Grover G. Graham and Me (7 page)

A
s if Tracey’s visits weren’t enough, Mrs. T. had to plan what she called a “family picnic” for the third Saturday in July. I almost faked a stomachache when I found out Tracey was going. But if I stayed home, who would watch Grover?

Of course it was 94 sweaty degrees when we set off for Greenfield’s not-so-green park. But with all us “family” wedged inside the car, the temperature must have hit 110. As usual, Mrs. T. reminded her husband
to please
fix that jiggling door and as usual he agreed. “Better sooner than later,” she humphed.

I watched a few sweetgums through the car window.

“Twee!” Grover pointed.

“That’s right,” I replied. “Tree.”

“Twee,” Grover repeated.

Behind sunglasses, Tracey’s face showed no expression.

I wished Jenny could have come, but she was studying for an exam. She said she wanted to finish college early,
even if that meant studying the whole summer away. Shoot, she must be plenty stubborn to get through all those books. They were thicker than Dr. Spock’s
Baby and Child Care!
On one of her visits Jenny had even asked if I planned to go to college. Me? I shook my head no. I just wanted to get through A, B, and C on my list of goals; I didn’t want to think about adding D.

The Torglemobile bounced over a rut and Tracey clutched at the cooler in her lap. Today she was proud as Red Riding Hood with a basket of goodies. Tracey had insisted on bringing the food, to save Mrs. T. the trouble, with her bad back and all. I wondered if she had remembered to pack Grover’s favorite fish-shaped crackers.

Probably not.

When we reached the park, Kate, Jango, and Charmaine raced for the picnic tables. Tracey handed the cooler to Mr. T. and tried to unhook Grover’s car seat.

She fiddled, tugged, twisted the strap.

I leaned over and—
click!
—unsnapped the catch.

Tracey’s sunglasses briefly turned in my direction; then she picked up the baby.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Mrs. T. frowned at me.

Let her frown. Someone had to watch out for the kid. His mother
still
didn’t know what to do.

Mr. T. was already spreading a red-checked tablecloth and Kate was flinging paper plates on the table. Jango lifted plastic tubs from the cooler. Tiny triangle sandwiches. Potato salad. Chopped fruit with colored toothpicks.

Mrs. T. threw up her hands like a kid at Christmas. “What a beautiful picnic!”

“Do you like it?” Tracey smiled. “I tried to make it look like a picture I saw in
Ladies’ Home Journal.”

Kate peeked inside a cookie tin. “Wow!”

The smell of homemade cookies made my mouth water, but I tried to blank out any interest.

Good thing I did. That picnic might have looked good, but it sure flunked the taste test. The bread was dry and the potato salad goopy. The cookies were hard as dirt clods.

“Jenny told me I wasn’t measuring carefully—and Jenny is
always
right.” Tracey tried to laugh, though her lips trembled. She crumbled a cookie. “At least I didn’t mess up the fruit.”

“Bish! Bish!” Grover hollered for his favorite fish crackers.

No one said a word about Tracey forgetting them. Mr. T. handed Grover a bread crust.

He threw it down. “Bish!” he demanded.

Mr. T. handed Grover a chunk of melon. “Why don’t you all go to the playground? The swings might distract him.”

The twins skipped off but Tracey held back. She didn’t try to pick up Grover. Without the dark glasses, her eyes looked sort of sad.

Grover squished the melon till juice ran down his arm.

“Oh, Grover.” Tracey grabbed a napkin.

He squealed and reached for me.

“Ben,” Mrs. T. began, “why don’t you stay here and let Tracey—” But then Grover set off and I had to skedaddle after. Tracey followed, her hand on Charmaine.

That dog would do anything for a pat.

At the playground, Kate and Jango were taking turns
with the whirl-go-round. One girl would push it fast, fast, fast while the other spun and shrieked.

The whirl-go-round. I’ve always hated that ride. What’s the point of spinning till the whole world falls away? Till dizziness fills your head? I was once whirled so fast that I lost my grip. I remember my fingers slipping, the wind sucking hard. And then I was whirling and twirling through spinning air till the ground rose up and smacked me. I banged my head, scraped my shoulder,
and
upchucked my lunch. Just watching the twins on that stupid ride made my stomach jump.

