Is Anybody There? (5 page)

“Is everything OK?” Robbie sounded semi-nervous himself. I guess it’s catching.

“Sure.” I threw the bread in the bread drawer.

“Good. For a minute there you were acting weird.”

“Hurry up,” I said. “I’m in a rush, you know.”

Robbie drained the last of the lemonade and burped. Robbie may be smooth at times but he has the worst, wettest burp in the world. I pushed him ahead of me into the living room, grabbed the packages, and took a last look around.

He watched as I double-locked the front door.

“That was quick,” Miss Sarah called over the hedge.

“I know.” I slid the key in my pocket. “Did you notice what time Nick left today, Miss Sarah?”

“Nick? Oh, you mean your mother’s friend?” Before I could protest, she said, “He left right after you did. He drives that car of his altogether too fast in the driveway.”

“Did he just come down the steps, get in the car, and take off?”

Miss Sarah released the trigger on the end of the hose to stop the water entirely so that there was no noise and she could concentrate on this new development, whatever it was.

“What else would you expect him to do, Marcus?”

“Nothing. He didn’t come back?”

“No. Why, Marcus?” Her nose twitched. Miss Sarah has a rather long nose. When I was little I’d asked Mom if that was why she sniffed so much, and Mom said no, and I must never, ever ask her that.

“I’d like to know why you have all these questions about that young man, Marcus,” she said.

“No reason. ‘Bye, Miss Sarah.”

“That Nick’s getting out of hand coming in your house like that,” Robbie said as we walked down the driveway. “He’s taking stuff, isn’t he?” I nodded. “You should tell your mom.”

“I’m going to.”

We parted on the sidewalk, me going east, Robbie west.

I walked as quickly as I could. Of course it was Nick, and I
should
tell Mom. Paying tenants have no business taking over like that. Imagine him, coming in and— I slowed. But when did he come in? My stomach was fluttering. It had to be Nick. Who else could it be?

I was ten minutes late for Mom. As I came up on the escalator, I saw her standing in front of the Rabbit Hutch and for a minute she wasn’t my mom at all. She was just a lady, and I saw her the way any of the people pushing past would see her. Thin, not very tall, loose dark hair, wearing a gray skirt and a gray-and-pink-striped blouse that was tied at the neck.
Pretty.
Young-looking. Sad. The way Nick had seen her the day he took that picture. Oh, Mom. Don’t be sad. It’s OK.

I was at the top now. She noticed me and waved and the sadness was gone.

She pointed to a round Santa Claus, asleep on his back on one of the mall benches. He was snoring gently, and on the mound of his stomach a printed notice moved up and down
as he puffed in and out. It said: “Don’t wake me till Christmas Eve. I’m resting up for the big night.”

A bunch of little kids stood staring at him, mouths open. Mom put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me tight against her for just a minute. “I was thinking what a pity it is that Santa has to end for kids.” Was that truly what she’d been thinking? Why she’d looked sad?

“Only three days till Christmas,” she said. “I’m beginning to feel like Scrooge, wishing it were all over. That’s what working at Jarvis’ Department Store will do to you.”

This didn’t seem the right time to bring up Nick, but maybe there would never be a right time, and I had to get it out.

“Mom? I have to tell you something. I think Nick’s coming into our house when we’re not there.”

Mom’s face seemed to soften. “Oh honey, what if he is? Do you mind that much? I gave him a key for emergencies, like the time I left the iron on and—”

“And so he can go in and use the washer and dryer. I know. He told me. Anyway, Miss
Coriander and Miss Sarah have an emergency key.”

“That’s true.” Mom bit her lip. “I’m not sure he does come in when we’re not there. Nick’s pretty sensitive …”

“Sure,” I muttered. She didn’t seem to hear.

“… but if it bothers you to think he
might,
well, I’ll just tell him not to.”

“I think he eats our food.”

“Our food?” I heard Mom’s astonishment, the whine in my own voice.

“Well, I can’t imagine why he’d do that,” she said after a pause. “What makes you think he does?”

“I think he took a piece of the meat loaf, and he definitely ate bread, and used the peanut butter …” I stopped. “Forget it,” I said. “I’m not even sure. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“I do want to know. You were right to tell me, Marcus. I’ll ask him first—”

“No. Don’t. I feel dumb now. It’ll only make me look stupid, and I hate looking stupid in front of him.”

