Middle of Nowhere (4 page)

I knew why Mom wasn't coming home. She wasn't coming home because I had hoped so hard that she wouldn't while I was helping Mrs. Gill with the cotton balls for Santa. But now I did want her home.

Mrs. Gill came back in. Did I know anybody in the building? No. Did I have relatives in town? No. Who was this Gerry person who was listed in the office as my emergency contact? Where did he live?

“Here,” I said and got up and led her to the bedroom to show her Gerry's stuff. His clothes lying all over the floor — his jeans and dirty socks and the T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off. Gerry's guitar in the stickered case in the corner.

But everything was gone.

Gerry had left, I found out later. He'd left and Mom had gone after him.

3

CAN YOU GO TO THE STORE FOR ME?

It was taped to the front window, written in big letters so I could read it from the street. I went through the gate with the
ABSOLUTELY NO FLYERS!
sign and up the steps to ring the doorbell. Artie waited at the bottom, his knees practically knocking together in fear.

I wasn't afraid of her anymore. We had the credit card.

“I'm coming!” I heard her call from inside. “Don't run off on me again!”

Finally she opened the door, pink and cranky, before she remembered to put on her happy face.

Her teeth were brown. Maybe that was why she looked so sour all the time, because she was hiding her bad teeth.

“You saw my sign?” she asked, and I nodded. “Why'd you run off so fast yesterday?”

“You seemed mad.”

“I
was
mad! You would be, too, if you had to pick up and set down this contraption every time you took a step!” Then she noticed Artie hovering at the bottom of the steps. Her face went soft like ice cream.

“Hello!” she called. “What's your name?”

Artie drew his lips into his mouth, making a tight line.

“Artie,” I answered for him.

“Artie? I'm Mrs. Burt.”

She didn't ask my name. She said, “Boys, it's a catastrophe. I'm out of tea.”

We were on our way to school. She said she would probably survive if we brought the tea after school, being as she had already gone without for nearly twenty-four hours. “You may as well pick up a few other things at the same time. Milk and eggs. And cottage cheese. Should I write it down?”

“I'll remember,” I said.

“You're sharp.” She gave me another twenty-dollar bill. “And if there's anything left, get a treat for Artie and yourself.”

“We don't need it.”

“I'm sure you don't, but take it anyway.”

THE REST OF
the day went much faster. I had a sandwich in my stomach, as well as toast and milk from breakfast. Also the school year was winding down and not even the teachers were that serious anymore. It felt like one big art project now.

I picked up Artie at three and even stopped to chat with Mrs. Gill for a few minutes in case she wondered about his candy lunch the day before. She asked me how Mom was and I told her in a completely normal voice that she was great.

We bought the old lady's groceries. The same clerk was there and he flashed his gold tooth at us.

Suddenly I was grateful to her, to Mrs. Burt. It looked less suspicious if we sometimes bought things with cash. There was enough money left over so I got us a Slushie. A blue Slushie that we shared through two straws in the one hole in the lid while we sat on the steps of the Pit Stop Mart and breathed the fried-chicken air, watching the cars go by on Broadway and the homeless people rattle past with their carts.

Then we went to Mrs. Burt's place and rang her bell. Again, about a week went by before she got to the door. First, the TV shut off. After a few minutes, the walker knocked against something and she started muttering, “Blast it, blast it, blast it.” Artie tensed up and squeezed my hand until she finally opened up.

A smell poured out over us, the most delicious smell. We both leaned into it.

“What happened? You two been drinking ink?” I looked at Artie and saw the Slushie had dyed his lips and tongue blue, and probably mine, too.

She motioned to the bag in my hand.

“Put it on the table.”

I went ahead to the kitchen. Artie followed, still nervous, but drawn in by the smell. Mrs. Burt was much slower. When she finally caught up, Artie and I were standing there drooling at the cookies on the table, lined up on baking sheets in perfect even rows, like checkers.

I still had the grocery bag in one hand. She took it from me and said, “Go ahead. Help yourself.”

Artie snatched two and crammed them in his mouth. I hoped my manners were better, but the cookies were still warm and so good. Meanwhile, Mrs. Burt went over to the fridge with the heavy bag and started to unload it, hanging the plastic handles on the walker, propping the door open with an elbow.

“Here,” I said. “I'll do it.”

She let me. The last thing in the bag was the box of tea.

“Halleluiah,” she said when I handed it to her. Then she offered us milk, which I poured into glasses and brought to the table.

“Go ahead, Artie. Have as many as you want,” she said, even though he'd already eaten about fifty. “Sit, sit down.”

While she waited for the kettle, Mrs. Burt stood at the counter watching us. Well, she watched Artie. She didn't seem cranky now. More like somebody's cookie-making grandma.

“Artie with the legendary name,” she said.

“What?” Artie asked, spraying crumbs.

“You know. King Arthur and all them.”

“No.”

“No?” She shook her head.

The sugar from the Slushie and all the cookies kicked in. Artie slithered off the seat of his chair and onto the floor.

“Artie,” I said, warning him.

Mrs. Burt took the chair next to him and, plunking down her mug of tea, smiled at him down by her feet. He pinged the walker with his fingernail.

