Scruffy

by Nico Grey

Part IV

"Was that my mom's car?" I asked Scruffy.

I had seen a familiar set of taillights rolling down the driveway when I entered the dooryard.

"Yup. She said she had to get to work or she would have waited for you."

Scruffy held a familiar box in his hands.

Maple crèmes!

Cue the heavenly music, somebody.

There were even a couple of warm travel mugs on the ground next to him. Yes!

"She might have driven me," I grumbled.

"She said she didn't have time to wait for your lazy butt to get out of the shower," he grinned.

"Oh, yeah? Is that all she said?"

"Pretty much," he concluded. "We just talked for a while. She asked about my family, what I liked in school. The usual stuff."

The boy was far too trusting! I knew my mother. She was up to something!

"What did you tell her about your family?"

I really was curious about that.

"Not much. Just that I was new here. I have a younger brother and sister. I thought my mother was looking for a job. My father spent a lot of time on the road."

I had to appreciate that. The boy was devious. He might just be a match for my mother.

"She wanted to know my name. Wondered if she had met anyone else in my family."

"What did you tell her?"

I wanted to know his name. I had known him for more than a month, and all he had told me was that his family name was Wallace.

"What she wanted to know," with a cheeky little grin.

The boy was good!

I wanted to ask more questions, but hot coffee and maple crèmes were waiting. Questions could wait.

We were finishing up painting the back side of the barn. It was a little slower going for me, up on the ladder, so Scruffy was checking our previous work and touching it up as needed. A couple of times I glanced down and caught him in what appeared to be deep thought.

I was into the rhythm of dipping the brush into the can of paint, wiping the excess on the rim, then stroking evenly along the grain of the wood of the barn's siding. I suppose I was a bit lost in the repetition, paying little attention to anything else.

It was about half a minute later that I realized someone had said, "William".

By the time the sound had registered in my mind and I looked around, no one was there. Scruffy was below me, applying paint to an area where the first coat must have looked a little thin to him. There was nobody else in sight.

I was pretty sure that I hadn't imagined the sound. But I could find no evidence that I hadn't.

I went back to work. We broke for lunch thirty minutes later.

The dog was delighted to have our attention. He tolerated my newfound role as a working man. But he really couldn't understand why Scruffy would want to spend hours watching paint dry when there were so many more interesting things to do.

"William."

I was sure that I had heard it this time.

I glanced around. Scruffy was looking directly at me.

"That's my name. William," he said.

I'm sure he'd seen less confusion at a pee-wee soccer game than he saw on my face.

"I figured you should know," he said. "I should have told you first."

"William."

I tried the sound on my tongue.

"Is that what you prefer to be called? William?"

"I think I prefer Scruffy," he grinned. "But William is the name that my parents gave me. It's the name on my official records."

I guess that was interesting news. It was a bit anti-climactic, after wondering for weeks.

"How about Bill? Or Billy?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I've just never felt like a Bill or a Billy. And Will Wallace sounds kind of stupid."

"What about Willy?" I grinned.

Until I noticed the anger flash in his eyes. He took a few deep breaths.

"I have some bad history with that name. Braveheart, too," he warned me.

"Because people found out? You know. That you're gay?"

That seemed a reasonable guess. And it was. A gay boy called Willy Wallace would be a target.

I wondered why the newspaper article had referred to him as Willy Wallace.

"But what about Braveheart?"

That didn't seem like a gay-phobic nickname.

"A bad experience," he explained. "Some of the real bullies on my team used to tease me about being William Wallace. One time, after a soccer match. . . I had even set up the winning goal for one of them!"

That really seemed to irritate him.

"Before we left the pitch, they did that thing about 'you can take our lives, but you can't take our freedom'. They didn't warn me. Instead of raising the back of my kilt, they yanked my shorts so far up my crack that I was wiping lint every time I took a, uh, dump for the rest of that week.

"Everyone there saw just about all of me," he grimaced.

"What a bunch of shitheads!"

I really couldn't help myself. This little guy must have set up a lot of goals for his teammates. He must have helped them win a lot of games to be voted the MVP of his league as a seventh-grader. But because he was gay, because he had become socially isolated, they felt free to treat him like that.

I wish I hadn't become so self-reflective in recent weeks. But because I had, I was reminded of another small, socially isolated boy that I had helped to abuse.

Maybe he had forgiven me. I guess I still wasn't ready to forgive myself.

"We've got a lot of work done on the barn."

I tried to conceal my disgust with myself.

"How about if you, Sebastian, and I spend the rest of the afternoon kicking the ball around?"

When I got into Mrs. O'Connor's SUV Monday morning, I handed her a dollar.

"I'd like to hire you," I said.

I had seen it done in movies.

She seemed to discern my intent and grinned.

" I took the bar exam three weeks ago," she said. "I still haven't received notification that I passed."

"You will," I said.

"Probably," she agreed. "But I'm not technically bound by confidentiality. . . that is what this is all about?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I won't be until I'm officially admitted."

"I trust you."

I did.

"Okay," she agreed. "You've hired a prospective attorney."

When I just watched her silently, she put the car in Park, found a scrap of paper, and scribbled out a receipt. Just like in the movies.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

On the drive to Brattleboro, I told her about Scruffy.

