Grover G. Graham and Me (9 page)

“Maybe he thinks”—Jango pulled the gumball out— “the crying will start all over again.”

“What kind of stupid reason …?” I was almost yelling; then I noticed her shoulders, all hunched. I thought of all the excuses I’d made for Sarah Jewel: She was young. She had to get away. I’d slow her down.

I gently removed the gumball Jango was twisting into Charmaine’s fur.

“He won’t come back.” Jango ran her fingers through a tangled braid. “No matter what Kate says.”

I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t be a lie. “You know, Jango,” I said after a minute, “my mother never came back.”

“I know,” she replied, looking straight at me. “And remember, my name is Lenora.”

F
or the rest of the day Kate tried every trick—bossing, begging, pouting—to get Lenora to change back to Jango. It wasn’t going to happen. Lenora was now Lenora. Kate even wanted me to help tease her twin, but I flat-out refused. And that bossy girl tried to kick me.

Even in the midst of dodging Kate, I couldn’t shake off my talk with Lenora. I kept thinking about the twins’ dad. The man had practically disappeared from their lives. And Sarah Jewel—she could still be riding Greyhound buses, for all I knew. Mother, father—you just couldn’t count on them. One minute you could be walking with them on a nailed-down rug; the next minute—
boom!
—they pull it out from under you. You’re left flat on your back, feet waving, confused as a tipped-over turtle.

Well, I wouldn’t let that happen to Grover. Mrs. T. could fill my ears with talk of Tracey’s changed ways, Kate could praise her. The system could say the girl was
“fit” to take care of her baby. Lord knows the system makes mistakes.

When Ms. Burkell called that afternoon, I cut in on her cheery “hello.”

“How does the system decide who is fit?” I asked.

I heard her startled breathing.

I kept on going. “What gets looked at? Is there a list? You gotta look at more than the surface, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

I went on. “In one house I had my own bathroom. Peach-colored towels and soaps shaped like shells. Nice, huh?”

“Go on.”

“But the shower faucet didn’t work right. And the mat was a killer. The first time I stepped on that mat, it slid.”

I took a breath. “I fell and the hot water kept pouring down. I had to crawl out of the tub.”

“Ben—”

“And sheets,” I said.

“Sheets?”

“Yes, sheets. How often do they get washed? One place didn’t wash them the whole time I was there. Six months. That can’t be good for a baby. You need three to six sheets, that’s what Dr. Spock—”

“Dr. Spock?”

I gripped the phone. “I just want to know if those things get checked,” I said. “Faucets and sheets. They should get checked, you know, before a home is considered fit.”

I hurried on. “And food. Sometimes people skip meals—”

“Ben, what’s wrong?” Ms. Burkell sounded worried. “Do you have enough to eat?”

I leaned my head against the wall. This wasn’t about me, but I didn’t want to tell her about Grover. I didn’t want anyone asking questions. A nosey grown-up could make everything worse.

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” Ms. Burkell asked.

“I’m okay.”

The woman hesitated. “Actually, I was calling with some news,” she went on. “There’s a good chance you’ll be settled with a new family before school starts. Closer to downtown Greenfield. I know you were hoping for that.”

Grover’s high chair ready for the next baby. Jake’s room for the next stray.

“Ben?”

I pictured the bounce-bounce of her forever cheery beads. That was right. Time to move on. I was temporary.

“The Torgles told me you and the little boy really hit it off.”

“Grover.” My throat was tight, but I got the word out. “His name is Grover.”

“How do you feel—”

“I have to go,” I said, and hung up.

Don’t you know, Ms. Burkell called back the next afternoon. Some social workers might not check a stray for months. It was my luck to get a nosey one.

“I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“If you ever want to talk …”

Yeah, sure. I wondered if Ms. Burkell would bring up
Sarah Jewel again. DON’T, I thought. DON’T mention her name. I hadn’t thought about this person for ages, and then Ms. Burkell had to go and plant thoughts of her in my head. Well, I didn’t want any stories about permanent homes. I didn’t want any fairy god-awful mother flitting in and out of my life. Look at Tracey. Whisking Grover off to some happily-ever-after home. With Jenny gone most of the time, who would check the faucets and sheets? Who would make sure Grover got his meals? Who would check to see if he was scared of the dark or locked in a time-out closet or hit till the bruises came?

“Ben?”

“I have to go,” I said, and hung up.

