Grover G. Graham and Me (8 page)

I
woke up several times that night. Searched for the blue glow and remembered. Finally I turned on the hall light and left my door slightly open. Watching that bit of brightness, I fell asleep.

The sun was polishing the trophy guys when I opened my eyes the next morning. I heard the screen door slam. Then Kate started squealing, loud and long, making noise enough for four sets of twins.

I didn’t even waste time wondering why. I had my own thoughts to figure through.
You’ll have to visit
, Jenny had said.

“Why not today?” I said right out loud.

I tugged on a T-shirt. Yellow. Grover’s favorite color. Hey, maybe things weren’t so bad. At least the little guy hadn’t moved far away. I could still see him. Maybe I could visit a few times a week, as Tracey had done.

But when I seated myself at the table, ready to announce
my plan, Kate was clutching a card covered with bluebirds. She read the note written inside: “‘Dear Kate the Great and my pretty Jingo-Jango Bell. Here’s a little something for that first day of school. Be good. I love you and miss you. Dad.’”

Kate grinned and waved two twenty-dollar bills. “Here’s the ‘little something.’” Then she read the message all over again.

I listened to every word. Dear old Dad hadn’t written a thing about returning or visiting or even taking three minutes to call and say boo. But the way Kate was carrying on, you’d think the man had stamped and mailed himself.

It was pitiful.

Apparently Jango thought so, too. All during Kate’s grinning and waving and singsong reading, the girl had sat straight in her chair, smoothing her Barbie’s yellow balloon dress. Finally she muttered, “Did he say when he was coming back?”

“Soon, I bet!” Kate ran the bills through her fingers.
“Forty
dollars, Jango! We can buy those pens that write in three colors. And new notebooks. Pink. And—”

Jango lifted the card from Kate’s hand and silently read the message.

“My name”—her eyes never looked up from the card— “is Lenora.”

“Hey, Jango!” Kate tossed the twenties like two pieces of confetti. “Maybe we can buy those shoes in—”

“Lenora.”

The bills drifted to the table while Kate stared at her twin. “Lenora?” She wrinkled her nose. “But at school you wanted everybody to call you Jango, remember? It was the name Daddy—”

“I hate that name,” Jango said in a little, hard voice.

Kate picked up the bills. “Jango,” she said.

“Lenora.”

I could tell this name thing could go on all morning. I’d have to step in. Tracey might decide to take Grover shopping or something. If we stopped by, they would be gone.

“Mrs. T.,” I said. “Mrs. T.”

She was watching Jango. “What, Ben?”

I took a deep breath, “Let’s visit Grover today.”

Mrs. T. brought her eyes to me, then glanced at Mr. T. “I think,” she said, “we better let Grover settle in first.”

Settle in? How long did it take to settle in? The kid had already been gone for one whole day.

Mrs. T. put down her coffee cup. “I know you miss Grover, Ben,” she said. “We all do. But he needs—”

“Jingo Jango,” said Kate.

“—to get used to living with his mother. Kate, quiet!” Mrs. T. thumped the table. “It’s best to give Grover and Tracey a chance to … adjust. In a few weeks, maybe we can all stop by.”

A few weeks? That would be September.

“But who will check on Grover?” I cried.

Mrs. T. took my hand. “Grover will be okay. Tracey will take care of him.”

“But Jenny said I should visit
soon.”
The words burst from me.

“I think she meant in a few weeks.”

“Soon is
not
a few weeks.” I shook off Mrs. T.’s hand.

“Ben, listen—”

“Jingo Jango,” yelled Kate.

Rrriipp.
Jango suddenly tore the bluebird card in half.
Rrriipp.
She tore it again. And again. Then she snatched up her Barbie and ran from the table. Bits of card fluttered behind her.

Kate burst into tears.

“Jango!” Mrs. T. jumped up. “Oh, the poor—”

“Eileen.” Mr. T. spoke. “Let her be.”

“But she’s so upset!”

“Of course she is.” Mr. T. rose from his chair and began gathering the pieces of card. “She needs to be with herself for a bit—and then maybe she’ll want to talk.”

“You think so? Yes, you’re right.” Mrs. T. sighed and turned her attention to Kate.

I watched Mr. T. pick up a scrap. I listened to Kate’s sobs and Mrs. T.’s murmurs, but the sounds seemed far away. I didn’t move from my chair. September, I kept thinking. I might be at my next foster home by then. I might not even be here.