I herded Grover toward the swings.

“Tracey, spin us. Tracey, please!” Kate and Jango yelled, and soon their excited screams filled the air.

Grover toddled from swings to sandbox, but his busy eyes kept sliding in the direction of that big whirling thing.

“Ga.” He pointed.

“Oh, Ben, let him ride.” Kate brushed back her tangled bangs as the whirl-go-round slowed. “I’ll hold him.”

“He’s too little—,” I began.

“Sure, he can ride,” Tracey broke in, clapping her hands at Grover. “Want to ride, baby? Come on!”

“Ga!” laughed Grover, clapping back.

“Come on, Grover!” yelled Kate.

Even Charmaine had to add her two cents’ worth, barking like a fool.

And Grover? He toddled over so fast his stubby legs blurred.

Tracey picked up the baby and plunked him in Kate’s lap. “Hold tight,” she directed, starting to push.

Grover squealed and squirmed.

That dumb Kate. She wasn’t paying attention.

In two strides, I was beside the whirl-go-round, reaching for Grover.

Tracey’s voice stopped me. “He wants a ride.”

I clenched my hands. I wished I were suddenly three inches taller. Then I could stare Tracey down. It’s not the same when you have to stare up.

“That ride is dangerous,” I said.

“Ben’s afraid.” Kate looked over at Tracey. “Listen. His voice is shaking.”

Tracey shook her head. “You and Jenny,” she said to me. “You’re like two old bats, squeaky and scared.” She grabbed a bar on the whirl-go-round. “This
is fun.”

“Whee!” Grover clapped his hands.

Tracey stared straight at me. “You’re going to make Grover as nervous and sneaky as you. I don’t want him to be like that.”

My eyes didn’t shift from hers. Listen to her, talking like I was hurting Grover. After what
she
had done. “What kind of mother are you?” My words came out, hot and hard. “You don’t care. You left your baby—”

“What kind of mother am I?” Tracey’s breath came fast, like mine. “I’m
Grover’s
mother. And I say he’s going to ride.”

This must be some of Tracey’s hard stubbornness. Well, I could be stubborn, too.

In one motion, I grabbed the bar, grabbed Grover from Kate. I plunked the baby on my lap.

“Ben’s going to ride,” cried the twins. “Tracey, make it go fast. Really fast!”

Tracey began pushing the ride.

“Faster,” screamed Kate.

I hung on grimly to the bar, tightly to Grover.

The ride picked up speed.

“Faster!”

I watched Tracey’s hands grab each bar and push. White hands, blue-dotted fingernails, gray steel bar. The green of leaves and grass spun together. Potato salad and cookies spun in my stomach.

“Bye!” Grover squealed, flapping his fist. “Bye!”

His hair whipped my cheek. I tightened my grip. I wanted to close my eyes, but I didn’t. White-blue-gray-green-green-green. I tried to focus on the names of colors.

I will
not
get sick, I thought fiercely.

Then the whirl-go-round started slowing.

“What a short ride,” whined Kate.

“And way too slow,” Jango added her whine. “Come on, Tracey, spin us again.”

“I wanted it slow and easy for Grover.” Tracey stopped the ride. “Did you like that, baby boy?”

“Whee!” Grover laughed.

I didn’t bother to look at Tracey. Stupid. Mean. Hard. Slow and easy for Grover. Like she cared.

I heaved the baby into my arms and stalked back to the picnic area. The potato salad and cookies fought in my stomach. A lousy mother
and
a lousy cook, I fumed, hearing the ride creak and the twins squeal and Charmaine excitedly bark.

I am
not
a squeaky old bat.

Mr. T. was stretched out in the shade, but Mrs. T. waved me to the table. I put Grover down, keeping an eye on him as I sat beside her.

Mrs. T. was smoothing crumbs to the edge of the table. The crumbs from Tracey’s lousy cookies.

“Ben, you’re great with Grover,” she said slowly. “And he obviously loves you.”

I smiled.

Mrs. T. pushed the crumbs into a neat pile. “But you seem … well, too protective when Tracey is around. Maybe you should step back a bit and let his mother take over.”

