THE ROOM SMELLED LIKE A nursing home, that piquant mélange of urine and cleaning solvent. The linoleum floor was tacky underfoot, his boots sticking, squeaking. Easier to clean than carpet, though. The kids who came in here had problems controlling their bladders and their bowels. They ate with their hands. They probably had lice, worms, and possibly fleas. They had asthma and allergies. They had wet dreams. They had nightmares. They had medical records and psychiatric assessments, broken bones, lacerations, cigarette burns. They had eczema, stammers and ADHD and prescriptions. They carried their belongings in garbage bags.
Jake was sitting on the floor with Lacey, staring at a pile of interlocking plastic bricks. Lacey glanced up, acknowledging him with a nod.
Ben squatted down beside Jake, his voice soft. “Hey.”
Nothing. Jake did not move, not even his eyes.
So Ben sat down and began to pull out pieces and fashion them together. Jake continued to ignore him but began to sneak peeks at Ben’s concoction, which was growing exponentially with wheels and wings, a crazy heli-plane.
Sitting there, in the quiet room, the boy beside him, Ben maintained his focus on his construction, carefully selecting pieces, making adjustments, as a more extravagant vision took hold of him. He was so intent, he hardly noticed Jake was mirroring him. When they went to grab the same piece, Ben caught the boy’s eye.
“Go ahead.”
“No.”
Ben leaned in close. “I don’t really want it. I need a shorter piece.”
“No, you.”
“Well, if you’re sure?”
“Sure.”
“I might use it here instead, as part of the missile launcher.”
“Okay.
“Thanks. I like yours.”
“Not as good as yours.”
“I hope not. I’m 37. I’d be pretty lame if I couldn’t make a toy spaceship better than a five-year-old.”
Jake smiled, the tiniest crack. But Ben was careful not to see it as an invitation. He simply kept building.
“Boys?” Ben had forgotten Lacey. “The hour is up.” She seemed to loom over them; Ben felt like a child.
“But I’m not finished yet,” he said.
“Me not either,” added Jake.
Ben made a face at Jake, who made one back.
“Why don’t you go outside? I need to talk with Lacey.”
Jake obeyed, joining the six other children who ran about in the long grass of what had been envisioned as a lawn. The screen door slapped shut behind him.
“How are you?” she said.
“Scared.”
“Why?”
“That I’ll lose Jake.”
She put her hand on his arm. She had so much faith in him. “If there aren’t any further complications, your guardianship should go through. It was Shevaunne’s last wish, so to speak. And there’s no one else. You could even apply for adoption. Would you like to do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll get the paperwork ready. DCF likes to get kids into permanent homes as fast as possible.”
“Thank you.” He put his hand over hers, his warm touch, his blue eyes. He saw her blush before turning away, and out the door.
From his truck, Ben watched Jake and the other children, bounding through the grass, bending down, then bounding up. He knew what they were doing because he had done the same thing when he was here, somewhere just like here.
The children were catching grasshoppers and pulling off their legs. Harmless enough. It was how he met Frank, little pale grub of a boy. Frank had found a mouse, trapped it against the side of the house with his foot. He was certainly very quick and surprisingly strong. A couple of the girls screamed, and one of the boys said they should tear its legs off like the grasshoppers, wouldn’t that be funny. Ben had been certain that Frank would harm the mouse—this small, trembling creature in his grasp.
Frank saw him. “You just got here. What do you think we should do with it?”
Ben had studied the awkward squad encircling Frank, their eyes glittering with something more lurid than excitement, a certain cannibalistic hunger, perhaps.
“Dunno,” mumbled Ben.
“Tear its legs off,” said the hungriest boy.
“Just step on it,” suggested a girl with eczema. “That’s what my gramps does. Quick as.”
“Gottave big boots,” clarified another. “Nunuvushas.”
They all stared at Ben, and most starey of all was Frank, and it chilled Ben, that intensity, to be so visible. He did not want to disappoint. He wanted to make the choice that would impress Frank. It was one thing or the other, there was no happy medium—no “let’s put it in a cage and keep it as a pet.” He took a deep breath. “Let it go.” Frank’s thin body turned, surprisingly supple, as he launched the mouse through the fence into the dense brush of freedom.