“Let’s just concentrate on these problems, okay?”
“Did you do a murder or something?”
“No,” Wade said. “I didn’t pay attention in algebra.”
9
THIS BOY Drew kept trying to crawl up in Wade’s lap to read.
They were on a couch just outside the office; Wade looked up at the secretary and shrugged, as if to assure her that he hadn’t put the kid on his lap, that he wasn’t a pervert. But the secretary was giving some other kid his Ritalin from a drawer in her desk and didn’t seem to notice. “Why don’t you sit over here,” Wade said, and he gently moved the boy.
Drew was tiny for a second-grader. At first Wade wondered if he’d just forgotten how small seven-year-olds were, since his own kids were seventeen and nineteen now, but then he saw Drew with his class and the boy was a head smaller than everyone else. He moved his tiny index finger along each word as he read, as if each one was a story unto itself.
The boy brought the same book for their one-hour reading session every time. The Wolf and the Wild.
“Don’t you want to bring another book?” Wade finally asked him.
Drew considered this for a moment. “But I don’t know what’s in those other books.”
“Isn’t that the fun, finding out?”
Drew looked dubious.
10
“IS IT the . . . associative law?”
Wade pointed to the problem again. “No, it’s the other one.”
“Associative?”
“No, you just said associative, J’mar. It’s the other one.”
J’mar stared at him.
“Dist . . .” Wade said, his eyebrows arching.
J’mar stared.
“Distrib . . .”
J’mar stared.
“Dis . . . trib . . . u . . . tive.”
“Distributive?” J’mar said, as if he’d just come up with it.
“Nice,” Wade said.
11
THE BARTENDER’S name was Sonya. She was married. Wade was a little disappointed, but also a little relieved.
“I like working with the little kids,” Wade said, “but the high schoolers are stupid. Distracted.”
“You had to go to prison to learn that?” Sonya refilled his whiskey.
“On the bright side, I have figured out how to fix the American educational system. End it at sixth grade.”
“Brilliant. Then what?”
“Lock them up in empty factories, give them all the Red Bull, condoms, and nachos they want, pipe in club music, and check back when they’re twenty-five. Anyone still alive, we send to grad school.” Wade pushed his glass forward. “How’s that for a campaign platform?”
“Hate to break it to you,” said Sonya, “but I’m pretty sure you can’t run for office.”
12
IN The Wolf and the Wild, a little boy lives on a farm without any brothers and sisters. Every night he hears a wolf howling. One day he sees the animal at the edge of their farm.
That night his mother makes round steak. The boy hates round steak. He sneaks it into his lap and then into his pocket, and later that night he leaves it at the edge of the farm for the wolf. Every night after that, he takes some food out to the edge of the farm. Then one day he gets lost in the woods.
After a few hours, he sees the wolf in the distance, and eventually it leads him home. The boy tells his parents how the wolf saved him, but they only laugh, in a kindly way. “You probably just imagined it,” they tell him.
On the last five pages of the book there are no words at all. The boy is older, and he’s going for a walk with a sack lunch. In one panel he walks through the wheat field. In the next, he walks through the woods. In the next, he comes across the wolf. In the final panel, he is lying back with his head on the curled-up animal, staring up at the sky while he and the wolf share his lunch. This was Drew’s favorite part of the book.
“And that’s the end,” Drew said every time they got to that last page. Then he’d sigh, look up, put his hand on Wade’s arm, and smile.
13
WADE ROLLED over and watched Sonya put on her bra. She wouldn’t look back at him.
“The funny thing is, it wasn’t that bad, being in prison,” he said. “They put you with other nonviolent offenders, the white-collars and the frauds. Stone liars. It wasn’t until work-release that I even met any real criminals. And even they were okay. You think it’s all going to be beatings in the yard and gang rapes in the shower, but it’s just a bunch of fucked-up guys at summer camp.”