When we arrived at the Drop-In Center, she kept me in the car until she had time to take a few notes. Things like Scruffy's legal name, where he lived, what little I knew about his past life. Then she closed her notebook and indicated the door.

"What's your ideal outcome?" she asked on our drive home.

"A place for him to stay. A home. Family that treats him right."

I was sure of that.

"Where?" she wondered.

That was an interesting question. The answer might strike a little too close to my heart.

"Here. In Antioch. I mean, as long as that's what he wants." I couldn't bring myself to say more.

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Based on what you've told me, I wish we had room in my house," she said. "But I know a few good families."

"Are they really good families?"

I needed to know that.

"Kyle," she reached over and patted my arm, "They are very good families. I promise you that they'll take very good care of your friend."

Mrs. O'Connor had explained a bit about her plans on the ride home that evening. The easiest solution, since his mother had kicked Scruffy out of the house, might be to approach her and get her to agree to transfer guardianship to a family in Antioch.

There were potential complications with that approach. The first is that probate courts— and state human service agencies, if they got involved— were often reluctant to transfer guardianship across state lines. They preferred to keep 'their' children in their home state. But she thought that was an obstacle that could be overcome with the mother's consent; especially if social services didn't get involved.

The greater complication was Scruffy's father. Would it even be possible to locate that man, let alone convince him to surrender custody of his son?

I didn't have an answer to those questions. But I did know that I hated complications.

On Tuesday morning I woke ten minutes before the alarm clock went off. It took me a minute to orient myself and realize what had woken me.

Rain was sheeting down outside my bedroom window. While I tried to make sense of that, I heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. That got my attention!

Scruffy!

He and Sebastian were at the Crenshaw place. I hoped they weren't caught in the rain. But I knew that Scruffy preferred to sleep outside. And since the rain hadn't started before I went to bed. . .

I groaned.

I hurried to get dressed. I rushed down the stairs. My mother wasn't in the kitchen, but it was much too early for her to have left for work. Had she slept through her alarm?

While I struggled to make sense of events, I tried to figure out what I could do to rescue Scruffy. He and Sebastian were more than a mile away through woods and fields. I was sure they had the good sense to take cover in one of the outbuildings, but they were probably already soaking wet when they did.

Before I could make up my mind about what to do, I heard a car in the driveway. Seconds later, Mom hustled a very soggy Scruffy through our front door. Sebastian followed in their wake.

"Your friend camped out last night," she informed me. "Since you aren't going to be able to work today, I thought that you might help warm him up and find him some of your old clothes. When the rain lets up, maybe you could take him home."

I led Scruffy upstairs and to my bathroom. I turned on the shower and set the temperature as warm as he could bear. When I was sure that he would be all right on his own, I went back downstairs.

Mom was busy. All four burners on our cooktop were occupied. I saw eggs on the counter and could smell sausage already starting to brown. I think oatmeal or cream of wheat was bubbling away in a saucepan.

"I have to get to work, Kyle. Make sure that boy gets a good, hot breakfast," she instructed. "Lord knows, he needs it."

She looked like she might have more to say. But I guess she was running late. It was peculiar. She stopped to give me a quick kiss on the cheek before she rushed out the door.

I checked everything on the stove, turned down the heat, and went back upstairs.

Scruffy looked exhausted when I helped him out of the shower. He waved me away when I offered to help him dry off.

Instead, I visited our attic storage space and found some of my old clothes for him. On reflection, I reached back into the chest for a pair of heavy socks and a hoodie.

When I returned to the bathroom, Scruffy was still standing there with the towel hanging loosely from his hands.

He didn't object when I took the towel from him and started drying. I tried to be gentle. He appeared fragile.

When I was done, he still hadn't moved. His eyes seemed kind of glassy.

I set the inside of my wrist against his forehead but it didn't seem warm. His temperature appeared to be normal. I tried to remember where Mom kept our thermometer.

Maybe some aspirin? I seemed to recall that was Mom's panacea of choice. There had to be some aspirin in her bathroom.

When I expressed my concern, Scruffy waved me away again.

"What's the matter?" I hoped he might offer me a clue.

He shook his head wearily.

"I didn't know what to do."

That was it. He didn't know what to do.

"When I woke, we were already soaked. Poor Sebastian."

He looked around for the dog.

"I just couldn't figure out what we were going to do."

"Have breakfast?" I suggested.

I was just relieved to learn that he wasn't seriously ill.

A hot meal seemed to buck him up a bit. But Scruffy wasn't his usual self. The storm appeared to have taken something out of him.

There was no point in trying to work, so we spent the day at home. Actually, he spent a good part of the morning in my bed. He wasn't sick. But he was exhausted.

After lunch, I concocted a plan. The day was wasted. I certainly didn't want Scruffy to return to the Crenshaw place to spend the night alone.

He didn't have anywhere else to go. So I did what scheming teens do best. I. . . avoided the truth.

I called my mom at work. I explained that I hadn't been able to reach Scruffy's mother. I hinted that I was worried he might not be feeling well. I asked if he could spend the night.

I could hear the hesitation in Mom's voice. I hoped I was adequately prepared for the inevitable questions. She took a deep breath.

"Yes," she said.

That was it. No third degree. Not even a single question. Just 'yes'.

"A night in a real bed was nice," Scruffy sighed.

Wednesday morning dawned sunny and warm. We needed to return to work.

