One for the Murphys (3 page)

Standing there in the cold, in front of the house that’s the color of dirt, I decide to ask God a question.

I close my eyes and turn the ball in my hands. I say in a whisper, “Okay. If I make this basket, then my mother still loves me.”

Bending my knees, I shoot, watching the ball spin in the air. It gets wedged between the board and the back of the hoop. I know that means something, but I don’t know what.

“Wicked good one,” says a voice behind me. At first, I think it’s God. Like he has time to talk to me.

I turn around.

It’s Daniel. “You going to get it down now?” he asks.

“What do you mean? I did the work of getting it up there;
you
get it down.”

I hear a car. Daniel waves to a guy pulling into the driveway in a pickup. It must be Mr. Murphy.

Stellar. Just
stell
ar.

The door of the truck squeaks when he opens it. He slams the door, messes Daniel’s hair, looks up at the ball, and says, “Good shot.”

“It was
her
,” Daniel says, pointing.

Mr. Murphy comes toward me, faster than I would like. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Carley,” he says, but his face says that I’m here to infect his family with malaria. He makes me want to run.

Mrs. Murphy comes out through the garage. Mr. Murphy kisses her on the cheek and whispers something. She smiles at him. Then he grabs a small duffel bag from his truck and heads inside.

“Mom,” Daniel says, pointing. “Look what she did.”

Mrs. Murphy’s smile falls away, and now she’s rattled. I hear worry in her voice. “So get it down, Daniel. Problem solving, right?”

Clearly, he wanted a little of my blood instead of a suggestion to do it himself. I hardly know Daniel, but I hate him anyway. I have this feeling, though, that if I don’t lay off the prince, Mrs. MacAvoy will be back for me.

I
came up to the fireman room after Daniel complained that I’m wearing his sweatshirt. I hate having to wear his clothes, but I’m glad the sleeves cover my bruises. No more pity face from his mother.

I sit on the floor, holding the giraffe that came in my Family Services backpack, rubbing my finger back and forth along its soft brown mane.

Michael Eric walks in.

“Don’t you knock first?” I ask.

“But this is
my
room,” he says.

Oh yeah.

He marches over and sits down. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Just thinking.”

“Why would you be doing just that?”

I almost laugh at how little he knows of the world. “Sometimes you can’t help but think, even if you don’t want to.”

“Like when you pee in your pants?”

I laugh now. Maybe he knows more than I thought. “Yeah. Kind of like that. Not so messy, though.”

He giggles this laugh that comes right from his belly. If a sound could dance, this is what it would be like. He reaches for the giraffe, and I let him take it. He holds it against the side of his face. “Who is this?” he asks.

“Just a stuffed giraffe.”

“Well, what’s his
name
?”

“He doesn’t have a name,” I say.

He looks at the giraffe like he doesn’t recognize it anymore. Then he hugs it to his stomach. “Mr. Longneck.”

“Mr. Longneck, huh?”

“Yeah, ’cause he’s got a long neck.” He holds it in front of my face. “See?”

“Funny. I hadn’t noticed that.”

“Silly Carley. Of
course
a giraffe has a long neck. That’s what makes him a giraffe!”

Funny how something can be defined by the one thing that makes it different from everything else. Like “the foster kid.”

I turn to him and act confused. “I thought a giraffe had a trunk.”

“No,” he says like he feels sorry for me. He leans over and whispers in my ear. “That’s an elephant.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for setting me straight.”

He sits up. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

I have to smile. I like Michael Eric, too. How can he and Adam possibly be related to Daniel?

“Can I keep Mr. Longneck?” he asks me.

I’m surprised. I mean, I know I should give it to him because he’s a little kid and everything, but besides the clothes I’m wearing and my high tops, Mr. Longneck is pretty much all I have in the whole world right now. “Sorry, bud. I don’t think so.”

He shrugs. “Oh,” he says. Then his eyebrows jump. “Can you play with me?”

I feel like I should, but I really just want to sit. “Can we another time maybe?”

He stands and then bends over so his face is upside down. “We’ll play on Friday. Oh, and Mommy wants you to come down for lunch now.”

I’d rather lick an anthill than eat lunch, but I nod, and he is out as fast as he was in.