She stood and zipped her skirt. She looked miserable. “I can’t do this,” she said.
He leaned back and stared up at the ceiling of his apartment. “The only thing I could never figure out was why they called me ‘Beans.’ I thought they meant that I spilled the beans. But I didn’t. Who was I going to testify against? It was all me.”
“I won’t be able to live with myself,” she said.
14
“AND THAT’S the end,” Drew said. He closed The Wolf and the Wild, put his hand on Wade’s arm, and smiled.
15
WADE KEPT detailed reports on all the kids, the sophomores and the second graders: Megan’s progress in algebra, Tania’s struggles with geometry, J’mar and his quick mind for figures but inability to grasp concepts. The way DeAndre was working on sounding out longer words and Marco was anticipating story elements and creating voices for characters. And, of course, Drew.
“Most of these kids have no parental involvement in school,” Sheila told him one day at the office, as she looked over his notes. “These classes are ninety to ninety-five percent free and reduced lunch. Every kid is essentially living in poverty. Single-parent homes are the best case; a lot of them live with aunts, grandmothers, foster parents, random people.”
He always wanted to ask Sheila what had happened to her arm and her eye.
“But I have to say, you’re doing great with them,” she said.
“Thank you,” Wade said.
16
WADE FINALLY talked Drew into bringing another book, Dog Day. The boy tried to crawl up in Wade’s lap again, but this time the secretary was watching. She opened her mouth to say something, and Wade nodded at her and gently pushed Drew back onto the couch. His own son, Michael, had been a lap-reader, and Wade felt a tug of regret just thinking about that little boy, now a big greasy kid who lived in a dorm room and wanted nothing to do with him.
Dog Day was about two brothers who volunteer at an animal shelter, and who organize an adoption parade with the dogs through downtown Scottsdale, Arizona. Drew struggled, his finger vainly pointed at each word.
“Reh . . . Reh . . . Ret . . .”
Wade was supposed to just let him sound the words out himself, but the wrinkles in the boy’s forehead got to him. “Retriever,” he finally said. “It’s a kind of dog.”
Drew closed the book and rested his hand on Wade’s arm. “Can’t I just bring the wolf book again next time?”
17
SONYA LEANED against the bar. All the chairs were up except Wade’s. “So how much are we talking?”
Wade shrugged and acted as if he had to think about it. “Total worth?”
“Yeah. I’m just curious.”
“Well, okay. Figure I’m going to lose almost half of it to the divorce, and I’ve still got restitution to deal with, and there’s a civil suit we’re about to settle . . .”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. Exactly.”
“Yes, you do.”
Yes, he did. He took a drink of his whiskey. “Thirty,” he said.
Sonya’s eyes got huge. “Million?”
Of course, it was closer to forty. That’s how much he figured to have left when the dust settled. He wondered why he did that. Shaved off just a little bit. “Give or take,” he said.
She covered her mouth.
“What’s the matter?” Wade asked.
“I don’t know,” she said
. “It’s kind of . . . sick.”
18
WADE REQUESTED a meeting with the second-grade teacher, Mrs. Amundson. She was an attractive young woman, maybe thirty, with curly black hair and a patient smile. They sat after school on tiny plastic chairs in her classroom, surrounded by leaves pasted to construction paper. Wade brought out the notebook he kept on the students’ progress.
“Marco is doing especially well. He seems to have a real grasp of context and he’s anticipating stories, which is pretty high-level stuff. I’m not sure he even needs one-on-one attention. DeAndre—I don’t know if he’s been tested for dyslexia, but he really struggles with blocks of text and complex sentences.”
Mrs. Amundson nodded patiently.
Wade flipped to his report on Drew. “Finally, I’m not sure what to make of Drew. He just keeps bringing the same book, this wolf book; he’s basically just memorized it. I want him to be comfortable, but he’s just repeating the story now. I went online, and it looks like there are three more books in that series. I thought if you could have the librarian request the other books, I could work on some word-attack strategies with him—”
The teacher looked up.
