On the Other Side of the Bridge (18 page)

Lonnie's grandparents Salinas called. They invited him to dinner and to view Christmas lights. His dad agreed to let him go, but with one stipulation: “Tell them to pick you up at your school, and then have them drive you to Gilly's house when you're done. Tell them that I'll be there all night, jamming with Los Brujos, and that I'll take you home.”

He didn't come right out and tell Lonnie to lie to his grandparents. He didn't have to. Lonnie knew he had to keep their new living quarters a secret from them. One slip up and they would sic CPS on his dad and try to take custody of Lonnie. But no matter how bad things got, living with his grandparents Salinas was not an option he wanted to consider.

His grandparents treated him to a Mexican restaurant called La Paloma Blanca, a place his grandpa claimed served the best enchiladas in town. He was right about that. Or maybe it was that Lonnie hadn't had a decent meal since Thanksgiving, because he practically licked his plate clean.

He noticed that some of the busboys who worked at the restaurant didn't appear to be any older than he was. Perhaps he could get a job doing something like that. La Paloma Blanca was too far from the Twin Oaks Motel, but there were other restaurants much closer. Maybe he could find work in one of the nearby fast-food joints. His dad had complained that those places were only interested in hiring kids. Lonnie thought he stood a better chance of finding a job than his dad did. Not only would he be earning money, he would also have something to do during the Christmas break.

After dinner, his grandpa drove them through the R Streets, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Marsville. Lonnie's dad insisted that the R stood for “rich,” but the neighborhood was known as the R Streets because many of the streets began with the letter R: Ramsey Street, Rutger Street, Ravinia Drive, Renaud Circle, Rosen Avenue.

The houses and trees were decorated with bright, colorful lights. All sorts of Santa Clauses were displayed, some standing and waving, others sitting on sleighs being pulled by reindeer. There were lighted candy canes, Christmas trees and holly wreaths. One house had a large sign that said WELCOME TO THE NORTH POLE. Below it, a team of mechanical elves built toys in Santa's workshop. On other lawns, choirs of angels and nativity scenes were set up.

Looking at Christmas lights saddened Lonnie because it reminded him that they no longer had a house to decorate. Each year, he and his parents would trim the outside of their house with lights. They would also buy the fattest Christmas tree they could find and stand it up in front of their bay window. As Christmas Day neared, the bottom
of the tree would begin to fill with presents, and Lonnie could hardly wait to see what he was going to get.

This year, they wouldn't hang any Christmas lights. They wouldn't buy a Christmas tree. And for the first time, Lonnie didn't expect to receive any Christmas presents.

After his grandpa dropped him off at Gilly's, Lonnie shared his idea of looking for a job with his dad.

“It won't hurt to try,” he said half-heartedly, thinking that his son wouldn't have a better chance of finding a job than he did.

The following afternoon, Lonnie's dad picked him up from school and drove him to the motel, but he didn't go inside.

“I'm gonna go out for a while,” he said. “Here's ten bucks. When you get hungry, get yourself something to eat.”

“Where are you going?” Lonnie asked.

“If you need anything, call me,” he said, ignoring Lonnie's question. “Good luck with your job hunting.”

Lonnie's only homework assignment was to write an essay titled “How Do You Plan to Spend the Winter Holidays?” He had no idea what he and his dad would be doing during the break, or even where they would be living. So he made up a story about how they were going to celebrate Christmas and New Year's Day with his cousins in Abilene. For him, that would be the perfect way to spend the holidays.

As soon as Lonnie finished his homework, he headed down the street to Brownie's Coffee Shop, hoping they might be able to use a busboy or a dishwasher. He had never applied for a job, so he wasn't sure what to expect.

The cashier greeted him with a pleasant smile and invited him to sit wherever he wanted. When Lonnie told her he was looking for a job, her smile disappeared and she told him to sit on a bench by the entrance.

Lonnie waited. And waited. And waited. Customers came in and out, and the cashier flashed them that same phony smile she had given him.

