Grover G. Graham and Me (2 page)

M
s. Burkell stepped out her door. “Mmmm, that fresh air.” She clutched her notebook, smoothed down her skirt.

I stepped out, too, trying not to hear the
ta-dum
of my heart. Number Eight. I held tight to the blanked-out space in my mind.

Ms. Burkell continued to chatter about that air. She was trying hard—too hard—to get me excited. Ms. Burkell was always trying too hard. New to the system, you could tell.

Social workers. The ones who tried too hard weren’t much better than the ones who barely remembered to call. Ms. Burkell was my fifth. She was full of shrink questions: “How do you
feel?”
She was into eye contact and Ben-ing. “Ben, do you …” or “Ben, look at …” Maybe Ms. Burkell constantly used my name to make sure she didn’t forget it.

It would be an easy name to forget. Ben Watson. A blend-in kind of name.

While Ms. Burkell sniffed and smiled, I checked out the Torgles’ place. Their sweetgum looked pretty scrawny, just a mess of dusty leaves. At Number Two, the Crawdiches’ tree loomed twenty times larger, with gumballs big as my fist.

Mrs. Crawdich liked to show me the five-pointed leaves and explain their changing color. A tree usually turns just one shade in the fall, she told me. But a sweetgum can surprise you. She had once seen a tree with amazing leaves all yellow, dark purple, and red. It was, she said, like a bouquet of stars.

That would be something to see.

Of course we never had these talks if Mr. Crawdich was home. Then we both kept quiet, kept still. He worked hard, Mrs. Crawdich explained, smoothing my hair. He hated to be disturbed.

And I sure disturbed him. I’d drop my fork or swing my legs or make some noise with my nose and—
bam!
— Mr. Crawdich would throw down his newspaper, yell, “Can’t a man have some peace?” and march me to the hall closet for time-out.

After about a million time-outs, Mr. Crawdich complained to the system. I was too difficult, he said. When my social worker took me away, Mrs. Crawdich stood very still at the window. I waved till she was out of sight. I was six then. I wouldn’t do that now.

Number Eight. My eyes moved past the puny sweetgum to the bike, dented and rusty. Pitiful. The Torgle trolls must be desperate for the system’s monthly check.

This place was
quiet.
That part I did like.

Then the house erupted. One, two—six?—little girls blurred through the door, followed by a slobbery mutt and a tiny woman with a face as saggy as her house. Around the corner lumbered a man, big as Frankenstein. As red faced as the woman was wrinkled. The opposite of squatty.

All of them, coming for me.

I wanted to hide—but where? I put on my blankest face.

Ms. Burkell stepped forward, her hand extended.

The woman leaped, quick as a flea, to take it.

Suddenly my own hand was grabbed by a huge red one. “Ahhh,” said the man, pumping hard.

“Ahhh”? What was that supposed to mean? The man even talked like a monster.

A shriek blasted from inside the house.

The man smiled. “Sounds like the baby is up from his nap.”

I snatched back my hand. I swear it was numb. A
baby?
What a pain. Number Seven was fading fast. Goodbye, peace and quiet. Good-bye, books and computer games and hours alone. Good-bye, kissy Kitty and Ken.

Hello … who knew what?

Every kid in the system has a dream about leaving it. Getting a place of his own. Staying as long as he wants. Deciding for himself when it’s time to move on.

As the Torgles smiled and stared I tried to blank out the moment. I blanked out the moment and filled up on the dream.

T
urned out the six little girls were really just two. Identical twins. Kate and Jango Wells, some distant kin to Mrs. Torgle. Blood, then (though barely), not foster.

They buzzed around my suitcase like wasps.

“We’re seven, but I’m ninety-four minutes older.”

“My real name is Lenora but Daddy calls me Jango. You know why? Because of my voice. Daddy says I sound sweet. As jingo-jango sweet as a tinkly bell.”

Tinkly bell—ha. The kid was shrill as an alarm clock.

“DADDY CALLS ME KATE THE GREAT.”

And the other could scream like a siren.

“Quiet, please.” The woman might be small as a flea, but her voice was far from tiny. “We don’t want to overwhelm our new guest.”

Guest. Right.

