn me that camping in the park isn’t allowed. I’ll pretend to leave, and he’ll pretend to believe I’m gone.”
She was a vagrant, then, but the young officer must have decided she was harmless or he would have dealt with her.
Tish moved up another step. “Don’t you have anywhere to go?”
“Well, there’s my parents’ house, but they don’t claim me anymore.” The girl flashed a quick smile. “If they lock me out, how can I show them what a good girl I am? It’s sort of a … what do you call it? A Catch-22?”
“Why did they lock you out? Not that it’s any of my business …”
“I’ve messed up a few times. Nothing superbad, but my dad wants perfection or nothing.” She rolled her eyes, a typical teenage show of bravado, but the trembling of her lower lip gave her away.
“You want to make things right with them, though?”
“Sure I do.” The girl shivered.
“Have you had anything to eat lately?”
“It’s hard to find much to eat when you’re broke.” The girl closed her eyes. “My mom always makes these awesome dinners, like something out of those magazines she’s always buying. But will she feed me? No way, José.” She opened her eyes. “Well, maybe she’d let me sneak a PBJ.”
Tish couldn’t imagine parents who would treat their own child that way, nor could she imagine enjoying her order from Bag-a-’Cue while this girl, Mel, hid out in the park, cold and hungry and alone.
“I just picked up a big order at Bag-a-’Cue,” Tish said. “Tonight you can have a hot meal and a warm bed. If you’re interested, that is.”
“Mmm.” The girl smiled. “You bet I’m interested. I haven’t had Bag-a-’Cue in ages.”
“What’s your name?”
She picked up her backpack. “Melanie Hamilton.”
Tish frowned. “Like Melanie in Gone with the Wind?”
“You got it. My folks already had the last name, and my mom was a Gone with the Wind freak, so she thought she might as well give me the first name too. Ridiculous, huh?”
“Just don’t marry anybody named Wilkes.”
Melanie smirked. “I get that a lot.”
“Sorry. I’m Tish.”
“Hey, Tish. Glad to meet ya.”
Already feeling at home with her, Tish led the way to her car. The dome light showed the grime of a hundred highways on the yellow backpack. In close quarters, Melanie smelled strongly of cigarettes. Offering help was the right thing to do, though.
Tish started the car and pulled away from the curb. “I live really close. It’s a mess because I just moved in, but it’ll be warm.”
“I don’t mind a mess.” Melanie sounded like a sleepy child.
She didn’t say another word until Tish was pulling into the driveway, and then she sat up straight. “Oh, wow! This is where you live? The McComb house?”
Tish grinned. “It’s fun that you know it by name. My great-great-great grandparents built the place. That’s why I wanted to buy it.”
“Seriously? You’re related to the McCombs?”
“Yes, I’m Letitia McComb. I’m named after the Letitia who lived here shortly after the Civil War.”
Melanie opened her door. The dome light came on, illuminating her dumbfounded expression. “And you think that’s something to be proud of?”
Tish stared at her. “Excuse me?”
The girl shook her head slowly. “I guess you don’t know much about the McCombs, do you?”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with them?”
“I’m not sure, really. I’m not into stuff like that. You need to talk to somebody who knows some local history. Like … like, um … I don’t know.”
Tish recalled the Civil War memorabilia she’d spotted in the antiques shop when she took the dog back to its owner. “What about the guy who runs Antiques on Main? Do you know who I mean?”
“George? Sure, I know him. He and my brother were friends in high school or something. Back in the Dark Ages.” Melanie yawned. “You should call him, but can we dig into that ’cue first?”
Tish grabbed her purse and the food. “Come on in. You can start eating while I find his number.”
As the van’s headlights flashed across the driveway, Daisy thumped her tail on the seat and broke wind. George didn’t rebuke her. He had weightier matters on his mind.
He parked in the lot behind the shop, beside his uncle’s truck. Calv had come over to help unload the van, but George would almost have preferred to take care of it himself this time. He wasn’t in the mood for company.
“Come on, Daisy.” He hooked up her leash and set her down on the lawn.
He could hardly stand the thought of supervising the dog’s potty breaks for another ten years. It would be an eternity. A dog should be useful. A watchdog. A coonhound. A dog to go on hikes with, not to carry around like a furry baby.
There must
be somebody who’d want her.
Letitia McComb, maybe. She already lived in the right house, and she would need some companionship. Money couldn’t buy friends. Not real ones, anyway.
With a deep sigh, George turned his face to the night sky. He didn’t want to get involved, but this Yankee woman needed not just a dog, but a friend. He was afraid he was elected.
He shook his head, wanting to disappear for a while. Women never failed to complicate everything, but a McComb woman would be in a class by herself.
Finished cleaning up after Daisy, he carried her up the stairs and walked in. The place smelled like red beans and rice. His uncle lay on the couch with his Alabama hat over his face.
“I’m back,” George said, setting the mutt on the floor.
Calv stirred. “Good for you. Find much?”
“Nothing spectacular, but it’s stuff we can sell. The man had a hodgepodge. Victorian tchotchkes. Sheet music. A few art-deco smalls and some nice items for the Windies.”
“Any big pieces?”
“Not this time.”
Calv opened one eye. “Let’s eat before we unload.”
George nodded. “And remember, I’ll need a ride to Muldro, early, to pick up the car.”
“You and that car. When you don’t even know a wrench from a jackdaw.” Calv hauled himself into a sitting position. “And you don’t have a place to park the thing either—or do you? Did Miss McComb call you?”
George hated to see Calv so excited about the garage when it might not pan out. “No, I haven’t heard from her.”
“Why don’t you call her? While you’re at it, why don’t you tell her—”
“Because, like you, I avoid unpleasant subjects.”
“Yeah.” Calv stared into the distance. “You know, if she hadn’t practically stolen the place from Si, I’d see a little less resemblance to her ancestors.”
George’s defenses rose a bit. “There’s nothing wrong with finding a bargain. It’s business. It’s capitalism. You know that.”
