Alma Underwood Is Not A Kleptomaniac Page 7

  “Rumor. That’s quite a name.” His eyelids lower. “Got a last name to go with it?”

  “Rawlings.”

  He cocks a silvery eyebrow and his jaw falls slack. As quickly as I notice it, his reaction is gone and replaced with a tight-lipped smile. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Rumor, my name is––"

  “Reginald.”

  His laugh is low and raspy. “Ah, Alma’s been telling her friends about me.”

  I shrug.

  He pats himself on the chest. “It’s okay, young man, you can tell me all the pleasant things she had to say.”

  I lift my chin. “She said you’re crotchety, have a strong dislike for teenage slang, and should probably retire.”

  His cheek twitches with the hint of a smile. “All true statements.” Rolling his shoulders back, he rises to his full height and starts to hobble around the desk. My tongue stops working when he moves to stand parallel to me and I’m forced to crane my head backward to look up at him.

  He points a crooked finger at my head. “You need a haircut. Other than that, you look good. Strong.”

  I blink. “Uhm, okay.”

  Pale lips pull into a strange smile. Reaching around me, he pats me on the back a few times. “It’s good to finally meet you, Rumor.”

  With that, he turns and starts to limp away, his cane clicking against the hard floors. “Uh, yeah, you too!” I call, and he disappears through a doorway behind his desk.

  I’m left feeling a little amused and a lot puzzled.

  Strange dude.

  “Rumor!”

  I spin on my heels, making eye contact with Alma who’s heading toward me with a spring in her step.

  “I found them.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder and directs my attention to her parents.

  Two sets of warm eyes observe me as they walk. Alma reaches me first and thrusts her hands at me like I’m a prize to be won. “Mom, Dad, this is Rumor.”

  Alma’s dad chuckles at her eagerness and extends his hand. “Hello, Rumor, it’s great to meet you. I’m Harrison.”

  I grasp his hand and give it a quick shake, attempting to smile the way Alma demanded of me. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  Harrison places a loving hand on his wife’s shoulder. “This is my wife, Clare.”

  With gentle hands, she captures my one in both of hers and gives it squeeze. “It’s great to meet you, honey. Alma just talked our ear off, I feel like I already know you.”

  My gaze darts to Alma and I flash her a dubious look.

  “I was just telling my parents we met at orientation this afternoon,” she says, sliding up next to me. “I told them what you told me about moving from Chicago with your dad.”

  “Right.” I start tapping the edge of my thigh.

  “This must be quite a change for you.” Clare rests her hand on Harrison’s arm, regarding me with a face almost identical to Alma’s. She possesses all the same features, exhibiting light wrinkles around her eyes and beside her lips. I imagine them to be the cause of a decade long smile.

  “It’s different, yes.” I force a laugh. “Much smaller than Chicago.”

  “I’ll bet,” Harrison chimes in. “Does your dad work around here? Maybe we’ll run into him.”

  Yeah, in the afterlife.

  “No. He works in Ann Arbor,” I say because it’s the only town I can remember that isn’t one of Alma’s siblings. “He’s in tech support.”

  “Really? Well, he’s a different man than I am. Clare and I still use paper records.” His chest quakes with his chuckle. He rubs at his eyes, the skin beneath them heavy, indicating he probably hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in a few decades. “Alma mentioned you’re looking for work here and there.”

  I stand up straighter. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Harrison is fine, Rumor.” He claps my shoulder. “Clare and I would appreciate any help around here. My muscles don’t stretch like they used to.”

  “I would be happy to help. I’ll be honest, I can’t work as fast as others but I do a real good job.”

  I lift my chin with flawed conviction. I don’t know the first thing about being Mr. Fix It for a motel older than I am, but I’ll be damned if I sleep in their house without their knowledge, lie to them about how I met their daughter, and then be a shitty employee.

  I don’t like that I’ll have to do a top-notch job only to justify the pile of lies I’m burying them beneath, but my options are limited. Each time I try to let my mind forget how shady I’m being, guilt digs up my actions and throws them in my face.