After I replaced the phone, I stood there for a minute. Mrs. T. had said we wouldn’t visit Grover for a few weeks, but she hadn’t said anything about calling. One phone call, that was all I wanted. And I would make that call myself, thank you very much. If I asked Mrs. T., she would just tell me Grover was fine.

To make a call, though, I needed Tracey’s number. The Torgles must have written it down somewhere. In my mind, I made a list of likely places.

1. The pile of papers by the kitchen phone
   

2. The pile of papers on the table by the front door
   

3. Somewhere on the Torgles’ desk in their bedroom
   

Over the next two days, I checked out A and B. What a mess. Receipts, empty envelopes, scraps of paper marked with a few words. I read every bit of handwriting. Actually,
I told myself, it was more like I was cleaning than searching. In fact, when Mr. T. wanted to know what I was doing, I asked if he had ever heard of a modern invention called the trash can. A lame joke. But he grinned and handed me one.

Checking out C was harder. I had to stay behind while the Torgles took the twins to the rec center pool. The girls were still wrestling over names. Even though Kate no longer chanted “Jango,” the word
Lenora
never passed her lips. I guess Kate was having trouble losing the name. After all, His Royal Wonderfulness, their father, had given it to her twin. Myself, I used the name Lenora whenever I could. “Lenora, pass the peas.” “Lenora, is it raining?” I figured the girl needed someone cheering her on. She wasn’t even chewing her Barbie anymore, just carrying it around by the hair. If she wanted to be called Zippity Moon Pie, that was what I would call her.

“Zippity Moon Pie,” I murmured, trying to calm myself as I pushed open the Torgles’ bedroom door. My heart was ramming my chest. Here I was, being sneaky, just as Tracey had said. Well, I was doing this for Grover.

I almost had a heart attack when Charmaine brushed by.

“Out,” I said, pointing to the door.

Charmaine flopped down at my feet.

I kept my eyes focused on the desk. Fixed on the black phone, paper clips, and piles of paper. I didn’t let myself even glance at the rest of the room. That kind of looking seemed sneakier than searching. It was snooping.

I shuffled, lifted, read every bit of paper and carefully put it back. Charmaine suddenly yawned and—
ta-dum
—
my heart punched my chest. I took a deep breath. I pushed back my mind-picture of Mr. T. piecing together that ripped-up card. Of him handing me the flashlight, tapping my knuckles. I wasn’t
taking
anything. I wasn’t even snooping. I was just
looking.

I found a book labeled Addresses but—wouldn’t you know—there was no listing under
G
for Graham and it was stuffed with as many papers as the desk.
Finally
I found the scrap, brown and wrinkled, I was searching for. I copied Tracey’s phone number and, just in case, her address. The Wilkshire, 821 Decatur Street, apartment 402.

I knew the Wilkshire. The apartment building was a few blocks from the library.

Charmaine thumped her tail and I almost dropped the address book. I quickly put it back. The Torgles would never know I was here. Maybe being sneaky was the best way to deal. What’s the use of asking questions? Blabbing? Boo-hooing? Never changed a thing.

I checked out the window. The yellow brown yard looked flat-out beat by the sun. No sign yet of the Torgle-mobile.

I picked up the black phone. Dialed a number.

One ring.

Two.

Three. Four. Five.

“Hello.” Tracey’s voice. “Hello?”

If Tracey knew I was calling, she’d hang right up. Barely breathing, I gripped the phone, listening hard for Grover sounds.

Rattle-jiggle-cough.
Charmaine’s ears pricked and she raced out the door.

“Hello?”

I couldn’t hear anything in the background. Where was Grover? Napping? Eating? Locked in a closet?

“Who
is
this?”

I heard the Torglemobile pull up outside. Charmaine barked. Doors slammed.

I quickly hung up. I wouldn’t learn a thing about Grover from a phone call. I’d have to figure another way.

T
he twins’ day at the pool had given them summer colds, which kept them home from the next trip downtown. On Saturday afternoon, it was just me and Mr. T. gunning the Torglemobile. The man did his ATM transaction in the usual way, pocketing half the money, winking, stashing the rest in the glove compartment. Drizzle drearied the air, matching my mood, turning Greenfield into Grayfield. I didn’t feel much like listening to the worried talk between Mr. T. and the hardware-store clerk. And I sure didn’t want to watch them watching the door, waiting for customers. I asked if I could stay at the library for a few hours. Mr. T. parked the car in the lot, said he’d meet me around five, and promised an Uddleston’s milk shake. I watched as he lurched down the street.

