Authors: Muriel Jensen
Nate met Dylan’s eyes. Then, in a gesture of deliberate defiance, his nephew pulled off his headpiece and glared at him. Every word that came to Nate’s lips should not be used around children, so he remained silent as the principal stepped forward.
She slanted a scolding look at the boys.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Trumble?” the mayor asked as he wiped his face.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Mayor. I can’t tell you how many times the Mentos−Diet Coke experiment has crossed my path. Nucleation never seems to get old for children.” Then she added a little more severely, “But I think someone’s allowances should pay for dry-cleaning the mayor’s suit and my dress.”
The other parents involved, Steve and Judy Berg, a couple in their forties that Nate had met at an open house, and Kristy Moss, a single mother and the one who’d caught the boys, nodded their approval.
“Good. And now I think the boys should clean this up.” Mrs. Trumble smiled at the crowd collected behind them. “Please continue with the party. Everything’s fine.” To the boys she added more quietly, “What were you thinking? There were already enough Mentos in the lime punch for the bubbling cauldron effect.”
“We wanted to see if we could make it hit the ceiling,” Dylan said. “But we didn’t think you’d be standing here. I’m sorry about your dress. And your suit, Mr. Mayor.”
Nate was both proud and angry. Which mystified him, because he hated indecisiveness. Since he was more familiar with the anger than the pride, he decided to go with the pride this time. Dylan was behaving well, despite what he’d done, so maybe there was hope. And he and his friends hadn’t intended to hurt anyone. It was simply a kid-friendly experiment for which they’d chosen the wrong time and place.
The principal beckoned to one of the women who’d been working in the kitchen. She was tall and formidable-looking. “Inga, please take the boys and get them each a bucket and a mop, then send them back to me.”
Inga nodded, pointed the boys to the kitchen and followed them. Dylan cast a dark look over his shoulder at Nate.
The principal smiled at the parents. “Don’t be upset. It’s messy but harmless. Blame the sugar and the excitement.”
Steve Berg shook his head. “Justin was probably the instigator.” He looked apologetically at Nate and Kristy. “He’s new to our home, and still trying to shock us.”
The Bergs, Nate knew, had a foster home. He shrugged. “Dylan never needs much encouragement to try to make
something
reach the ceiling.”
Kristy folded her arms, looking completely demoralized. “Yeah, well, this time it’s
me!
I’ve never been so embarrassed! I can’t believe Randy did this!”
Judy sighed philosophically. “It’s very humbling to be a parent.” She lowered her voice when Mrs. Trumble turned away to speak to the mayor, and there was a wicked gleam in her eye. “But you got to love how straight and high that geyser shot!”
Nate suppressed a laugh. Mercifully, Sheamus was distracted by someone passing in a Chinese warlord costume.
Kristy looked horrified. Judy patted her arm. “We’ve raised four boys, Kris, and Justin is our eighth foster child. Believe me, it can get a lot worse than an eruption of soda.”
When the boys returned with buckets, Mrs. Trumble gave directions for the cleanup to Inga, then left.
“Is Dylan in big trouble?” Sheamus asked as they sat at a table to wait for him.
“That’s where he seems to like to be.”
Sheamus dug into his sack, came up with a bag of almonds and ripped it open. He grinned at Nate as he poured some into his hand. “It was cool the way it just shot up!” he said excitedly, using his free hand to gesture toward the ceiling. “And it was kind of funny that Mrs. Trumble got slimed!”
“That’s the part that wasn’t cool, Sheamus,” Nate said seriously. “She’s a very nice lady, and she works hard to make Astor School special. Dylan and his friends ruined her dress, the mayor’s suit, and made them look silly. That isn’t nice.”
Sheamus appeared repentant, or seemed to think he should. “Yeah,” he corrected, striving for sincerity. “Sorry.”
The event began to wind down. Nate was chewing on a red licorice vine he’d finally accepted from Sheamus when Hunter appeared beside them.
“How’s it going?” he asked Nate, pulling up a chair. He fist-bumped Sheamus. “You guys okay? You got to admit we all want to try the Mentos thing.”
