Almost Home

by Joan Bauer

He looks like he might want to take the twenty back, so I just do the best thing a helping person can do—I shut up and sit there with him.

  All the dogs are quiet. Then Dante walks by.

  “Will you hold the dogs for a minute?” I ask him.

  He comes up on the porch. Mr. Cockburn covers Merlin with a blue sheet, sits down, and puts his hand on the lump that is Merlin.

  Dante shakes his head sadly, and I walk across the street to Lexie’s, and get one of her candles from the front porch and a matchbook from the Opa! Greek Diner. I bring them to Mr. Cockburn’s porch and light the candle.

  “For Merlin,” I say.

  The peach scent rises up and the flame stays steady in the pink glass holder.

  Mr. Cockburn nods. “Looky here, Merlin, what Sugar’s brought us.” Then he lowers his old head and cries.

  x x x

  Dog walking isn’t the same without Merlin. All the dogs miss him, especially Shush, who stops by Mr. Cockburn’s house every day looking for his friend. Mr. Cockburn doesn’t seem the same. He doesn’t come out on his porch nearly as much, and when he does, his smile is smaller, but Shush always trots up the stairs to give him a hug.

  Joonie says we should get Shush one of those helper dog vests, so people know who they’re dealing with from the start, but I think they know. Sometimes caring is so strong, you can’t help but know.

  I want to do something for Mr. Cockburn. I can’t drive him someplace to get a break or give him money or anything like that, but I can give him a fresh perspective.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I ask.

  He looks up. I can tell color isn’t a big part of his life.

  “I mean, do you like green or blue or yellow or—”

  “Purple,” he says, and you could have knocked me over that this gray-faced old guy would have that kind of stuff inside. “When I was young, I had me a purple shirt that I got in France. Nobody else had one, and when I wore it, I felt like a king.”

  “Mr. Cockburn, would you like me to paint your front door purple?”

  He laughs. “Well, that might be kind of showy.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the point.”

  x x x

  I take care to fill in the cracks, and Joonie sands the door down good after I show her how to do it. The best leaders don’t stand there watching, they get in there and help. Dante knows about painting, and he’s getting the brushes ready. I picked a rich purple paint, the kind a king would have on his front door.

  Mr. Cockburn sits in his chair with Shush on his lap, saying, “I hope the neighbors don’t get upset.”

  “Helen’s going to want this,” Joonie says. “You won’t be alone.”

  And sometimes you just have to get out there with a bold color and shout to the world who you really are. I take the paintbrush in my hand and dip it in the royal purple paint, and from the first brush of paint on that old door, I feel like something is changing.

  “My Lord,” Mr. Cockburn says, “that is glorious.”

  I give it two coats and kill myself getting the edges neat. It takes some time to dry. Neighbors stop and stare.

  “Cockburn,” a man shouts, “what’s gotten into you?”

  Mr. Cockburn laughs. “Well, I do believe it’s new life, Boylston. You should try it sometime.”

  “I’d like a purple door,” an old woman says.

  “This is the girl you want to talk to.” I head down the steps smiling. “But she and her team aren’t done here yet.” He grins at me. “Sugar Mae Cole, you need to sign your work.”

  What is he talking about?

  He points to the door. “Down there in the corner, sign your name.”

  Dante opens the can of white paint we used on the door frame and hands me a small brush. I kneel down and write Sugar Mae Cole and underline it with my signature whoosh.

  That looks fine, but it needs something more. I laugh, and above it I write, Yours very truly.

  “Now it’s done,” Mr. Cockburn says. “I want to pay you.”

  “You can pay me for the paint, sir, but not for the work. It’s my thank-you.”

  Shush purrs.

  x x x

  I show Reba the door, and she says I’ve taken gratitude to a new level. The whole block is talking about it, and we paint two more doors purple, one tangerine, and another one bright red. We are making decent money, too, but more than that we’re helping people live bold.

