Page 10 of Stone Blind

“I like that idea,” Apple replied.

“The living room isn’t too large,” Helen said, “and the dining room, if... I’m sorry, was it Mr. Collins? Ricky? Sounds solid, but could you possibly make a project board so the young men can chart their progress on the board for assignments around the home.”

“Good, keep going,” Apple said.

“I can take time over breakfast to sit with each young man, figure out what how they want their rooms to look, and possibly, take each one shopping individually to pick out curtains and bedding for their rooms,” Helen said.

She saw Oscar’s face light up. Jeffrey even engaged when she said it, and her eyes went to Apple. “Mr. Milton, you will be last on the list to shop with me to get the items for your room. I hope you don’t mind being last,” she said.

If Bad Apple could look amused, his expression didn’t show it. He looked more or less as if he had a ball of gas built up under this left lung. When he exhaled, his lip twisted, but he gave her a head nod. “I’ll go get pizza. In the meantime, guys come unload my truck. Get the cleaning supplies and start going over the rooms. Mop, sweep, dust, and wash down those dirty windowpanes. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Ricky walked outside with the kids, helping them to unload. Helen remained in the kitchen looking about the nasty space, wondering what in the world she was going to do here for three months with this ragtag crew of people. Suddenly, a charge filled her core. Oscar ran into the house, holding a broom with a wide smile on his face.

“Ms. Helen! Ms. Helen, I’m going to sweep my room. Let me show you which one I picked,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her along.

His room was directly across the hall from the room she had. The joy on his face touched her as he walked about the space. Suddenly, he looked at her with tears in his eyes.

“I was so scared,” Oscar said. “I was so scared of that man...I fought him, Ms. Helen, but he wouldn’t let me eat. If I wanted to eat, I had to do things. You’re here. They won’t hurt me or make me do things for food, will they?”

Helen rushed to the child’s side. “No one is going to hurt you, Oscar. You will have food and a safe place to sleep and go to school and learn.”

“Good, I like school,” he said. “Ms. Helen, this will be my very own room? I don’t have to share it?”

“As far as I know, this is your room and you don’t have to share it,” she replied.

“Do you think I can be happy here and grow up to be a good man who will have his own family one day, with a good job and a pickup truck?”

“Oscar, I pray all good things for you and your life,” she told him, suddenly feeling protective of the boy.

“Awesome,” he said. “Okay, I have to get to work. I have the broom first, then I get the mop. After that, I have to clean my windows. Not a lot of time. Not a lot of time. Get it done, Oscar. Get it done.”

She stood in the doorway as Jeffrey walked by. He side-eyed her as if he were assessing her fit to grace the same hallway as him. She looked at his hair, which was a mess, and he smelled like a bit of an angry teen stuck in an unwashed body. Stephen, on the other hand, pranced his way down the hall, holding the mop bucket and a dry dust mop.

“Ms. Lady, I want my room in chartreuse,” he announced, “with hot pink accents. And hats. A bitch loves himself some hats.”

Helen wanted to correct him on the self-denigration, but that’s not why she was here. An acknowledgement of his words was all she did. Helen went to her own car to remove a few items, and one was a small, brimmed chapeau she liked to wear when she was feeling like a bad ass. This item she brought into the house and gave to Stephen.

You would have thought she’d given the child a crisp hundred the way he reacted. She pulled out a large bottle of lotion and passed it to Jeffrey, whom she noticed had really dry skin around his elbows and forearms. And last but not least, a small stuffed pony given to her by her niece Naomi, she passed to Oscar.

“I’m going to work on the kitchen and bathroom, so it will be ready for us to at least use the basics,” she told them, walking away.

It was a start. Bad Apple had made his point. He had made her care. She cared about the boys and didn’t want anyone to ever hurt Oscar again. Stephen and Jeffrey’s stories she didn’tknow, and truthfully, had only entered the last chapter of Oscar’s, therefore she didn’t know his either. Helen surmised a history between Ricky and the Bad Apple, but it wasn’t her story to write, and she sure as hens pecking in the dirt wasn’t going to ask those men questions about their relationship.

“Chickens,” she said. “If he had some chickens, there would be fresh eggs every day. Oooh, a garden,” she said, looking out the window for the perfect spot for fresh tomatoes. It was the one thing Slow didn’t have at his place that could prove useful.

In the meantime, she would follow the advice given to her by The Mustang, who she sent a quick text to let him know she’d arrived safely. She did the same for her cousin Cherry. A day at a time was what she planned to do. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Chapter 3- Trace

Dinner turned out better than she’d expected. Bad Apple traveled with a few items, which was not totally great but would make the evening tolerable. One was a folding table, like the 6 footers often used at conventions. Two, he had six metal chairs which reminded her of Sunday school in the church basement. Paper plates and plastic utensils were used for the salad in the container which he rinsed under the water faucet she was sure was pumping out unwanted impurities, bacteria or worse. The kids ate, who said little, as well as the adults.

No conversation was needed as the sound of a delivery truck arrived with the beds for the rooms. Helen sat at the table watching it pull up, wondering if it was indeed only beds or if he had purchased anything else. Apple sat observing her. Then, from his wallet, he removed a credit card and passed it to Helen.

“There is about five grand on it to get all the things we need to get set up here,” he told her. “You will need to set a budget, provide me with receipts, and cover a lot of ground with those funds.”

She didn’t balk at the request, only asking, “So now I am your secret shopper?”

“No, I need to understand your thought processes,” he told her. “I need to know how you think so I can better target what kind of person I am training. The way you spend that money will tell me a lot about who you are and what you prioritize as important, not only for yourself, but for the people in this home.”

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