Beyond Summer (38 page)

I skirted the corner of the table and hurried from the room without waiting for an answer. In the darkness outside, I leaned against the wall, shut my eyes, tried to breathe. The night air was heavy with humidity, and a fine mist had started to fall. I felt it coating my skin, dampening my hair, chilling my body.

I thought of people like Sesay, sleeping under plastic bags and cardboard boxes on nights like this. I thought of the families who came to the Summer Kitchen for free lunches and story time, and the ones who shopped across the street at the Book Basket.

The playroom in our Highland Park house had been full of books—so many books they lay scattered on the floor like loose tiles. The kids walked on them, threw them, used them to build forts and launch toys across the room. There was so much space there, such a clutter of stuff we never really saw.

Were those books stolen property?

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. My father wasn’t an evil man. If anything, he was guilty of being too softhearted, too much of a push-over for friends asking favors, school groups requesting donations and autographed footballs, kids in need of expensive medical care, people wanting him to speak at charity luncheons and act as emcee for fund-raiser fashion shows.

He wouldn’t do something that he knew was hurting people. He wouldn’t.

But he’d hurt us. He’d left us. All he cared about was protecting himself. . . .

The fellowship hall door opened, and I pushed off the wall, wiped my eyes, and tried to scoop my emotions into a ball as I walked to the children’s building and retrieved Shasta’s boys.

She was on the sidewalk with Sesay when I came out. Even in shadow under the streetlights, the body language of their conversation had a sense of intensity that caused my pulse to quicken again. Sesay was pointing down the street, while Shasta shook her head, her hands lifting into the air, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I passed by them, opened the car door, and let the boys in, hoping Shasta would follow. Right now, I just wanted to go home, get away from Shasta, and try to think things through, maybe ask Barbie if she knew anything about Householders. The answer would be no. Barbie never kept up with my father’s business dealings.

Shasta met me at the driver’s-side door, and Sesay waited on the sidewalk. “Can you take us down to the Broadberry Mission?”

“The mission . . . What?” I stammered.

Shasta pointed. “The homeless mission. It’s only a couple miles.”

My head throbbed, the ache rebounding off the noise of Shasta’s boys jockeying for position inside the car. I was tired of taking care of people. I just wanted to lock myself in a room and lick my own wounds. “I really need to get home. Barbie’s alone with the sibs, and . . .”

Shasta gripped the car door. “Tam, please. It’s important. It won’t take long.”

Behind Shasta, Sesay stood on the curb watching us, clearly waiting for my answer.

“What’s going on?” I asked finally.

Shasta’s nostrils flared as she exhaled a breath and pushed the door closed, shutting the boys’ racket inside the car. “Sesay says there are people living in the homeless shelter who came from Householders homes. She knows of a family that was living just a few blocks from us until about a month ago. If we go down there right now, she thinks she can get me in to talk to them.”

You cannot enter or leave the Broadberry Mission after the evening meal. To enter, you must be in line before the meal, and if too many are in line, you may not go inside. These are the rules. I know the rules, but Michael is here, and I hope he will let me enter. He frowns at me as I tell him the reason and point to the young woman, Shasta, standing at the door.

“She only asks to speak with them,” I say. “She will not stay here for the night. She wants to know about the yellow houses. She lives in a yellow house.”

Michael looks at me, his lashes thick and low over his eyes. He has heard many reasons why a person must come in when they have not followed the rules. If you break the rules for one person, the others become angry.

By the door, Shasta paces anxiously, murmuring to herself and chewing a fingernail. She looks like a person you could find on the street, the mind busy with things that are not there. This worries Michael. He can see that she is angry and afraid. Her anger travels in the air, like the scent of something dangerous that could ignite at any moment.

Father Michael does not want to allow this into the mission. The mission is a place of peace, of shelter. I can see the concern in his face. “Wait here a minute,” he says finally. “I’ll check with them and see if they’re willing to come out and talk.” By now, the church service is over, and the families will be keeping to themselves. For the families, there are small rooms separate from the areas where the street people sleep.

