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TRACI TOSSED HER MAIL on the coffee table next to the collection of sample paint strips and stared at the letter on the top of the stack. It was from County Commissioner Polk’s Land Management office.
“Now what?” she sighed, pushed a chair against the front door and wedged it under the knob. She carried the letter with her to the kitchen and placed her backpack on the counter. She unzipped it and examined the contents. The leaking bottle was still half full, and for that she was thankful. She took out her NeverMore souvenir mug and filled it halfway with the morning’s leftover coffee. Then, she added some whiskey for good measure, took a sip and picked up the letter again. She walked out to her back porch, flipped through her phone messages and found the one from Ms. Rios.
The Dependable Flyers job requirements sounded simple enough. She checked the bus schedule app, then set the alarm for 6:15 a.m. That would give her enough time to swallow some breakfast, pack a lunch and catch the 8:20 bus for Bridgewell Circle. She opened the letter and read it through twice, searching for good news. There was none.
She sat on the cool stone steps on her back porch under the trees and inhaled the faint scent of the honeysuckle from across the alley.
Deep belly breaths.
Two more.
It wasn’t working. That familiar sensation was rolling up her arms and legs like a million centipedes.
“I need to talk to Myra.” She pressed three on her speed dial and waited through the voicemail greeting on Myra Rogers’ personal cellphone, hoping she would pick up and answer. She hung up and dialed again. She took another deep breath and tried again. Voicemail.
“Myra, this is Traci. Please call me. I lost my job today. Another one and I’m a little scared that . . .” She took a sip from her cup, “I’m thinking maybe I’m running out of options here.”
She waited for the beep, hoping Myra would pick up. The call disconnected. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the phone and waited for the trembling to cease before she put it away.
Myra Rogers had been Traci’s case worker from the first day she entered the foster care system in Faucier County until she aged out as a teenager. Myra kept in touch every week and even helped Traci get accepted into the First Time Home Buyers Program. The rehab property only cost her one hundred dollars plus processing fees. They required her to keep up the tax payments and repairs. And maintain a full-time job. Myra was instrumental in the latter. When Traci’s therapist stopped accepting slow-paying uninsured clients, Myra stepped in. Traci lost count of how many late night calls, texts and video chats they shared. If there was such a thing as a guardian angel, Myra Rogers was the perfect example. Myra would tell her what to do. She’ll know how to handle this, Traci thought as she drifted to sleep, the cool porch floor against her back, pulling all her muscles down to rest.
Traci woke up to the sound of wild birds squawking and beating their wings in the trees overhead. She looked around and noticed the sun was setting through the old oaks and magnolias that shielded her property line from the busy street and adjacent abandoned properties. She caught a glimpse of something orange or red moving through the trees and then drop to the ground. It was a cat carrying a small bird. Traci, fuzzy headed, moved toward the commotion. The cat darted through the shrubs and down the alley. She had never seen this cat before and knew the bird was a goner by now. But she followed it anyway. She wanted to give the owner a piece of her mind. Maybe it’s a stray.
“Then I’ll set a trap and call the animal warden,” she said to herself. She ducked under the trees, stumbled across the gravel-filled alley and through the backyards of several abandoned houses. She was tired and realized she was probably overreacting as she reached a small clearing. A red and white house with a grand wraparound porch stood in the middle of a freshly cut lawn. At the entrance of the lane there was a lamppost with a sign swinging gently in the breeze, Hazelton House. Traci followed the orange tabby up to the house. It slipped through the lattice under the porch full of young children, teenagers and one adult. Rowena Garrett.
Traci walked up the path and approached her.
“Hello again,” said Rowena with a welcoming smile.
“Hello,” Traci said, “is that your cat?” She pointed at the pair of bright green eyes peering through the lattice.
“Yes,” Rowena said. “One of them.”
“It was in my yard,” Traci said trying to moisten her dry lips, “Took a bird. It took a bird from my backyard.” She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “You shouldn’t let your cat kill birds like that.”
“Why not?” Rowena said, “Everybody’s gotta eat.”
Traci looked at the small crowd milling around the porch. One girl was stretched out on her stomach writing in a school workbook, another wearing earbuds watching videos on a tablet.
