Grover G. Graham and Me (6 page)

M
r. T. stayed home the next day, and together we managed to keep Grover from completely wrecking the place. The twins were about as helpful as two heart attacks, since all they did was play their usual games of pretend. At least I thought they were pretend until, passing through the living room, I heard Kate say fiercely, “He
is
coming back.”

“You’re a liar,” said Jango.

“You
are.”

Uh-oh. Trouble in Twinville. Sounded like King Daddy had fallen from Jango’s throne. And Kate was trying to shove him back.

“I can’t hear yooouuuu.” Jango clapped both hands to her ears.

“That’s because I’m not talking to you,” Kate shrilled.

A fight. How long would it last? Less than five minutes, I thought, heading for the kitchen. One twin didn’t know how to act without the other.

While Grover napped, I decided to check out the dinner situation. Last night Mr. T. had created instant mashed potatoes that tasted like paste. Even the human vacuum cleaner flat-out refused to eat them. Grover had plopped them on his head like a white, lumpy cap.

I’m not bragging about my cooking, but I’ve scratched up a few meals in my time, especially at Number Seven, the Hartmans’. That house was not one for regular dinners since Kitty and Ken did not keep regular hours. They’d haul in groceries every two weeks and tell me to help myself. But soon I’d be stuck with the crumbs at the bottom of the chip bag. When I turned on the TV after school, my stomach rumbled with every food commercial. I swear I could smell noodles steaming and meat sizzling right through the tube.

To kill time, I’d mosey down to the Safeway and check out the free samples. Fancy crackers. Fruit on colored toothpicks. Cheese cubes the perfect size for popping into your mouth.

I learned not to take too much. People might notice and start asking questions. I remembered one woman feeding me sausage after tiny sausage from a heaped-high tray. I had just speared my sixth when she zoomed in on me. What was my name? Were my parents at home? Was I getting enough to eat? I backed away, swallowing fast. Avoided Safeway for the rest of the week.

And when I went back, I had cash—my school milk money and some change Kitty and Ken had left lying around. That’s when I discovered the discount rack. Sure, the squashed muffins and dented cans looked pitiful, but the food tasted the same as the pretty stuff on the shelves. And it was half the price. Talk about bargains! For dinner
I’d open and eat one whole can. I loved fruit cocktail and corned beef hash.

I never tried to save on peanut butter, though. No cheap brands or smooth brown paste for me. Gram had always spread Jif, extra crunchy, on our saltines. The day I bought my first jar, turned the lid, and breathed deep— well, I felt like I was throwing myself a party. A
big
pick-me-up.

I even tried cooking—crinkle fries, tomato soup, fish sticks. I’d search the Safeway for stuff served at the school cafeteria and try to copy it. Pancakes were my favorite, though—maybe because Gram used to make them. I loved to measure the mix, add water, stir, pour, flip—just like Gram. She used to cook up huge stacks of teeny circles she called silver dollars. I remembered the smell grabbing me hard by the nose and hauling me fast to the table.

The trouble with making silver dollars myself, though, was that the first was stone-cold by the time I flipped the last. At Number Seven, I learned to make one giant pancake that filled the whole pan. And if it broke when I flipped it or was raw in the middle, I’d dress it up with extra Log Cabin syrup. It tasted just as good.

Rummaging through the Torgles’ kitchen cabinets, all I could think of was pancakes. Thick. Sweet. Sticky.

When Mr. T. sent the twins to set the table, Kate fussed about my spatula and pan.

“Ben,” she yelled, “you’re making breakfast for dinner.”

“Ben,” Jango yelled louder, “you’re making binner.”

“Ben!” Kate screamed. “Dreakfast!”

What was
wrong
with these two? They were Ben-ing like Ms. Burkell.

Then it hit me. I was to be the go-between during their fight. Kate and Jango planned to say
everything
to me. Their usual chatter was bad enough, but this competing chatter—chaos with a capital
C.

“BEN!” they both hollered.

By this time the pancake smell was wafting through the house. It brought Mr. T., with Grover in his arms. It got Kate and Jango competing for the first brown circle. It even roused a request from Mrs. T. upstairs for “just a little bite.”

You should have seen Grover tuck into his meal! He scooped up those pancakes like a baby bulldozer and sucked them down like a high-speed vacuum.

By the time I sat down with my one giant pancake and the big jug of syrup, the table was empty. For once the girls had gone their separate ways. Mr. T. had swooped Grover off to the tub.

As I ate I watched night slowly fill up the window. If lonesome had a color, I thought, this was it. A gray growing steadily darker.