  “We’d love to have you lend a hand,” Harrison says. “Tell ya what, let’s give you the week to get yourself all settled in and ready for school. I’ll give you a call next week.”

  I palm the useless phone in my pocket, dead and without the service I couldn’t pay for.

  “Rumor’s in the process of getting a new phone,” Alma blurts, placing her hand on my bicep. “Switching plans and all that. How about I just bring him back here next Monday after school?”

  Harrison beams. “Sounds good, kiddo. Mom and I will start a list of some things we need done.” He offers me his hand again. “Thank you, Rumor, we appreciate it.”

  I swallow lead. “Of course. It’s my pleasure.”

  I stay rooted in my spot, watching them retreat back down the hallway I assume leads to their office. My ribs feel tight, and I kind of want to throw up.

  Alma’s fingers tighten on my arm. “That went great!”

  “Yeah, if you consider me being an exceptional liar great.” I pick at my fingernails.

  “Rumor, it’s not that big of a deal.”

  “Are you kidding me, Ace?” I snap my head up. “I am sleeping in their daughter’s room and working at their business under false pretenses. That is mad disrespectful.”

  “Rumor.” Slowly, she wraps her finger around a strand of errant hair and tucks it behind my ear. The madness mixes with the deceit, and I feel like I’m spinning. “You’re not just lying.”

  “Yeah?” My tongue feels dry. “Then what am I doing?”

  “Surviving.” She seizes my wrist and tugs gently, leading us to the front door. “You called me Ace. Only special people give me nicknames.”

  “Am I not special? How many homeless, one-handed teens do you know?”

  She stops abruptly, our shoulders crashing together. Peering over her shoulder and through two thick pieces of hair she says, “I’m not sure there’s anyone quite like you, Rumor Rawlings.”

  With my heartbeat throbbing harshly in my ears, and tiny violins playing in the background, I fight the shy smile creeping up my face, afraid I’ll look stupid.

  I smile anyway.

  She smiles back.

  9

  A Bench Behind Doggy Style

  Alma

  Doggy Style is the highlight of my week. It doesn’t matter how long I have to wait for it, or that I have to stand in a line a dozen people deep just so I can have a hot dog that costs less than five dollars. It’s worth it. Doggy Style is the greatest thing to happen to Flat Rock since Krispy Kreme. The little glazed doughnuts used to be my go-to snack, and then I was introduced to Doggy Style. I can’t believe what I was missing.

  “Next!”

  I move up in line, hands stuffed in my back pockets while I wait. The place is packed for a Wednesday afternoon. The handful of tables they have placed throughout the small building are all occupied and piled high with dogs and used napkins. There’s a healthy mix of middle-aged people having a late lunch and millennials who need a meal that won’t suck the life out of their bank account.

  “What is this place?” Rumor asks from beside me, gazing around Doggy Style liked he just stepped into Disneyland.

  “Only the greatest restaurant of all time.”

  “And they only sell hot dogs?”

  “Basically.” We move up in line, the bottom of my flip flops sticking to the checkerboard floor. “You’re from Chicago, don’t you have lots of cool pl
aces like this?”

  “I went to a place similar to this growing up. It was called Top Dog, but much smaller and they sold other things.”

  “Next!”

  “Do you know what you want to order?” I point out the lengthy chalkboard menu above the counter. “I’ve tried them all but my personal recommendation would be the pizza dog or the mac daddy.”

  “Mac and cheese on a hot dog? Sold.”

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t work here.”

  “Right? It’s always been my dream to wear a hat with a wiener sewn on top.”

  The corner of his lips twitch but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As we move up to order, I nudge him with my hip and gesture subtly toward the wording printed on the employee’s shirt.

  “You can’t beat our meat but you can touch our buns.”

  Best. Slogan. Ever.

  Rumor sputters and puts his fist to his mouth, holding back his laughter while I order us two mac daddy dogs. He’s still chuckling when we step off to the side to wait for our order. The sound gets me hyped enough to run three laps around the building with a pirouette for the big finish.