“Yeah!” Sheamus agreed heartily. At a disapproving glance from Nate, he went back to examining his candy.
Nate turned the same look on Hunter. “What he did wasn’t so bad,” he said in a low voice, so that Sheamus wouldn’t hear, “but like a lot of things you don’t think through before you act on, other people get hurt or embarrassed. And that’s not so good.”
Hunter nodded gravely and took the last string of licorice in Nate’s package. “Right. Sorry.” But there was laughter in his eyes.
Nate noticed something was different about him. “Your bolt is missing,” he said.
Hunter touched the spot of glue just above his ear. “Zoey didn’t like it and pulled it off.”
“What happened to Sandy and the girls?”
“Addie was starting to fuss. They had to go home. I offered to take them but Sandy had her car.”
“Did she make you dance?”
“Nobody makes me dance. She tried, though. Pushy woman.”
“I know.”
Dylan came to join them, smelling of pine cleaner and looking belligerent. His headpiece was tucked under his arm. He frowned at Hunter. “Where’s your bolt?” he asked. “Your brain’s going to fall out.”
“That happened years ago.” Nate got to his feet and grinned at Hunter. “See you in the morning. Let’s go, Sheamus.” Noticing Dylan was empty-handed except for his headpiece, he asked, “Where’s your candy?”
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. Lost it after the punch bowl blew up. Somebody probably took it when everybody started running.”
Sheamus held up his bag, still filled with treats despite how many he’d eaten. “I got lots. You can have some of mine.”
Dylan rolled his eyes and started for the door. Sheamus turned to Nate in confusion, so he put an arm around him. “It was nice of you to offer to share. He’s just crabby because he lost his. Good night, Hunter.”
“See you guys.” Hunter waved them off, but he seemed moody.
Dylan was quiet on the ride home, but Sheamus relived the evening in descriptive detail. At home, Nate stashed the bag of candy in a kitchen cupboard, Arnold watching closely, tail wagging. Nate gave him one of his own treats, explaining why dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate.
A short while later Nate tucked Sheamus in, assured him that the closet door was securely closed, turned on his night-light, then crossed the hall to Dylan’s room. The door was shut.
That was a metaphor for their relationship, Nate thought. He rapped lightly, and when there was no answer, he pushed the door open. Dylan was in bed with the lights out, facing the window.
Nate turned the light on and sat on the edge of the bed. “We have to talk about tonight,” he said, doing his best to sound reasonable. “You didn’t do anything awful, but you have to start thinking first, Dyl.”
“We didn’t mean for that to happen.” Dylan spoke without turning.
“I’m sure you didn’t.” He wasn’t really, but the words expressed some belief in the boy’s intentions. “But...you’re a kid who likes to experiment with things. Next time, experiment with thinking through the possibilities of what could happen before you do it.”
That earned him a puzzled look over Dylan’s shoulder. “What?”
“Think first,” Nate added more succinctly. “Imagine what could happen if something goes wrong, or just differently than you planned. Then consider whether it’s worth taking the chance. Especially if you’re doing it in front of a bunch of people who’ll probably remember what you did for a long time.”
“Yeah.” Dylan agreed, but before Nate could feel a sense of relief, the boy added, “And plan enough time to get away.”
Nate closed his eyes and bit down on exasperation. He so wished he could channel his brother. “Are you getting my point at all?”
Dylan turned away again. “Yes,” he said stiffly. “You were embarrassed in front of some of your clients, weren’t you? I know you do some work for the mayor.”
Surprised, Nate replied, “I didn’t say that.”
“Sandy did. She was in the kitchen when Inga was filling our buckets.”
“What you did embarrassed you, not me. And most of my clients have their own kids and know that thinking before you act is a lesson that takes time to learn. So buck up. You’re not as awful as you want to be. Good night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
B
OBBIE
EXPECTED
CHAOS
in the large classroom assigned for her art projects, but was pleasantly surprised to find the second and third graders attentive while she explained the plan.
