didn’t know what to say, so I bent over and picked the bottle up. The glass was still cold. I dropped it into my empty bucket, as if that could make up somehow for my failure as a fisherman. “That’s worth two cents.”
“Coulda been worth a lot more than that,” she said, smiling.
I walked home that day with Betsy Parker’s Orange Crush bottle clanging against the inside of my bucket. From my bedroom window I could see the pristine facade of the Parkers’ house, their immaculate lawn. I felt like an idiot. First, because I’d missed what I quickly realized was a chance at kissing Betsy. And second, because twelve whole years had already passed before I realized that she’d been there all along. Right across the street. I took the bottle out and held it to my lips. The glass was sticky, sweet. I tipped the empty bottle, leaning my head back, waiting for the last sweet drops to fall into my throat.
After that day, I gave up my fishing trips in favor of a new futile endeavor, one that would last longer than most boys my age would have had patience for. But Betsy was right, I was a “half-full” kind of person, and I had high hopes. I knew I’d get a second chance; it was just a matter of time.
The Girl
I only stood in front of the Parkers’ house long enough to know I shouldn’t be there. The house had recently been painted, and the lawn was trimmed, the hedges clipped. There was a new family living here. A child was peering out at me through the bay window. Soon, the child’s mother opened the curtains and, seeing me, quickly drew the curtains shut. I got back on the bike and pedaled quickly home.
By the time I’d climbed the stairs to my apartment, I wondered if I’d only dreamed the girl at the river, a hallucination brought on by too many nights without sleep. I changed out of my wet clothes, made a pot of coffee, and called the freight office to say I’d been at the wreck all morning—that I’d come by the office in a few hours. Only Lenny Herman, the station agent, was there. Everyone else was still down by the river. When almost an hour had passed and she still hadn’t appeared, I was fairly certain that I’d only imagined her. I started to gather my things to head back to work, when there was a weak knock on my door.
She stood in the kitchen holding her wet shoes in one hand and the dripping suitcase in the other. I motioned for her to sit down at the kitchen table, but she shook her head.
“Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to dry off?” I asked. “There are some clean towels in the bathroom. I can get some dry clothes.”
She nodded and set her wet shoes down by the door. I figured I could find something of Shelly’s that would fit her. She followed behind me slowly down the short hallway, stopping to look at the pictures hanging on the wall. Shelly’s class pictures. Our wedding photo. She touched the top of the frame, gently straightening it. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from Shelly’s drawer and handed them to her. She took them and disappeared into the bathroom.
I quickly assessed the state of my house, untidy still from the morning’s chaos. There were dirty dishes on the table (cereal bowls with colored milk, glasses rimmed with orange pulp). Shelly’s shoes were scattered all over the floor, which needed to be swept. I’d splattered chocolate batter on the backsplash when I made Shelly’s cupcakes, but I hadn’t noticed until now. I grabbed a dishrag and wiped at the mess in a useless attempt to make the kitchen less of a disaster. I was wringing it out in the sink when she came out of the bathroom.
“You’re out of toilet tissue,” she said.
“I am?” I asked, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Let me see if I can find some.” Though I knew there was no toilet paper, that the last time Shelly went to the bathroom I’d given her a paper coffee filter to use, I went to the bathroom, searched through the linen closet, under the sink. Nothing. “I’m out,” I said, returning to the kitchen. “I can get you something, if you still need…”
“Nah. I’m okay. But I’m in the bathroom every ten minutes or so, so I might need something soon.” She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking from my cup of coffee.
“I’ll just run down the street,” I said, checking my pocket for change. “I won’t be more than a minute.”
She sipped on the coffee and closed her eyes.
I charged down the stairs, two at a time, not considering, until I reached the drugstore, the ramifications of leaving a total stranger sitting at my kitchen table.
“You been down to the wreck?” the clerk asked. “They’re saying a hundred people are dead.”
“It’s a pretty bad accident.”
“Some folks,” he whispered conspiratorially, “are saying it ain’t an accident at all. My uncle’s got a scanner. Picks up everything .”
“How much do I owe you?” I asked, eager to get back to my apartment.
“Fifty cents,” he said, reaching under the counter for a bag. “I’m going down there as soon as my shift lets out.”
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the toilet paper, and rushed back to my apartment.
When she wasn’t in the kitchen, I felt something sink inside me, and a sort of panic set in. I set the toilet paper on the kitchen table and peered down the dark hallway. I opened the door to my bedroom and to Shelly’s room. Nothing. I returned to the kitchen and went into the living room, my heart racing.
I’d been too out of it that morning to even pull the blinds; the room was completely dark except for the dusty rays of light shining through the cracks in the shades. I flicked on the overhead lamp worried that this room too would be empty. And so I was startled when I looked down to see the girl curled up on the couch, clutching the green afghan Hanna had made for Shelly’s last birthday. I felt my body sigh, my limbs relax.
In sleep, she looked even younger than she had at the river. Sixteen at the oldest, I imagined. She was holding the edge of the afghan against her cheek with one hand like a child would. Her other hand was cradling her rounded stomach, which poked out from under Shelly’s T-shirt.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock already. Only four hours until Shelly would be home from school. I worried that if she saw my bicycle out front she’d come straight to our apartment rather than going to Mrs. Marigold’s next-door. And there still was the matter of work. I paced around the living room, trying to figure out what to do about the girl sleeping on my couch, until she stirred.
“You can go back to work,” she said softly. “I ain’t going to steal nothin’.”
“I know that,” I said, stung.
As she slept, I went next-door to Mrs. Marigold’s and told her that my third cousin, a relative of my mother’s, by marriage, my adopted cousin from Louisiana, had just come visiting, that she was sleeping on my couch. Mrs. Marigold stood with her hands on her hips, scowling at me as she abandoned a pile of half-peeled potatoes. I told her about the train wreck, that my cousin had gotten off the train unharmed, but that she was exhausted from the trauma of it, and that I was headed back to work and maybe back to the river to help out with the accident if they needed me. And finally, when she looked at me, confused not only by my convoluted story but by why I was telling it to her at all, I asked her if she could make sure Shelly got a good dinner tonight. That she did her homework. That I might be later than usual but that I would be by to pick her up after supper. Mrs. Marigold smiled and picked up the potato peeler. “Honey,