Mom got up early. She fixed us another hot breakfast. She doted on Scruffy. I was almost beginning to resent him.

Then she left with the excuse that she had to get to work early to make some calls.

That should have set off alarm bells. But it didn't. Everything had felt so normal for the past twenty-four hours. It was. . . really nice.

At the Crenshaw place, Scruffy and I worked well. We finished painting the barn. We started tackling some of the cosmetic work on the outbuildings. I hoped that Ms. Schultz might call soon with the news that the owners wanted the house painted, too.

Before I left, we created a snug little nest for him and Sebastian in one of the outbuildings. I made sure that it was sheltered from rain and would be as warm as we could make it if a night turned cold.

I promised Scruffy that I would try to keep track of the weather and let him know about nights where there was no chance of precipitation in the forecast. He really did enjoy sleeping outdoors.

"I need to talk to you," Mom announced at the end of dinner. "It's about your friend, William."

"William?"

Oh! Scruffy. Did I tell her that his name was William?

She danced carefully around the topic. Her wariness made me wary.

"He seems a very nice young man."

That seemed obvious.

"He works hard."

I couldn't complain.

"Your dog seems very attached to him."

That hurt a little.

" Do his parents often leave him with so little supervision?"

Oops! She almost lulled me into letting my defenses down.

"Uh, I guess. I mean, I really don't know. I've never met them," I instantly wished I hadn't admitted that. She might insist.

"I see," Mom nodded thoughtfully. There was nothing menacing about her reaction.

"I had a sense yesterday morning, when I noticed the rain, that it might be a good idea to check on him. I know that sometimes he's already waiting when you arrive at the Crenshaw farm," she seemed to be choosing her words carefully.

Instead of her usual direct Mom stare, she looked away.

"I'd prefer to speak with William's parents. But if they aren't available. . ."

That was another thought that she didn't finish. It was an unfamiliar side of her.

"If you're ever concerned about him, or if you think he's camping out when the weather might not be good. . ."

I've never known Mom to have so much trouble getting directly to her point. Not even when Benjer tried to make that Bradford kid blow him. She didn't have any trouble at all getting her point across to me on that occasion.

Oh my god! I hope she hasn't heard about the O'Connor kid!

"What I'm trying to tell you, Kyle, is that it's okay for you to invite William to spend the night occasionally. I really need to speak with his parents sooner or later, but I want you to. . . I insist that you invite him to spend the night here if you think he'll be outdoors in bad weather again."

Oh.

Well why didn't she just say so?

That night there were several calls back and forth between our house and the O'Connor residence. I didn't listen in. I'm not a snoop. I just found them on the Caller ID the following morning.

I guess it was a relief. All these calls and she still hadn't heard anything about me and Fionn O'Connor. But I couldn't figure out why she spent so much time talking to that family.

It became almost a regular occurrence after that. Once I understood that not only was my mother serious, but that she insisted, whenever we finished working and I had the feeling that the weather might be turning overnight, I invited Scruffy to come home with me for dinner.

Mom never insisted on advance notice. I think she appreciated his visits too much to complain about any inconvenience.

When dinner was over, if there seemed any chance of bad weather, Mom would just ask Scruffy if he thought his parents would mind if he spent the night with us.

When Scruffy realized that it had become a regular thing, at first he was awkwardly resistant. Then he became almost pathetically grateful.

I couldn't bring myself to look at him when his eyes began to shimmer. No one's life should be so miserable that a bit of human kindness brings them to the verge of tears.

I don't know how Mom felt about that. But she always seemed pleased when he agreed to stay with us.

We had a guest bedroom. Mom had designated it for Scruffy's use. But more often than not he would be in my room with me, nestled comfortably against my side while we watched something on television, Sebastian curled up at our feet, and he would fall asleep.

When Scruffy visited, I probably spent more nights on the couch then he spent in our guest room. If this was what having a little brother would have been like. . . despite the inconvenience, I decided that I had really missed out on something pretty cool.

You'd be surprised at some of the crap they show on television these days. Well, maybe you wouldn't. But they do show some awful stuff. It was while watching a disturbing program about child abuse that I learned the rest of Scruffy's story.

It started innocently enough. It almost felt like a non sequitur. Scruffy and I were viewing some 'real life crime' story about a guy that abused dozens of children before he had been caught by some 'real life crime' investigative team.

"I wonder where my father is."

It would have been an innocent enough question, except for the context. A story about child abuse made Scruffy think of his father.

In a way, it's a good thing I made that connection. Otherwise I might have been freaking out. I had hired Mrs. O'Connor to help us find a way for Scruffy to become part of some family here in Antioch and he was wondering about his father's whereabouts.

I wanted him to stay in Antioch and remain a part of my life. If Mr. Scruffy suddenly waltzed onto the scene, I might never see him again.

I kept cool. I didn't press him with questions. But I showed interest and let Scruffy fill in as many details for me as made him comfortable. I never anticipated how uncomfortable those details might make me feel.

"I don't really like warm apple pie," he told me. "I mean, I guess I don't mind the apples. It's the surprise at the end that always made me gag."

Apparently, Scruffy's father liked old movies. He liked to share them with his eldest son.

After Scruffy's younger brother and sister were put to bed, and assuming that his mother was out of the house on her own righteous business, father and son would cuddle on the living room sofa watching old movies on DVD. These were affectionate moments, full of horseplay between father and son.

