Crenshaw (6 page)

“Not so good,” I said. “But they're kind of learning. They get treats when they do something right. It's called ‘posi—'” I couldn't remember. It was two long words.

“Positive reinforcement?”

“Yep!”

“Yeah, I could use some of that myself,” said the policeman.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. “Give this to your dad,” he said. “But wait until you're in the car.”

I asked how come I had to wait.

“Because otherwise he'll give it right back to me,” the policeman said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I know,” he said.

When I was inside the car, I gave the money to my dad. He looked like he was going to throw it out the window.

I thought maybe he was going to yell at me, but he didn't. He just tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

Finally he shoved the bill in his jeans pocket.

“Looks like dinner's on me,” he said softly.

 

24

The next day,
we dropped my mom at her part-time waitress job. Before she got out of the car, she looked at my dad and said, “We have to apply for assistance, Tom.”

“We'll be back on our feet before they deal with all the paperwork,” he said.

“Still.”

“Plus we probably make too much money to qualify for help.”

“Still.”

They looked at each other for a few long seconds. Finally my dad nodded.

We went to an office called Social Services to find out about help. My dad filled out lots of forms while Robin and I sat on hard orange chairs. Then we went to three hardware stores, where my dad put in applications for work. My dad grumbled about all the gas we used up. To cheer him up, I said maybe we could feed the car water instead. He laughed a little then.

“Not having enough work is tough work,” my dad told my mom when she joined us in the car after her shift. He took a deep breath and blew it out hard, like he was facing a birthday cake with too many candles.

“Dad?” I said. “I'm kind of hungry.”

“Me too, buddy,” he said. “Me too.”

“Almost forgot,” my mom said, reaching into her tote bag. “I grabbed some of the bagels that the chef was about to throw out.” She pulled out a white paper sack. “They're pretty stale, though. And they're pumpernickel.”

“Well, that's a start,” said my dad. He stared out the window. After a moment, he clapped his hands. “Okay. Let's get this show on the road. Guess I can't stall any longer.”

My mom touched his shoulder. “Are you sure about this, Tom?” she asked. “I get my paycheck tomorrow. We could go to the food pantry. Or the shelter.”

“Nope. I got this.” He smiled, but it didn't look like a real smile to me. “I'd rather do a little performing than stand in another endless line at some office, waiting for a handout.”

We drove to the back of the restaurant. My dad found a nice clean box in the Dumpster.

“Are you making the begging sign?” I asked him. He'd been talking about it off and on with my mom since our money was stolen.

“Given that I'll be singing for our supper,” he said as he tore the box into pieces, “I prefer to call it a request for gratuities.”

“What's a gratuity?” I asked.

“A tip. Money you give someone like a waiter,” my mom said. “When we were young, your dad and I used to be street performers, before we had regular gigs. Lots of musicians do it.”

“I've got this down to a science,” said my dad. “First off, you need a cardboard sign. Then you need a busy intersection. The best corners have long stoplights.”

“It might not hurt to take Aretha,” my mom said.

“People love dogs,” I told my dad. “I bet you'll make a lot more money with a dog.”

“Can I borrow a marker, Jackson?” my dad asked.

I handed him my blue marker. “That guy on the corner by Target? He has a puppy.”

My dad studied a cardboard rectangle. “No prop puppies.”

“Write ‘God Bless,' at least,” said my mom. “Everybody writes ‘God Bless.'”

“Nope. As it happens, I have no idea what God is up to.”

My mom sighed.

My dad scribbled something on the cardboard, like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. He held up the sign and asked what we thought.

I didn't answer right away. In second grade, my dad got a D in penmanship, which is how you make your letters. He did not improve with age.

“What's it say?” I asked.

“‘THANK YOU.'”

“Looks a lot like ‘THINK YOU.'”

He shrugged. “Even better.”

 

25

We drove to
a busy corner and parked next to a Starbucks. It was a cool-and-rainy kind of day.

“Are you sure about this?” my mom asked. “Let me join you.”

“Won't be the first time I've played an outdoor concert,” my dad said. “And you can't come with me. Someone needs to stay with the kids.”

We waited in the minivan, watching him as he crossed the street. He had his sign and his guitar, but no Aretha.

My dad stood on the lane divider by the left-hand turn signal. He propped his
THANK YOU
sign against his open guitar case. We couldn't hear him singing. There was too much traffic.

“He needs to make eye contact,” my mom said.

The light turned red and a line of cars formed next to my dad. Someone beeped his horn, and my dad looked over. A driver in a taxi passed him some money.

The next time the light was red, a driver in a pickup truck gave my dad coins. When the light turned green, people mostly just passed by, their eyes on the road ahead. But a few smiled or nodded.

Red. Green. Red. Green. The hour wore on. When he climbed back into our van, my dad smelled like car exhaust. He passed my mom a handful of wadded-up bills and some coins. “Seven lousy bucks and change.”

“It's really starting to come down,” my mom said. “People don't like to open their windows when it rains.” She gazed at the wet dollars. “We could try up by the mall. Maybe it's just a bad corner.”

My dad shook his head. “Maybe it's a bad idea.”

“We need the rain,” I said. “Because of the drought and all.”

“Good point,” said my dad. “Let's look on Jackson's bright side.”

After a while, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We drove to a park so my mom and Robin could get some fresh air. She said Robin was going stir-crazy.

“How about you come, too, Jackson?” my mom asked as she undid Robin's car seat straps.

“Nah. Too wet,” I said.

“You're both gonna get wet,” my dad warned.

“Robin's getting antsy,” my mom said. “We can dry our clothes on top of the car when the sun comes out.”

“Day just gets better and better.”

My mom leaned across the seat and kissed my dad's cheek, which was kind of stubbly. “Good times,” she said.