  I abstain, but it’s a struggle.

  Rumor’s laughter is evidence of his happiness, something that dispersed on the walk from the motel back to my bedroom. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, he let his bag slide off his shoulder with a clunk and flopped on his air-filled pizza slice. Tucking his hand behind his head, he gazed at the ceiling with an empty stare and a slack expression. It was a dark contrast to the smile he flashed me outside the motel.

  Talk about butterfly kisses.

  When I smiled back at him, and his grew wider, I thought my feet might come right off the ground.

  Then I blinked, and his whole demeanor changed.

  “Order up!”

  I spin on my toes and seize our hot dogs from the worker’s hands, tugging a few napkins free of its holder. Handing one dog to Rumor, I spot every seat in the building currently in use.

  “Outside,” I tell him, and then we start weaving through the crowd of eager wiener eaters.

  The heat blasts us the moment I pull the door open, and I immediately start leading us behind the building where I know there are some benches and a covered patio.

  “Shade. Nice.” Rumor makes a beeline for the red bench tucked closest to the building and out of the sun’s harsh rays.

  I sit beside him, cross-legged, and wait for him to sink his teeth into man’s greatest creation.

  He groans as the food hits the tip of his tongue. His head falls back against the building behind us, and he props one foot up on the opposing knee. “You were right,” he says through a mouthful of meat and cheese. “Best hot dog ever.”

  “I mean, I’m kind of a wiener expert.”

  He chokes on his hot dog.

  Sizzles streak across my cheekbones and down my neck. I slump into the bench, the tips of my ears smoldering. “That is, uhm, not what I… meant.”

  Setting his hot dog in his lap, he pounds his chest, sounds ranging from coughs and hysterical cackles rolling from his throat. His other arm is wrapped around his stomach and he hunches over, deathly close to flattening his hot dog. I’m just about to go get him a water when he sits up and wipes beneath his eye.

  “Thanks, Ace.” He smiles broadly. “I needed that laugh.”

  “You’re welcome. Please let me know the next time you need a laugh and I’ll be sure to come up with something as equally as embarrassing.”

  I take a bite of my hot dog, licking cheese from my lip. He’s still smiling as he continues eating, and I almost want to blurt something else heinously humiliating just to keep him laughing. The chuckles and half smiles only serve as a minor distraction from the tragedy he suffered and the feelings he’s internalized. Growing up, my mom always told us it’s laughter that sets the spirit free. I’m not sure how I know but if there was ever a spirit that needed to be freed, it’s Rumor’s.

  “You’re a riot,” he says.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.”

  A drum pounds in my chest. I look away and finish my food, fiddling with its wrapper. “Typically, the word crazy is used to describe me.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He lifts his shoulder in a shrug and shoves the last bite of hot dog into his mouth. He swallows and crumples the wrapping in his fist before saying, “I think you’re a good kind of crazy. You have an electrifying absurdity about you that makes the people around you feel like they’re entitled to experience whatever emotion they need to, no matter how foolish or sensible it may be.”

  My chest tightens.

  “It’s maddening and comforting at the same time.” His hand trembles like a bomb getting ready to blow. “And I think it’s the only reason I haven’t completely lost my mind.”

  The pressure on my chest increases. I breathe out of my nose slowly and deliberately.

  “Rumor… are you…” Deep breath. “Are you okay?”

  He collapses forward, his shoulders bowing. “I have no freaking idea.”

  “I’m sorry. About your dad, I mean. I never said it… but I am sorry, Rumor.” My throat squeezes. “I’m sorry he’s not here anymore.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Untangling my legs, I place them on the concrete and slide closer to him. “When did he pass?”

  “Seventy-three days ago.”

  Less than 3 months.