Mr. T. held the scraps in his cupped hands. “Ben, I think I need an assistant.”

I wished I could just run off like Jango, but Mr. T. was already moving toward the stairs, so I managed to get my legs moving in a slow walk.

September, September, September:
the word repeated in my head as I followed the man to the biggest bedroom. The desk there was as cluttered as the hardware store where he worked. Paper everywhere. Plus pens, pencils, a few safety pins. A bowl of paper clips was perched on the black phone. Through the window I could see Jango sitting under the sweetgum tree. I watched Charmaine bound up and flop down beside a yellow spot—Barbie’s balloon dress—on the grass.

“That dog,” I snorted, “is always hungry for a pat.”

“It works out pretty well, don’t you think?” Mr. T. rearranged some papers and pens, clearing off a spot on the desk. “Charmaine wants to take what Jango wants to give. I’d call that taking a kind of giving.”

Under the sweetgum, Jango was stroking Charmaine’s head while the dog gently panted. What was Mr. T. talking about? Charmaine was just being her usual greedy self.

I watched the man place five scraps on the desk. He glanced at the others in his hand, chose one, and set it beside a blue piece.

Then it hit me. Mr. T. was actually going to
fix
the card. All the things in the house and yard that needed patching and
this
was what he chose.

He taped a teeny claw to a bit of bird foot.

“Money and a stupid card,” I said after a while. “Like that would make up for not calling all summer. It’s pitiful.”

Mr. T. agreed. He connected a beak to a scrap of blue.

“Then why are you fixing
his
card?”

“I suppose”—Mr. T. pushed three small pieces together—“it’s the one thing I
can
fix for Jango.” He tapped a scrap. “Tell me, Ben. Would you call that an eye?”

I bent closer, then shook my head. “It’s part of a letter,” I said. “See how the black line curves?”

“How about that.” Mr. T. pushed a few pieces my way. “What do you make of these?”

We puzzled for a while in silence. I swear I was going cross-eyed from staring at all those bitty bits of blue, black, and white. “Fixing this card is a waste of time.” I tossed down the tape. “Jango doesn’t want it. She’ll just tear it up again.”

“Ahhh.” Mr. T. turned two scraps this way and that. “It
might sound strange, but I’ve seen it happen. Some folks will destroy what they want the most.”

Some folks will destroy what they want the most.
Mr. T. was making
no
sense today. Jango didn’t want the card, so she had torn it up. Simple as that. I’d do the same. If I got a card from the Crawdiches or the DeBernards or the Hart-mans … if I got a card from Sarah Jewel Watson, I’d tear it right up. In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t take one pitiful thing they tried to give me.

I thought about Jango and that card. Maybe she had destroyed it because she
did want
it. Or maybe what she
really
wanted was her dad. It was confusing. Maybe she wanted her dad so much it hurt less to shut him out. I glanced out the window. The girl was still under the sweet-gum, patting Charmaine.

“I think we should go outside,” I said.

“Good idea.” Mr. T. held up the card. “Ta-da. Almost as good as new.”

I don’t know why he was ta-da-ing so proudly. That card was chaos with a capital
C.
It was thick with tape and chockful of crooked letters and birds.

Mr. T. grinned. “Well, at least it’s in one piece rather than fifty,” he said, opening a small drawer in the desk.

He drew out something silver and slim and touched his thumb to a button.

Click.
A circle of light played on my wrist.

Mr. T. closed my fingers over the flashlight. “I always found this helpful on dark nights,” he said.

Did he know why I’d kept the hall light on the night before? Did he know about my night-light? I stiffened. If he was going to start asking questions about Grover,
he’d find himself putting that flashlight back in the drawer, thank you very much. If he was going to scratch at my feelings, like Ms. Burkell, he’d soon be talking to empty air.

I felt the flashlight’s cool weight in my fist. I could see Mr. T.’s big red hand over mine and all the little hairs on his wrist. I thought of that hand taping up Jango’s card. I thought of it patting Grover’s back. Gently it tapped my knuckles.

I looked up. All the lines in Mr. T.’s face were creating a smile. “It’s a present, Ben. It won’t bite.”

I had to smile back. I didn’t have much experience with surprise presents—just the suitcase from Myron the Chihuahua—but I thought of what Mr. T. had said before. How taking could be a kind of giving.

“Okay.” I allowed my hand to tighten on the flashlight. “I mean, thanks.”