In a short time, Michael returns. He pokes his head through the metal doors that lead down the hallway to the family rooms. Through the small square of glass, I can see the family, the husband and wife only, waiting in the hallway. Their little children will be in the room by now, tucked in the bunk beds, fighting for sleep against the clanging of trays in the kitchen.

“She can come on in and talk to them in the hall,” Michael says. “I can’t let you stay tonight, though, Sesay. It’s against the rules.”

“I have a place,” I tell him. “I polish frames for the Indian chief at night. There is a bed there for me, and a sink to wash in.” I can even wash my own clothing now. The Indian chief allows me to hang it in the back of his building. He says,
It isn’t hurting anything. Make yourself at home
.

Home
. This is a word I have never considered. For so long, my homes have been the places I laid my pack. My homes have been crowded with other people. The studio is my home now. No one sleeps there other than me. The Indian chief has been gone away for two days, but still I can sleep in his place. He knows I am not a thief. I will not take anything.
It’s good to have someone watching the studio while I’m traveling
, he says.

Michael’s face softens. “Good. I’m glad. How was the reading class tonight?” He watches as Shasta crosses the room, her strides uncertain, her arms stiff at her sides. Turning the corner, she cocks her head and looks through the doors, as if she fears what she will find beyond. Inside, the mother and father wait with equal uncertainty, their faces tight with worry, yet curious. The mother is young, with red hair and the round, mottled face of a child. Her eyes are puffy and pink-rimmed, sad and weary. Not like a child’s. She cries as they sit in Michael’s services at night. She weeps as she prays. I have seen her.

“It was a good class,” I say, as Shasta passes through the doors. “I am making my own book now. Of things I know, and the line pictures. I am learning to read them.”

Michael’s reply is a quiet, tender laugh that is out of place here. “It’s about time. Won’t be long before you’ll be teaching, I bet.”

“We all have much to teach and much to learn,” I tell him, and Shasta regards me over her shoulder for an instant, as if she is wishing for me to come along. “I am going to my place now.” I do not wait for her to answer, but just turn and walk out. This talk of houses means nothing to me, and I do not want an understanding of it.
Remember the lilies of the field and the birds of the air
, Michael says in his church, and I do remember. The people in these houses are filled with worry and fear. What they possess, they fear losing, and what they do not possess, they fear not gaining. The fears chase them from both sides, breathing fire so that the people cannot lay down their heads and rest. They only catch a breath between two dragons.

Waiting for Cody to get home from his night job was agony. I felt like someone had poured gasoline on our life, and I was holding my breath until a spark came along and blew everything to bits. The family that Sesay’d taken me to meet at the shelter was so much like ours, it was like staring at a postcard from the future, except the picture wasn’t pretty. A year ago, the Farleys had been right where we were now—new home, thanks to a Householders easy-in loan, and then when their first bill came, it was higher than what they expected. They went round and round with the financing people until finally they found out all kinds of unexpected fees had been tacked onto their loan, and that Householders had added a huge credit life insurance policy to the loan. It was all in the contract, if you had a law degree and knew how to read the fine print, and if you actually read it, instead of just listening to the double-talking salespeople at Householders. While the Farleys were arguing about the fees and trying to scrape up the extra cash, they were late paying the bill. The next thing they knew, they were getting hit with late fees and big charges for drive-by property inspections. Then they found out that their loan interest rate was readjusting, and the extra interest was being added onto the loan, too.

Once the Farleys’ mortgage problems were reported, their credit score went down, all their credit card companies raised their rates, and pretty soon the Farley family was tanked. Householders had the house back in less than a year, and there wasn’t anything the Farleys could do about it. They couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight it, and they’d spent every bit of savings they had and gone way into debt trying to hang on to their house. Then Mr. Farley lost his job, and they went from buying a home to living in the shelter in less than twelve months. They weren’t the only ones. In the two months they’d been there, they’d met other families with similar stories. In this neighborhood, Householders was the common thread. Elsie and Sesay were right: Terrible things happened to Householders families. The yellow houses weren’t a blessing. They were a curse.

