“So you liked her.”
“Not at first, I didn’t. At first it was just awful, having to share my space like that. But after a time I grew to care about her.”
“And they never gave you another roommate?”
“Not yet.”
He glanced quickly across his own shoulder at her, then took the conversation in an entirely different direction. She could tell it would be a more serious direction, even before he opened his mouth.
“I tried to talk Stacey into letting you come live at our house, but I don’t think she thought it was a very good idea.”
“Oh, honey,” she said.
“What?”
“Come sit down a minute.”
They walked to the edge of her bed and sat. He seemed apprehensive, as though he already didn’t like the words she hadn’t yet said. He trained his gaze to the patterned linoleum floor, seeming careful to avoid her eyes.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “because it’s really not any reflection on you or your family. But I wouldn’t be happy living at your house, either. That wouldn’t be any better to me than living here. Both my son and my daughter offered to take me in.”
“They did?” He sounded surprised. And he must have been, because he almost looked up at her. “And you didn’t want that?”
“Oh my goodness, no! All that commotion and chaos. It’s not for me. I wanted to live in my house.”
“We have to figure out a way to get you back to your house, then.”
She sighed deeply, and allowed herself not to answer for a few beats. He was so sweet, and yet his sweetness felt like a kind of pressure on her. It seemed as though every time she spoke, she had to break his delicate heart.
“It’s gone, honey. My children sold it to pay for this place.”
“Oh,” he said.
For what seemed like quite a long time they sat without speaking. She found herself wishing she could offer him a penny for his thoughts, but it seemed a little silly. Old-fashioned, maybe, and even a bit trite. Still, she wished she could know how he was doing inside himself with that news.
“Then I guess I really can’t solve your problem, then.”
“No, you really can’t. I’m sorry. Sometimes the people around you will have problems, and you’ll wish they didn’t, but there won’t be anything you can do. You just have to trust them to get by as best they can.”
“That’s pretty much what Stacey said.”
“It’s unfortunately true. And the sooner you accept that simple truth, the happier your life will be.”
His eyes came up to hers. Just for a flicker of a second. As if they were a shield that could hold back anything he didn’t want near him. Then his gaze careened back to the floor again.
“But I don’t like that,” he said.
“No, of course you don’t. But it’s what is. And if something is a certain way, and you can’t accept that, and you need it to be another way, well . . . if you can change it, that’s great. You go ahead and change it. But if you can’t change it, and you can’t accept it, it just gets so exhausting. Don’t you get tired?”
“Very tired,” he said.
She could tell by his tone that he had dropped all his defenses. That seemed like a decent start.
“Now let’s just forget about me and my situation for a while and help you learn how to read.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said. “That would be good. It just seems too bad that you can fix my problem, but I can’t fix yours.”
“Be that as it may,” she said, “let’s just focus on what we can change.”
Part Two
Winter
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Scholarship
Stewie
He sat at the kitchen table, staring at Stacey’s closed bedroom door and buzzing with excitement. Literally buzzing. He could feel it all down the bones in his arms and legs, and in his belly. As if he were battery powered and his electricity was arcing slightly.
The report card was upside down on the table in front of him. He had one hand over it, to make sure it stayed a surprise. Even though there was no one else in the room.
In time Stacey’s door opened, and she came slouching out, still in her nightie. Her hair fell in a wild tangle halfway over her face, and she scratched her shoulder as she walked down the hall. He watched her nose twitch as it worked the air.
“You made coffee for me,” she said. She slid by behind his chair and kissed him on the top of his neatly combed hair. “That’s very sweet.”
“Stacey, I—”
But she held one hand up like a stop sign. She had taken to doing that more and more lately, as if to stop life from piling up on her, deeper and higher.
“Let me just have my coffee first, Stewie. Please. It was such a long night at work last night.”
“It’s a good thing, though.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But please. Just a few sips.”
She filled the largest mug they owned with plain black coffee and sat down at the table with a thump.
“Ooh. Nice and strong,” she said, staring down into the cup as if in a trance.
“I know you like it that way.”
She looked out the window, over his head at the snowy yard. She seemed to be turning something over in her head. She blew on the coffee, took a long sip, then sighed contentedly.
“So good,” she said. “Now why aren’t you at school?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“It is?”
“Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
Apparently Stacey was not. Because she pushed to her feet and walked to her purse. It was on the little table by the front door—the one that held mail and keys and such. She reached in and pulled out her phone. Touched it a few times with her thumb.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.
She sat back down and took a couple more sips. Stewie began to buzz again with the waiting.
“Now?” he asked, when he couldn’t stand another moment.
“I suppose,” she said. “Go ahead and lay it on me.”
He slid the report card until it rested in front of her coffee cup. She looked down at it with widening eyes.
“Your report card.”
“I wanted to show it to you when I got home from school yesterday, but you’d already left for work.”
“Okay . . . let me see . . . it’s your report card. And you’re very anxious for me to see it. Which can only mean . . . it’s a good report card.”
He leapt to his feet and pointed wildly at a note the teacher had written.
“Read this part first,” he said.
“Okay. Let’s see. Oh, this is very good. This is very nice, Stewie.”
“Read it out loud. Please.”
“‘Stewie’s reading comprehension has improved by close to two grade levels between the end of last school year and the end of this semester. The tutor you arranged for him is clearly doing a world of good. Though he tells me they work only on reading, his grades in almost every subject have gone up a letter or more, and overall he seems more relaxed and enthusiastic about learning, and less hesitant and frustrated by the work. We are so happy to see this change!’ Oh, Stewie. This is very good. B-plus in English. B in math. B-plus in history. There’s nothing under a B on this whole report card.”
“I know! I told you it was good news!”
“Well, I’m very proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you going out to see her again today? Since it’s unexpectedly Saturday and all?”
“It’s not unexpected. Yesterday was Friday.”
“Unexpected for me.”
“Yes. I’m going. Please don’t make it seem like a bad thing. I know I go out there a lot.”
“I’m not. After a report card like that, I wouldn’t dare.”
When he arrived at Eastbridge, he went first to the big industrial kitchen, as he always did. The ladies there all knew him by name.
“Why, Stewie Little,” Marjorie said. She was a big, solid woman, easily six feet tall, with her hair up in a food service net. “Did you bring eggs for your grandma?”
“I did,” he said.
He very carefully withdrew the carton from his backpack and handed it to her. She had a coffee mug of pens and markers sitting on her counter, and he watched as she wrote the name “J. Clements” on the carton in big block letters.