“Here, try this,” she said, handing down her teaspoon. Different notes sounded on different rails and they both laughed. Then Mrs. Burt took a big slurp of tea and sighed.

“Do you have rickets?” Artie asked from the floor.

“Rickets? Certainly not.”

“Then why do you have this thing?” He used it now, hand over hand, to get up off the floor.

“I fell down and almost busted a hip.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“From the hospital.”

“The ambulance took you away.”

“It did.”

“I like it,” Artie said, giving the walker a pat. “You could dry clothes on it. We washed our clothes in the bathtub and hung them on the chairs. Then we had nowhere to sit.”

“Don't you have a laundry room over there?” she asked.

“It costs a lot of quarters,” Artie said.

I got worried then that he would give away even more personal information, so I stood up.

“Thanks very much, Mrs. — ”

The phone rang. Mrs. Burt set her mug down hard and cut me off.

“Oh, shut up!”

And Artie scooted behind me in fright.

“Not
you
,” Mrs. Burt told him. “Those telewhatsits. Or if it's not them, it's Miss Big Shot in Toronto. It's just about killing me, running to the phone!”

It kept ringing, but she didn't get up.

“We have to go,” I said. Mrs. Burt looked surprised, then hurt.

“Take some cookies,” she said. “Put them on a plate.” She looked right at me. “What's your name again?”

“Curtis,” I told her for the first time.

Whoever was calling gave up then.

“Get a plate and load them on, Curtis,” she said, rising and getting a head start, picking up and putting down her contraption all the way down the hall so she could get to the door first and be waiting with the five-dollar bill.

“It's fine,” I said. “You don't have to pay me.”

She snorted. “Unlike most people around here, I have pride.”

I didn't know what she meant, but I knew it would insult her if I didn't take the money, so I took it.

“Is your mother at work?”

“Yes.”

She pulled a pad from the pocket of her man's shirt. It had a little stub of pencil stuck in the coil binding.

“Here. Write your phone number down. I want to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“I want to ask her if it's okay if you help me out until I don't need this thingie anymore. Do you want to? You can bring the legendary Artie.”

“You don't have to call her. It's fine.”

“I want to talk to her. I want her to know I'm not a charity case.”

“She'll say it's fine.”

“She can say it to me then.”

I thought about writing the wrong phone number but that seemed pointless.

“When does she get home?” she asked.

“That's the thing,” I said. “She works at night and sleeps in the day. Also, she's studying for exams.”

“Exams? What kind of exams?”

“She's doing her high-school equivalency.”

“Oh, a dropout.” She sniffed. “Now bring that plate back tomorrow. Ring the doorbell. Don't just leave it on the steps or somebody'll steal it.”

We thanked her. Then we crossed the street to our building where there wasn't a single flower growing out front. Just some prickly knee-high bushes decorated with wrappers and lids from take-out cups. Mrs. Burt was still standing in her doorway. Artie looked back and waved to her.

“She's not mean anymore,” he said.

“Really?” I said.

I'd learned a lot this year in Mr. Bryant's class. Not just math and socials and health. All year Mr. Bryant set a high standard of behavior. We had to treat each other with respect. Respect meant we had to pay attention not only to
what
we said, but
how
. The how was almost more important. For example, I could say I thought you were smart, or nice, but if I said it a certain way, it would mean the opposite. At the beginning of the year I didn't notice the
how
because everybody talked to each other that way all the time. But now I noticed.

Like
how
Mrs. Burt said “dropout.” Like it was the worst thing in the world.

In the lobby we stopped for the mail. I'd been taking it in but not opening it, just leaving it in a heap on the counter for Mom to deal with when she came back. If any of it had looked like a letter from Mom or to her I would have opened it, but it was mostly just bills and flyers.

Back in the apartment, the phone was already ringing. Mrs. Burt, I thought.

But it wasn't.

“Is Debbie there?” a man asked.

I knew it wasn't Greg from Pay-N-Save because the voice was different.

“No. Can I take a message?”

“When's she going to be in?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Tell her to call Nelson about the rent. It came back NSF.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“She'll know what I'm talking about. Tell her to put a new check in my box in the lobby. Not in the mail.”

“Okay.”

“She should call me to let me know it's there. I don't want to drive all the way across town and there's no check. Also she's got to add fifteen bucks on for the service charge.”

“Okay,” I said and hung up.

I opened the mail. The good news was there was a check from the government. Two hundred and eight dollars and fifty-six cents for the Child Tax Benefit payment, whatever that was.

Later that night I heard a siren. I thought of the ambulance that had taken Mrs. Burt away. Was it coming back?

No. The siren was in my head. It was screaming,
Rent! Rent! Rent!

I got out of bed and wrote another note.

My son Curtis Schlanka has permission to cash this check.

UP ON BROADWAY,
about half a block down from the Pit Stop Mart, next to Chancey's Chicken, was Dominion Check Cashing. I thought it would be safer than the bank which, last time we were in it with Mom, was full of nice people asking, “What can I do for you today, Ms. Schlanka?” and, “How old's your little boy, Ms. Schlanka?” and, “You have a great day, Ms. Schlanka.”