She had initially been reluctant to use the tried-and-true turkey-made-from-paint-on-a-child’s-hand project but finally decided it would be a good introduction.
Once the children got their hands in the paint, though, the chaos she’d feared surfaced and quickly took over. They dutifully pressed their hands to the paper. There was giggling and bumping as everyone moved along the table to press their hands into a different color set out in pans on a work table. They pressed their hands into the paper again, but the third pass was too much of a temptation. In their little minds the obvious next step was touching one another. Before Bobbie could react, children were sporting orange noses, yellow foreheads, multicolored blotches on their T-shirts and dresses. The classroom aide had outfitted the students with aprons, but still, paint was everywhere.
The aide, a wonderful volunteer in her midthirties named Fernanda, laughed and patted Bobbie’s shoulder when she saw her distress. “It’s all right. This always happens. That’s why we supply water-based paint. And, of course, water-based children.”
Bobbie relaxed, but worried a little about how to keep the children occupied for another forty minutes. Then one of the livelier second graders suggested eagerly, “Let’s do monsters! Turkeys are dumb.” He waved his unconventional yellow-and-blue print in the air. “Monsters! Can we, please?”
The other children quickly picked up the cry. Bobbie questioned Fernanda with a look.
The woman nodded. “Why not? Whatever keeps them happy for another—” she consulted her watch “—another thirty-seven minutes.”
“Okay.” Bobbie walked to the middle of the aisle separating the worktables and tried to project order. “Let’s talk about what monsters could look like.”
Hands flew up and excited suggestions were shouted. “Messy hair! Ripped up shirts! Scabs and blood all over! Mean faces!”
Eddy, the lively second grader, made a twisted face that sent his classmates into hysterics.
Pleased that the children were so responsive, Bobbie suddenly noticed Sheamus in a back corner, staring worriedly into space, while Fernanda distributed fresh sheets of white paper.
Bobbie wondered what it was he didn’t like—art or monsters. He seemed to have enjoyed the turkey project, so it must be the latter. She was certain he wasn’t the only child here who worried about imaginary creatures that lurked in the dark.
“All right.” She found herself clapping her hands to claim the children’s attention. How school-marmish was that? “I want each of you to draw a picture of what you think a monster would look like. If you opened your closet in the middle of the night and found one there, what do you think he’d be wearing? How would he have combed his hair that morning? Would he be wearing shoes, or would he have bare feet?”
One little girl waved her hand.
“Yes?” Bobbie asked.
“Can I have a lady monster?”
“Of course.” It was probably an equal-opportunity profession.
Eddy looked up from his work to say profoundly, “There have to be lady monsters or there would never be baby monsters to take the place of old monsters when they die.”
Bobbie was amazed. This was turning into an art and philosophy class. Or was it biology?
She wandered up and down the aisle while the children worked, and stopped near Sheamus as he hesitantly made a circle, presumably for a face. She squeezed into the small, empty chair beside him. “That’s a good beginning, Sheamus.” She saw the concern in his face and spoke cheerfully. “This is just a picture of a pretend monster, so you can look at it and maybe decide it isn’t very scary, after all.”
He considered a moment before adding a larger circle with stick arms and legs.
“Very good,” she praised. “Probably ate too many French fries.”
Sheamus looked up at her, his expression grave. “I think he ate some of my Halloween candy. And one of the cookies you gave me.”
“Really? Are you sure you didn’t eat them when you were hungry, and just forgot?”
“Maybe.”
Other children were clamoring for Bobbie’s attention. She patted Sheamus’s arm, praised him for doing well, and went to the little girl who was creating a “lady” monster.
“She gots lots of hair,” the girl said, making yellow crayon curls with great enthusiasm. “And she doesn’t let anybody say, ‘Shut up!’ or, ‘That sucks!’”
“That’s just a mom,” Eddy said from across the room. “We’re supposed to make monsters!”
“Sometimes moms are monsters,” another boy commented.
Sheamus looked up from his drawing. “My mom was nice. And pretty.”
“She died,” one child said knowingly.