“You hungry?” Rowena said.
A young girl came and sat between her legs on the steps. Rowena took the elastic tie from around the thick ball of hair and parted it down the center.
“I’ve got food at my house,” Traci said.
Rowena’s nimble fingers braided down one side of hair as the girl read from a thin dog-eared chapter book, whispering as her finger slowly moved over each word. She looked down and squinted at the page and said, “Dazzle. That word is pronounced ‘dahzz-uhl’, honey.”
“I didn’t ask if you got food. I asked if you was hungry,” Rowena said, turning back to Traci.
“Yes, actually I haven’t eaten dinner today.” Traci mumbled.
“Then go on in there and fix you a plate,” Rowena said, “Don’t stand there like you expect me to wait on you or something. I’m plenty of things but I ain’t nobody’s maid, y’know.”
Traci stepped past Rowena and the freshly coiffed little girl and entered the back door into the spacious kitchen. She had never seen a kitchen this large. Two box fans were poised in the tall windows that forced the evening air through the house. It had the black and white checkerboard tile floor that she had seen in Faucier Home magazine, and ceiling high built-in cabinets in antique sage with polished mahogany door pulls. The wallpaper was off-white with a classic fern and berries pattern. Two refrigerators and a chest freezer hummed and filled one side of the room near the pantry door. A large six burner stove with a huge exhaust towering over it stood as the focal point. The aroma of fried chicken wafted through the steamy room. A pot of mixed greens and ham simmered on the stovetop.
Two people that Traci recognized from that afternoon entered from the front room carrying paper plates covered in aluminum foil and bottles of fruit juice. Others were congregating around the tables with makeshift hostess-ware of mismatched plastic containers and re-purposed glass jars. Everyone was chatting and laughing. Over the remarks about the food and the weather, she could hear a jazz saxophone solo and a full band joining in flowing from a small speaker on top of the fridge. She walked toward the sound and bumped into someone. It was the boy from the field.
“Sorry,” Traci said.
“It’s okay,” he said and turned away.
“I saw you earlier today,” Traci blurted, “right?”
He was wearing the same clothing from the afternoon and was focused on balancing a plate full of food and devouring every bit of it.
“Yeah,” he said quickly and continued chewing.
“My name is Traci,” she said not sure why she picked this boy to start a conversation. Perhaps it was because he looked just as uncomfortable as she felt in the room full of strangers.
“I know,” he said while biting into a drumstick.
Traci watched him peel off the skin, bite and swallow the rest, then toss the clean bone in the trash in twenty seconds. His hands were scarred but clean, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his skin deep mahogany where the sun had traced the brim of his hat. He looked up and locked eyes with her.
“I’m Milo,” he said and continued staring at her as if daring her to look away.
“Hi Milo,” Traci said and was immediately at a loss for words. She looked around and decided on, “Do you work for Miss Rowena?”
“Sorta,” he said, “I guess you can call it that. We all do, but we don’t get paid money or anything like that.”
Curious to know more about what she saw in the field, she decided to stay awhile. She went to the table and filled a plate with a chicken breast, cole slaw and bean salad. She couldn’t decide on whether to add a piece of strawberry rhubarb cobbler or wait until later. It all looked delicious and there was plenty, more than enough for everyone.
She turned around to rejoin Milo and finish their conversation, but he was gone. And, just like that, she was the only one left in the room. Feeling self-conscious and embarrassed for accepting the invitation to make herself at home in this total stranger’s house, she replaced the food, tossed the plate aside and walked back outside.
The sun had all but vanished behind Mount PierPoint, leaving only shadows of people returning to the field. She could see Miss Rowena’s long faded denim skirt swaying from side to side as she moved through the rows between mounds of soil and vegetation. Someone lit a lantern and hung it from a wire strung between two of the magnolias. The day was not done for these people, but it was for Traci. She remembered her first day with Dependable Flyers and headed back toward the alley. This day had taken a lot out of her. She checked her phone. Nine-thirty and no word from Myra. She made it home just before the darkness completely overtook her backyard. Time for bed and thoughts of young Milo working in the fields.