  “Front doors have power,” I explain to Puffypoo’s owner. “They’re the first thing we walk through, and when they’re shouting boldness, it does something to people.”

  Helen gets her door painted royal blue, and her shoulders go back every time she walks through it. She’s ready for anything. I wish I could paint a door for Reba, but she needs to get her own place for that to happen.

  Reba is working hard at the Sweet Spot, shoving all she’s learned about sweetness right in the customers’ faces. Mildred, the waitress, stays sour.

  “I’ve only got two hands, and they’re both busy now,” Mildred tells a customer.

  “Sit down, take a load off, and wait your turn,” she snarls to someone else.

  And Reba runs over and makes things right, asking about their children, and saying the Sweet Spot is so happy they stopped for refreshment along life’s busy path.

  “I think I was meant for this job,” she tells me as Mildred harrumphs and waddles out with an order. “I’ve got so many ideas. My head is bursting!” But riding two buses twice a day is getting her close to bursting, too. She needs to find a place to live that’s closer to work that she can afford. She can’t find anything, though. Sometimes Helen drives her back to the shelter. They’re becoming good friends.

  The word gets out that the Sweet Spot is taking sweetness to a new level and all of that is making Reba nervous, as more customers show up expecting the world.

  “I’m not sure I’m really up to this,” she tells me.

  She’s in her room at the shelter. It’s Monday, her day off. I go over to be with her on Mondays because we don’t get to see each other as much as we planned. She’s exhausted at the end of the day.

  People don’t understand how tiring it is to be sweet.

  “Someone suggested we open earlier,” Reba tells me, “but I don’t know, Sugar . . .”

  She puts on a green shirt she got at the Salvation Army. It’s amazing what people give away. It has a ruffle around the collar.

  “You look real pretty, Reba.”

  Her hands go up and down, which means she’s feeling helpless. “Sharon keeps asking my opinion on things—should we add more to the menu? What color should we paint the place? This is a lot for me. I don’t want to tell her the wrong thing.”

  “Sharon wouldn’t ask if she didn’t trust you.”

  Reba stomps her foot. “Why would she trust me?”

  “You’re smart. You know how to make things nice.”

  She sits down on the bed and puts her head in her hands. “It’s hard for me to be out front for people and always smiling, when I’ve been through what I’ve been through.”

  I sit next to her. “You’re doing really good, though, Reba.”

  She shakes her head. “But inside sometimes I’m not.”

  That scares me.

  “Inside, sometimes, I don’t feel like I’m strong.”

  I don’t know what to say, except, “Doesn’t everybody feel like that sometimes?”

  “Not everybody shut down the way I did.”

  I don’t want to have to say it, but she’s not giving me any choice.

  “Miss Reba, you wrote me that note saying you were back and you were going to get better and when you need reminding, I was supposed to do it. Okay, I’m doing it.”

  I y
ank her up and get her standing in front of the mirror above her dresser. “You see that pretty lady there? That’s my mom. And she’s got grit. She’s even got the shirt to prove it.”

  Reba gulps.

  “King Cole said, ‘You don’t listen to the voices inside you telling you you can’t be much. You just tell them to take a hike.’” I wait for that to sink in. “That’s on page thirty-seven of his book,” I add.

  “What chapter?”

  “Chapter five—‘A Life of Kicking Butt.’”

  Reba nods and stomps her foot again, but in a different way.

  “You know more about sweetness than any person on this earth, maybe,” I tell her.

  She nods. “Well, that’s true.”

  I’m trying to remember some of the things she told me. “You told me a kind answer turns away anger. And that being kind doesn’t mean you’re blind.”

  She smiles. “When you’re nice, it doesn’t mean you’ve got lice.”

  I stand there like a coach telling the team to go out there and win the big one. “So, you go out there, Reba, and get up in people’s faces. You show ’em what it means to be sweet.”

  x x x

  I am getting good at painting doors and rooms. I write Mr. B an e-mail about it and he writes back.

  You know, I’ve always wanted to have a red wall in my classroom.

