Bron slipped off his shoes on the porch, brushed the grass clippings from his pant cuffs, then went through the door and down the bright hall to Melvina's bedroom. He opened her door softly. After being in the bright sunlight, the place was as oily dark as an octopus's den.
Melvina was a hoarder. She had boxes full of food stacked all around the bed, blocking the windows, forbidding all light. With a box of peaches ripening in the shadows, the place had an earthy odor, like an animal's cage.
Something flew out of the darkness, slapping Bron lightly. A red sandal dropped at his feet. He saw Melvina there now, a shapeless mass on the bed, a box of shoes at her side. She grabbed a second shoe and tossed it. Bron leaned away.
"You stop that!" Melvina screamed. "You stay right where you are." She growled and tossed a slipper, missing wildly. "You got into my peaches! I can't even get up to use the bathroom without you stealing something!"
"I didn't take your peaches, Melvina," Bron said softly, but she continued to glare. She was having one of her fits. Talking to her would be a waste of breath.
"You liar!" she screeched, and then hunted vainly in her box for a heavier shoe. She was too fat to get up and chase him. Every day she lay in bed, growing plump as a melon. In the past couple of months, shoe-throwing had become her favorite method of discipline.
She made a moaning noise, stopped rummaging, and grabbed her phone. For a moment, Bron thought she'd throw that, but she hit the speed dial and warned, "The welfare people are going to want to talk to you!"
She thought that would terrify him.
She spoke to Bron's caseworker for a moment, James Bell, and then shoved the phone toward Bron.
Here it comes, Bron thought: the vague accusations, the grilling questions. His heart pounded, and he fought his outrage by telling himself, I can handle it. I'm used to it.
Bell's tranquil voice came over the phone. "So, it seems that there is a problem...."
He waited for Bron to say something. So often, Bron found that adults tried to twist his words, so he hesitated, but then realized that it was Melvina who always twisted his words, not Mr. Bell.
"I don't know what's going on," Bron said. "Melvina's mad. She thinks I stole a peach or something."
There was a long silence, and Bell said, "Nine peaches. She thinks you ate nine. Oh, and some chocolate is missing. She can't admit that any of her own kids might sneak in and take them."
The little ones would have done it, Bron knew. Melvina kept her favorite foods in her bedroom, where she could guard them—fresh peaches, Cap'n Crunch cereal, Hershey's Symphony bars, Mountain Dew. The children rarely got such fare, unless she was in a generous mood. But the peaches had been filling the house with their sweet aroma for days. The temptation must have become too much.
"Pack your bags, Bron," the caseworker said. "It's time to get you out of there. I'll be by to pick you up in a few minutes."
"Okay," Bron said, feeling like he'd been punched.
It wasn't fair, but then getting shuffled from home to home never had been fair.
How am I going to break the news to the little ones? he wondered. Caleb and Sarah won't understand.
At three and four, the little ones had relied upon Bron most of their lives. Their father worked driving long-haul trucks across the country, while their mother hid in her room.
Bron didn't have time to think about it. He needed every minute to pack. He pushed the off button on the phone.
"Did he tell you?" Melvina demanded. "You're out of here." She waited a moment, as if hoping that he would start to sob and beg her to let him stay. There was a tone of triumph in her voice, tinged by contempt. He wasn't going to give her any satisfaction.
"I can't tell you how glad I am, either," Melvina gloated. "Ever since you got here, you've just drained the joy out of this family."
He could see her better in the shadows, now that his eyes had adjusted. His eyes were good in the dark. She was a sickly thing, pale and blubbery and sad, with frizzled hair going gray. But right now there was a gleam in her eyes, a gleam of conquest and retribution.
"I'm sorry that you're not happy, Melvina," Bron said. "Maybe you'll like your next foster child better."
Bron went to his bedroom and quickly emptied his dresser, shoving his worn clothes into the old backpack that he'd gotten for school.
Now it starts all over, he thought. The state would look for a new home, and he'd get all of the questions: "What's wrong with him? Is he a crack baby? Does he steal? What's his criminal history? Is it safe to have him near our daughter?"
People had a right to ask those questions, Bron knew, but the answers hurt. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just unwanted.
When the backpack was fall, he took the pillowcase from his bed and began to stuff clothes into it, but Melvina plodded into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight. Bron was surprised to see her up. Melvina said, "Don't you steal my pillowcases!"
The children all began watching now, the little ones peeking out from between Melvina's legs, sobbing, while the older ones paced at her back. Melvina blocked the door, as if to keep any of the children from coming to hug him or say goodbye.
Bron wondered if he should tell her the truth: that her own kids had taken the food, that even a child knew it was wrong for a woman to make her kids go hungry, but he decided to let it go. He wouldn't gain anything by placing the blame where it belonged. In his mind, the children had done nothing wrong. They shouldn't be punished for Melvina's mental illness.
He put his clothes on the floor, used a t-shirt like a sack and filled it. Melvina glared at him the whole time. He went to the bathroom and threw in his toothbrush and shaving kit. Melvina wouldn't let him take the toothpaste.
"You think you can get by in life just on your good looks," she complained. "Well not anymore, buster! I hope they send you to jail!"
Bron shook his head. Her ranting hardly made sense. He'd never considered himself to be good-looking, and it wasn't as if he tried to skate through life. Nobody worked harder on his studies, and Bron was constantly toiling once he got home from school, fixing meals for the kids, cleaning house, settling disputes.
When he was all finished, he looked around his room. He had some cheap movie posters on the walclass="underline" Harry Potter and Transformers, but he knew that he'd just rip them if he tried to take them down. He left them for Melvina's next slave.
He grabbed his guitar, an old one that he'd had for a year. He'd hardly had time to learn to play it, between school and housework.
"Leave the guitar," Melvina demanded.
Now it was his turn to glare. Being mentally ill didn't give Melvina the right to be cruel and petty. "I bought it with my own money," he reminded her. He'd gotten it second-hand last spring for $400, which he'd made by helping the neighbors build a water fountain in their yard.
Melvina growled, "You owe me for the peaches!"
Bron suspected that at some level, she realized that he hadn't taken them. It was only pride that kept her making stupid accusations. Bron had never tried to make her angry before, but he didn't have much in this world, and he wasn't going to give up all he had.
"Are you sure that you didn't eat them in your sleep?" Bron asked. "Your butt is growing fatter by the day."
She gasped in astonishment, her mouth working like a fish's, her chins quivering. Melvina looked as if she was in the throes of preparing to say something monumentally devastating. "After all I've done for you—you little hoodlum!"
"Is that the best you can come up with?" he asked. "I've been called worse by better people than you." He shoved past her and headed for the front door.