Forty minutes later, a man in a suit entered the coffee shop. He went around the counter and spoke briefly with the cashier, who after a couple of minutes, pointed to Lonnie.

The man came over. “How old are you, son?”

“Thirteen.”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, too young. Can't hire you.”

“But I really need a job,” Lonnie said.

“When do you turn fourteen?”

“Not until August.”

“Come back and see me then,” the man said. “The youngest the state will allow me to hire anyone is fourteen.”

“Okay, thanks,” Lonnie said, dejected.

As he started out the door, the man told him, “You might try getting a paper route. That's how I earned my money when I was your age.”

A paper route might be something to consider. In the meantime, Lonnie crossed the street and walked to the Taco Bell, thinking he might have better luck at a fast-food place, but he got the same response. The manager said he would have to be fourteen before she could consider hiring him.

As long as he was there, he ordered four crispy tacos and a small Coke to go.

When he arrived at the Twin Oaks, he saw a man and a woman arguing in the parking lot, yelling and cussing at each other. Not wanting any part of it, Lonnie hurried inside his room and shut the door.

He sat his food on the table and was about to turn on the TV, when he heard the woman shriek, “
Aaaah! Somebody help me!”

Lonnie opened the door and looked out. The man was dragging the woman by her hair across the parking lot. Her blouse was ripped open, and she was bleeding from her nose and mouth.

“Stop him! He's gonna kill me!”
the woman screamed.

The man stared piercingly at Lonnie. “Go back inside, kid. You didn't see nothing, you understand?”

Lonnie's heart pounded madly and his breathing quickened. He slammed the door shut and turned off all the lights, hoping the man hadn't gotten a good look at him. He cracked open the curtain and saw the man throw the woman in the passenger side of a red Ford Mustang. Then he slid in the front seat and peeled out of the parking lot.

Lonnie started to call 911, but as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, he thought:
What if the man finds out I was the one who called the police?
The man knew where Lonnie was staying, the third room from the right. Lonnie had learned, from his mother's death, that witnesses could be permanently silenced.

He called his dad, but got no answer. He tried several more times. Nothing. Terrified, he curled up in his bed in a fetal position and lay there without eating his food.

Lonnie never reported what he saw that night to the police. Nor did he tell his dad. What could his dad have
done about it? Call the cops? Lonnie had already nixed that idea.

And he never again saw the man, the woman or the red Ford Mustang.

What occurred outside his room that night remained Lonnie's secret—a dark and terrible secret that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

L
ONNIE DECIDED TO SKIP MATH TUTORING
. As soon as the final bell rang, he flew out the doors without letting Mrs. Ridley know not to expect him. Hoping he wasn't too late, he ran down the sidewalk as fast as he could.

A few students were hanging around the front of Lamar Elementary School, waiting to be picked up. A teacher assistant, who was supervising them, eyed Lonnie briefly. She didn't appear to recognize him, which was understandable. She hadn't seen him in two years, and even then, she didn't know him well. Lonnie couldn't think of her name, but he remembered that she used to monitor the cafeteria during his lunch period.

Lamar seemed tiny now. The hallways felt narrower, and the ceiling appeared lower than the last time Lonnie was there. A Christmas tree, surrounded by gift-wrapped boxes, stood near the main office. Green and red paper chains were strung across the hallway. Pictures of Santa Claus, the art work of the first graders, were stapled to the walls.

Ms. Perlman, the office manager, was sitting on a bench outside the office talking with a parent. Before she had a chance to question Lonnie's reason for being there, he said, “I came to see Mr. Treviño.”

She nodded an approval, and he went upstairs.

The door was open, but out of courtesy, Lonnie knocked before entering. To his disappointment, Mr. Treviño wasn't in his room. His blazer was draped behind his chair, which gave Lonnie hope that he hadn't left yet. Perhaps he was in a meeting or visiting with other teachers.

Stapled to the back wall of the room was a cardboard fireplace with Santa Claus' legs dangling from inside it. A caption above read: GUESS WHO'S COMING TO TOWN? Around the fireplace hung letters to Santa that the students had written.