I stayed in our minivan with my dad. Aretha, who smelled a little ripe, was sleeping in the back.

I decided to draw a new sign for my dad. A better one, like the one my mom had made for our bathroom door.

I tore some cardboard off the end of my sleeping box. Then I made a smiling fish, sitting in a canoe. He was holding a fishing pole and wearing a floppy hat.

In big letters I wrote:
ID RATHIR BE FISHING.

My dad was dozing in the driver's seat. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't snoring. So I knew he wasn't serious.

I poked him with my sign.

“Try this next time, Dad.”

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and took the sign from me. For a long time, he just stared at it.

“Great job,” he finally said. “I like the mustache on the trout. Nice touch. Just FYI,
RATHER
has an
E
. And
ID
 … oh, never mind. It's great, kiddo. Thanks.”

“If it gets wet, we can grab some more cardboard, and I'll make a new one.”

My dad set the sign down gently on the passenger seat. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. It was misty. Leaves were shiny and dripping.

Mom says she's only seen my dad cry three times. When they got married, and when Robin and I were born.

I watched my dad lean against the hood of our car and cover his eyes with his hand.

His face was damp, but I told myself it was probably just the rain.

 

26

During the afternoon
rush hour the next day, my dad returned to the same corner with his new sign. It was drizzling again, and gray clouds hung low in the sky. I waited in the car with my mom and Robin and Aretha.

My mom had just gotten off work at Rite Aid. She said two people were out sick, which meant she was the only cashier. People in line were grumpy, she said. Why didn't they just read the
Enquirer
and wait their turns?

A driver in a red SUV rolled down his window. He smiled and said something to my dad. They both nodded. My dad tucked the sign under his arm and held out his hands till they were about two feet apart.

“I'll bet Dad's telling him about that trout at the lake,” I said to my mom.

She smiled. “And exaggerating.”

“Is that the same as lying?” I asked.

“Not when it's fish-related,” said my mom.

When the light changed, the driver handed my dad money and waved as he pulled away. After about an hour, he'd collected a bunch of dollar bills. Also a big cup of coffee and a sack with two slices of lemon pound cake in it.

My sign was a soggy mess.

My mom flattened the bills on her lap. “Fifty-six dollars,” she announced.

“And eighty-three cents,” my dad added.

My parents shared the coffee. I split the pound cake with Robin. Then I climbed to the back. Aretha was tail-thumping hopefully.

When no one was looking, I gave her my whole piece.

It was windy and cold, and the rain had come back hard. We listened to the radio as tiny rivers zigged and zagged down the glass.

A new man went to stand on the corner. His sign said
VET—GOD BLESS
. A small, poodley-looking dog was nestled in his half-zipped jacket.

“I still think you should take Aretha with you next time, Dad,” I said. “I'll bet we'll make even more money.”

He didn't answer. I figured he was listening to the radio announcer. She was warning that the chance of rain was 80 percent, so it was a good night to stay inside.

A summer-day-camp bus stopped at the light. Its windows were fogged up. I saw some kids and hunched down in case I knew them.

Someone had drawn a smiley face with a word by it.
Hello!
I decided, but it was hard to tell. I was on the outside, so everything was backward.

Aretha licked my sticky hand.

“Next time,” my mom said, leaning her head on my dad's shoulder, “I'll do it.”

“No,” he answered, so softly I almost couldn't hear him. “No, you won't.”

 

27

The next evening,
Crenshaw appeared. All of him. Not just his tail.

We were at a rest stop off Highway 101, sitting at a picnic table.

“Cheetos and water for dinner,” my mom said. She sighed. “I am a bad, bad mother.”

“Not a lot of options at a vending machine on the 101,” my dad said. He had hung a pair of his underwear on a nearby bush to dry. Sometimes we washed our clothes in the sinks at bathrooms. I tried not to look at the underwear.

After we ate, I headed to a patch of grass under a pine tree. I lay down and stared at the darkening sky. I could see my parents, and they could see me, but at least I felt like I was a little bit on my own.

I loved my family. But I was also tired of my family. I was tired of being hungry. I was tired of sleeping in a box.

I missed my bed. I missed my books and Legos. I even missed my bathtub.

Those were the facts.

A gentle breeze set the grass dancing. The stars spun.

I heard the sound of wheels on gravel and sat up on my elbows. I recognized the tail first.

“Meow,” said the cat.

“Meow,” I said back, because it seemed polite.

 

28

We lived in
our minivan for fourteen weeks.

Some days we drove from place to place. Some days we just parked and sat. We weren't going anywhere. We just knew we weren't going home.

I guess getting
out
of homelessness doesn't happen all at once, either.

We were lucky. Some people live in their cars for years.

I'm not looking on the bright side. It was pretty scary. And stinky.

But my parents took care of us the best they could.

After a month, my dad got a part-time job at a hardware store. My mom picked up some extra waitressing shifts, and my dad kept singing for tips. Every time his fishing sign got wet, I made him a new one. Slowly they started saving money, bit by bit, to pay for a rental deposit on an apartment.

It was sort of like getting over a cold. Sometimes you feel like you'll never stop coughing. Other times you're sure tomorrow is the day you'll definitely be well.

When they finally put together enough money, my parents moved us to Swanlake Village. It was about forty miles from our old house, which meant I had to start at a new school. I didn't care at all. At least I was going back to school. A place where facts mattered and things made sense.

Instead of a house, we moved into a small, tired-looking apartment. It seemed like a palace to us. A place where you could be warm and dry and safe.

I started school late, but eventually I made new friends. I never told them about the time we were homeless. Not even Marisol. I just couldn't.

If I never talked about it, I felt like it couldn't ever happen again.