Mom nodded seriously, her eyes on my face. Then for some reason she hugged me
again. “So?” she said. “You remembered to go home first and get the gifts. Shall we go to the Wish Tree before we eat?”

“Let’s. That will give me a chance to get hungrier. Robbie and I ate a bunch of stuff earlier.” She took one of the packages from me as we walked through the mall, and I could see that the subject of Nick was finished, for now anyway.

The Wish Tree started three or four years ago. At the beginning of December it’s hung with Christmas ornaments made of paper, each with a wish written on it, signed by a foster child. There were 800 wishes on the tree to begin with, and they’d all been taken by people who wanted to make a wish come true for one of the kids.

The wish I’d taken was for Eric G, age nine. He wanted a Clue game, and I’d bought it with my own money and wrapped it in Christmas paper that had rocket ships and space Santas on it. I was glad I’d taken Eric’s wish. He wasn’t that much younger than I was, and he didn’t have a dad
or
a mom. “Remember how you used to like Clue yourself?” Mom had asked.

“Yeah.” Maybe I still did. Maybe that was
what I’d been doing these past couple of days—playing a big, old game of Clue. I put the flat package with Eric’s name on it in the gift collection barrel.

The wish Mom had taken was for Abby M, age two, who wanted a baby doll. We’d gotten her a really nice one in Jarvis’ toy department at 20 percent off, Mom’s employee discount. The doll had a pink dress and drank from a baby bottle. Mom had held it for the longest time before she wrapped it, and I thought that she could be thinking how she might have had a little girl herself, if Dad hadn’t been sick for so long, hadn’t died. Maybe she would have been buying
her
a doll this Christmas. There were a lot of things that might have been different for Mom. I thought she’d been weepy when she was wrapping Abby M’s gift, but now she looked happy as she put it into the barrel. “Merry Christmas, Abby,” she whispered. And then she said to me, “Isn’t it nice to be able to make children’s Christmas wishes come true, even just a little bit?”

One of the volunteers smiled her thanks at us, and Mom and I stood for a minute in this quiet little corner with the mall crowds bustling past us, the two of us like an island in a
river. The tree made me think of far-off forests and clean mountain air. Christmas music splashed in little bursts around us. “This is one of my favorite parts of Christmas,” Mom said. “It helps me to remember what it’s all about.” She took my hand and held it all the way to the Rabbit Hutch. I didn’t mind.

I guess I had made the wrong choice, though, in going to the Wish Tree first, because now there was a line to get into the restaurant. While we stood there I gave Mom Miss Sarah’s message about the turkey salad, and then I noticed that Mom was smiling and nodding at someone in the line in front of us.

“Marcus!” she whispered. “Quick, what are their names? You know, the parents of that girl in your class?”

I stepped out of line to look and was face to face with Anjelica Trotter. I don’t know which one of us was more shocked.
I
was flabbergasted. Not because she was here. Half of the world is in this mall before Christmas, and half of the shoppers want to eat at the Rabbit Hutch. It was because of the way Anjelica looked!

“What’s her name?” Mom asked softly, and
I got a grip on myself and said, “Anjelica Trotter.”

“Right. I remember.” And then Mom was saying, “Nice to meet you again Mrs. Trotter, Mr. Trotter. Hello, Anjelica.”

She and Angelica’s parents were smiling at each other. I was staring at Anjelica. She was staring at her feet.

Mr. and Mrs. Trotter were having a whispered conversation, and then they left their place in the line, let the people between us go ahead of them, and stepped back so they were next to us. Anjelica trailed behind.

“You know my son, Marcus?” Mom asked, and Anjelica’s parents said, “Yes, yes,” and then her father said, “You are the young man who had the excellent stamp collection in the open house way back in fifth grade.”

I was mumbling yes and making myself concentrate on him and not Anjelica, and Mom was beaming and saying, “How nice of you to remember.” I was looking so intently at Anjelica’s father that I could probably have gone home and drawn such a good picture of him that anybody would instantly pick him out of a police lineup, not that he’s ever likely to be
in one. Small, a little chubby, glasses. And her mother. Brownish hair, small. Very serious-looking but nice, homey. My eyes kept popping toward Anjelica.

Anjelica’s face was bare, the way it used to be. She had only one set of eyebrows. Her lips were pale pink instead of red and green, her hair was pretty and soft, and under her yellow sweater her top was totally flat. Not totally flat. Not like mine. But it was normal-looking. I couldn’t get over it. Anjelica looked the way she’d looked in sixth grade. Anjelica was absolutely gorgeous.

