Grover G. Graham and Me (10 page)

“
G
a!” Grover broke into my thoughts. The kid had fished a paper towel from the Safeway bag and was shredding it.

I traded him Lambie Pie for the paper towel and gathered up the shreds. Then I tried to calculate time. If the bus had left at 3:15, it was probably about 3:25 now.

Less than an hour had passed since I first saw Grover alone. I wondered how I was going to keep him quiet till the next town, let alone the next
five
towns, till we reached Richmond.

But as the bus wheels hummed over the highway Grover’s mouth opened, his eyes closed, and he dozed off. You never knew with the kid. Once in a while, just by accident, he did exactly what you needed him to do.

I leaned my head against the plush seat and tried to figure what to do next. I wanted to think logically—A, B, C—but my mind boomeranged: D. X. P. Z.

Maybe I should check out our money situation, I finally
decided. How much did we have? How much did I owe Mr. T.? The Torgles could keep all my stuff. The foster-kid clothes weren’t worth much, but the suitcase was practically new, with money in the second pocket. I had arrived with $129.37 and spent $8.35 on Grover’s
Hop on Pop
present. That left $121.02. If I owed more, I would pay Mr. T. back when we got to where we were going. I’d get a job and mail him the cash.

I’d have to mail it from another town, though. I didn’t want anyone checking the postmark, tracking us down.

Mr. T. could take back the flashlight he’d given me. He could find it easily. It stood, lens down, on Jake’s trophy shelf.

My mind boomeranged some more: Q. D. K. E.

I could get a job. Slinging fries, delivering newspapers. I could tack on a few years to my age.

Tracey would probably be calling the police soon, if she hadn’t already. Mr. T. would find me and the money gone. What would he think?

Outside, the rain had started again and the windshield wipers
shlip-shlipped
as Grover snuffled softly in sleep. Funny little guy. I wished I had a jacket or something to tuck over him.

But this was not the time for wishing. If the old woman and the ticket seller were any clue, we’d be fielding plenty of questions. Questions about where we were from, where we were going. I needed to come up with a good story— fast. Let’s see, Grover and I were brothers, the Staples, traveling from Greenfield to Richmond to visit our grandmother, Maureen Staple. I would tell people that Grover was a year and a half and I was thirteen.

I counted the money: $153 in bills. Let’s see, I had
shelled out $30 for the two tickets and $17.19 for supplies at Safeway. That meant I had stolen—borrowed—$200.

Two hundred dollars! The money weighed kind of heavy in my hand. Remembering the light-fingered Saint Stephen’s boy, I slipped a few bills into each of the four pockets of my shorts. If one got picked, we wouldn’t be completely broke. The Torgles would have enough for the week, I kept telling myself. Let’s see, $200 minus the $121.02 in my suitcase pocket equals $78.98. I still owed the Torgles $78.98. I’d mail it as soon as I could.

Maybe Mr. and Mrs. T. would give my suitcase to the twins. The girls would like it, I bet. I remembered them playing with the locks and pockets when I first moved in.

That seemed like a long time ago.

I started to count the bills again, but before I had finished, the bus turned off the highway and came to a stop. Town Number One and a ten-minute rest stop.

Grover woke up instantly, demanding “ju.” I popped the top on one of the apple juice cans, but of course, he wanted to hold it. Soon half the drink soaked his shirt and mine.

“It’s okay, Grover.” I mopped him with a paper towel while he squirmed and hollered, “Ow!”

Out. He wanted out.

But I didn’t want to risk leaving the bus. What if we missed it? What if we met another too friendly soul? Someone with more questions than I had stories?

What if we ran into a police officer or security guard? Someone trained to spot kids on the run?

I handed Grover a Cheese Nip. He bit it hard and orange crumbs sprinkled the plush seat.

“Beh! Beh!” The kid offered me a soggy half.

I nibbled a bit, just to make him smile. Then the bus started again and Grover went back to gnawing his Nip. No telling how long his good mood would last, though. I wished I’d had the time to buy him a toy or book—but hey! I knew
Hop on Pop
by heart. So while day turned into night and shadows hunkered outside, while the wheels shooshed over the highway, I recited the entire book.

“Ba,” commanded Grover.

I repeated the whole thing again. And again.

Then I caught the sound of a baby snore. When I kissed the top of his sleeping head, I smelled sweat, dirt, apple juice, lollipop.