Perky Murphy stands near the sink making sandwiches. She turns to me. “Chicken, ham, or tuna?”

“I can make it myself.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles. “Let me make it for you.”

I don’t
want
her to make it for me.

“So, which one do you think?” she asks.

“I really don’t mind making it myself.” I don’t want her to wait on me. It feels wrong.

“I really don’t mind, Carley. I mean, c’mon, it’s only a sandwich. Chicken, ham, or tuna?” Her eyes widen.

I am dying to say roast beef.

“Perhaps you’d prefer something from the cabinet? There are some microwavable meals in there.”

I almost feel sorry for her. She’s so pathetic. Like the world would come apart if everyone doesn’t get a perfect little lunch. I think of how watching my mother talk to her would be like watching a kitten play with a ball of yarn.

But the feeling in my gut whispers that maybe I’m a little mad about all the gallons of chicken noodle soup I’ve eaten right out of the can. Still though, this Perky Murphy is as fragile as they come.

She wouldn’t last a second in my world.

I open the cabinet looking for a can of chicken noodle soup, so that I can feel like I’m in my own place. The first thing I notice are the Oreos. My mother’s favorite.

I almost burst out laughing, though, when I see how everything is arranged by size with the labels facing forward. I mumble to myself, “And on the third day, God created the seas and the mountains and this freakish cabinet in Connecticut.”

Yet looking at it, something creeps across my scalp. So while Mrs. Murphy is distracted by Michael Eric stuffing his entire sandwich in his mouth at once, I mess everything up, turning the cans around and upside down. The earth should fall off its axis when she opens this.

I sit down, holding a can of soup, trying to decide if I should eat it cold or not. Daniel shows up; he and his mom discuss what he should eat. Like the leaders of two nations have come together to work out something actually important. These people are too much.

The prince decides on cheese ravioli, so she goes to the cabinet. When she finds my redecorating, she lets out the longest sigh ever and says, “You know, Daniel, there is no need to leave things in such a mess. I try hard to…”

Could I possibly be this lucky?

“I didn’t do it!” the little creep interrupts. And then they both stop and look at me, and I hold up a newspaper on the table to hide my laughter.

“Well, I guess we have a little prankster in our midst,” Mrs. Murphy says.

“Oh that’s great!” he yells. “I get in trouble, but if it’s her you say”—he raises his tone to sound like a girl—“we have a little prankster in our midst.”

“Daniel… ,” she says.

“Just forget it!” he shouts and he’s gone. A door slams, and it looks like it hurts her inside, and maybe I feel a little bad. Maybe.

Suddenly there is more crying, as Michael Eric bursts through the door. Why do these people cry so much?

“Mommy!” he yells. “Jimmy Partin hit me.”

“Now, why would he do that?”

“For breathing, he said.”

“He did, huh?” she says, squatting. She ruffles his hair. “You look okay, pal. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from his yard?”

My mother used to call me
pal
. She even had a song about it.

He nods.

“Well, Michael Eric, if you go
looking
for trouble, you’re sure to
find
it.”

I wish someone had told me that.

T
hat night, Mrs. Murphy appears in my doorway.

“You know, Carley,” she says, sitting on the bed, “it seems that you may be here awhile. We’ll probably have to enroll you in school, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think it will be long. My mother will be out of the hospital soon.”

She clears her throat. “Well, she will be okay, but it might take some time. A couple of months.”

A. Couple. Of. Months. Those words took a long time to come out. Like she drew them as a line in the sky. I can’t stay here a couple of months. There must be something in my face, because she tilts her head and asks, “Carley? Haven’t you been in school since you’ve been in Connecticut?”

I think for a second to lie but decide there’s no point. “My
mother said that I would learn more about the real world by living life rather than sitting at a desk.”

Worry is written on her face. “Well, I’ll give you a few days to settle in, Carley, but I think it’s important that you go to school.” She pauses, then asks, “Why don’t you come down and help me make dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Now, I thought we agreed that you’d come to the table tonight.”

I nod. And it turns out that “helping” with dinner is easy. She pours me a glass of milk while I sit on the counter. I am surprised to find she cares if I want a small or big glass and if I’d like a squirt of chocolate.

