Page 33 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Ben waves me off. “Don’t even worry about it. You should see howIlive,” he says (obviously to make me feel better).
A second later, there’s a muffled sound on the other side of the door.
12
HELENA
My eyes shoot over to Ben, whose ears visibly perk up at the noise. Quickly and without a sound, he nudges me aside, steps in front of the door, and grabs the handle. Then, with a sudden motion, he opens it and rushes inside.
I resist the feeling in my stomach that urges me to run away and peek around the corner to see what caused the noise. I can’t see anything right away. Past Ben’s broad shoulders, in the living room area, I spot a bag of chips, its contents spread all over the floor.
“Oh,” Ben says—obviously relieved—and looks back to me. “It would seem you have a visitor. Maybe you two know each other.”
Between Ben’s legs, a little ball of fur slowly tiptoes from one salty treat to another, gathering them up in its tiny hands and immediately stuffing them into its mouth. It’s gray, surprisingly fat and?—
“You’re not related, are you?” Ben mocks, stepping aside for me to get a better view of the raccoon.
I cross my arms and glare at him. “Are you making fun of my near-fatal injury?”
“You mean the one you got in a funny, dance-related accident?”
The raccoon pauses mid-crunch, its beady eyes flicking between us as if weighing its odds. Then, when it apparently has determined it could take both of us in a fight, it simply snatches another treat and continues its feast.
“Sorry,” Ben whispers, squatting down and resting his elbows on his knees. “You think it knew your grandpa?”
“You think my grandpa was out here training a snack-stealing raccoon?”
Ben tilts his head. “I don’t know. Doyouthink your grandpa was out here training a snack-stealing raccoon?”
I ignore him, step into the apartment, and crouch down as well. The inside isn’t ransacked, but it does look like the raccoon has been in here for a little while. Cabinets are open, a box of chocolates has apparently already been emptied, and a bag of oats has been opened, tipped over, and apparently found to be lacking.
“Shoo,” I say softly, not sure what to do.
The raccoon stares at me like I just suggested it get a real job.
Ben clicks his tongue. “What was that? That’s not how you do it. With wild animals like this, you have to assert dominance. Watch this.” He leans in, extends his hand, and starts speaking three octaves higher, like he’s talking to a baby. “Hey there, little buddy. Heyyy. How are you doing?” He inches closer. “You enjoying a little dinner over here?” Ben reaches for one of the chips and slowly hands it to the raccoon. “Here you go,” he continues softly. “Now please don’t bite me, because I’m not sure my rabies vaccine is up to date. And that stuff is no joke, okay?”
The raccoon, apparently somewhat pleased by not having to walk from chip to chip anymore, accepts what it is handed and eats with exaggerated enthusiasm. Ben feeds it another chip, and another. Then it flops onto its belly, and just extends its arms.This continues until both cheeks of our new raccoon buddy are absolutely stuffed. Carefully, Ben—now sitting on the ground next to it—starts petting its head. To my surprise, the raccoon doesn’t bite, but instead just crawls into Ben’s lap and rolls itself up. When Ben doesn’t immediately continue the tender caressing, it reaches for his hand and uses it to pet itself.
Ben looks over to me with the biggest grin. “See! Dominance established,” he whispers, as if afraid he might scare away his new best friend.
“Yes,” I whisper back, “it looks like you’re the alpha now. Just don’t stop petting him, breathe too loudly, or move.”
“Oh, believe me, I am not going to move ever again… unless my new friend here requests it.”
I get to my feet slowly, circle both of them, and when the raccoon doesn’t seem to mind, I start cleaning up the rest of the chips, the empty chocolate wrappers, and the oats.
Everything else in the apartment is mostly the way I left it the day my grandpa died. Except that his bed is empty now. The blanket lies neatly folded on top. Canvases are still stacked against the walls, old art books pile precariously on every flat surface, and the lingering sense that he might just stroll in makes it really fucking hard to breathe.
Someone has put the easel I punched over against a wall, the destroyed painting of my dead grandpa back on it for display. My eyes catch on it and stay there.
“You painted that?” Ben asks softly, and cocks his head, inspecting it.
I nod slowly.
“Whimsical. Sad. Skillful technique. You’re a very good artist yourself, aren’t you?”
Our raccoon buddy has started snoring by now, but Ben continues petting it anyway. I suppose they’re kind of cute, sitting there on the ground.