Bobbie held her breath, wondering how Sheamus would react. But apparently that truth was now a fact of his life.
“Yeah,” he said, and went back to his work.
Five minutes before her class was over, Bobbie spread their artwork on two tables at the front to save for next week. Fernanda helped her wash little hands, clean up and pack her supplies away.
Bobbie was delighted that the children seemed enthusiastic about the work they’d done today. She headed home with a new glow in the center of her being. Emailing her friend Laura, she told her about the class, described Eddy and Sheamus, and passed on Sandy’s greeting.
The glow remained with her for a long time.
* * *
A
GOOD
DAY
’
S
work behind her, four sheets of paper drying safely inside her closed garage so that no act of nature, boy or dog could set her commission further behind, and dinner dishes finished, Bobbie walked across her backyard toward the Raleighs’ house with leftover Halloween candy and cookies.
She had to talk to Nate, and the leftover candy would provide an excuse for the visit.
At the back door, she rapped firmly.
The door opened and Nate stood there in dark jeans and a soft blue sweater that seemed to imbue his hazel eyes with a hint of the same color. He looked surprised to see her. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not. So she prepared to get right to the point.
She handed him the bag of leftover candy and the cookies, then folded her arms and fixed him with a firm stare. “This is the conversation I wanted to have with you on Halloween, but I didn’t want to yell at you in front of all those children. I am
not
fragile, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go around telling people that I am. I’m perfectly capable of finishing my commission, teaching an art class
and
creating a painting for the food bank fund-raiser.”
“I meant...” he began.
She wasn’t finished. “All you know about me,” she went on evenly, determined to keep her tone calm even though her words were testy, “is that I’ve had cancer and I’m an artist. That doesn’t qualify you to determine anything else about me except that I’ve had cancer and I’m an artist.”
“Sandy...” He tried again.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t count me out. When you’ve had a life-threatening disease, everyone wants to sit you down somewhere comfortable, cover you with a blanket and go around you, because they don’t know what to do
for
you. Well, I’ve struggled to get to the point where I can work again, and I will not let you—”
“You will not let me
speak?
” he interrupted, his expression caught somewhere between anger and laughter.
She hesitated, surprised that something about her telling him off amused him. “No, I will not let you—”
“Explain?”
“No!”
“Tell you that I meant to help you, not insult you?” he persisted, “because that was my intention. Maybe you aren’t fragile, but you
look
fragile, and pardon me for not wanting Sandy to take advantage of you.”
She heaved a sigh and said defensively, “Sandy meant well.”
“Okay,” he said reasonably. “So did I. She’s a hardworking woman, but she’s like a runaway tank, and I wasn’t sure you could stand up to that.”
He certainly understood Sandy. “I can stand up to anything,” Bobbie declared.
“Hi!” Sheamus shot around his uncle, hair messy, eyes bright and flatteringly happy to see her. Arnold was beside him, wagging his tail. “Come in!” On second thought, the boy looked up at Nate. “Can she come in? I finished my homework.” He took hold of Bobbie’s hand while waiting for the decision from his uncle.
“Sheamus, I have things to...” She started to demur at the same moment that Nate stepped aside. She suspected he knew she’d rather not stay, and deliberately took the choice from her.
“Sure,” he said. “Please come in, Bobbie.”
“Want to see my room?” Sheamus pulled her across the kitchen.
“Is it presentable?” Nate asked in some concern.
“Sort of,” Sheamus shouted over his shoulder as he continued to tug on her hand. Arnold tried to follow them, but Nate pointed to his green plaid bed in the corner of the kitchen. Bobbie noticed that it was the size of a single bed.
Sheamus pulled her down the corridor, through the living room to the stairs, talking a mile a minute. She had a quick impression of large pieces of furniture in beige and dark blue, a fireplace, oak tables and kid things all around.