That banshee screech came from the house again. Mr. Torgle lurched inside.

“Well, Ben,” Ms. Burkell said, “I’ll leave you now, in
good hands. You’ve got my phone number? And the Hart-mans’ new address?”

I thought of the yellow scrap of paper. Balled up. At the bottom of the trash can in my old room.

Blank. The paper was gone.

Ms. Burkell Ben-ed me a few times, reaching out to touch my shoulder. I stepped back. Maybe her other strays got huggy. Not me.

“I’ll call soon.” Ms. Burkell climbed into her car and—
poof!
—disappeared into the driveway dust.

I could hardly wait for the day I left that easy. I’d roar off in something fine and fast. A motorcycle, maybe. No bone-shaking heap of metal for me.

When I looked back, the twins had fixed their eyes on me. Each held tight to a Barbie doll dressed in a ratty sock. Two pairs of big blue kid eyes. Two pairs of big blue Barbie eyes. One girl stuck the foot of her doll in her mouth and sucked it like a thumb.

This had to be my strangest foster home yet.

“We’re here temporary,” said Kate (or maybe Jango).

“Our daddy’s going to take us back soon. He’s looking for a job in South Carolina.”

Right. Like I hadn’t heard that before. Don’t all strays want some parent, like a fairy godmother, to swoop out of nowhere and whisk them away?

I got rid of that wish a long time ago.

“You don’t have nobody,” the Barbie-chewing twin told me. “That’s what Mrs. T. said.”

Yeah, kid, I thought. But at least I have a real nobody— and not a daddy who’s just a dream.

“Kate, Jango.” Mrs. Torgle’s voice took on a no-nonsense
tone. “Let’s help Ben with his things.” She reached for my suitcase.

I folded my fist over the handle. “I take my own gear,” I said.

Mrs. Torgle slowly withdrew her hand. The dog stopped wagging her tail.

I take my own gear. I’d learned to do that at Saint Stephen’s Juvenile Home. I’d been dumped there while my social worker hunted up a new placement, after Number Four gave me the boot. One of those Saint Stephen’s boys—oh, he had a big, shiny smile. He oozed helpfulness. Showed me around the group home. But that night, going to sleep, I realized ten dollars had vanished from my pocket. Bright smile, light fingers.

The dog wiggled her big head up under my hand.

“Charmaine likes to sleep on the rug in Jake’s room,” said one twin. “She gets lonely.”

Great. Exactly what I wanted—a mutt so needy she’d welcome any old pat.

Charmaine rolled a long tongue over my hand and panted. Jeesh, did she need a toothbrush! I remembered the dog at Number Five, the DeBernards. Myron the Chihuahua had a toothbrush. He also had three sweaters, a plaid jacket, and a yellow rain visor to protect his pop eyes. Myron didn’t like to be patted. Whenever I had tried, he bared his clean white teeth.

A gob of Charmaine slobber hit my shoe. Yuck. Give me Myron any day.

Before I could wipe it off, Mr. Torgle monster-stepped out of the house, carrying a yellow-haired baby.

“Grover.” One twin rolled her eyes. “Grover G. Graham.”

“He’s more than a year old and he
still cries
constantly.”

“And
he pees
in his diaper.”

“His mother comes over sometimes. She—”

“Girls!” Mrs. Torgle interrupted. “Let’s show Ben to his room.”

I gripped my suitcase and followed her to the house.

Walking backward, facing me, one twin said, “Grover drools worse than Charmaine.”

Grover opened his mouth for another wail. Pat-pat-pat. Mr. Torgle’s hand covered the baby’s whole back. Pat-pat-pat. The kid’s open mouth turned into a watery smile. He flapped his fat fist.

“That means good-bye … or maybe hello,” the other twin explained.

Suddenly—
whonk!
—Charmaine’s tail slammed my knee with the force of a truck.

I gritted my teeth. I’d like to flap my fist and say a few good-byes. It was a good thing I had blanked out Kitty and Ken. Otherwise, I’d be starting to miss them.

Mrs. Torgle opened the porch door, with its broken screen. “I’m going to fix that soon,” Mr. Torgle said to her. “Better sooner than later,” she threw back, darting into the house. What a weird couple, I thought, trying to keep up. Flea and Frankenstein. Personally I’d rather have trolls.