  Something bold to wake kids up. Maybe I should do that.

  I write him back.

  Do it, Mr. B!

  I would do anything to paint it for him, but he’s in Missouri and I’m in Chicago. I tell him to pick a red with a little brown in it, because it will stand the test of time.

  I feel like this whole summer has been a test for me. I love being at Lexie’s in the pink room, but it still isn’t fully home exactly because Reba isn’t there.

  Sometimes I feel like the time here is clicking away.

  Then Joonie tells me, “I think Helen and Reba have figured something out.” Her braces gleam. “And the Ziddonian Council has approved the measure.”

  GIVEN THE FACT THAT HELEN, JOONIE, AND CHANDLER MERMAN WERE LEFT FLAT BY HARGROVE MERMAN III AND NEED EXTRA INCOME . . .

  GIVEN THE FACT THAT THE MERMANS HAVE AN EXTRA ROOM, WHICH DOES NEED SOME REDECORATING, BUT IT IS A ROOM NONETHELESS . . .

  GIVEN THE FACT THAT REBA COLE, SUGAR’S MOTHER, NEEDS TO LIVE CLOSER TO WORK SO SHE CAN WORK HER MAGIC ON THE MASSES . . .

  WE, THE ZIDDONIAN COUNCIL ON FAMILY AFFAIRS, HEREBY DECLARE THAT REBA COLE SHOULD RENT THE MERMANS’ SPARE ROOM, WHICH WILL ALLOW HER TO WALK TO WORK AND ALSO ALLOW HER TO SEE HER DAUGHTER MORE, ALLOWING MORE HEALTHY FAMILY INTERACTION, WHICH IS WHAT ZIDDO IS ALL ABOUT.

  WITNESSED THIS DAY OF AUGUST 4TH

  THE WOOZ

  It is undersigned by the Great Company of Elders and Butterbutt.

  I hold the paper, feeling about a hundred things. I try to get up the courage to say the next part. “This is great and all, I’m just worried. What if Reba messes up again?”

  Joonie sits down. “We’re not expecting perfection.”

  “But what if she messes up big?”

  “We’ll work with it, Sugar.”

  39

  FROM THE FIRST slosh of blushing rose paint on the wall, I know I’m in the zone.

  I don’t put more paint on the roller than I need. I don’t have drips or leaks. My arms are strong and I can roll the paint straight and blend it to the top of the wall, where I cut in the corners with the paintbrush like Lexie taught me.

  I give it two coats and do the trim in white. I paint the tired wooden desk yellow and the scratched wooden bed white.

  I’ll tell you what—a twelve-year-old who knows how to paint a room knows about power.

  It’s humid, so the paint takes longer to dry, but now it’s done and you wouldn’t believe this room. Helen gets daisies and puts them in a pitcher. Joonie shoves the yellow desk against the wall. I put Reba’s box of thank-you cards on the desk and her pens in a Sweet Spot mug, ready for graciousness. I hang sheer white curtains I bought for two dollars at a garage sale. I put up a butterfly picture in a painted yellow frame. The brown rug doesn’t match, but that’s okay.

  Reba’s been looking down for so long, this gives her a big reason to look up.

  Total cost: $23.37

  Joonie sighs. “I should never have given up this room.”

  Reba shouts from downstairs, “I simply cannot wait another minute!”

  I shout back, “Don’t open your eyes until you get inside.”

  Helen, Joonie, and Chandler bring Reba in. “No cheating,” Chandler says.

  I grin. “Okay, you can look.”

  This room we’re in, it brings sunshine to my mother’s face.

  “Will you look at this!” she says.

  Reba touches the walls, she touches the bed, she runs like a little kid and looks out the window. She sits at the desk. “This is perfect for writing my cards. Thank you. Thank you from the—”

  She straightens her shoulders; she shakes back her hair.

  I know why. This isn’t a day for crying, this is a day to feel great.

  Helen says, “You breathe in these colors, my friend. This is you now.”