In time, they became something more. That started before Scruffy was even old enough for school.

Half of me wanted to take a break; maybe even a long break. I had a sense for where this was going. But I also had Scruffy talking, sharing his past with me.

At first, Scruffy actually thought it was fun. It was fun to watch movies with dear old dad wearing nothing but their jockey shorts. It was even more fun, in a forbidden way, when those jockey shorts disappeared.

By the time Scruffy was old enough to attend school, one of dad's jobs every morning was to help Scruffy learn how to groom himself. At night, dad did all of the grooming.

Looking, touching, learning how to talk about forbidden things was actually kind of fun. Scruffy didn't realize that the other boys at school had never heard of these things when he shared dirty stories with them. They started to think he was a little weird.

One night— Scruffy thought that he had been about eight years old— he and dad watched an old movie from the '90s. There was a really weird joke in that movie about warm apple pie. Scruffy didn't really get it, but he could tell that it was dirty.

When his dad laughed, Scruffy decided that he should laugh, too. Dad shared a knowing look with him.

The next time Scruffy and dad shared a movie night, dad had made pie. When it came out of the oven, it smelled wonderful! Scruffy wanted to try some. Dad insisted that they wait until later. After the pie had cooled enough.

Then he let Scruffy try some. It wasn't the way apple pie is traditionally served. Dad called it "a la commode". He laughed his dirty laugh. Scruffy laughed, too.

When Scruffy was finishing his pie, dad encouraged his son to clean him off. He insisted that Scruffy clean him off really well. That's when Scruffy got his first mouthful.

Over the next couple of years, Scruffy 'enjoyed' a lot of 'a la commode'. He discovered that it wasn't traditionally served with warm apple pie. Dad seemed to enjoy serving it straight.

Scruffy learned not to talk about 'a la commode' with his friends at school. But by then it was too late. He had been indiscreet too often. He didn't really have many friends left anymore.

At home, dad continued Scruffy's education. Scruffy had learned that these special classes weren't always much fun. But dad insisted. He was real friendly about it, but he insisted.

When Scruffy was ten or eleven, he and dad watched a movie about a weird man in a purple suit. Scruffy had completely tuned out the name of the movie, but he remembered that the guy had these little orange men working for him. It was during that movie that Scruffy learned about 'fudge packing'.

Scruffy thought that fudge packing might be fun. Sometimes he was allowed to eat chocolate. He liked it. But fudge packing wasn't much fun at all. It was a thorough pain in the ass.

But after years of being 'daddy's little man', Scruffy had come to depend on his father. He sensed that his mother really didn't like him. His younger brother and sister were clones of their mother. They hated their dad. They kept far away from him. They didn't like Scruffy much either.

Scruffy threw his energy into sports. He was barely tolerated at school. On the athletic field, after his coaches saw what he could do, he discovered that he had found a second home! The other kids still didn't like him much. But the coaches fawned all over him.

It was an existence that Scruffy discovered he could tolerate. He kept daddy happy at home. He excelled at athletics and kept his coaches happy. He survived.

Scruffy had learned that daddy's-little-man play time was a deep, dark secret. He stopped talking about anything related to those subjects. But some of his peers had already figured out that maybe he was a little more than just weird.

During his seventh grade year— just at the end of his soccer season, as a matter of fact— Scruffy's life took a turn for the worse. His secret came out. His secret came out just as daddy's secret was going in.

Mom arrived home unexpectedly.

Dad left through his bedroom window. He barely had time to pack a suitcase and grab his car keys.

Scruffy was certain that he must be the spawn of Satan. His mother spent weeks telling him that he was. Scruffy was pretty sure that he would soon experience an exorcism; up close and personal, as it were.

In the end, there was no exorcism. Scruffy was isolated at home. He wasn't allowed to be anywhere near his brother and sister without close adult supervision.

His younger siblings picked up on his change of status. They became abusive in their own ways.

By the time he returned to school to begin the eighth grade, Scruffy was despondent. He was still amazing on the soccer pitch. But he had lost his passion for it.

His coach noticed his loss of enthusiasm. His resentful teammates took some liberties with his loss of protected status. In the end, he spent a week wiping lint out of his butt every morning. It really hadn't been a great soccer season.

As the year progressed, Scruffy thought that his mother was becoming even more hateful toward him. He didn't understand why. He had heard her on the telephone arguing with someone about child support. His only thought was that it would be nice if someone supported him occasionally.

By the time spring arrived, Scruffy's mother was talking openly about wishing that he would leave. She watched him closely all of the time. He walked very carefully whenever he was around her.

It was in April when his brother came forward with the story about Scruffy 'trying something dirty' with him. It hadn't happened. Scruffy was never even alone with his siblings.

That didn't stop his sister from telling a similar story. And that finally gave his mother her justification for offering Scruffy his choice: the State or the street.

Scruffy chose the street.

It was the sort of story I could have barely imagined. Before I met Scruffy and had intimations of his previous life, I doubt that I would have imagined it.

As far as I could tell, whatever his feelings toward his son, Scruffy's father had mostly just used him for sexual pleasure. I had the sense that maybe his mother had even suspected, but had kept silent to keep the breadwinner at home. She carefully protected her two youngest and left Scruffy to the wolf.