We passed through the living room: brown furniture, brown carpet, tan walls. Your basic no-stain, no-pain colors. Pictures cluttered every square inch. I thought of the pictures at Gram’s. A few photos of Sarah Jewel, the girl she called my mother. Long, dark hair is all I recall.

Even moving double-quick through the Torgles’ living room, I noticed it was practically a shrine. Picture after picture after picture of the same person at different ages. Enough to make you dizzy. Big smile, blond hair, big smile, blond hair—all framed in silver or gold.

Their real kid, I bet.

The Torgles probably take in strays now ‘cause they’re missing their own, I thought, clumping my suitcase up the stairs. Two old folks hungry for a pat. Just like their dog.

Mrs. Torgle waved me through a door. “We’ll let you get settled in your room.”

I turned to the bureau—and discovered “we” hadn’t left. The twins started jiggling one of my suitcase locks.

“Don’t,” I commanded. The jiggling continued.

My room. Right.

“We’re
welcoming
you.” One girl pointed to a row of trophies above the bureau. “Those are Jake’s.”

Of course Jake would be a jock.

“He’s in South America now,” said the other. “He teaches in a home for orphans.”

A saint, too. Another Ms. Burkell nosing into the lives of strays.

“Look!” The girls giggled, waving their Barbies. “Charmaine is
tasting
your suitcase.”

The dog’s tongue rolled over the brown vinyl. Yuck. I grabbed her collar and pushed her into the hall.

“Out,” I commanded the girls, who left, still laughing.

I closed the bedroom door. Privacy—finally. With the bottom of my T-shirt, I wiped the dog drool off my suitcase. It had been a good-bye gift from Myron, according to the DeBernards, who were always putting words into the dog’s mouth. “Myron says bye-bye, Ben,” Mrs.
DeBernard had trilled, waving the Chihuahua’s paw when I was leaving. Myron had gazed at me with his serious eyes and for once let me scratch his ears.

When I blank out Number Five, I try not to include Myron. I like remembering the smooth, warm hair on his small, bony head.

I opened the suitcase, stuck my clothes in the drawers, and buried my Jif and saltines under my shirts. Then I fingered the tiny locks I’d added to the suitcase’s six zippered pockets. All my money nestled safe inside the second pocket: $129.37. I personally knew every dollar, quarter, and dime. The sweat of my brow turned into cash. Walking Myron and scooping his poop. Hoarding change doled out for my school lunch. Doing a thousand chores for all my foster families.

I wondered how much money Sarah Jewel Watson took when she left Greenfield.

I unlocked the fifth pocket and drew out a tissue-wrapped bundle. Carefully I removed each layer, ran my thumb over the plastic tip, then plugged it into the outlet.

Instantly a soft blue glow.

My night-light. Mrs. Crawdich, at Number Two, had given it to me a long time ago, after a spell of bad dreams. She was afraid my crying would wake up her husband. And so was I. I didn’t want to be marched to the time-out closet at midnight.

Luckily the night-light had worked.

So I’ve kept it with me. I don’t need it now, not like when I was a little kid, but the blue glow feels nice in a strange room. It helps ease the first night in a new place.

Stretching out on Number Eight’s too soft bed, I focused on the blue light, then slowly closed my eyes. I
always prepared carefully for the first night in a new foster home. I didn’t want those dreams sneaking back in. I blanked out the feel of Number Seven’s bed. In my mind, I tried to see Number Eight’s brown-plaid bedspread and row of gold trophies.

A soft creak. The door?

Those nosey twins. “Out,” I said, not opening my eyes.

There was no sound of a door closing. Instead came
swish, swish, swish.

Now I was mad. My blank-out time was completely shot.

“What part of ‘out’ don’t you understand?” I snarled, jumping up.

I was in time to see that little blond kid toddling straight for my night-light.

“No!” I shouted.

He stopped. Turned. Opened his mouth.

“Waaaahh!”

“Oh, jeesh, baby.” I didn’t move. “Don’t cry.”

“Waaaahhh!”

I leaned over and peered into his face. “Baby, where are the tears? I bet you’re faking.”

“Waaaahhhhh!”