“I expect you and Anjelica know each other quite well.” Her mother smiled across at me.

“Oh, ah, yes.” I was overcome. Overcome by Anjelica.

Mom was talking now about Christmas and how busy she was at work, while Anjelica and I both gazed into space. I was wondering if she could have a twin sister. Like the good and the bad, or the shy and the pushy. But Mrs. Trotter had called her Anjelica. You wouldn’t call twin sisters the same name!

This silence between us was getting embarrassing.

“Uh, how’s it going, Anjelica?” I had to push the words out.

“All right.” Her eyelashes were soft and stubby like the bristles on a horsehair paintbrush.

The line started to move, and we shuffled with it.

“It was nice of you to bring over my book that day,” I said desperately. “I really appreciated it.”

“That’s OK. I go by your house all the time.” She stopped and gave a little gulp.

“You go by
my
house? What for?”

“I mean … not often. I mean, not really.” Anjelica looked as if she might cry.

“Next please,” the Rabbit Hutch hostess called. “I can take seven.” She began counting and touching shoulders, and the Trotters trotted off, wishing us a Merry Christmas and saying how nice it had been to see us again. Anjelica gave me a last mournful glance.

“Anjelica seems like a nice girl,” Mom said when they’d gone. “She’s quite shy, isn’t she?”

Criminy! Mom ought to hear her in school and see her too. Talk about a switcheroo. Fortunately I didn’t have to give my opinion, because
the hostess appeared again and pointed us to a seat by the window. I guess at this time of year the hostess doesn’t bother to escort you.

Mom and I ordered steaks and french fries, despite Miss Sarah’s turkey salad recommendation. We didn’t talk about Nick at all. I admit I stretched my neck hoping for another glimpse of Anjelica, but she’d vanished into a dark corner of the Rabbit Hutch. I couldn’t even see her when Mom and I were on the way out.

We stopped at Grandma’s Bake Shop to get oatmeal muffins to eat in the car. In a basket on the counter were cookies, big as dinner plates, wrapped in plastic and tied with red ribbon.

“Oh, look! Butterscotch. Nick’s favorite,” Mom said, then bit her lip and glanced down at me.

“It’s OK, Mom. You don’t have to never mention his name, just because I don’t like him that much.”

“I’m sorry you don’t like him, Marcus,” Mom said in a way that made my heart beat fast with worry. “He likes you.”

“I’m sure.” My horrible surly voice was
back, and I tried to make things better by saying: “Get him some of the cookies if you want. I don’t care.” That didn’t make it any better. I sounded surlier and meaner than ever, and Mom’s mouth tightened.

“I think I will,” she said.

The Grandma’s Bake Shop lady asked which kind we wanted, peanut butter or butterscotch.

“Butterscotch,” Mom said. “He doesn’t like peanut butter.”

“He doesn’t?” I asked, and Mom gave me a sideways glance as if to say: “See? And you were accusing him. Did you think he ate our peanut butter?” Well, maybe she’d gotten it wrong. Or maybe he just didn’t like it in cookies. I knew what I knew.

The lady put the two big cookies in a bag, and I offered to carry them, but Mom said, no, they weren’t heavy. I hated Nick even more for spoiling our night. It’s weird how that guy’s always around, even when he’s not invited.

We drove home through lighted streets, bright with bells and prancing plastic reindeer. A group of Hare Krishnas in long white
robes rang silver bells on the corner. They looked like Christmas angels except they had no wings or hair. There were carolers out still, but they weren’t the ones from Pacific High School. Would Anjelica have liked that message from Fred Garcia, the one I’d thrown in the trash? She hadn’t been so mature tonight. Fred wouldn’t have liked her tonight. I wondered how much Mom liked Nick. I wondered why he was doing the things he was doing.

The light was on in his apartment. Mom parked our car behind his and leaned into the backseat for the cookie bag. “I guess I’ll give him these tomorrow,” she said.

“Why not now?” I asked. “Then you could see him. And an evening without Nick is such a waste of time.”

Mom pushed back her hair. “Did you know you’re getting to be rude, Marcus?”

“You mean because I don’t like Nick?”

“No. Because you never miss a chance to be horrible about him. And he doesn’t deserve it.”