His mother quietly resented him for the choice she had made. And when she caught daddy doing to Scruffy what daddies weren't supposed to do, there was no longer denial to hide behind.

Mom blew a fuse. Dad was gone. And it seemed that when dad wasn't doing anything to provide bread for the family, the black sheep had to be sacrificed.

If I hadn't already grown fond of Scruffy during the weeks we had spent together, I still would have felt empathy for someone who went through such an ordeal.

But I knew Scruffy. I really liked him. I burned to do something to wash away his guilt, his shame, his memories. But I was powerless to do anything except rage inwardly.

I thought I heard something, maybe coming from the hallway outside my bedroom. Possibly a choked sob. That's when I realized that I was crying. When I turned my head to look at Scruffy, I noticed that my pillow was already soaked.

I did the only thing I could do. I pulled Scruffy closer to me and held him.

He was exhausted. I was emotionally drained. We both fell asleep.

I couldn't even summon the energy to turn off the light.

The sky outside my bedroom window had barely started to turn gray when I woke. Something had disturbed my sleep.

Scruffy was stirring restlessly in his sleep. Stirring and whimpering. Maybe he had pulled at the sheet that was tucked around both of us and that woke me?

Scruffy continued to stir in his sleep. His arms and legs weren't thrashing, but they were restless. His muffled moans suggested that he was engaged in some sort of struggle.

I noticed the outline of Sebastian's head on the other side of Scruffy. The dog was lying against him, offering comfort with his presence. Something about his body language made it feel to me like it was a familiar, practiced presence.

I couldn't make out Sebastian's eyes or the expression on his face, but the cock of his head seemed to say, 'I'm doing my part. What are you going to do?'

What was I going to do?

I didn't want to wake Scruffy. I didn't want to call Mom and risk her asking too many questions.

I pulled Scruffy's head onto my shoulder, cradled him in my arms, and kissed him on the forehead.

Surprisingly, it seemed to help. His struggles decreased. His cries lessened. He burrowed his head into the side of my neck, drew in a deep, ragged breath, and seemed to settle back down.

The faint gray outside my window told me that it would be almost two hours before we needed to get up. I held Scruffy just a little tighter and closed my eyes.

Mom was watching us both very carefully when we finally came down for breakfast. She always seemed to stick around the house longer in the morning when Scruffy spent the night.

On days when I came down the stairs alone, I might find an empty bowl and some silverware in my place at the breakfast table. Maybe an occasional note wishing me a nice day. When Scruffy stayed with us, she didn't leave for work until she had served a full, hot breakfast. On this occasion, she had even prepared what she called a blueberry buckle. It's a blueberry coffee cake covered with a sugar and cinnamon topping. It tastes incredible!

And she reminded Scruffy to take anything we didn't eat with him. Just in case he wasn't able to come back spend the night with us again.

Scruffy regarded me shyly during our walk to the Crenshaw place. It was an unobtrusive but appraising look.

I suppose I'm not the most sensitive person in the world. But I was pretty sure that I knew what he wanted. Reassurance.

He had delivered some pretty heavy news about his past during our conversation the previous night. He was trying to figure out how I had taken it.

I tried to measure the right response. He needed some reassurance. Too much reassurance might feel insincere.

So I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, gave him a grin, and pulled him to me. Then I let go.

It seemed to be what he needed.

We really didn't have a lot of work to do at the farm. We kept busy finding areas on the barn where the paint could need some touch-up. We finished cleaning out one of the outbuildings and stored what we found there in the other. There was a big pile that I was pretty sure would only end up in the trash.

We took our time with the work. We broke for lunch early.

When we were through eating, Scruffy suggested some time with the ball. He commented that he really missed playing soccer.

So we kicked it around for the better part of two hours. Then we needed to clean up.

I couldn't help myself. It had been a while since I first noticed his injuries. I needed to check.

With the exception of a few scars that may have been permanent, his back looked fine. I didn't see evidence of any bruises.

Maybe I shouldn't have looked. I'm not gay. But I am a sixteen-year-old guy. Surreptitious glances led to excitement. I don't even understand how or why.

Scruffy noticed. He didn't seem offended. Maybe he associated it with something else.

"Do you want me to?" he gestured.

I was horrified. I hadn't been thinking that at all!

I tried to explain.

"After everything you went through, why would you even offer to do that for me?"

In his eyes, it was simple.

"I like you. It isn't so bad when you like someone."

I needed to figure my problem out. Scruffy was the little brother I never had. You don't do something like that with your son. . . or with your little brother.

I wanted to invite Scruffy home with me again. But the weather had been fine and the forecast was favorable. I didn't want him spending so much time with us that Mom had to start asking difficult questions.

Scruffy solved my dilemma for me. When I hinted that it was time for us to head home, he gave me a hug and said good-bye. He told me that he was looking forward to spending the night under the stars.

Half of me wanted to volunteer to spend the night under the stars with him.

Mom seemed surprised to find me alone when she returned home from work.

"Your friend couldn't spend the night?" she asked.

"I think he might have been missing his family."

I evaded the question.

She seemed disappointed.

"He has your dog with him?"

I nodded. That seemed to reassure her.

After dinner, she called me into the living room for 'a few questions about my friend'.

Suddenly dinner wasn't settling very well.