What do I do with a screaming kid? Should I call Mrs. Torgle? I’d never dealt with a baby. The only thing close had been Myron the Chihuahua, and he never made this kind of noise.

I reached down and sort of palmed the baby’s head. He bawled louder.

So I picked him up and looked him straight in the face.

“Baby,” I said. “Shut up.”

Then I brought him closer and went pat-pat-pat to his back. The way Mr. Torgle had patted. Pat-pat-pat.

And just like that, he shut up.

So I patted some more, feeling dumb. How did you know you were doing it right? And when could you stop? This patting could go on forever.

But soon the kid started squirming and I set him down. He flapped his fist, then—
swish, swish, swish
—toddled out.

I shut the door tight and shook my head at the gold trophy men. “Please,” I said, “let me leave soon.”

M
y first week at the Torgles’: chaos with a capital
C.
Even school was better than this. Ms. Burkell needed to come up with Number Nine—fast. These little kids were driving me nuts.

Kate and Jango were two motormouths that constantly revved.

And Grover G. Graham was the exact opposite of his prissy bow tie of a name. Grover was a cross between a bulldozer and a vacuum. He was constantly pounding, tearing, bashing. Constantly slurping everything into his mouth. My ears got to be better than Charmaine’s. Hyper-alert for that
swish, swish, swish.
The sound of his busy legs moving inside his diaper. I knew, then, that he was nearby. Destroying all in his path.

I should know. My first night at Number Eight, Flea and Frankenstein told me that all us kids were expected to help out around the house. One of my “chores” would be to watch the little destroyer for an hour or so each day while
Mrs. Torgle cleaned up the house or washed clothes. At fourteen months, Grover might be just a bit larger than a Chihuahua, but he was a thousand times more trouble. Myron never tried to lick dirt. He never screeched or kicked. He walked politely on his leash. Myron loved to snooze, too, unlike Grover, who, I swear, wanted to play peekaboo for hours. And who cried whenever I stopped.

As if watching Grover weren’t “chore” enough, I also had to sweep floors and clean the porch and wash the rattletrap car—all for the grand sum of zero. I was a guy Cinderella. My suitcase pocket would be stuck at $129.37 until some Number Nine took me in.

My first Friday there Frankenstein asked if I could watch the kids by myself for an hour. He needed to take Mrs. T. to the dentist and pick up his check from the hardware store where he worked.

I shrugged. Basically I avoided Mr. T. The girls might scramble all over him, but the way he lurched and aahed gave me the creeps. I figured an hour was only sixty minutes. How much trouble could two little girls, one dog, and one baby make in that time?

Believe me, they can make a lot.

Kate started as soon as the Torglemobile rattled down the drive. It had taken me a week to figure how to tell the twins apart. Kate was taller and bossier. Jango sucked her Barbie’s feet.

In her typical bossy style, Kate announced she was going to make popcorn.

I shook my head. “No one eats popcorn right after breakfast.”

“I do.” Kate measured oil into a big pan, then threw in two handfuls of kernels.

I thought about Ms. Burkell’s words. The Torgles liked little kids because they were less difficult. Ha!

“Kate—”

“Mrs. T. would let me,” Kate said, fiddling with the knobs on the stove.

“No, she wouldn’t.” I grabbed the pan and turned off the stove.

“My daddy would.”

“He’s not around.”

Kate burst into tears.

I rolled my eyes. Why the big boo-hoo? I was just telling it like it was.

Then Jango screamed from upstairs: “Ben, it’s
Grover!”

Was the baby choking? Bleeding? I raced through the living room, dumped the pan on top of the TV, then took the stairs two at a time.

I burst into Jake’s room to find Jango hollering and Charmaine barking. Grover was scratching at my night-light. He tugged it from the outlet.

“No!” I yelled.

The kid took one look at me. Blinked.

And popped the night-light into his mouth.

In two strides I had him. My finger poked into his mouth and scooped out the night-light.

His baby teeth came down hard.

“Ow!” I yelled.

“Thank
God.”
Jango flopped dramatically across the bed. “I thought Grover was going to fry.”