I swing my feet, but seeing her glance over at my foot hitting the cabinets stops me. I can’t sit still, though. I try to come up with something to say that doesn’t sound dumb, but I can’t help thinking about my mother. Imagining her face and hearing her voice. Wondering if she’s going to be okay.

Mrs. Murphy glances over at me. I know I should say something, but I worry about saying the wrong thing. I worry that I’ll make her mad. I worry that I shouldn’t have messed up her cabinet today. The only bright spot is that her husband is staying at the firehouse tonight.

“So… uh, Mr. Murphy is a fireman?”

“Yeah. And he’s like a little boy about it. Loves it. That… and the Red Sox.”

“Does he usually stay there overnight like this?”

“All the firefighters do. Actually, Jack’s the captain, so sometimes it’s a few days at a time.”

I am relieved. “Does he get mad?” I blurt out.

“Why would you ask that?”

“I broke his picture upstairs. I was thinking he’d be mad.”

She waves her hand in the air. “Honestly, Carley. Jack didn’t even notice that the picture disappeared.”

I bite down on the rim of the glass. “But does he get mad about things?”

“Jack? No.” She puts down the knife. Then she takes a step and reaches toward me. I lean away quick.

“I’m sorry, Carley. I sense you like people to stay away from you.”

My head wishes that, but the rest of me doesn’t.

“Carley. Jack is a very good guy.” She tries to make eye contact. “You’re safe here.”

She seems to believe I’m safe, but I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again.

Mrs. Murphy measures out water for some sauce on the stove. She adds a little, holds the measuring cup up to study it, pours a little out, studies it, adds a little, adds a little more, studies it, and finally pours it into the pan.

I guess a little extra water would be deadly for us all. We didn’t even own measuring cups at home. My mother always said that one of those highball glasses from the casino was close enough to a cup.

“Do you want help?” I ask, pointing at the lettuce. I am nervous about doing it the way she wants, but I ask anyway.

“No, no. You relax. Just keep me company.”

I can’t believe that anyone would ask me to keep them company. She must be nuts.

“So,” she begins. “You grew up in Las Vegas. That must be an exciting place to live, huh?”

“Not if you’re a kid. Can’t do anything, really.”

“I see.” She washes a tomato. “Well, I grew up in a town that couldn’t be more different than Las Vegas.”

I say nothing.

“So, then, I guess you just moved to Connecticut recently?” she asks me.

“Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

Is she
kidding
me? “Not so far.”

She seems flustered. “I’m so sorry, Carley. That was dumb.” She turns to me with such softness. “Do you need anything else? Are you comfortable?”

“I’m good.” But what I’m really thinking is that I feel like a bird flapping its wings underwater. I’ve never had anyone wait on me like this or wonder if I need anything. I’d be more comfortable if she would just stop talking to me in that voice like it matters to her whether I’m happy or not.

Everything is ready, so she calls the boys for dinner and we all sit down at the table.

Mrs. Murphy begins, “Thank you, dear Lord, for these gifts which we’re about to receive. We thank you for our family, friends, and for the safety of our loved ones.”

I’m thinking that I can’t thank Him for any of that stuff. And,
besides that, I just asked God one simple question at the basketball hoop, and what does He do?

“. . . We also thank you for bringing Carley into our home. We’re happy that she’s here.”

“
I’m
not happy she’s here,” Daniel snaps.

His mom looks at him, and her head drops a little. “That’s a horrible thing to say. Apologize.”

“Well, you say we aren’t supposed to lie, and
I
want her to go.”

“Lying is wrong, but I don’t think that God—or me, for that matter—wants you to hurt someone else’s feelings. You can apologize or go to your room.”

Daniel stands. “Fine.”

“Daniel.”

He disappears around the corner, and Mrs. Murphy’s fork lands on her plate. “I’m sorry, Carley. I’ll talk to him later on.”

My body tingles the same way your foot does when it’s asleep. I want to tell Daniel that I don’t blame him, and that I’m trapped here with him just as he’s trapped here with me. I have to admit, though, that I like thinking about how Mrs. Murphy talked to me earlier like there was no one else in the world.