Then I turned in my own direction. Not the library. I
took a right at the next street. I was looking for the Wilkshire on Decatur Street. Apartment 402.

You’ll have to visit
, Jenny had said the day Tracey took G rover.

That’s what I planned to do.

As I walked the few blocks the drizzle tapered off and a few rays slid through the muggy gray. The sidewalk steamed. I wondered what new words Grover was spouting. What things he was dropping. If he would remember me.

I figured I’d sneak a quick peek at his crib sheets to judge their cleanness. I’d check the hot-water faucet and bath mat. I’d check the food supply. I’d check the night-light. I figured I could do all that without Tracey catching on.

But would Tracey even let me in? I remembered her sneer:
You been raised by a perfect mama?
I remembered our face-off at the whirl-go-round.

How should I handle her?

To give myself time to plan, I circled to the back of the brick apartment building.

That’s when I saw him.

Sucking his thumb. Rubbing Lambie Pie’s ear.

Alone.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Grover.”

The kid snapped to, alert. He looked right … left… up.

“Grover!” At the unlocked gate, I waved like a fool. “Over here.”

That’s when he saw me. “Beh! Beh!” Grover grinned this almighty big grin. He gripped Lambie Pie’s
neck, wobbled to his feet, and plowed through the scrubby grass.

I could feel my own smile, big as his, when I hauled him into my arms.

“Beh! Beh!”

Jeesh, the kid was a mess. Dirt streaked his face and bare legs and dusted his sweaty curls. His diaper sagged practically down to the knees gripping my side. No telling how long he’d been wet.

And alone.

Just wait till Tracey Graham lollygagged her lazy self outside, I fumed, trying to keep Grover’s grimy fingers out of his mouth. “Suck your thumb,” I advised. “You’ve already cleaned the dirt off of it.”

I scanned the brick face of the apartment building. Every window was blank. Tracey was probably inside. Reading a magazine. Gabbing on the phone. Watching TV.

I hauled up the little guy’s diaper, smoothed back his hair, and tucked Lambie Pie under one arm. I prepared to march us into that building, up those stairs.

You’ll have to visit
, Jenny Graham had said.

I’d be visiting, all right.

Didn’t Tracey know what could happen to a baby? He could wander out of the yard, into the street. He could choke on a pebble or twig. He could bang his head. Some stranger could stride through the unlocked gate, lift Grover, and leave. And Tracey would never know.

I slowed my pace.

“Beh, Beh, Beh,” sang Grover.

Tracey Graham needed a good scare. That might shake some mother sense into her.

Give Tracey a good scare. At first that was all I planned to do.

W
ith Grover in my arms, I turned away from the gate and continued down the sidewalk. The sweat on my upper lip tasted like melted salt. At any moment, I expected to hear Tracey’s yell, running footsteps … feel a jerk on my arm. My back tensed.

One foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front…

“Twee.” Grover pointed his toy lamb at everything we passed. “Gas. Flub.”

“Tree,” I said automatically. “Grass. Flower.”

I’d hang out at the library with Grover for an hour or so. Enough time to make Tracey worry. That would teach her a lesson.

But when I spied the Torglemobile in the lot, I had an even better idea. Grover and I would wait for Mr. T. I’d tell him how I had found Grover. We would march straight to Apartment 402.

How could Tracey be considered fit after what she had
done? Leaving a baby alone was worse, much worse, than dirty sheets. Surely the system would take Grover away from her now. Maybe he could live with the Torgles again.

But how long would he stay? The system was always spitting kids from one place to the next. Look at me. I’d be leaving the Torgles soon.

I hoisted Grover higher as I leaned against the car door and tried to figure what to do. Jeesh, the kid had grown heavy as a bull calf.

“Ca,” he crowed, banging the window.

“Car,” I said. “Remember this car? Old car. Blue car.”

Car with a jiggly door.

Car with a broken lock. Mr. T. had never fixed it.

I wish I could say I planned the whole escape. That I was cool as the hero in
Where Eagles Dare
, the book I’d checked out from the library. I wish I could say I rescued Grover as neatly as the hero rescued the American general from the enemy’s fortress.

But my mind had a hard time trying to order things A, B, C. My thoughts came mostly in spurts.

Get money.

Get money. Take Grover.

Get money. Take Grover. Leave.