I wiped the night-light on my T-shirt while Grover
blinked up at me. He looked innocent as Tweety Bird. What if he
had
stuck his finger in the outlet? Or broken the night-light and cut himself? Or swallowed a piece of plastic?

Suddenly my legs felt shaky. “Jango,” I scolded, “you should have been watching—”

“Me?” Jango bounced up. “You’re the
baby
-sitter.”

Suddenly the TV blared.
BLEEEEP.
Kate was into something, for sure. I hoisted Grover on my hip and hauled him downstairs. Jango followed. With every step she jabbed the pointy feet of her Barbie into my back.

Kate was hunched about two inches from the screen, watching a woman shake her fist at a fat man. The TV bleeped every two seconds. Bleeping out cusswords.

“KATE!” I yelled. Jango’s Barbie stabbed my rib. “TURN IT DOWN.”

Her eyes remained on the screen. “You didn’t say please.”

Say please? To a bossy seven-year-old brat?

I grabbed for the volume knob on the TV. Grover grabbed for the pan on top.

One of us succeeded.

The pan flipped in the air.

Everything happened in slow motion then, like in the movies. The pan sailed end over end … kernels sprayed … drops of oil shimmered and plopped. I felt my leg rise … my hand open and reach….

Thud.
The pan landed, bottom side up, on the carpet.

“Oops,” said Kate.

“It wasn’t me,” declared Jango.

BLEEP
, screamed the TV.
BLEEEEEP.

Grover’s pudgy hands came together. Clap-clap-clap.

Oil dripped down the TV screen, where the woman was now choking the man. I’d like to get Kate in my own stranglehold, I thought, picking up the pan.

“Oops,” Kate said again.

Underneath the pan was a picture of Saint Jake Jock. Once the guy had smiled from a gold frame on top of the TV. Now oil oozed across his face. Kernels speckled it like zits.

“Ahhh.”

I froze—but Grover didn’t. I could feel him squirm in my arms.

Mr. T. loomed in the doorway. His big, square head turned left, then right. His hand reached out.

Snap
went the TV knob. The screaming couple vanished.

I tightened my hold on Grover, who gurgled and grabbed my nose. I watched Mr. T.’s hand return to his side. What would our punishment be?

Punishment. Each foster family had its own brand. Of course, you never knew what you’d get until you messed up. Some slapped, some scolded.

At Number Two, Mr. Crawdich had the time-out closet. Inside I was supposed to
think
about what I had done. Maybe I had stomped. Or clicked my toys. Or scattered gumballs in the yard. But the mothball smell in the closet made my head ache and the darkness made me sleepy. My thinking got so jumbled I had to stop. Mostly I kept my eyes on the light under the door and waited to be released.

What would Mr. Torgle do to us? I could deal with anything, I figured, but what about Grover? A little kid shouldn’t be shut in a closet.

The man came at us. I watched his face. He didn’t look mad, but you never could tell. At Number Five, Mrs. DeBernard could smile and scold at the very same time.

I held Grover very tight.

But I was no match for Mr. T. He lifted Grover right out of my arms.

The man hoisted that baby up, up, up. What was he going to do? “Hey, you!” Mr. T. boomed so loud that I winced.

But Grover was laughing. The kid flapped his fist like a windmill gone wild.

My legs started shaking so hard I had to sit down. Right in a pile of kernels.

“It wasn’t
me.”
Jango pointed her Barbie at the mess.

“Of course not.” Mr. T. winked at me. “But help Ben clean up anyway.”

No slapping, no scolding, no time-out closet. I felt relief wash over me. Maybe Frankenstein wasn’t so creepy after all.

Kate flopped on the rug beside me. “Clean up now?” she whined. “I’m tired.”

“Well, you know what Mrs. T. says.” The man carried Grover into the kitchen. “Better sooner than later.”

I’d gotten my legs under control by then and started picking up kernels. Kate and Jango swiped at the carpet with paper towels. I could hear Mr. T. aahing at Grover in the next room. For once that monster sound didn’t grate on my nerves.

“My daddy wouldn’t make me do this,” Kate grumbled, smearing the oil on the TV screen.

Your daddy’s not around, I wanted to say again—but didn’t. I remembered her tears. Kate was learning fast enough that “Daddy” was just a dream. No sense rubbing it in.