But then the first few stars gleamed through. I thought of Gram. I thought of her favorite joke. I thought of her teeth coming out at night.

I wished I could remember more things about Gram. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated real hard— but the same bits kept showing up. False teeth. Jif. Silver-dollar pancakes. I wished I had something from her home. Like those little horse shakers I’d played with. It would be nice to hold something that once belonged to Gram.

I heard the house lights click on. In the next room, the twins’ chitchat hummed like summer bugs. I guessed their
fight was over. Grover gobble-gurgled like a happy turkey: “Ga-ba-da.”

I listened for a while and then I cleaned up.

Mr. T. and I became a team that week. We wouldn’t wow the National Football League, but we managed to get things done. With Mrs. T. laid up, I took over dinner. The hard part was deciding what to make. Rice-A-Roni or hash? Instant pudding or Jell-O? Cooking at the Hart-mans’ had been easy. There was no choice. Tang, chips, and a margarine stick—that was it. But the Torgles’ kitchen was a miniature Safeway. I could fix something different each night.

Friday while I was cooking, Ms. Burkell called.

“The Torgles told me you’ve been a big help,” she said.

I listened while I stirred pancake mix with one hand, held the phone with the other, watched Grover gnaw his tippy-cup, tried to tune out the twins, and steadied the leg Charmaine was whacking with her tail.

I remembered my last talk with Ms. Burkell. I waited for Sarah Jewel to come up again.

Instead Ms. Burkell said, “I hear you’re great with babies. Are you having fun?”

Grover glanced at me, grinned, and began shaking his cup. Milk rained from the teeny holes.

“Fun,” I said, “is not the word.”

Ms. Burkell laughed. “At your next home,” she said, “I can try to place you with young children, if you’d like.”

At my next home. That was right. I was temporary.

Something swelled in my chest. I pushed it down.

I listened to Ms. Burkell apologize for the slow progress on Number Nine.

I swallowed. “I’m used to it,” I said.

Ms. Burkell trotted out a few more “I’m sorry’s.” I wanted to ask if the Torgles had said anything about me staying longer. What if they wanted me to live there past the summer? What if they wanted me to continue to help? Could the system change its plans?

Ms. Burkell interrupted my thoughts. “With the new shopping center pulling business away from downtown Greenfield,” she said, “things must be uncertain for the Torgles.”

“Uncertain”? What did that mean? Would Mr. T. lose his job? Were the Torgles hurting for money?

“Ga-ba-da,” murmured Grover. Somehow he had pried the lid off his tippy-cup. Milk flooded across the floor.

“Whee!” He splashed in the white puddle while Charmaine licked his toes. Of course the twins did nothing but squeal.

“I better go,” I said, hanging up.

Mopping the mess, with Charmaine’s help, I thought about Ms. Burkell. I bet her hair beads bounce-bounce-bounced all cheery no matter what she said.
At your next home. At your next home.
Those words stuck in my head.

No foster home had ever asked me to stay. The Torgles might be too busy with the girls and Grover; they might not want another kid when school started. And if money was tight, maybe they couldn’t afford to keep someone who was just temporary. I took a deep breath. The end of
summer was far away. I decided to be like Ms. Burkell’s beads. For once I would not think ahead; I’d just sort of bounce along.

Late that evening Mrs. T. got a call. She was downstairs, telling everyone she felt fine, then wincing when she thought no one was looking.

When she hung up, Mrs. T. told us Tracey would be coming to visit. In two days. On Sunday afternoon.

T
he day before Tracey arrived, though, Grover started into his best skill of all. Grover learned to talk.

Dropping and throwing, well, those skills could get on your nerves. He still had no manners at meals.

But after dinner Saturday when I plopped down in our usual
Hop on Pop
spot, Grover came toddling up. “Ben,” he said. “Ben.”

Actually, it sounded more like “Beh.” But that was still very different from his usual “ba.”

“Beh! Beh!” Grover climbed beside me.

“Ahhh.” Mr. T. peered over the newspaper. “How about that? The baby just said his first word.”

“Beh! Beh! Beh!”

Some sort of spotlight clicked on inside me then. My heart and chest—I bet they were glowing.

Of course Kate and Jango had to get into the act, trying to teach Grover their names.

The kid bounced beside me on the couch. “Beh! Beh! Beh!”

I couldn’t help grinning as I opened
Hop on Pop.
The book was as boring as ever but for once that didn’t bug me.

The next morning, Grover added a new word,
bye
, to go with his flapped fist, which still meant both “hello” and “good-bye.”

But he hadn’t forgotten
Beh.
It was “Beh” when I hoisted him out of his crib and “Beh” when I fed him his goop. In fact, “Beh” followed me around for the rest of the day, just like
swish, swish, swish.