Yeah, Grover might be returned to the Torgles. But what if Mr. T. lost his job? What if they had to move? Or stopped taking in strays? What if Grover became difficult? Grew into someone they didn’t want?

What if Tracey got him again?

I opened the door, searched the glove compartment. I tucked the envelope into my pocket.

“No, no.” I pried Grover’s fingers from the dashboard.

“Time to go, little guy,” I tried to say calmly. The money bulged in my pocket. I glanced around.

Grover’s back arched in protest. His mouth opened.

“Ice cream,” I said desperately. “Want some ice cream, Grover?”

“Keam!” Grover cried.

“Ice cream for Grover.” I shut the car door and lugged him out of the parking lot.

“Keam!” Grover stuck out his tongue, licking an invisible cone.

“Soon,” I promised, checking one end of the street for Mr. T., the other for Tracey.

“Keam!”

“Ice cream for big boy. Big cone for Grover,” I sang. One foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front…

“Keam, keam, keam,” insisted Grover.

Believe me, the hero in
Where Eagles Dare
had it easy. Rescuing one reasonable, potty-trained general was a piece of cake compared to an ice cream–obsessed baby with a dirty diaper.

One foot in front of the other, in front, in front…

Get money. Take Grover. Leave.

Leave.

Leave.

As I walked signs grew larger. They hung in the air like huge, square balloons: Safeway. Uddleston’s. Greyhound.

Leave.

Leave.

Greyhound bus.

Yeah.

Greyhound bus.

Okay, Grover would need things. Food. Diapers. Apple juice. I tried to remember baby stuff I had seen at the Torgles’ house. Milk. I could buy little cartons when the bus stopped, so the milk wouldn’t go bad.

At Safeway, I wrestled Grover and Lambie Pie into a metal cart. I remembered riding high in these carts a long time ago while Gram trundled behind. How did an old, old lady ever keep up with the busy baby I must have been? Maybe I was more mannerly than Grover, who was now snatching bags off the shelves.

“Cook,” the kid cried, grabbing at a package of Oreos.

“Ap ju.”

“Cheeze.”

What a smart kid! Grover had learned a bunch of new words. I just wished he wouldn’t say them so loudly. Or try to stand in the cart. Or shriek. People turned to look at us. Some smiled. Some didn’t.

“Cute kid.” The checkout clerk popped her gum. “Your brother?”

I started to shake my head but stopped. “Yes,” I said softly. “We’re brothers.” The lie made me feel nervous— and proud. My brother, I thought, handing the clerk a bill from the envelope. Mr. T.’s envelope. I quickly shoved it back in my pocket.

“My little brother. Grover.” I said the words nice and loud.

“Sure is a handful.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. That fast, Grover had bitten the plastic wrapping off a red lollipop. I fished it from his mouth,
then wiped his lollipop spit on my shorts. I slapped down a few extra coins.

By the time Grover and I had staggered out of Safeway and into the bus station, red lollipop spit smeared the kid’s chin and T-shirt, my chin and T-shirt, Lambie Pie, and the plastic grocery bag I’d slung over my shoulder.

“Someone enjoyed his candy.” A gray-haired woman smiled at Grover, who flashed her a sticky grin.

That’s when I realized the biggest hazard to Grover’s rescue was Grover himself. See, a successful escape depends on blending in. I was aces at that—but Grover attracted smiles and waves wherever he went.

“Oh, the darling!” the woman cooed. “How old is he?”

“Almost seventeen months,” I mumbled.

The woman patted the orange seat next to her. “Sit here,” she offered. “Where are you boys going?”

Where
were
we going?

“Bye-bye.” Grover waved his fist.

“You’re going bye-bye!” The woman laughed. “What a clever boy.”

“La!” Grover held out Lambie Pie for a kiss.

“I’ve got to change his diaper, ma’am,” I interrupted, hauling the kid to the men’s room. “Bye-bye,” Grover called the whole way. “Bye-bye. Bye-bye.”

I changed him at the sink, washed his face and hands, rubbed a wet paper towel over his hair. I dabbed at the lollipop stains on Lambie Pie, which only smeared them worse.

I stuck a few paper towels in the Safeway bag. I’d probably need them later.

Luckily when we sidled out of the men’s room, the friendly lady had disappeared. She’d boarded a bus
or been picked up, I guessed. I studied the list of towns and departure times posted on the wall. I figured the best plan would be to keep moving, buying tickets as we went, so we couldn’t be as easily tracked. Maybe we could keep going till we reached Wyoming. Big sky, lots of land. Or New York City, with its bright lights and hordes of people. We could lose ourselves in the crowd.