I stiffened and blanked out my smile.

“You and Tracey”—Mrs. T. flattened the crumb pile— “seem to compete over the baby. Why don’t you try helping her instead? Show her how to play with Grover, how to talk to him.”

Me help Tracey? Ha. She wouldn’t listen to one word I said.
You an expert?
I remembered her sneering. And why should I help her, anyway? I wasn’t the one who had started the meanness.

“If you helped Tracey”—Mrs. T. looked straight at me—“don’t you think you’d be helping Grover, too?”

I blanked out her words. Even if Tracey had a thousand helpers, she’d never be good for Grover. Too protective? How could I be too protective? Okay, so the whirl-go-round hadn’t hurt Grover. And to hear the twins, maybe Tracey had pushed sort of slow. But Mrs. T. wanted me to step back. She wanted me to blend into the background like some camouflage fish. She wanted Tracey to take over—and me to be one big nothing in Grover’s life.

Mrs. T. continued. “Tracey’s been knocked around a lot. Her mom and dad were killed in a car accident when she was fourteen.”

Well, I didn’t have parents, either. So what? Everyone has a boo-hoo story.

“Jenny tried to take over, but she was only eighteen, working long hours, going to college at night. Tracey got in with the wrong people, people older than her. She was five months along before she realized she was pregnant.”

Stupid. Stupid girl.

Mrs. T. studied me a moment, then sighed. “Why are you so hard on Tracey?”

You been raised by a perfect mama?
No, but I sure recognized imperfect. Maybe I was hard because Mrs. T. was so soft. Someone had to look out for Grover.

O
ver the next few weeks Tracey continued to visit. Too often, if you ask me. After facing off at the whirl-go-round, we barely spoke. She finished her child care class and was considered fit to take her baby. The system was spitting Grover back.

We planned a party for the night before he left. Streamers. Presents. Mr. T. tied a yellow balloon to the high chair. It said Bon Voyage in red letters. Mrs. T. cooked a big cake and a teeny one and swirled white frosting over the tops.

“Chocolate’s not good for babies,” she said when the twins whined for fudge frosting. “Caffeine gives them the jitters.”

She asked me to decorate the cakes. I took my time, squeezing red letters from a frosting tube. I wrote
G-R-O-V-E-R
on the big one. Crammed the little one with stars. I even made a squiggly sheep with a pink smile in honor of Lambie Pie. These days Grover carted that toy everywhere.

Kate pointed to my frosting lamb. “It looks like a cloud with legs.”

I ignored her and made a teeny squiggle for the tail. I decorated till the tube was empty, then added a lollipop. Yellow. Grover’s favorite color. I made that little cake fancy as Christmas. And Grover loved it. No sooner had we sung-screeched the last note of “Happy Good-bye, Dear Grover,” than the kid did a nosedive and surfaced, grinning, stars smeared on his face. He even shared with Lambie Pie. A big goopy fistful of cake right in the lamb’s little mouth.

Grover treated his presents like the cake. Bows were snatched and thrown, wrapping paper torn. “El,” he said to the yellow ribbon from the twins, a new one for Lambie Pie. “Pan,” he said to the overalls and card from the Torgles. “Beh! Beh! Beh!” He thumped my gift, his own copy of
Hop on Pop.

That night before going to sleep, I carefully lined up Saint Jake Jock’s trophy guys. The big batter, then the pitcher, all the way down to the smallest football player. Twelve of them on the shelf, picking up a blue shine from my night-light. They reminded me of the heavenly host supposedly up high with the stars. I’d heard about them from a few of my foster families who were big on going to church. I remembered those long, stiff-backed Sundays, full of thee-and-thou prayers. Whenever I tried to mumble along, here came a word like
trespass
or
tribulation
to trip up my tongue. Mostly I sat silent.

Sitting on Jake’s bed, I gazed up at the trophies. I imagined Mr. T. tossing a ball to baby Jake, taking him to Little League, cheering for him in high school. I thought of Jake, safe and smiling. Grover should have that, too. And if a
few
thees
and
thous
would help, well, I’d wrap my tongue around them. I ran a few prayers through my mind but none matched the kid’s situation. So I bowed my head and said straight out, “Look, not to tell you how to do your job, but please don’t forget Grover. He might need some help with that mother of his.”