Before Tracey came over, I scoured the living-room rug for the teeniest bit of popcorn or fuzz, for any dropped rubber bands. I knew Grover’s vacuum-cleaner self would gobble any small thing in his path. Who could trust Tracey to remove it before he choked?

When the knock came, the twins raced to the front door, let Tracey in, and watched to see where she put her purse. Dying to check out the new makeup, I bet. Mrs. T. fussed over Tracey, asking how she felt, as they headed toward the living room.

“Grover’s taking a nap,” she explained while Tracey eyed the blanket on the (ultraclean) rug. I had placed Lambie Pie in the middle so the kid would have a buddy close by.

“When will he wake up?” Tracey checked her watch. “I can only stay a couple of hours. My sister—”

A couple of hours. And she hadn’t seen Grover in almost two weeks.

“He just went to sleep,” I declared from the doorway. “You shouldn’t wake him up.”

Dr. Spock says little kids need lots of sleep.

Tracey looked me up, down.

“Who’s that?” She jerked a chin in my direction.

“Ben lives here,” said Mrs. T., directing a voice chockful of tone at me. “And he was about to leave.”

No, I wasn’t.

Tracey didn’t bother to glance my way again. She looked dead white and tired. She better not pass on any germs to the baby.

“Grover—” she began.

Just
then plop! crash! bang!
came from upstairs.

I raced to get Grover, but when I brought him downstairs, still sleepy-smiley, and Tracey held out her arms, Grover shied away. He stuck his nose in my neck.

“What’s wrong?” Tracey asked sharply.

“Beh! Beh!” Grover cried.

Mrs. T. tried to distract him with Lambie Pie, but Grover batted it back. When Tracey took him, he stiffened and screamed.

“Grover,” soothed Mrs. T., shaking the lamb. “It’s your mommy. Mommy’s here.”

She motioned me to leave, so I backed up. Very slowly. I kept my eyes on Tracey. I saw the anger in her blue eyes, but I kept mine drilled hard to hers. Let her see I knew all about her. How she had treated Grover. Left him. Ran away.

I refused to look away.

For the next two hours, I stayed close to that living room. In the hall, out of sight, but watchful. Mrs. T. drifted in and out, doing a lousy job of supervising. Once she arched her brows at me and shook her head. But she didn’t say
anything. That was good. I wasn’t about to leave Grover alone with that girl.

After a while Grover settled down, though he sometimes whimpered, “Beh.” He fiddled with Lambie Pie’s yellow bow.

Tracey didn’t seem to know what to do with her kid. She didn’t have a clue how to play, how to talk. She didn’t make Lambie Pie tickle Grover’s toes. (That makes him laugh.) She didn’t cry “baa, baa.” (That sets him baaing, too.)

I wondered what Dr. Spock would say about Tracey. I figured she was hopeless. Grover would be better off without her.

I wished she would disappear, just like Sarah Jewel.

I
n the next few weeks Tracey visited three times each week. On those days the house was chaos with
all
capital letters:
C-H-A-O-S.

Grover spilled more, Charmaine barked more, and the twins giggled and whined and screamed four times louder than usual. Mrs. T. praised every little mother thing Tracey managed to do right. I watched for each wrong one.

And one day, to add to the chaos, Tracey brought her sister.

I’d just plunked Grover in his high chair, where he started squashing green beans in his hair. Charmaine was stationed below, munching the falling bits.

And in sailed Tracey, like she owned the place, with some woman trailing behind. Tracey took one look at Grover’s plate, opened her pouty lips, and bellowed, “He needs fruit.”

“Grover had a banana this morning,” I replied, handing him another green bean.

“Na-na!” Grover hollered.

Mrs. T. stopped by with a basket full of dirty clothes. Toting that heavy thing, she would hurt her back again, for sure. “You two”—Mrs. T. leveled some tone at Tracey and me—“feeding Grover is
not
a contest.”

So I
very
politely gave Tracey my seat and watched her chop up a banana. She had painted blue moons on each one of her fingernails. How dumb.

Tracey dumped the banana slices on Grover’s plate. Right on the picture of Peter Rabbit.

Big
mistake. Grover likes to chat with Peter while he eats. The banana didn’t stay on the plate for long.

Plop! Plop! Plop!
Grover peeked over the edge of his high chair. “Na-na,” he crowed. “Bye.”

I didn’t try to hide my grin.

Kate skipped in and skidded. “What a mess!”

Tracey leaned over and scraped banana goop off Kate’s shoe. “That’s how Grover learns,” she sighed.

