Right Kind of Wrong(98)

My mother and father barely paid attention to my interests. I doubt they ever even knew I’d read a single book, let alone one in particular over and over. But Marcella knew. She always made a point to care about the things I cared about. “You are my favorite boy, mijo,” she would say.

She always called me mijo.

Son.

That Christmas, she’d wrapped the book in a green box with a red ribbon. I remember because that was the same box I decided to keep my collectable baseball cards in.

I brought the box to Turner’s house one day to show off my new cards and proudly informed him that I had looked up the value of each one and knew I could sell the lot for at least a hundred dollars. Money was important to me back then. Money was all that mattered. My dad taught me that.

But later that day while I was mowing his lawn, Turner took my box of cards because, according to him, I was “too spoiled to appreciate them.”

He was right, of course, but at the time I didn’t care. I was furious, convinced he was going to sell the cards himself so he could have the money. But because I was just as spoiled as he’d claimed, I only stayed mad until my father bought me more baseball cards a few days later.

That’s how things worked in my family: My parents bought me whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, as long as I stayed out of their hair. I was an only child and I’m pretty sure I was a mistake. If my parents had planned to have me I’m sure they would have put a little more effort into… well, me. But I was an accident and, therefore, an inconvenience. An inconvenience easily soothed with a few new toys.

When I announced to Turner that I no longer cared about my stolen box of baseball cards, he laughed and said, “Someday you might.” Then he promised that, someday, he’d return them to me.

I stare at my cell phone where the voice mail screen blinks back at me. Maybe this is Turner’s way of coming through on that promise, after death.

The pressure starts to wind its way around my chest again, thick and tight, and I feel the air seep from my lungs. I can’t believe he’s gone. Really gone.

A clanging noise startles my thoughts and I whip around to see a tow truck backed up to Monique and hauling her onto its bed. My eyes widen in horror.

“Hey!” I shout at the overweight truck driver, who’s got a toothpick in his mouth and a handlebar mustache. “What are you doing?”

He barely glances at me. “Taking her in. Repo.”

“Repo?” I start to panic. “No, no. There must be some mistake. A year’s worth of payments were made on that car. I still have until next month.”

He hands me a crumpled statement stained with greasy fingerprints and an unidentifiable smudge of brown. “Not according to the bank.”

I quickly scan the paper. “Shit.” I was sure those payments were good through August. I rub a hand over my mouth and try to clear my head. “Listen,” I say, trying to stay calm as I appeal to the driver. “We can work this out. What do I need to do to get you to unhook my innocent car?”

He looks bored. “You got four months of payments on you?”

“Uh, no. But I have…” I pull out the contents of my pocket. “Forty-two dollars, a broken watch, and some red dirt.”

A few grains of the dirt slip through my fingers and I think about all the weekends I spent taking care of Turner’s yard. The lawn was healthy and the garden was abundant, but Turner’s favorite part of the yard was the rose garden. I could tell that he was especially fond of his white roses, so I cared for those thorny flowers like they were helpless babies, and Turner wasn’t shy about praising me for it. Every Saturday, I’d rake through the rare red topsoil Turner planted around his precious roses, making sure the bushes could breathe and grow. I pricked my fingers more times than I can count, but those roses never withered, and for that I was always proud. I think Old Man Turner was proud of my work too.

The tow truck guy shrugs. “No cash, no car. Sorry.” He starts to lift Monique off the ground and I swear it’s like watching someone kidnap a loved one.

“Wait—wait!” I hold up a hand. “I can get it. I can get you the money. I just—I just need a little time.”

“Talk to the bank.”

I quickly shake my head. “No, you see. I can’t talk to the bank because the bank hates me—”

“Gee, I wonder why.” He doesn’t look at me.

“But I can get the money!” I gesture to Monique. “Just put my baby back down and you and I can go get a beer and talk this whole thing out.” I flash a smile. “What do you say?”

He scoffs. “You pretty boys are all the same. Used to getting whatever you want with Daddy’s money and pitching fits when someone takes your toys away.” He shakes his head and climbs back into the tow truck. “See ya.”