I didn’t send my words to any spirit in particular. Maybe whoever heard would help.

Beyond the window a few stars blinked. Never could see those first gleams without thinking of Gram. The sight always gave me a little pick-me-up, to use some of her favorite words.

Who knew what might happen the next day? Tracey might change her mind. She might disappear again. Then Grover could still live with the Torgles. He could still live with me.

Tracey and Jenny were due to arrive at nine-thirty. That morning Grover was fed, washed, and packed to go by nine o’clock.

Five minutes later he started fussing. “La,” he whimpered, but soon worked up to a holler. “La!”

He wanted Lambie Pie.

We looked at one another. No one knew where it was.

Kate wiggled a teddy bear in his face, but he shoved it away.

“La! La! La!” he cried.

Mr. T. and I organized a full-scale search. We dug through Grover’s boxes and bags. Kate searched the bedroom and Jango the kitchen. Mrs. T. sang “Itsy-bitsy Spider” and Charmaine barked.

The kid screeched louder: “La! La! La!”

Finally I found the toy inside the bathtub. Even with a new yellow ribbon, Lambie Pie looked more like Myron the Chihuahua than a cuddly sheep. But Grover grabbed the poor thing and gave it two kisses.

And he gave me a big kiss, too.

Boom
, there went that feel-good spotlight inside my chest. I didn’t even mind the apple juice he spilled down my shirt.

That’s when a car bumped up the drive in clouds of August dust. Fifteen minutes late.

When Tracey and Jenny stepped out, Mr. T. offered coffee and leftover good-bye cake. Tracey said no. She wanted to load up Grover’s stuff and get him settled at home. She said this twice, practically licking her lips, like “home” was something Grover would find delicious.

“We bought you a crib and bureau.” Tracey hunkered down beside Grover, who was clutching Lambie Pie and sucking his thumb. “They’re secondhand but in really good shape.” Tracey smiled at us all, even me. “I stenciled trucks on the walls of his room,” she continued. “Pictures are supposed to be stimulating.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. Tracey
still
didn’t know much about Grover. The kid liked pictures of animals; he got bored with machines.

“I didn’t finish the stencils till this morning—that’s why we’re late.” Tracey glanced at Jenny, then rubbed a chipped blue moon on her fingernail. “I ran out of black paint, so one wheel is green.”

“I’m sure Grover will like green,” said Mrs. T.

“No, he won’t,” Jango broke in. “His favorite color is yellow. That’s what Ben says.”

Grover’s thumb popped out of his mouth. “El,” the kid said.

The silence that followed was broken by Mr. T.’s “ahhh.” He turned to Jenny. “How’s work going? You work for some doctors, right?”

“I’m a medical receptionist,” Jenny said quickly, as if trying to help him end the silence. “The docs are pretty good about my schedule so I can take classes at night.”

Medical—that’s good, I thought. Jenny probably knew about Dr. Spock.

Then another thought hit me: If Jenny was working during the day and going to college at night, Grover would spend most of his time with Tracey. Who knew what could happen? That girl was so careless—

“School going well?” Mr. T.’s question broke into my thoughts.

“Yes, yes,” said Jenny. “Thank you.”

Silence again.

“I can repaint the wheel,” Tracey said. All the excitement seemed to have seeped out of her.

Jenny gave her sister’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I think it’s time to go,” she said.

The twins and I helped load the car. Boxes of clothes. Bags of toys and books. Everything I owned could fit inside one suitcase with six locked pockets. How had a guy as young as Grover managed to get so much stuff? And that wasn’t counting the crib, changing table, and high chair. They would stay behind for the next foster baby.

I was double-checking Grover’s room, opening one drawer—empty—after another—empty, empty—when I felt someone behind me.

“We’re ready,” came Jenny’s voice.

I kept my face turned away. DON’T come in. I silently willed. DON’T ask questions.

I squeezed my eyes shut. DON’T take Grover.