Had Bobbie not picked up her pace, she’d have been dragged up the stairs to the middle room on the west side of the house. Small play figures were lined up on the floor. Green rubber soldiers, pink pigs, black-and-white cows and a variety of dogs stood facing a single stuffed animal with large purple ears, a green-and-yellow-striped nose and fuzzy blue protrusions from his head—antennae, she guessed. Apparently, a diverse community had allied to fight off an alien invasion.
The bed was half-made, with a Spider-Man bedspread that matched Spider-Man curtains. The room was a little chaotic but clearly kid-friendly.
Sheamus opened a wooden trunk at the foot of his bed to show her a jumble of toys and a special box that held electronic ones. “You have to be careful with that stuff,” he said, as though quoting an adult, “or it won’t stay in good working order.”
“That’s very true,” she agreed seriously, wondering what she was doing. She’d come to give Nate a piece of her mind, and here she was, completely immersed in kid territory.
Sheamus opened dresser drawers so she could see his shirts and pants. He pointed at the top drawer. “That’s underwear and socks. And...” His sunny cheer seemed to dim a little as he turned toward the closet. “That’s where my cold weather stuff is. And my basketball.”
“I like basketball,” Bobbie wondered at his change of mood and wandered to the closet. She noticed he took a step back from it. She smiled at him and put a hand to the doorknob, then remembered his expression when they’d begun to draw monsters. “There’s a basketball hoop over my garage,” she said, “but I don’t have a ball.”
“It won’t be winter for a long time,” he said. “We don’t have to open the closet until then.”
“But what if we want to play basketball?”
“Then...we’ll ask Uncle Nate to open it.” His eyes were wide pools of concern. “We keep my jacket downstairs so we don’t have to go into the closet.”
She dropped her hand from the doorknob and went to sit on the edge of his bed. “Is there something else in there?” she asked casually.
He came to stand beside her, clearly afraid, and embarrassed that he was. He nodded. “It’s...a monster.”
She put an arm around him and drew him closer. Fear was something she understood. “You know, monsters make good stories and movies, but they’re really not real. They’re just fiction. Make-believe.”
He looked directly into her eyes. “He’s in there.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No,” he admitted, “but I know what he looks like. I can tell. And I hear him all the time.”
“What does he say?”
“He doesn’t talk, he makes noises.”
“What kind of noises?”
“He growls. And sometimes in the middle of the night, he just hums.”
Bobbie hugged Sheamus a little closer. “It doesn’t seem like we should be afraid of something that hums. That’s like a song, but without words. If he’s singing in there, that doesn’t sound very dangerous.”
The boy considered that a moment, then sighed and said, “It’s okay if you think it’s stupid. Dylan thinks it is, too, but Uncle Nate says sometimes you just can’t help how you feel, even if it is stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid at all. Everybody has stuff they’re afraid of. But being afraid stops you from doing all kinds of things. Like, what if it gets really cold and you want to go out and play, but you won’t go into the closet to get your winter coat?”
“Uncle Nate will get it for me.”
“What if Uncle Nate’s at work?”
Sheamus smiled disarmingly. “I’ll come and get you. You’re not afraid of monsters, are you?”
It wasn’t good to lie to a child, so she compromised and told a half-truth. “I’m only going to be here until January. And that’s when the cold part of winter gets going. Whoever is living in my place then might not want to come over.”
“Then I guess I’ll stay inside and play with my Game Boy.”
Bobbie stood and kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay,” she said. “One day you’ll wake up and feel really brave and you’ll open the closet.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
She heard movement at the bedroom door and looked up to see Dylan standing there, his expression serious. He had one of the pens she’d given him in his hand, and the sketchbook tucked under his arm. He smiled suddenly. “Hi, Bobbie. I thought I heard you. Can you help me? I don’t understand some of the things you gave me.”
“Which things?”
“My bag’s downstairs. Can you stay awhile and show me how to use them?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I should...” Again she made an effort to refuse the invitation and go home. But Sheamus already had her hand again and was dragging her back downstairs. “Come on. You can help me with my monster!”
“Is it okay if Bobbie stays for a while?” Dylan asked Nate as the three of them arrived in the kitchen at a run. Bobbie leaned against the doorjamb to catch her breath.