It could have been worse. She didn't dig into Scruffy's background or his family. She seemed a lot more concerned about the sort of person that he was. Was he really as good a worker as he seemed to be? How was he with the dog? Was he responsible? What sort of things interested him? Would I want him to keep working with me if there was other property around town that needed maintenance?

That one was interesting. I suppose it was good news. She approved of my choice of summer job. But I wasn't sure I wanted her getting too involved in my work.

As dark settled outside the house, I noticed the wind begin to pick up.

So did Mom. Every few minutes I found her standing in front of a window, staring out into the darkness with a worried expression on her face.

When the questions ran out— at least the ones she was willing to ask, I had a feeling that there were more— she actually encouraged me to go up to my room and watch television instead of spending the evening with her.

"I have some telephone calls to make," she explained.

Mom surprised me Saturday morning with a gift, of sorts. A large picnic chest.

"It's something to help keep your drinks cool and your food safe," she suggested as she ordered me to load it into the pickup truck. "I have more freezer packs in our ice chest. You'll just need to remember to bring them with you every day."

I'd have been happier with a ride-on mower or maybe an ATV. But it was a nice gesture.

I spent the day mowing. Scruffy continued work cleaning in the old outbuildings. Sebastian waiting patiently until we were free to play with him.

Lunch was special. That chest hadn't felt empty when I loaded it into the truck. Inside were sandwiches, potato salad, and a half gallon of lemonade that must have spent the night in our freezer. It was still slushy. There were also some tomatoes, cucumbers and other fresh vegetables inside. But, you know. . .

When Mom returned to pick me up at the end of the day, she asked Scruffy if he could spend the night at our house. He didn't need any persuading. Mom just made him promise to try to call his parents when we got home, and tell them where he was when he contacted them.

Then she took us out for ice cream.

My mother!

Mrs. O'Connor was almost excessively cheerful when she picked me up Monday morning. She had heard from the Vermont State Bar Association. It was official! I had a lawyer!

She had more news. She had tracked down Scruffy's mother. Not a pleasant experience.

But it had been productive. Mrs. Scruffy agreed that she might be willing to give up legal custody of her son. He had been nothing but trouble and a disappointment to her and she couldn't imagine why anyone would want him. But there it was.

There were just two flies in the ointment. Mr. Scruffy, whereabouts unknown. And the small matter of three thousand dollars she was owned in back child support for Scruffy's upkeep and care. That issue had to be resolved.

"She's a horrible woman."

I knew it wasn't my story to share. But I've watched a lot of cop shows. I asked Mrs. O'Connor about a hypothetical child whose father had treated him the way Scruffy's father had treated his son.

She considered the 'hypothetical' thoughtfully.

"If that father were ever located, he'd be in serious trouble," she concluded. "A person like that would be a fool to ever appear in court and contest custody of William, um, his son."

She continued to think as she drove.

"What do you think about a man like that, Kyle?"

Surprisingly, I knew the right answer.

"I wouldn't ever want to be someone like that," I answered heatedly. "I may never forgive myself for the thing I did to your son. I could never even imagine doing something like that to my family."

I even managed to look directly at her when I said it.

I think we were on the same page.

"I'm very glad to hear that. It's important to me."

She continued to think as she drove, tapping distractedly on the steering wheel.

I stared out the window until the shame had faded from my face.

"It would help if William would swear out an affidavit against his father," she decided. "A court wouldn't ordinarily grant permanent legal guardianship over a minor without the consent of both custodial parents. But in this case, I think a new family for William might be granted contingent guardianship. And if his father never appears again, that guardianship would become, de facto, permanent."

That felt like great news. I just hoped that Mrs. O'Connor would be as good at finding a family for Scruffy somewhere in Antioch.

It was reassuring to know that he would be safe. But I really didn't want to lose him.

I wasn't in the best mood when I started work on Tuesday. When I got home from work on Monday, I had found a letter waiting for me.

It was from the high school. A reminder that pre-season soccer practice started on August 10, just a couple of weeks away.

My summer was slipping away.

I had been looking forward to soccer. I had played well for the past two years. I thought I had a pretty good chance to earn a starting role on the varsity team this year. But then I met Scruffy and my priorities had slowly started to change.

I planned to continue working, even after soccer practice started, as long as there was something to do at the Crenshaw place. If the owner decided to paint the house, the work could continue right up until the start of school. I planned to keep mowing the lawn on Saturday even after school started.

But with soccer practice, I'd have a lot less time for work. And when I had time, I would need to focus on work. That would give me less time with Scruffy.

Just thinking about that prospect left a hole in my chest. He had become the most important part of my life in just six weeks!

I didn't say anything about my concerns. I think Scruffy suspected that something was bothering me. Sebastian knew. He kept trying to get us to play soccer with him.

It was hard for me to focus. I had a lot to think about.

I wasn't feeling any better when I got home from work on Wednesday. Even when I found a letter waiting for me. It was another check from my employer— so I guess I did feel a little better. Ms. Schultz included a note informing me that they really liked the work I had done on the barn, but they still hadn't made a decision about painting the house.

I shuffled through the rest of the mail. I don't know what I was hoping to find. Maybe a letter from the school announcing that soccer practice would start later than planned. Maybe a notice that the entire school year was being called off.

There wasn't much in the mailbox beyond the usual junk, bills, junk, and a letter addressed to "Dorothy Kaye Murphy". That, of course, was Mom. The inclusion of her middle name was a bit overformal, I thought. But it came from a court.