When I opened my eyes, I spotted a rubber band on the floor. I picked it up, snapped it once. Stuck it in my pocket.

After today I wouldn’t have to worry about the human vacuum cleaner. I wouldn’t have to search out things before they could hurt him.

Jenny cleared her throat. “You’ll have to visit us soon, Ben. Hey, Eileen told me you were the master chef when she hurt her back. Maybe you can make us your specialty. I love pancakes.”

Kate yelled from downstairs: “Tracey says it’s time to go.”

Time to go.

I didn’t move. I wanted to stretch time way out, like a rubber band. I wanted to keep it from moving on. I searched my brain for something to cause a delay. All I could come up with was a question. “Um”—I curled my fingers round the rubber band in my pocket—“what does the
G
stand for?”

“The
G?”
Jenny sounded confused.

“In Grover G. Graham.”

“Oh.” Jenny half laughed, half sighed. “It doesn’t stand for anything. Tracey thought Grover G. Graham sounded distinguished. She said three
Gs
meant three times as great.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. What mother saddles a kid with a meaningless name? A name screaming “Look at me!” Didn’t Tracey know it was better, safer, to blend in?

Jenny continued, “And she got ‘Grover’ from
Sesame Street.”

Poor kid. Named for a fuzzy blue puppet. Thank God Sarah Jewel hadn’t done that to me. Or maybe Gram had named me. Maybe Sarah Jewel had been happy to let someone—anyone—fill in my birth certificate.

“Tracey gets an idea or wants something—
boom!
—she acts.” Jenny laugh-sighed again. “She accuses me of being too careful.”

“You and Jenny,”
Tracey had said.
“Two old bats, squeaky and scared.”

“She’s so excited Grover is coming home,” said Jenny. “I thought she’d stencil the whole apartment.”

I thought about the little guy downstairs, holding tight to his scrawny stuffed lamb. The system was full of kids whose parents wanted them one minute—and didn’t the next. What if Tracey treated Grover like that? What if she wasn’t there when he needed her? What if he cried and she didn’t bother to come?

I asked Jenny to wait and disappeared into Jake’s room.

I wasn’t gone long. And when I placed the object in her palm, I didn’t glance at it, not even once. “The first night in a new place—it can be scary,” I explained. “If Grover wakes up and sees the blue glow, I think he’ll be okay.”

Jenny traced the plastic edge of my night-light. Then she started talking real low. Not really to me, though. More like she was working something out for herself. “When Grover was born, I should have taken a semester off,” she said. “His father had already disappeared.”

“But you needed to finish—”

“That’s what I told myself.” Jenny frowned down at the
night-light. “But really I was furious at Tracey. Skipping school. Getting pregnant. I was already trying to support us both—and then a baby.” She passed the night-light from one hand to the other. “I didn’t help as much as I should have….” She looked at me. “Remember I said stubborn can make you tough or hard?”

I nodded.

“I was hard.”

“Ben, Jenny,” Mrs. T. called up the stairs. “The car’s all packed.”

Time to go.

Outside, Grover was squeezing Lambie Pie. He stared at the faces around him: Tracey; Jenny; his social worker, who had arrived when we were upstairs and who would make sure the return went smoothly. I could see the little guy tighten his grip on his lamb.

Mr. T. put the car seat in Jenny’s car and strapped Grover in. The kid was kissed by everyone. Then the social worker’s car pulled out, followed by Jenny’s. I watched as it moved down the driveway. I saw Grover’s Tweety Bird head at the window. Even with a stranglehold on that lamb, he was flapping and flapping his fist.

Bye-bye.

Beside me, Jango chewed on her Barbie.

Kate started to cry.

Mr. and Mrs. T. shaded their eyes and waved.

When the car had disappeared, Kate hiccuped once and rubbed her eyes. We all went inside. Everything was quiet. Charmaine licked a few Cheerios from the floor. Mrs. T. cut loose the balloon, now saggy, from Grover’s high chair.

She gave it to the twins. I could hear the
snip-snip
of their scissors as I trudged upstairs. Making rubber dresses for their dolls.

In Jake’s room, the trophies were lined up, neat as last night. I curled up on the bed. Stayed there for a while.