Everything would be fine. I’d take care of the kid. I’d feed him real peanut butter crackers, not weird-colored Nips. Pancakes whenever he wanted. I’d fix him a whole yellow room full of stencils. Happy sheep and horses and high-flying birds, not stupid trucks with one green wheel. I’d protect him from every bad thing in the system. I’d never leave him behind.

I looked out the window, hoping for stars, but all I saw was rain.

My own eyelids were closing and I must have dozed off, because it seemed only minutes before the bus jerked to a stop, the lights came on, and we were at Town Number Two.

Grover continued to snooze, and I watched sleepily as a few passengers lollygagged off and on, munching potato chips, sipping Cokes. Rain slithered down the windows and drummed on the bus top, making the inside dim and cozy.

The driver swung into his seat, checked the rearview mirror, and gripped the steering wheel.

Then came a knock on the door.

The door opened, and first the cap, then the head, then the uniformed shoulders appeared as a policeman climbed the three steps onto the bus, bent, and spoke to the driver, who glanced back … nodded once.

The bus lights glared, folks shifted and grumbled and peered … then fell silent as those shoes, those shiny black shoes, began to step, step, step up the aisle.

G
rover snoozed on. No way to run.

Nowhere to run.

I hunched down in the seat, barely breathing.

Step, step, step.

I could see the shoes coming. Shiny and black. Neatly tied laces.

Step, step, step.

Maybe—please, please, please—the man was after someone else. Stay low, stay quiet, don’t panic. A, B, C.

A hand came down on my shoulder.

The policeman brought his face close to mine. There were raindrops on his lashes and cap. His face was smooth and thin and serious.

“What’s your name, son?”

My heart pounded. “Ben Staple.”

“And who is this?” The cap tilted in Grover’s direction and a few drops slid to my lap.

“My brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Ben, I’m going to ask you and your brother to step off the bus for a moment. I need you to answer a few questions.”

“Will it take long?”

“I hope not.”

I licked my lips. “My grandmother will be worried. She’s waiting for us.”

“What’s her name?”

“Maureen Staple,” I said, then added louder: “Mrs. Maureen Staple of Richmond, Virginia.”

“Give me her phone number,” said the policeman. “I’ll call and put her mind at ease.”

“Her phone number?” My brain refused to work. It seemed to be stuck.

The cap nodded and rain showered softly. I couldn’t look up from the teeny drops on my hands.

The policeman sighed and leaned over me. Lifted the sleeping baby.

Grover woke up then, eyes wide, staring up at the stranger. “Beh, Beh,” he cried, turning, twisting to find me.

“Shhh,” I whispered. Those shiny black shoes began to step, step, step to the front of the bus. I followed. All around, eyes and whispers. Eyes and whispers. “What?” “What happened?” “Those boys.”

My insides felt full of broken glass. Like I was getting cut inside.

When we stepped out the door, the driver started the engine. Rain slanted into my eyes. I had to squint as I
watched the bus slide, mist silver, into the darkness, grow smaller … smaller … disappear.

From far away I heard Grover’s cries and wondered if I would be cuffed.

“Here, please
take the little tyke.” The policeman passed Grover to me. “He doesn’t seem to like me.”

Grover wrapped his arms and legs around me like a frightened monkey. I held my arm above his head, trying to shield him from the rain.

A large hand prodded my back, directing me to a squad car.

“La,” Grover sniffled, rubbing his nose on Lambie Pie.

“McDevitt, what’d you do to that little boy?” An older policeman laughed behind the wheel. “I bet his screams carried clear to the station.”

“Aw, shut up.” McDevitt grinned. “Next
time, you
go out in the rain.”

The one called McDevitt settled us in the backseat, shook himself like Charmaine, and climbed into the front.

He turned. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

“Look, kid,” McDevitt sighed. “You can make this hard or you can make it easy. Let’s try again. Name?”

“Ben Watson,” I whispered.

“And the baby?”

“Grover. Grover G. Graham.”

“Big name for a little guy.”

“It sounds distinguished,” I said, “according to his mother.”

“We received a missing-person report from one source and a juvenile runaway from another. The second mentioned you may have taken two hundred dollars.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

“Son,” said McDevitt, “what were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” he said flatly.

I took a deep breath. “Leaving.”

“Leaving? With a baby?” The man shook his head. “How far did you think you could go?”

Wyoming. New York City.

I kept my mouth shut. The pancakes and peanut butter, the yellow room, the pictures of happy animals—everything I had planned for Grover was disappearing in the glare of these questions.

The policeman behind the wheel interrupted. “Let’s bring them in,” he said, “before we float away in this rain.”