At first, I thought about calling Mama for money. If we just could keep the bills paid until Cody got through the academy, then we could take the graduation bonus and use it to either get ourselves out of this loan or get a lawyer. Right now, what we had to do was keep ahead of the loan, so Householders couldn’t start tacking on late fees and drive-by inspections. That would keep disaster from happening, at least for now. In three days, Dell would be here for her visit. The cat was about to be out of the bag anyway. . . .

I stuffed the idea away as soon as it crossed my mind. I couldn’t call home. Whether Dell would tell Mama and Jace about the house wasn’t the point. Cody and I’d promised each other, promised ourselves, that this time we were standing our own two feet. We got ourselves into this mess, and we had to find our own way out. There had to be a way. . . .

Without wanting to, I imagined spending nights in the shelter with Cody, the boys, and me living in one tiny room, our clothes in trash bags we’d carry around each day when we left the shelter to hang out in places like the Summer Kitchen, passing the time until the shelter opened for the night again.

Mrs. Farley was pregnant. Six months. They were hoping the pregnancy would help them get into more permanent housing.

I pictured myself having this baby, our little girl, on the street.

That wouldn’t be us.

If I had to comb the Internet, look up laws and legal cases until my eyes crossed, go to work scrubbing some lawyer’s floors and cleaning toilets to pay for legal help, search to the ends of the earth for someone to take on a Goliath like Householders, I would do it, because this house was
our
house.
Our
place.

By the time Cody drove in, my head was pounding and my stomach was achy and cramping. I felt light-headed, but I was too nervous to eat, so I’d spent the time on the Internet, searching anywhere I might find information. I’d learned more about mortgage fraud, predatory lending, broker price opinion inspections, late fees, negative amortizations, and property- flipping scams than I ever wanted to know. What I needed was that copy of our contract, so I could try to figure out whether any of that stuff was in there.

Cody was surprised to find me sitting awake at two a.m. with the computer in my lap.

“Hey. What’re you doing up?” he whispered, yawning, then leaning over to kiss me on the head. I closed my eyes, felt them burn and sting. His chin rested on my hair for a minute, and he sagged over the chair. He was so tired. After spending all day at the police academy, and then going to the parking booth job, and trying to study, he didn’t have any energy left. He was working so hard. He didn’t deserve this.

I didn’t have any choice but to tell him. He had to know.

“I couldn’t sleep.” My stomach shifted lower, grumbled and clenched. “Something happened at reading class tonight.”

Cody’s elbow pressed the back cushion of the chair as he rested his head on his fist. “Oh, well, hey, you’ll work it out.” He drooped against the cushion, his body jerking as his eyes fell closed. His arm lurched forward and bumped the back of my head. “Sorry.” Pushing off the chair, he stood up. “I’ve gotta hit the shower and get to bed.”

I grabbed his arm, and suddenly he was awake. “You could come with me,” he offered, and raised an eyebrow. No matter how tired he was, Cody was never too tired to try to get me into bed.

“Cody, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“You could tell me in the shower.” He reached for me, and I pulled away, the anger that’d been simmering in me all evening boiling over. “Stop it, all right?”

He huffed a breath, on a short fuse tonight. “Fine.” Pulling his shirt off, he started toward the bathroom.

“Wait!” The word shot across the room, stopping him with the shirt hanging from one arm.

“What’s your problem?” His voice was sharp, a little louder than mine. In a minute we’d be waking up the kids. “You want to be left alone, I’m leaving you alone. I don’t have time to play games.”

An answer blasted toward my lips like a cannonball.
You never have time. You’re never here. I have to do everything—everything for the boys, everything with the house. . . .