“Ben says that, too.” Jango entered, also skidding. I noticed that her yellow T-shirt was completely different from Kate’s pink-flowered top. Was Jango rebelling against Kate the Great?

“Beh! Beh!” Grover gobbled a bean.

“Ben,”
muttered Tracey.

Mrs. T. whisked off Grover’s gooey bib and popped it in the laundry basket. She pointed to Tracey. “Ma-ma,” she said, slowly and clearly. “Ma-ma.”

Grover looked up from patting Jango’s shirt. “El,” he said.

“Yellow,” repeated Mrs. T. “Jango’s yellow shirt. Grover, listen. Can you say ‘Mama’?”

“Ma-ma,” Grover obliged.

Tracey sucked in her breath. She looked like she was going to cry or something. Jeesh. Grover was just repeating a word.

“Ma-ma,” Grover said again.

“Your fingernails!” Kate screeched, grabbing Tracey’s hand. “Let me see.”

“Shhh,” whispered Tracey. “Grover, come to Mama?”

She didn’t even wait for the baby to hold out his arms. Just hauled him out of the high chair and announced, sailing out the door, that
she
would put him down for a nap.

Following with her basket, Mrs. T. smiled at Tracey. “And you thought Grover didn’t know his own mother.”

“We want moons, too!” Kate hollered as she and Jango skipped after Tracey, with Charmaine skittering behind.

Suddenly the dining room was quiet. I picked a few green beans off Grover’s tray.

“You must be Ben,” came a low voice. “Tracey told me about you.”

Ha, I thought. I bet she had said nothing good.

“I’m Jenny. Tracey’s sister.”

I continued to clean, giving the woman a side-eyes glance. Short hair. No pouty lips. No spider lashes.

This
was Tracey’s sister? Tracey’s tight clothes and makeup screamed, “Look at me!” but Jenny, with her plain shirt and plain face … well, Jenny seemed to blend in.

The woman wiped squished banana off the floor. Tracey would never have done that. She’d cut out every single blue moon from her fingernails before she would stoop to help me.

“You two sure seem different,” I said.

Jenny gave me a little smile—and you could tell she didn’t smile often. “I’m the quiet one,” she said, screwing the lid on Grover’s baby-food jar of green beans. “Tracey, on the other hand … I remember my mother saying that even as a baby Tracey had no trouble letting her feelings out.”

Tracey as a baby. With big blue eyes and a Tweety Bird head and fat little fists like Grover’s. What a weird thought. I wondered what I’d been like as a baby. What my mother—what Sarah Jewel might have said about me.

“But we’ve both got a stubborn streak,” Jenny continued, wiping the table while I wiped the high chair. “When we make up our mind—that’s it. Tracey used to smoke about two packs a day. As soon as she found out she was pregnant—not a puff. Didn’t want to hurt her baby.”

Well, she hurt him anyway. What would you call running away?

Jenny gave
me
a side-eyes glance. “I bet you’ve got a stubborn streak, Ben.”

Me? I thought about Gram sticking it out with her Ben-gay
and great-grandbaby. Doing the whole feed-change-play thing with me.
That
was stubborn.

And Jenny was seeing some of that stubborn in me. Huh. Maybe I had a bit of Gram’s spirit inside. More than just memories of false teeth and Jif.

“What are you stubborn about?” I asked.

“Right now? Finishing college, even though going part-time takes forever.” Jenny continued to wipe the table. “And sometimes,” she went on, “I’m just plain mule-ornery
stubborn.”
She shook her head. “Stubborn can make you tough,” she sighed, “or it can make you hard. There’s a difference.”

Tracey’s stubborn streak had made her hard. I could tell.
You been raised by a perfect mama?
That girl liked being flat-out mean.

“Tracey is—” Jenny began.

“Tracey is
what?”
Tracey surveyed us from the doorway. Her eyes moved from Jenny to me back to Jenny, like someone left out of a secret.

The twins squeezed past her. Their fingers fluttered like hyper butterflies. “Moons! Moons! Tracey made us moons!”

The chaos was starting again.

Plop! crash! bang!
came from upstairs.

“Your baby’s calling, Mama,” Jenny teased.

“Grover just went to sleep,” Tracey sighed, “and now he’s playing dropsy.”

“That’s how he learns.” Jango poked a painted fingernail into my rib. “Right, Ben?”

Tracey frowned, than turned suddenly to Jenny. “What
were you talking about?” she demanded. “Tracey is
what?”

“Wonderful,” Jenny said lightly.

“Ha!” Tracey’s laugh was bitter. “Like you or
he
would think that.”