At the police station McDevitt parked us in a wooden chair in the corner and brought me a roll of brown paper towels. I ripped off a few and tried to blot Grover dry. Everything around me was blurry: the too bright lights, the smell of wet cloth and coffee, Grover’s screams when they tried to part us. McDevitt gave me a blue pen to, he said, “write down exactly what happened, in your own words.” That no-good pen. The ink bled into my hand, blobbing the
e
and
o
when I signed and dated my story. Then McDevitt brought us two doughnuts. Powdered sugar. Grover was white as a snowman in three seconds flat. And Lambie Pie looked like a scrawny snow sheep.

McDevitt stayed close. Was he afraid I’d suddenly jump up? Grab Grover? Run? He didn’t have to worry. I was so tired I could barely sit straight. The man offered me a
Coke but I waved it away. “Grover will want some,” I explained. “The caffeine will give him the jitters.”

“He doesn’t need any help in that department,” McDevitt said since, of course, Grover was howling, loud and long, for the Coke. “Does he always make this much noise?”

“He’s tired,” I defended the kid. “Do you have any milk?”

“How about an orange soda?”

And soon Grover was sporting an orange moustache and had learned a new word:
sodie.

That’s when Tracey arrived.

“Where’s Grover?” I heard her voice. “Where in God’s name is my baby?”

I
hunched in my seat and pulled Grover close. My heart speeded up.

“Easy, Ms. Graham,” McDevitt soothed. “We’ve got both boys right here.”

I saw Tracey enter the room and suddenly stop. And her eyes—the blue gone to black, all pupil—stared straight at us. At me and her baby, hunched in the chair. Only she didn’t take me in, I could tell. Just Grover.

“Ma-ma,” he cried.

Then Tracey did something strange. Without turning away, still staring, she started to cry. The tears, black from her eye goop, slipped out her eyes and down her cheeks and into her trembling mouth, and she didn’t wipe them or turn away or stop.

Jenny came up behind Tracey, crossed the room, and took Grover from me. Her face was white and set.

“Sodie!” Grover grabbed for the can in my fist.

I let it go and, of course, the orange drink slopped out of
the can and onto the floor. But even aware of the spreading puddle, I could only sit, watching Tracey.

Jenny kissed Grover’s hair, his cheek.

“Sodie!” the little guy crowed, waving his empty can.

“Tracey left him alone.” I gripped Lambie Pie. Glanced down at the powdered sugar on my shorts.

Jenny bounced Grover gently in her arms but her voice was cold. “And that gave you the right to take him?”

“Anyone could have,” I said.

Jenny was watching her sister. “Tracey called me at work and her voice was so … I don’t know how to describe it. I dropped everything. We searched the building,” she said softly, “the Dumpster.”

So Tracey had been scared, really scared, I thought. Good.

“We even searched the street. Tracey thought … she thought Grover might have been hit by a car.”

“He could have been,” I said, aiming my words, small and hard, at Tracey.

“It happened so fast. How could it happen so fast?” Jenny seemed to be talking more to herself than to me. She continued to bounce Grover. “Tracey ran upstairs to get a few toys and then the phone rang and …” Jenny shifted Grover to her hip. “What I don’t understand, Ben, is why, when you saw Grover alone …? Why didn’t you just stay with him till Tracey came back?”

If you helped Tracey
—I remembered Mrs. T.’s question at that stupid picnic—
don’t you think you’d be helping Grover, too?

I blanked out the words. “She left him alone,” I said loudly.

“Yes, she did”—Jenny’s voice was bleak—“and you took him—”

“She left him alone,” I repeated.

“And both of you”—Jenny spoke over me—“both of you could have hurt Grover.”

Not me, I thought fiercely. I was trying to save him.

“La!” Grover cried.

I handed him Lambie Pie and watched as Jenny carried the kid and his toy to her sister. When Tracey clutched them, powdered sugar went all over her T-shirt. Even then she didn’t stop crying.

Grover peered into her face, touched her cheek. “Wet, wet,” he murmured as they followed McDevitt out the door.

I heard their voices, heard the words “kidnap” and “press charges,” and then I didn’t hear anything more.

She left him alone.
I held tight to those words. I was right to do what I did.

It was strange how Tracey had cried without hardly making a sound.

I blanked out my sudden mind-picture of Tracey. Her face all quivery. Her black, quiet tears.

She left him alone. She left him alone. She left him alone.

When McDevitt returned, I said the words right out loud. “She left him alone. I wrote the whole thing down. What are you going to do?”

McDevitt ran a hand over his face. “She left her child
alone,” he said tiredly. “I can’t tell you how many parents do that. It was just for a minute, they tell me. After the accident.”

