“Huh?”
“So we can buy Mickey a night-light,” Spoon continued. “You know, him being scared of the dark and all.”
Ema smiled. “Yeah, little Mickey need a nighty-lighty? Maybe a blankee too?”
I just looked at her. She shrugged an apology and said, “Drop off Spoon first.”
I did. Spoon directed me to a two-family house on the outskirts of Kasselton. There was a small truck parked in the driveway. The truck had a crossed mop-heads logo on the side. Cute.
When we pulled up, the front door opened. A man and a woman in their forties appeared. The man wore a janitor’s uniform. The woman had a business suit. The man was white. The woman was black.
Spoon shouted, “Mom! Dad!”
He ran up the stoop and they all greeted one another as if a hostage standoff had just ended. Ema and I watched in silence. I felt a pang of envy, but I felt a bigger pang of responsibility. Look at this kid with his loving parents. I couldn’t risk putting him or Ema in danger.
Spoon pointed at our car. His parents smiled and waved to us. Ema and I waved back. Ema said, “Wow, look at them.”
“I know,” I said.
They disappeared into the house.
“So what’s the plan?” Ema asked.
“We both go home. We do a little online research, see what we can find out about our tattooed friend Antoine LeMaire. We meet up in the morning and discuss.”
“Sounds good.” She pulled the door handle. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait, I can drop you off.”
“No need,” Ema said.
“You live around here?”
“Close enough. Bye.”
“Wait.”
She didn’t. She got out of the car and started down the road. I debated following her, but she quickly veered right and vanished into the woods. I thought about pressing the issue, getting out of the car and running after her, but I had my secrets-wasn’t Ema entitled to hers too?
I was worried that Uncle Myron might be home. How would I explain driving the car? He knew that I had a fake ID. When he first found Mom and me in that trailer park, I was working under the name Robert Johnson at a nearby Staples. Still, I don’t think that he would like me driving illegally to a tattoo parlor or anyplace else, for that matter.
I parked in the garage, grabbed something to eat, and headed down to the basement. I Googled Antoine LeMaire, but nothing useful came up-not even a Facebook page or Twitter account. Pretty much nothing. I put the address into MapQuest. From the satellite photograph, the area looked pretty seedy. I could also see that it was right next door to a place called the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I frowned and again thought about where my search for Ashley was taking me.
I looked to the wall of old basketball greats.
“What’s all this have to do with Ashley?” I asked out loud.
The posters did not reply.
I heard noise above me and then I heard Myron yell, “Mickey?”
“Homework!” I shouted back.
I stared down at my desk. My laptop was beat up from travel. My dad bought it three years ago when we were in Peru, and so it had been around the world several times over. Funny. I don’t have any of his possessions. He had taught me that they were irrelevant. A ring isn’t my dad. A watch isn’t my dad. None of those things would bring comfort. As my dad had explained to me, no true joy was ever found in a “thing.”
But oddly enough, this laptop seemed more personal, more “him,” than any of those more classic items might. He had spent time on this laptop. He had composed letters, worked on progress reports, looked up information on this machine. I thought about that sometimes, about his hands on this keyboard.
We each had our own folder-Dad, Mom, and me-and I clicked on his. I moved the files in order from when they were most recently opened. For a moment I was surprised to see one opened only six weeks ago, but then I remembered. Uncle Myron had searched this computer, looking for clues about his brother’s fate.
The last file he’d opened-the most recent-was called “Resignation Letter.” I clicked on it and the document appeared:
To: The Abeona Shelter
Dear Juan:
It is with a heavy heart, my old friend, that I resign my position with our wonderful organization. Kitty and I will always be loyal supporters. We believe in this cause so much and have given so much to it. In truth, though, we have been more enriched than the young people we’ve helped. You understand this. We will always be grateful.
It is time, however, for the wandering Bolitars to settle down. I’ve secured a position back in Los Angeles. Kitty and I like being nomads, but it has been a long time since we stopped long enough to grow roots. Our son, Mickey, needs that, I think. He never asked for this life. He has spent his life traveling, making and then losing friends, and never calling one place home. He needs normalcy now and a chance to pursue his passions, especially basketball. So after much debate, Kitty and I have decided to get him settled into one place for his last three years of high school, and then he can apply to college.
After that, who knows? I never imagined this life for myself. My father used to quote a Yiddish proverb: Man plans, God laughs. Kitty and I hope to return one day. I know that no one really ever leaves the Abeona Shelter. I know I am asking a big thing here. But I hope you’ll understand. In the meantime, we will do all we can to make this transition a smooth one.
Yours in Brotherhood,
Brad
I read the letter twice more, my eyes blurring with tears. There was noise coming from upstairs, but I ignored it. I already knew most of what was in this letter, I guess. There were no real surprises. But to see it written out like that, stated so plainly by my now-deceased father, it was like a hand squeezing my heart.
Yes, I had grown weary of the constant travel. I had wanted a normal life, in one community, a place where I could join a school basketball team for an entire season, test my skills with real teammates, make lasting friends, stay in one school, maybe apply to college.
I thought about our lives when my father wrote that letter. We had been so great, hadn’t we? Mom and Dad had been happy and in love. Now, thanks to my wants, Dad was dead and the only thing Mom was in love with came out of a needle. And the truth-the unmistakable truth when you looked at it with honest eyes-was that it was my fault.
Nice work, Mickey.
The basement door opened behind me. Myron called down, “Mickey?”
I wiped my eyes. “Homework!”
Myron’s voice had a happy-little-singsong quality to it. “You have a visitor.”
“What?”
I could hear his footsteps coming down.
More singsong. “There’s a young lady here to see you.”
I spun around. Myron reached the bottom of the steps with the biggest, goofiest, dorkiest smile I had ever seen on a human being. Behind him, coming into view just now, was Rachel Caldwell.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said. Mr. Romance.
Myron smiled at us like a game-show host. “Do you kids want me to make you popcorn?”