As I followed Mr. T. downstairs I slipped the flashlight into my pocket. I could feel it there, bumping my hip. I decided I’d lock it in my suitcase. Or maybe I’d push aside a few trophy guys and make space for it on the shelf. Something shiny of mine beside all Jake’s gold.

When Kate saw us, she leaped up the stairs. “You fixed it!” she yelled, grabbing for the card.

“Hold up a minute, Miss Kate.” Mr. T. tousled her hair. “Ben’s going to let your sister have the first look.”

“But Jango will just tear it up,” Kate cried.

“Then we’ll have to fix it again.”

Lord, I hope not, I thought as I made my way to the sweetgum. I ran my finger over the card. That tape was
thick as a scar. I sure didn’t relish sticking it all over again to fifty pieces of beak and bird feet and cloud.

I found Jango braiding Charmaine’s hair and poking gumballs on the clumps. That dog was holding herself straight and still, just like a lady at the beauty shop.

“Hey, Jango,” I said.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t stop braiding.

I held out the card. “It’s fixed,” I said.

She continued to braid.

I felt stupid, just standing there. What was I supposed to do? Ms. Burkell would yammer about feelings. Mrs. T. would probably hug. Mr. T.? Mr. T. would say “Ahhh.”

“Ahhh,” I said, still holding the card straight out. “Listen, Jango—”

“Lenora,” she snapped.

I blinked at her force. “Okay, whatever. Lenora.”

She stuck a gumball on Charmaine. “What?”

I waved the card.

“Put it on the grass,” she said, going back to braiding.

I carefully placed the card beside her Barbie. I guessed that was my signal to leave, but for some reason, I stayed. Jango, or Lenora or whatever she called herself, was frowning so fiercely, her eyebrows practically met above her nose. And the gumballs were piling up on Charmaine.

I hunkered down beside the Barbie. Since the poor thing wasn’t being chomped on, I could get a good look at its feet. Nothing more than stumps. Pitiful.

I fished in my pocket and pulled out the flashlight, then dug deeper for the fuzz, popcorn kernels, and rubber bands
I’d picked up before Grover, the human vacuum cleaner, had moved out. Quickly I wrapped first one rubber band, then the other, around the Barbie stumps.

“Rubber shoes to match the rubber dress,” I pointed out, feeling dumb. Those bitten-up feet seemed like such a teeny thing to try to fix. Jango’s dad—now, that was who I’d really like to fix. And I bet Mr. T. would have a few words to say to him, too.

Jango reached out. She touched one of the rubber bands with the tip of her finger; then her face kind of crumpled.

Oh, Lord, I thought in a panic. She’s going to cry. What should I do? Grover I could deal with, but a crying
girl…
I dug my hands deep in my pockets.

But Jango pulled herself together, sniffing hard. She traced the rubber-band shoes on her Barbie. “They look like old-time sandals,” she finally said.

“Like the Romans wore.” I nodded, then suggested awkwardly, “Maybe you can make your Barbie a toga or something. That’s what a Roman dress is called.”

Charmaine suddenly shook herself. The gumballs trembled in her fur.

I watched Jango stroke Charmaine’s head. “You trying to turn that dog into a porcupine?” I asked. “What’s with the gumballs?”

“Hair decorations.” Jango smiled a little. “Like your social worker’s.”

I pictured Ms. Burkell’s teeny braids and all those bouncy beads. I cast my eyes at Charmaine.

“I know, I know.” Jango plucked a gumball from the dog’s back. “It’s not quite the same look.”

I untangled a gumball. Jango began unbraiding the dog.
We worked together in silence, while Charmaine gently panted.

“Pitiful,” I said loudly. The word just popped out. I guessed I was referring to the taped-up card, the Barbie shoes, Charmaine’s hairdo. All three. Maybe her dad, too.

Jango didn’t answer. Probably trying to blank it all out.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. “Dad cried all the time, when Mom died. He didn’t go to work. Sometimes he didn’t get out of bed.”

Jango pressed a gumball into her palm. “I thought Dad would die, too,” she said softly. “And then when the crying stopped”—she took a deep breath—“he said he would find a better job. He said we would have stuff again—dresses and pink things, like when Mom was alive—and then—”

“He left.”

Jango poked the gumball back on Charmaine. “He needed to get away.” Now her voice was very low. “We slowed him down. We cost money.”

“But he hasn’t even called.”