Then Grover remembered I owed him an ice cream.

“Keam,” he demanded. “Keam!”

“Okay.” I hauled him to the counter. “Let’s buy our tickets first.”

“Keam!” Grover howled.

“Where you boys headed?” asked the man behind the counter.

“Richmond,” I said, shoving bills in his direction.

The man winked at Grover. “If he’s under two, he can ride for free, so long as he sits on your lap.”

I glanced down at Grover. He was squinching his eyes, trying to wink back. He was also squirming and flailing his arms. I decided to take two tickets. There was no guarantee he’d stay on my lap.

The man counted the money and slowly wrote the tickets. “Brother?” He nodded toward Grover.

“Yeah.” That glow of pride again.

“He don’t favor you much.”

I shrugged.

The man leaned his elbows on the counter, winked again at Grover.

“It’s the same with me and my brother,” he said, patting his round tummy. “Would you believe, to look at me, that my brother was a basketball star?”

“Yeah?”

The man nodded. “His senior year of high school, the team went all the way to state.”

“Yeah?” I repeated, inching away from the counter. This guy was chattier than the old lady.

“You’d think with a brother like that at least I could make a free throw—but, no. And look at you two.” The man tweaked Grover’s nose. “I would never have guessed you were brothers. Not in a million years.” He smiled. “But then, there’s no predicting genes. What takes you boys to Richmond?”

This guy could go on and on and
on.
Didn’t anyone else need a ticket?

“Um, we’re visiting my—our—grandmother,” I replied.

“Any bags to check?”

I shook my head. Wait, maybe we
should
have a bag. Most folks did. Would he suspect? I pictured my suitcase at the Torgles’.

“She … my grandmother has clothes for us at her house,” I said. “We go there a lot.”

Don’t ramble. Slow down, I thought.

“Parents divorced?” The man tsk-tsked sympathetically. “We see a lot of kids traveling by themselves. Sad situation.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, glancing over my shoulder.

He perked up. “I’ve got family in Richmond. What’s your grandmother’s name?”

I glanced wildly at the counter, at the tickets, pens, clips—

“Staple,” I said.

“Staple. Staple,” the man mused. “Doesn’t ring any bells. What part of Richmond she live in?”

Just then Grover, thank God, with precision timing, set up a howl for ice cream.

“I better get him some.” I patted the kid’s back. “Say bye-bye, big boy.”

“Keam,” yelled Grover.

“The three-fifteen bus to Richmond”—the man bye-byed with both hands—“leaves in ten minutes.”

No time for ice cream. I hurried to the vending machine. Mints. Cookies. Chocolate bars. What kind of food was that for a little kid? Finally I slid in my quarters, pulled the knob under the Cheese Nips, and palmed a packet of crackers. They were as orange as the bus station seats, but at least the cheese part sounded healthy.

“Departing gate five,” a voice squawked over the intercom. “Bus leaving for”—I listened hard to the garbled list of cities—“(something) … (something) … Richmond.”

This was it. I adjusted the plastic Safeway bag, hoisted Grover high, and handed the driver our tickets. This close, I could see the summer sun silvering the bus. Up, up, up, I climbed the steps into the cool aisle and, knees a bit shaky, plopped Grover into an empty seat and took the one beside him.

“La!” Grover cried, scratching the plush covers.

“Yeah,” I said, getting him settled. “I guess the seat does feel like Lambie Pie.”

As the bus pulled away, Grover waved bye-bye to the station, the waiting people, the Uddleston’s ice cream sign.

Bye-bye, Greenfield, I thought. Grover and I were finding our way out of the system.

I was leaving Greenfield exactly like Sarah Jewel. Riding high in a plush seat. Listening to wheels skimming past Safeway, past the library. Skimming onto the highway.

I wondered if Sarah Jewel had dreamed for years about leaving Greenfield. The first time she left, had she followed an A-B-C plan? Or one day, sitting at Uddleston’s and slurping a shake, had she caught the flash of a passing bus? And decided, quick as a snap, to go?

Riding high, had she felt like me? Proud and scared and free?

And when she left Greenfield the second time, when I was a baby and she left me behind, had Sarah Jewel taken the Greyhound bus? I had been under two; I could have ridden for free. I would have slept quietly on her lap.

I wondered how she felt then.