Holy shit! I hoped that I wasn't finally getting what I had coming to me for what I did to Mrs. O'Connor's son. I gave urgent consideration to the idea of joining a religious order.

But the letter came from the Probate Court in Newport, New Hampshire. I didn't know anybody in Newport. And I couldn't imagine that I would be prosecuted in New Hampshire for a crime I had committed in Vermont.

I wondered if it might have something to do with Dad's estate. We were more than a year removed from the last legal nonsense that followed his death. But that was the only thing that made sense to me.

Mom examined the mail when she arrived home fifty minutes later. She asked absently if Scruffy was joining us for dinner. She didn't turn purple and start screaming at me when she saw the court letter.

I assumed that I'd live another day.

On Thursday, another ominous letter addressed to Mom was waiting in the mail. This one was addressed to "Dorothy K. Murphy". It was from another probate court. A local court located in Brattleboro, Vermont.

Oh. My. God!

A second letter from another probate court really set off my spidey sense! And this court did have jurisdiction over me!

The skin was crawling on the back of my neck and all the way down to my ass. That wasn't a very comfortable sensation. I was worried that my ass was going to be in real trouble. And so was it!

I desperately needed a distraction. Fortunately, it arrived just in the nick of time.

I also had more mail! It was from Ms. Schultz again.

She had heard from the owners of the Crenshaw property. They wanted the house painted! I just needed to figure out where I'd find the time to do it.

The owners realized that I was sixteen. They knew that the only painting experience I had was on their barn. They made allowances.

Ms. Schultz told me that I'd be hearing from a local painter that the owners had contracted to spend a day with me, teaching me how to handle some of the trickier aspects of painting the trim on the house. I hoped that he wouldn't be upset with me for taking work from him.

The problem was that I needed money! The owners would be sending an advance on the project to purchase more paint. But Ms. Schultz suggested that it might make sense for me to rent something she called "staging". The expert painter would explain that to me.

My concern is that I figured I was suddenly on the hook for some real expenses, even if I would eventually be reimbursed. I needed help.

I was pacing impatiently when Mom arrived home. She glanced at the mail. She seemed eager to open that court letter!

After reading it thoroughly, she noticed me. She appeared to sense my mood. Then she noticed that Scruffy hadn't come home with me.

"Do you think we might still find William at the Crenshaw place at this hour?" she asked.

I knew that answer. But I couldn't come right out and say it.

"Maybe?"

Not unsurprisingly, he was there. Somewhat surprisingly, Mom insisted on driving there to find out. Her reason? She wanted to take us out to dinner.

I wanted to give Scruffy a hard time. He didn't have anything decent to change into.

I was real worried that Mom was going to suggest that we drive to his home so he could change. Instead, she promised to take us someplace where the standards would be low enough even to "allow Kyle to dine there".

Silently, I thanked her. I wasn't even conflicted about her snide crack at me.

Apparently, it wasn't a special occasion. She just wanted to take us out to eat. Aside from a few questions about our job, she didn't even grill us. She spent most of the time sitting back and watching us interact. She seemed to enjoy watching us together.

Well, I guess she would. Scruffy wasn't Benjer Frye or Sheldon Corrie.

When we had finished eating, Mom gently asked Scruffy if he would like to spend the night.

Sebastian was waiting impatiently for us in the car. I still had a few older clothes at home that would fit Scruffy. He was a bit reticent about the invitation, but in the end he seemed grateful to accept.

We spent the evening visiting together at home. Scruffy seemed to enjoy the attention, so I didn't complain.

When it was time for bed, I told Scruffy that I'd follow him and Sebastian up in a few minutes. I needed to talk to Mom.

I explained about the painting job for the Crenshaw house. I told her about the paint and supplies that needed to be purchased. I promised that I was going to be reimbursed for my expenses. But I didn't have the money yet. I asked if she could help me pay for what I needed.

She followed my explanation with what appeared to be pride. I guess she appreciated my businesslike approach. But her face fell when I made my request and told her how much money I thought I would need.

"I'm sorry, Kyle. I'll do what I can. But I can't promise too much money right now. We've had several unexpected expenses come up suddenly. I'm still trying to figure out how I can manage them."

That was a wet towel landing on my face with a solid 'squish'. I tried not to let my disappointment show. I tried to be adult about it. I even tried to figure out if there might be a way to postpone some of my coming expenses until more paychecks arrived.

I figured that I'd manage. It wasn't like the owners of the Crenshaw place were in town and breathing down my neck to get the house painted.

The biggest deadlines I had looming were the start of school and the eventual arrival of colder weather. There were only so many good painting days left until fall weather created its own challenges.

But I resolved to find a way. It was my business. I was responsible. I would make it work.

Scruffy actually ended up staying with us right through the weekend. I don't know what Mom said to him.

But every morning I woke up, went up to my room and found him in my bed, dragged him down to a hot breakfast, and we went to work. It was a routine that I discovered I really enjoyed.

Mom didn't say any more to me about my financial problems. Every now and then I noticed her watching me with concern on her face. But I think she noticed that I was finding my own way to manage my business.

It was a glorious weekend! We worked, but Scruffy, Sebastian, and I also had a lot of fun out at the Crenshaw place. We made some memories.

I needed that. The start of soccer practice was just over a week away. Nothing would be quite the same after that.

