Brain untangled, he found his words to tell Truck what he was thinking. “Mom’s never late. Is it the apartment?” Next Monday was M-Day. Moving day, Monday. Atlanta was big and scary. Trains and busses everywhere, cars everywhere, people everywhere. Loud people. Smelly people. So many people. Pressure on his leg, a warm swipe of a tongue along the inside of his wrist let his lungs start working again.
His thumb moved across the skin of Charity’s head, silken and smooth, the texture always pleasing under his fingers. Black and white, a patternless-pattern he had traced thousands of times. A thing that should have been certain to make him anxious allowing him to camouflage that anxiety within the pattern, hiding it from sight every time she pressed up against him. Harlequin. Clown. Jester. Charity.
He pressed play on the memory in his head, like he’d tap an app on the tablet, hearing Vanna Mom—Mom, he corrected himself—telling him about the apartment. Patiently going over things for the kajillionth time with him because he wanted to make sure he had it right.
“It’s a nice house, Kitt. A really nice house. Remember what it looked like from our visit? Half of the second floor is yours and your neighbor is a young man about your age. Pete has Down’s Syndrome, so you’ll have to take care with his feelings. His name is Pete.”
“Pete,” he said, then looked up, realizing Truck Pops—Pops, he corrected himself—had said something. “Sorry?”
“Nothing’s happened with the apartment, Kitt. We’re still right on track with everything. No holding back there, you’re moving in next week.” Truck lifted a hand in a silent question and Kitt nodded, breathing easier when it settled on his shoulder. Heat flowed through him from that connection, meeting the heat from his hand on Charity somewhere in the middle, working together to unravel his words again.
“I worry. Not about Mom.” Eyes to the table, he still knew Pops’ face changed, softened when he admitted that wasn’t a concern anymore. Pops understood a lot without Kitt’s words, had known from the beginning that his worst fear was Mom would be alone. He needed to figure out how to live in the world as it swirled around him, and he was excited about that chance, but worried because he was all she had once. “She’s got you now.” Fingers squeezing tight on his shoulder, anchoring him like the constant pressure on his thigh from Charity’s head. “She needed you, Pops.”
“I think we needed each other, son.” Kitt nodded, glancing up to see Pops’ eyes pointing his way. Glancing down and back up, he nodded again. Pops dipped his face, making a point to lock his gaze on Kitt’s face when he said, “I needed you, too, Kitt.” Charity’s eyes, one mottled brown and one crystal blue, stared up at him. She licked the inside of his wrist again, the rasping swipe of warmth reassuring.
“Charity will miss the house.” I’m going to miss the house. Flicking his gaze around the room, he settled on the wall of color. “The roosters.”
“Mark which ones you want to take with you,” Pops said immediately, understanding without judging. “We’ll get a special box to put them in, make sure they travel well. Set them up first thing so you can see them.”
Kitt nodded, glad beyond anything he could ever hope to communicate that this man came to their house four Christmas Eves ago. Glancing up, he gave Pops a grin, not even one he had to practice in the mirror, trying hard not to look into his own eyes because that was the worst. Seeing himself the way other people saw him, all sticking-up hair and anxious eyes, lips that didn’t know what to do with themselves, hands that were worse with the not-knowing. Not the him he knew he was inside. But a grin that came easily was good and right, and that’s what he had right now. Good and right. “Presents tomorrow.”
“Yeap, presents tomorrow. Know which one you want to open first?” Kitt twisted in his chair, dislodging Charity’s head to look at the tree. She groaned her disapproval and immediately reclaimed her place, moving from under the table to his side to do so.
“Smallest.” There was a tiny package hanging from one branch of the tree and he thought he knew what it was. Not that he’d ever tell Mom he’d figured it out, but he was sure it held a key and keyring. My apartment, he thought. A promise, he heard in his head, that woman’s voice coming less frequently in past months, still reassuring. Yeah, he told her. A promise from Mom to me. “You?”
Pops’ response was lost in the sound of a car coming down the road and Charity’s ears perked up, her tilted head aimed at the door. Not barking, which meant, “MOM.”
“Sounds like it. She’s going to have groceries, but give her a minute to hide anything she doesn’t want us to see.” Christmas meant secrets, but not bad ones. Good ones. Ones you had to let the other person have, even if it made your brain crazy with thinking and wondering. Secrets he could keep better next year.