Lonnie had done a similar activity when he was in Mr. Treviño's class, except that instead of a fireplace, his teacher had covered the wall with butcher paper and had painted a full-sized Santa Claus on it, holding a long list. Above the painting, the caption read: HE'S MAKING A LIST AND CHECKING IT TWICE. By fourth grade, no one in Lonnie's class believed in Santa Claus. Mr. Treviño had assigned them to write letters to Santa as a fun activity.

On a table by the window sat candy houses the students had made, using milk cartons as a base. Lonnie had done the same art project when they read Roald Dahl's
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
, and he assumed Mr. Treviño's students were reading the book.

Lonnie's heart ached with nostalgia, thinking about how different his life had been three years earlier. He was making good grades, his mom was alive, his dad was working and they lived in a nice home. Never in a million years could he have imagined that he would be in the situation he was in now. He walked over to his old desk, the second one in the third row, and sat in it, wishing he could somehow turn back time, wishing he was still a fourth grader with no worries.

“Lonnie?”

He jumped, and a small gasp slipped out of his throat.

“What brings you here?” Mr. Treviño asked.

Lonnie quickly stood up. “Hi, sir. I just wanted to come by to say hello.”

“Hello,” Mr. Treviño said in a lively voice. Then his face turned grim. “I am deeply sorry about what happened to your mom. I first heard about it on the radio while I was driving to work, but I didn't make the connection until I saw her picture on the news. How are you and your dad doing?”

Lonnie's eyes watered up, and his lower lip began to quiver. “I … I think we're homeless.”

W
ITHOUT INTERRUPTING
, Mr. Treviño sat on top of a student desk and listened patiently, while Lonnie shared everything that had happened. Finally Mr. Treviño asked, “Have you spoken to one of the counselors at your school about this?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Just because,” Lonnie said with a shrug. He liked Ms. Hoffman, but he didn't think she could do anything for him.

And Mr. Bigelow creeped him out. Once in a while, Lonnie would run into him in the hallways, and Mr. Bigelow would greet him with an overly cheerful clown smile and a pat on the back. “How's it going, Lon?
Howth it going, Lon?”

“Maybe you'd feel more comfortable talking to Ms. Clegg,” Mr. Treviño suggested. “You remember her, don't you?”

Ms. Clegg was Lamar's guidance counselor. Once or twice a month, she would show up in Lonnie's classroom to present lessons, using puppets with names like Tookie Turtle and Pamela 'Possum. With everything he was going through, Lonnie didn't want advice from a hand puppet.

“I don't want to talk to her, either,” he said. “And please don't tell her about me.”

“I won't say anything without your permission,” Mr. Treviño said, crossing his heart with a finger. “I promise. But I think you should know that Ms. Clegg has lots of experience working with homeless families. After all, we have a number of homeless children here at our school.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “As a matter of fact, one of my students lives in a shelter with her two younger siblings and their mother. You'd never be able to tell it, though. Margie acts like any other child in my class.”

“How did she and her family become homeless?” Lonnie asked.

“Margie has a situation similar to yours. Except that in her case, her parents divorced and Dad took off. Mom lost her job and has been unemployed ever since.”

“Is that how people become homeless?” Lonnie asked. “By losing their job and not being able to find another one?”

Mr. Treviño took a quick peek at his watch, which led Lonnie to say, “If you need to leave, I understand. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time.”

“No, no, I'm not in hurry. I just need to make a stop at the cleaners on the way home, but they don't close until six.” Mr. Treviño stood and rolled out his teacher's chair, which was more comfortable than the student desk.

“There are lots of reasons why people become homeless,” he said. “But here's something interesting, Lonnie. The panhandlers you see on the streets make up just a tiny fraction of the homeless population. Many homeless people live in motels or with friends or family members, who take them in temporarily, and they're making every
effort to get back on their feet. You're not likely to see them on street corners begging for money. But as for what causes people to become homeless, I'd say it's mainly due to bad decisions they make in life.”