It was depressing. I had a great summer. It was completely unexpected when school let out in June. But I met Scruffy and together we had a wonderful time!

What I couldn't figure out was how something that had tasted so sweet was now starting to turn bitter in my mouth. Sweet things really should last forever.

Mrs. O'Connor noticed my mood as soon as I got into her SUV Monday morning. Once again, she was alone.

It didn't take her long to get me to spill my guts. I was worried about Scruffy.

She was reassuring. She told me that she was almost certain that she had found a home for 'William'. She just had a few final details to wrap up. Then I would get her bill. She grinned.

I hoped that she was teasing me. Between Mom's financial worries and my recent concerns, it would be a long time before I could afford to pay more than token legal fees.

But I was grateful that it was looking like Scruffy would have a decent place to live. I had been worried for weeks that Mom was going to put two and two together and decide that she was required to call Children's Services or something.

"I'm pretty sure she suspects something," I told Mrs. O'Connor. "She doesn't say anything, but she watches us a lot."

Mrs. O'Connor nodded thoughtfully and kept her eyes on the road.

"I mean, she probably does know something. Do you think so?"

"Well," Mrs. O'Connor paused thoughtfully. "Your mother is a pretty smart woman. It wouldn't surprise me if she does."

The way she said it kept me calm. It didn't panic me. But I had something new to worry about. I just hoped that there wouldn't be a problem before Mrs. O'Connor had Scruffy in his new home.

"Will he be living in Antioch?" I wondered.

Mrs. O'Connor gave me a pitying look. At least that's how it looked to me. I felt that hole start to grow in my chest again.

"I think so."

She glanced away from the road and eyed me closely. I started to panic.

"It looks like the New Hampshire Court is willing to let William live in Vermont if this state provides adequate supervision and keeps them apprised of his progress."

She resumed watching the road.

I felt a lot better. But I still felt a sense of loss.

She noticed.

"I just wish he could live with me."

I had tried to be stoic about losing Scruffy. But the admission was dragged from me.

"Do you want him?"

She seemed surprised.

"Maybe you just need to ask."

But it couldn't work. Mom had financial worries. My needs were an additional burden.

She gave me another pitying look.

My day turned even stranger when I got home that afternoon. There was more mail waiting. I still didn't have another paycheck. But there was a very formal letter addressed again to "Dorothy K. Murphy". This was also from the Windham Probate Court in Brattleboro.

I didn't understand it. But I wasn't in handcuffs yet. I was starting to hope that it really did have something to do with Dad's estate. If there was even a little money left there. . .

It just might solve a few problems.

Scruffy and I worked together on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thursday morning, Mrs. O'Connor came for him.

There were some formalities that he needed to complete. Just some paperwork, she assured me. She would bring him back.

The rest of the day felt empty. I worked. Sebastian wandered about absently, like he was lost.

I only had four more days left until soccer practice started and Scruffy wasn't even around for one of them.

I don't believe my work suffered. I think I can say that much for myself. I was feeling pretty depressed, but I managed to stay focused on the work.

Mrs. O'Connor didn't return until after four o'clock. I had almost given up and headed home. But I didn't want to miss seeing Scruffy.

He was sitting in the front seat of the SUV, right next to Mrs. O'Connor. He was looking rather pleased with himself.

She gave him some time to gather his belongings. Watching him pack what he had managed to gather over the course of a few weeks made me even more depressed.

When he came back to the car, he seemed so happy that I could only do my best to be happy for him. He had a home. It was what I had wanted for him all summer. But in the moment, it just wasn't enough.

Apparently his new home was even going to be in Antioch. We would remain friends. We would go to school together. But I had really enjoyed seven weeks of having a little brother. It would take me a while to get over the loss.

Scruffy resumed his seat next to Mrs. O'Connor. It was his day. He deserved to ride shotgun.

I think Mrs. O'Connor was aware of my disappointment. She tried to offer encouragement.

I had been hoping that I would at least get to see where Scruffy would be living. I hoped to meet his new family. Instead Mrs. O'Connor drove me home first.

Scruffy got out of the SUV along with me. I gave him a huge hug. I insisted that he write down my phone number so he could call as soon as he was home.

He watched my breakdown fondly. He almost looked amused.

Mrs. O'Connor joined us outside the SUV. She was shaking her head gently. I couldn't imagine what she found entertaining about my distress.

I wanted to say something to her. She beat me to it.

"Kyle!"

She made sure I was paying attention.

"I told you."

All eyes were on me.

"You just have to ask!"

I'm not entirely sure how long I stood there. But eventually gravity did its work. The penny dropped.

I rewound and replayed the past few weeks in my mind. Then I checked again. Yeah. The penny had definitely dropped!

I grinned like a maniac— or so I was told later.

I grabbed Scruffy's hand and dragged him toward the house.

Sebastian followed, barking excitedly in our wake.

I opened the front door.

My mother was already there waiting. There were some sort of colorful decorations in the background. The house was filled with the aroma of freshly baked food.

Mom was smiling. I almost commented on her lack of sensitivity to my emotional distress.

Instead I did the right thing for once. I said the right thing.

"Please, Mom!"

I had figured out that it wasn't necessary to plead, but I had been wanting this so much.

"Please! Can we keep him?!"

—The End—

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Scruffy

by Nico Grey

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