  “Rumor––"

  “You know, it’s funny.” He sits up, staring blankly in front of him. “It was just a regular day. Dad went to work like he always did. Josh and I spent hours bumming around with our skateboards and a few other guys. When his mom texted him and told him we should come back, we thought it was just because she had dinner ready or something. Never, in a million years, was I expecting a police car to be in his driveway.” He clears his throat. “Josh, uhm, he dropped his skateboard and took off running because he thought maybe something had happened to someone in his family. Turns out, it was mine.”

  I move my hand to his thigh and squeeze.

  “He just dropped dead. Right at work. One minute he was fine, and the next he was gone. The doctors said it was an aortic rupture.” He sniffs and wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “He said it was heartburn. He went a week popping antacids like candy and then he up and dies on me.” A tear escapes and races down his cheek. He swipes at it angrily. “You know, an aortic rupture is one of the rarer cases of death in this country, but that’s the kind of family we are. The rare kind. The kind that has a kid with one hand and a fifty-six-year-old drop dead at work.”

  He hiccups and keeps wiping at his cheeks, refusing to let his tears be seen. I slide my hand around his waist and tug him closer.

  “I didn’t have anywhere to go after that. My dad was an older dad. I wasn’t born until he was almost forty. Both of his parents died when I was young, and he didn’t have any siblings. I stayed with Josh at first. His parents were filing for guardianship but it had to go to court since I didn’t have a parent or anyone to speak for me.” He gripped my knee like it was his only source of strength. “They made me leave Josh’s house while the paperwork was going through or something. I don’t even know. We all tried to fight it.”

  He straightened, eyes raw and outlined in red. “Four days, Alma. I was in that group home for four days. They didn’t even give me a bed. I slept on a mattress in a room with two other guys. One of them smoked and kept a handgun under his pillow! I doubt it was legal but all I got were hard stares and cynical laughs when I tried to bring it up.” His lip wobbles and he bites down hard on it to get it to stop. “The first time somebody tried shoving me around, making me out to be an outlet for their frustration, all because I was missing something they all had, I ran.”

  My heart shatters for him. Like a bullet hitting glass.

  “I keep asking myself how all of my drea
ms turned into nightmares so quickly.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “And when do I wake the hell up?”

  My lips quiver and I hold back a sob. Reaching for his hand, I place it back on my knee and leave mine resting on top. I stumble over my words, not knowing what to say or if I should even say anything at all.

  So I don’t.

  I sit there with him, rubbing across his knuckles with my thumb while his heavy, turbulent breaths minimize into ones a bit more even.

  “Jesus.” He exhales. “I just totally lost my shit behind a restaurant called Doggy Style. What a life.”

  My laugh is watery. “No better place than the best place on earth.”

  The smile he flashes me is weak. “Thanks for listening.”

  I squeeze his hand. Anytime.

  He blows out a long breath, one that empties his lungs and fills them up again. “I don’t regret it, ya know,” he says between breaths. “Running, I mean. It sucks that I had to run, but I’m glad I bought that bus ticket.”

  “To Flat Rock, of all places. I’ll bet that was a long ride.”

  “It wasn’t bad.”

  “Why did you choose Flat Rock?”

  “Because it sounded cool, I guess.” He sniffs. “No reason.”

  I let him lie.

  Whoever she is, wherever she is, and whatever she’s doing is irrelevant until Rumor’s ready. So, I take a shallow breath and let him pretend he isn’t here for his mother.

  “Gah!” His shakes his limbs out. “I feel like I just made things so heavy and depressing. My brain feels like lead. Say something else.”

  My mind races with dorky jokes and ways to bring him out of his head, and then my mouth opens. “I’m a kleptomaniac!”

  His jaw drops.

  “Well, not really, but kind of. I don’t steal from people, I just take their things.”

  He grunts. “And you thought I was gonna rob you?”

  “I’m not a robber! I clean rooms at the motel.” I give my head a quick shake. In typical Alma fashion, the babbling begins. “You knew that. Anyway. More times than not, the guests always leave an object behind. I take those items and keep them rather than throw them out. The journal I carry around is filled with little stories about where I think they come from.” I smile proudly. “I like to call them my lost treasures.”