  Reba can’t speak just yet, but she does nod.

  “Is she sick?” Chandler asks.

  Tears burst from her eyes. “I’m happy!”

  Chandler can’t cope with this and heads downstairs.

  x x x

  Waking up in a blush rose room is doing big things for my mother. And having her across the street? It’s not as weird as it sounds. She comes by Lexie’s every morning to give me and Shush a hug.

  It’s sweet—and I don’t use that word lightly.

  Reba is working like a thing on fire. She unpacks her sweetness every day and finds something new. There is newness everywhere, from doors to walls, to Mr. Cockburn getting a new dog from the shelter named Boris. Sometimes I just start laughing for no reason.

  I don’t see the next monster rising up. There are no ripples in the water whatsoever.

  40

  I HAVEN’T SEEN Dante much because he’s working on this big project in a park. I decide to take Shush, Puffypoo, Greg, and Boris and go over there. I’m just crossing the street with Shush in the lead when a silver car rounds the corner and the horn blasts.

  I freeze. Oh no.

  Mr. Leeland waves and sounds the horn again.

  I wait for Shush to freeze at the noise, but he doesn’t.

  “This isn’t good, Shush.” He cocks his head and looks at me.

  Mr. Leeland stops the car, and that’s when Shush jumps up, barking. Not cute barking, either. This dog is growling mad, pulling at the leash.

  “Easy, boy.”

  He’s barking like his life depends on it.

  Mr. Leeland pulls the car to the curb and says, “Good morning.”

  “Hi.”

  Shush is trying to attack the car.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Mr. Leeland asks.

  I’m not sure, but then I know. “He’s trying to protect me.”

  Shush is showing his little teeth and growling at Mr. Leeland.

  “Protect you from your father?” Mr. Leeland laughs.

  “Guess so.”

  Puffypoo rises up and Greg starts howling.

  Mr. Leeland turns off the car and tries to open the door, but the dogs are there growling.

  He looks down at them and stays behind the wheel. “How come you hate me so much, Sugar?”

  I was just planning on walking to the park. I didn’t expect this kind of a morning.

  I gulp. “I don’t hate you.” I shake my head and look at Shush—his ears are back, and his
body is stiff, ready to pounce. “Good boy. It’s okay.” I rub his neck.

  Mr. Leeland says, “Don’t you believe in new starts, Sugar?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Reba went to work,” I tell him.

  “I’ve got the address. She and I talk, you know.”

  Obviously.

  “I’ll take a run over there. Maybe we can all have dinner tonight.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Mr. Leeland looks at me with his big brown eyes. “You know, I couldn’t stand my pop when I was growing up. I can tell you, not giving him a chance hurt me.”

  He starts the car, backs halfway down the street, which you’re not supposed to do, runs over a flowering bush on the corner, and heads toward the Sweet Spot.

  I don’t have a phone to call Reba, and I won’t make it back to Lexie’s in time, so I head to the park with my killer dogs. I sit on a bench and give them treats.

  “Thanks, you guys. You did good. All of you.”

  I look at Shush. “And you were the most ferocious of all.”

  Shush licks his mouth.

  x x x

  I walk over to the garden in the park where Dante is working. He’s lifting big rocks out of the soil.

  “We didn’t know they were there,” he tells me. “We have to get rid of them or the plants won’t root deep and be healthy.” He looks at me. “What happened?”

  I shrug.

  “Is your mom okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looks at his hands. “I never told you this, Sugar, but that guy I’m named after—Dante—the guy who wrote about hell and stuff . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  He looks down at the big rocks. “He wrote about leaving the things you love and how that’s one of the hardest things in life to do.”

  I look at this boy covered with park dirt. “Why did he write about that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s because he was a great man and understood stuff that hurts.”

  x x x

  Reba is humming as she takes the sweetie pies from the bakery box and puts them on a plate in Joonie’s kitchen. Helen is making tea, and Chandler looks disgusted.