Chapter 23

Foy was one of ten handicapped men and women who did mechanical repairs on small electric appliances, working alongside a crew of non-handicapped people responsible for fixing the wiring. With pride, he showed his father the metal toolbox with his name on it, reading the letters aloud, and the swivel stool where he sat at a long counter that functioned like a reverse assembly line. Foy dragged over an ordinary chair so Emm could sit beside him and watch him work.

“See, Popsy, I use this flat screwdriver if the screw has a straight line and the pointy kind if it has a cross on top.” As he disassembled a clock, Foy described which tool he used for each part of the operation. He was like an eager little boy explaining a matching game to a curious adult.

Emm watched Foy press his lips together in concentration and said that he was proud of his son for being such a good worker. “You know, before you were born, I worked in a toaster factory.”

Foy’s mouth dropped open. “Did you fix the broken ones?”

“No, the company only made new toasters. My job was to take orders and make sure the toasters got shipped to the stores where people bought them.”

“Were you a good worker too?”

Emm replied that he was. It had been years since anyone had asked about his job, and it was gratifying to remember a time when he was a productive man and the family’s wage earner.

Foy passed the dismantled clock down the line and selected needle-nosed pliers and a thin metal file to take apart a radio. “If your old toaster ever breaks, bring it to me. Sometimes I forget stuff, but I always remember how to fix things.”

“Everybody forgets now and then, but you have a good memory for people in our family. You can name everyone in the photo album and even tell me when the pictures were taken.”

“I can tell you things that aren’t in the pictures too.” Foy glanced around like a child afraid of being caught telling secrets. He hunched over and whispered, “Bruna has favorite people. She likes me and Darold best. That’s bad, isn’t it?” Emm told him it was okay as long as you acted nice to everyone. Foy relaxed, then the worried look returned. “Does Bruna like you, Popsy?”

“Bruna was very nice to me. She cooked my favorite foods just like she does for you.”

Foy mulled this over while he pried apart a blender motor. “She doesn’t like Cleon.” Emm asked how Foy could tell. “She wrinkles her nose when he opens another beer, like he smells bad. Or the beer does.” Foy scrunched his face too. “I once snuck a sip of his beer. It tasted yucky.”

Emm wondered what brand, or brands, Cleon had been drinking that day.

Foy, sounding emboldened that he hadn’t gotten in trouble for talking, put down his tools and continued. “Bruna acts nice to Erissa, but I don’t think she likes her either.”

“Because Erissa drinks too?”

Foy shook his head. It was something else.

“Then how do you know?” Emm asked.

Foy pointed to his heart. “Sometimes you just know. In here.” He picked up his tools and went back to work. He’d said enough, and Emm didn’t want to hear more anyway.

***

A buzzer signaled the start of lunch. There was a stampede to the break room, but Foy walked slowly beside Emm, protecting him from whoever rushed past. Emm saw several empty seats near the front, under a window and close to the vending machines, and started wheeling his walker toward them.

“Not there, Popsy.” Foy led him to the back where all the men and women like him crowded around one table. Not until they reached it did Emm realize that the only people sitting up front were the non-handicapped workers.

They squeezed over to make room for Emm, and Foy introduced him to everyone, the same as he’d done at the group home. Wedged that close together, Emm could smell their body odor and see creases of dirt in their necks. Wherever they lived, they weren’t cared for as well as Foy. The table looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time either. It was littered with crumbs embedded in dried ketchup and mustard, and the entire surface was sticky from spilled drinks.

Emm looked toward the front of the room and saw a man wearing a badge walk in. He beckoned him to the table. Foy stood and introduced him. “Mr. Johnson. He’s the boss man.” He told the manager, “This is my Popsy,” and smiled as Mr. Johnson extended his hand to Emm.

Emm’s hand gripped the front of his walker as he struggled to get up. He kept it there once he was on his feet. “My son Foy and his friends work as hard as everyone else here. They deserve to sit wherever they want, and to eat at a clean table. It’s disgraceful to treat them like they ... don’t count as much as other people.”

Mr. Johnson lowered his hand and narrowed his eyes. “I’m doing them a favor by hiring them in the first place, and I pay their caregivers a decent wage so they’re not a complete drain on society. You don’t know what you’re talking about, mister, and besides, it’s none of your damn business.” He snorted, turned on his heel, and stomped back to a front-row table, where the loud word “asshole” elicited a round of laughter, followed by other labels like “idiots” and “retards.”

Emm trembled when he sat down, but it was from anger, not weakness. He wished that Darold and Eudora Cray had been there to hear him defend Foy and his co-workers. He glanced around the table, anticipating their gratitude. Most simply continued eating, a few looked puzzled. Foy rocked in his chair, crumbling the cookies Martha had packed in his lunch. Then he said in an anguished voice, “Why did you yell at Mr. Johnson? Why did you yell at him?”

“I was standing up for you,” Emm said. “What he’s doing isn’t right.”

Foy pursed his lips in concentration, trying to understand. His mouth went slack. It made no sense to him. He threw away what was left of his lunch, including his daily piece of candy.

Emm scooped the crumbs into a pile and wrapped them in a napkin, wiping a clean space before Foy sat back down. “I’m sorry, son. You’re right. A smart man named Dale Carnegie once said that you can only get people to do something by making them want to do it. Yelling doesn’t make people want to change. It only makes them keep on doing what they did before.”

He wished he could take it all back. Upsetting Foy was the last thing that Emm intended to happen today. Words of blame ricocheted in his head, but yelling at himself wasn’t going to make Emm change either. The time to stand up for Foy was over forty years ago. He had to—wanted to—find a different way to help him now.

***

The opportunity came a few hours later, while Emm and Foy waited outside the group home for Darold to pick them up. Foy pointed to his chest and said, “You like me, Popsy. I know. In here.”

“You’re right, Foy. I like you so much that I love you.”

Foy grinned. “You’re my best pal.” He looked up the street for Darold’s car. “So is Darold, but if I don’t tell him you are too, then his feelings won’t be hurt. Right?”

Emm said yes, and that even if Foy did tell Darold, it would be okay. Foy’s face took on the sunshine that the day was giving up. Emm brightened too. He was freeing Foy to be himself and to stop worrying about having favorites. Meanwhile, Emm had been feeling guilty the last few months about favoring Arvil. Now he knew that wasn’t the problem. What he should feel guilty about was not being just as nice to the others.

Darold arrived and helped Emm into the front seat. Foy bounded into the back and said, “Guess what Darold? Popsy is my best friend. He said it was okay. Right?”

Darold laughed. “It sure is.” He reminded Foy to buckle his seat belt and headed home.

Emm leaned back against the head rest. Foy didn’t need another father. Between Darold and Joe, he had enough. Foy was happiest among his friends, and that’s what Emm had agreed to be. As Emm got older, and Foy remained a child, they would become more like peers anyway. He told Foy that he would come to his house to play with him again soon.