Wade shrugged. “I’ve been doing some research.” He held out the notebook.
Mrs. Amundson took it. “This is very thorough, Mr.—”
“McAdam.”
“Mr. McAdam.” She looked down at his report. “Unfortunately, our district cut its library funding last year. We have no librarian. We’re not allowed to request any new books.”
He stared at her. “You can’t request books? But this is a school.”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“So a kid gets hooked on a series and he’s just . . . on his own? That’s crazy.”
She closed the notebook and looked up at him. “Look. This is very nice, what you’ve done. But I need to tell you, all of these boys already work with a reading specialist. I just sent them with you because they’re boys who have no male relationships in their lives, and there are no male teachers at this school. I thought they should have some casual, normal time around a man. That’s all.”
She handed Wade back his little notebook.
19
“I CAN’T, WADE,” Sonya said. “Just . . . please.”
Wade’s head felt like it was on a swivel. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
She turned away and started washing glasses.
Wade looked around the bar, at the chairs up on the tables. Then he looked down at the bill she’d left for him an hour ago. “I know,” he said again. His eyes were bleary. He couldn’t focus. The bill looked like it was for forty bucks. As always, Sonya had only charged him for every other whiskey. He opened his wallet. He stared at the blossom of dull, greenish-white bills. He took out three fifties, then a fourth, and a fifth, and finally all of them. He set the money on the bar and left.
20
WADE STOOD in the children’s section of Auntie’s Bookstore, staring at all the books. All the fucking books.
21
“I BROUGHT something for us,” Wade said. He pulled Drew up on his lap and took out the book he’d bought that morning, the second in the series, The Wolf and the River. The secretary cleared her throat, but Wade held the boy tight on his lap, and this time he read the whole thing to Drew himself, working to keep his voice steady.
In the book, houses are going up in the fields around the boy’s family farm. Trees are being cut down, and the boy is worried because the wolf has had a litter of six pups. At one point, a bulldozer nearly takes out the wolf’s den. Eventually the boy buys a pool raft to help the wolf move her pups to the safe side of the river, where there are no houses. On the last five pages, as they cross the river, there are no words.
When Wade looked up, the secretary was walking across the office toward them. She was bringing along the vice principal, who was speaking angrily (“ . . . the boy’s on his lap!”) into her cell phone.
Wade hung on.
“And that’s the end,” Drew said.
Wheelbarrow Kings
I’M HUNGRY AS FUCK.
Mitch knows a guy getting rid of a TV. A big-screen supposed to work great. Mitch says he watched UFC on it.
That don’t make sense I say. A guy just giving away a big-screen.
Mitch says the guy has two TVs.
Mitch talks a lot of shit so I won’t be surprised if there ain’t no TV.
Fish and chips is what I really want. I got twelve dollars which would be plenty for fish and chips. So hungry.
Mitch says it’s a heavy-ass TV and we’ll need a wheelbarrow for sure.
I ask where the fuck are we supposed to get a wheelbarrow. Like I just carry a wheelbarrow around. Sometimes Mitch.
He says we’ll pawn that TV for two hundred easy. Then I could spend my twelve bucks on fish and chips or steak or whatever the fuck I want.
Mitch’s sister lives up on the south hill. He says she’s got a wheelbarrow. She and her husband garden and shit. I met his sister one time. She seemed cool.
I started loving fish and chips when we had it at middle school. I never had it before that. I used to think chips were the different kind of fries with ridges like we had at school. But it can be any fries.
If we do get two hundred for that TV me and Mitch are gonna gear up over at Kittlestedt’s. On Kittlestedt’s icy shit. Get on a big old spark. None of that scungy east side peanut butter we been bulbing for a month now. Not after we sell that TV.
No more twelve-buck quarters for us.
We gonna amp up on a couple of fat bags Mitch says.