“Then Tracey shouldn’t have Grover, right?” I asked.

“Leaving her kid alone was stupid—and possibly dangerous.” McDevitt tossed me a few paper towels and bent to wipe up the orange soda. “I bet she won’t do it again. You saw the poor girl. She couldn’t stop crying.”

McDevitt straightened. “But I’m also wondering about you. When you saw that kid alone, why didn’t you return him to his mother? Or just sit with him till she came back? Or even call the police?”

I kept my mouth shut.

McDevitt took the soggy towels from me. “I don’t know much about you, Ben, but I know a little about people. Were you trying to protect the kid?” He glanced at me sharply. “Or get back at the mother?”

Both of you could have hurt Grover.
Jenny’s words ran through my head.

The towels dripped on McDevitt’s shiny shoes. The man sighed. “Sit down, Ben,” he said. “I’ll get you a Coke.”

I was still sitting there, Coke can unopened, when Mr. T. arrived.

Everything pulsed under those harsh lights. They played tricks with Mr. T.’s face. Left his cheeks sagging, his eyes peering from folds of skin. I had to glance away.

“Ahhh,” the man said.

“A theft of two hundred dollars—and you don’t want to press charges?” McDevitt asked behind him.

Mr. T. shook his head. “I want to take Ben home.”

“You’re able to, um, watch him closely?” McDevitt hesitated. “After all, he ran away. He abducted a child.”

Mr. T. rubbed the space between his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

The glaring lights seemed to tick.

Mr. T. and McDevitt spoke in low voices; then Mr. T. signed some papers and turned. I followed him out the door. I suppose I should have said “thank you” or “goodbye” to McDevitt, but, I don’t know, those lights seemed to have zapped all my thoughts.

Mr. T. opened the car door—the one with the broken lock—for me.
Shlip-shlip
went the windshield wipers as he drove. The rain still slashed down, at the same pace, the same angle. That was strange. Surely days had passed since I first saw the step, step, step of those shiny black shoes. Since I had watched the silver bus pull away. Since I had followed McDevitt to the squad car.

“We’ll spend the night at a motel,” Mr. T. said, pulling into a drive and parking beside a pink neon sign. “I don’t trust myself to keep driving.”

The first words he had spoken to me since “Ahhh.”

Mr. T. checked us into the Montgomery Motel and lead me to a blue door the same as every other blue door in the long row of blue doors.

Part of my brain still seemed to be stuck. In the motel room I could see two beds covered with blue spreads, a painting of a sailboat on the tan wall, one skinny chair— but they didn’t seem real. I unwrapped a teeny soap and washed my face and hands. I watched the dirty suds
swirl down the drain. Watched the clean water run for a while.

When I came out of the bathroom, Mr. T. was hunched in the chair. His cap was still on his head, his big hands on his knees. He looked like Papa Bear in Baby Bear’s chair.

He glanced at me, then glanced away.

I crawled into bed and listened to Mr. T. get ready. I shut my eyes. On my closed lids I kept seeing pictures: Grover alone in the dirt. Tracey’s black tears. Mr. T. hunched in that spindly chair.

I woke up suddenly. The pink neon glowed, like a weird night-light, through the curtains. It dimly lit the next bed and Mr. T.’s sleeping back, and settled on the shorts I had slung on a chair.

Carefully, I slipped out of bed and dug into my four pockets. I drew out the bills—$153—and tucked them on the bureau beside Mr. T.’s keys.

Mr. T. snuffled once as I crept back. I froze, not wanting to wake him. That’s when I noticed the pink light shifting over my bedside table, over a cup of water and a sandwich in a plastic bag. Crunchy peanut butter. Jif. I could tell from the first bite. I sipped the water, ate half the sandwich.

I thought of Mr. T. putting the snack on the table while I slept.
A little pick-me-up
, Gram would have said. I thought of Mr. T.’s hand on my shoulder in the hardware store and the warm smell of Gram’s Ben-gay. I thought of Grover, all sticky, snoozing against me on the bus. The cut feeling came back to my insides again, but I finally fell asleep.

The next morning on the way back to Greenfield, Mr. T. once asked why and how, but “I don’t know” was all I replied. I wasn’t being sarcastic. It’s just that everything was jumbled.

A, B, C rattled in my brain.

No sooner had Mr. T. parked the Torglemobile than Kate and Lenora were out the door. Lenora waved her Barbie, still wearing the rubber-band shoes I had made. Kate asked, “Are you going to jail?”