I’m hungry as fuck I say to Mitch.
We gonna eat for days after we sell that TV he says.
He wants to take a bus up the south hill to borrow his sister’s wheelbarrow. Mitch has a bus pass. I got that twelve dollars but no way I want to spend a buck twenty-five on the bus. Because you can’t even get east side shit for under twelve. Twelve is the cheapest I ever seen. Anywhere.
You comin Mitch asks.
If I do spend some of my money on the bus least I could eat then. Fish and chips. Or even just get a tacquito at Circle K and some Sun Chips. I like them Sun Chips too. But I ain’t buying food unless we sell that TV.
Mitch’s bus pass is expired. He wants me to pay for both of us on the bus. Fuck that I say. We get off. The bus drives away.
And I think of something. How the fuck are we gonna get that wheelbarrow all the way downtown from his sister’s house anyway. It’s like two miles. And we’d have to take the wheelbarrow back. Uphill.
Yeah that’s true Mitch says.
I known that fucker two years. First time he ever said I was right.
First time you ever been right Mitch says.
Fuck I’m hungry.
You keep saying that. Fucking buy some food then Mitch says.
But he knows I can’t. I need my twelve bucks. He’s just fuckin jealous ’cause he ain’t even got enough for a bump.
There’s a coffee place downtown where I know this girl. I went to school with her. We walk down there. Keep our eyes open for wheelbarrows. You see wheelbarrows at construction sites sometimes it seems like. But when you need one you sure as fuck don’t. I don’t think there is a wheelbarrow in all of downtown Spokane.
The coffee shop has outside tables either side of the door. There’s two guys in suits and sunglasses drinking ice coffee. They’re eating scones. Them fucking scones look great. I’m hungry as shit. The business guys give me a look. Inside the coffee shop I lick my lips to get the salt.
The girl I know ain’t working. Sometimes she gives me the day-old pastry. She’ll say what happened to you Daryl. And I’ll say what happened to you. I forget her name. She’s kind of fat now. She wasn’t fat in middle school. She was pretty hot I think. But she’s fat now.
But that’s not what I mean when I say what happened to you. About her being fat. I’m just fucking around. And I did know her name before. I just don’t know it
now.
Anyways it don’t matter because she ain’t working. Some guy is working instead. With a goatee. I ask him is the girl who works here around. He makes a face like what girl or maybe he just thinks Mitch and me stink. And he looks at the stain on my T-shirt. I was having a hot dog at the Circle K a few days ago and I was with Todo and that fucker waits until you take a bite of something and then he says the funniest shit. He could be a stand-up comedian Todo. I forget what he said exactly but the ketchup squirted on my shirt. And then it left this stain.
Mitch flops down in a booth.
The goatee guy watches Mitch pick at his face. You have to order something if you’re gonna stay here the coffee guy says. They got these cinnamon rolls must be half frosting. Fuck me I am so hungry. The goatee guy looks at me like I’m a fucking jerk-spazz.
That girl—I have to start over. And then her name comes. Marci! Marci said come in and she’d give me something from the day-olds. Marci. I can’t stop blinking.
Marci’s not here.
Can you check. Can you check if she left me something from the day-olds.
I am so fucking hungry.
A couple ladies with shopping bags come in.
The goatee dude rubs his head. He leans forward like he’s telling me a secret. If I give you tweakers a scone will you get the fuck out of here.
Give us each one.
They got a day-old basket next to the register. The dude takes two scones and gives them to me. One is a triangle. That’s the one I want.
Come on Mitch I say.
We go outside. It’s funny. Them two business dudes are sitting there eating scones. And Mitch and me are eating scones. Only we didn’t pay for ours. Who’s the fucking smart guys now.
Only that scone ain’t too good. It don’t taste like nothing. Not like that cinnamon roll would’ve. Or like fish and chips. More like wood chips.
Fuck me. I’m even hungrier now.