OLIVER WAS SITTING in his mother’s room at Shady Grove, fruitlessly soliciting advice about Mattie—her criminal past, whether or not she might have stolen his notebook, and what he should do about it—when the telephone rang. As far as he could remember, he didn’t think he’d ever heard his mother’s phone ring before. Judging by her blank expression, he didn’t think she had either. When he couldn’t think of a reason not to, Oliver answered it.
“Joey?” he said, when the odd noises coming through the receiver started to make sense. “Where are you?”
“In the kitchen. You need to —”
“Listen, Joey, I’m glad you called.” Oliver learned along ago to take charge of conversations with Joey before they rambled into oblivion. “I need your advice on something.”
“Can’t you ask your mom?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing for the last two hours. But she’s engrossed in a Little House on the Prairie marathon.”
“Oh, um, alright. Go ahead, but try to hurry.”
“Okay, here goes. There’s this girl at work, see? And, well, I’m not sure I should trust her.”
“How come?” Joey said. His voice sounded strained, mixed with small grunts and even a few distant squeals.
“She kind of has this habit of sneaking around the hotel at night. And she seems to be really good at picking locks and stuff. And well, I think she may have stolen my notebook.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I caught her writing in it, sort of. On a security camera.”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you listening, Joey?”
“Uh huh.”
“So do you have any thoughts, you know, about the girl?”
“Did you ask her if she stole your notebook yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“I would just ask her.”
“You’re right, Joey. I should probably just confront her about it.”
“Only if you really care about her,” Joey said. “At least that’s what my Sad used to day.”
There was a fumbling sound on the other end of the phone, followed by more of Joey’s grunting and another high-pitched voice. “What’s that noise, Joey?”
“You need to get here soon. I don’t think I can hold her much longer.”
“Hold who?”
“I caught a burglar. That’s why I called you at your mom’s.”
Oliver thought he heard a distant, yet familiar voice shouting, “Hello, Oliver.” He heard himself laughing when he asked, “Is her name Mattie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Gosh, yes!”
“Okay, I’ll be right there, Joey. Make sure you don’t hurt her, but don’t let her go either.”
Oliver kissed his mother on the cheek and promised to come back soon. He wondered if she’d even heard him through her TV coma. When he was almost out the door, she mumbled something that sounded like, “So long, Wayne.”
Mattie’s car was in the driveway when Oliver got there, but he still was not prepared for the scene unfolding in his living room. She’d been rolled into a sleeping bag, and Joey was sitting on the edge of it to keep her from getting up. But she wasn’t struggling to get free. In fact, Joey was holding a copy of Are You My Mother? so Mattie could read it to him.
“Hi, Oliver,” Joey said. “My name is Joey. I still got your robber.”
“Hi, Oliver,” Mattie had said. “My name is Mattie. And I really have to pee.”
Oliver pulled a forlorn Joey to his feet as Mattie scurried out of the living room. Joey said, “You think she can binish the fook when she comes back?”
“That will be up to her. Now do you mind telling me what happened?”
“Sure. I was working on the fridge—man, it was really stinky—and anyway, I heard something in the garage. When I went out to instigate, I catched her digging through your mama’s boxes. That’s when I captivated her and brought her in the house.”
Mattie returned then, grinning sheepishly.
Oliver said, “So what do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”
She shrugged and said, “Busted.”
“You broke into my house?”
“I was making a delivery,” she said. “Plus, I didn’t think you were ever going to show me your mom’s collection of vintage clothes. Which, by the way, is stellar.”
“So you were the one changing the clothes on the mannequins?”
Mattie’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “Nope, not me. This is my first trip, scout’s honor.”
Oliver turned to Joey, who was now staring at the floor and blushing from the crown of his head. He mumbled, “You got a message on the phone machine. It’s from the bank.”
They adjourned to the kitchen, and while Mattie made coffee, Oliver listened to his voice mail. It was indeed the bank, his mother’s bank in fact. And apparently, the account was overdrawn.
“Hmm,” Oliver said.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Mattie said.
“I’ll bet that’s why my check bounced,” Joey said.
“Which check?” Oliver said.
“The last one you wrote me for fixing things.”
“I’m sorry, Joey. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“So were you, you know, able to pay your rent and buy food and stuff?”
“I don’t have rent. And I usually just eat your food.”
“Why don’t you have rent, Joey?”
“My house is paid for.”
That’s when Oliver noticed the big, lopsided grin on Mattie’s face. “What’s so funny?”
“Keep going,” she said. “You’re getting really warm.”
“How do you know so much?” he asked her.
“I’ve been Joey’s prisoner for over an hour,” she said. “And Joey likes to talk.”
“Okay,” Oliver said. “I’ll bite. Tell me about your house, Joey.”
“You already know.”
“No, Joey. I really don’t.”
“Sure you do. You’re standing in it.”
“This is your house?”
“Since I was eight.” For proof, Joey held up four fingers on each hand. “I inheritanced it when my mom died.”
Oliver said, “And all that stuff in the garage?”
Joey shrugged.
Mattie said, “I do believe that’s his stuff.”
“Are you saying you sleep in my garage?”
“Nope,” Joey said with his own version of Mattie’s lopsided grin. “I sleep in my garage.”
“Not anymore,” Mattie said. Both Joey and Oliver swiveled their heads at Mattie. “I think Oliver has a new roommate.”
Joey looked as troubled as Oliver felt about that prospect. Apparently he liked sleeping in the garage.
Mattie poured three coffees and set them on the kitchen table. She sat and motioned for the boys to do the same. Once everyone was comfortable, she picked up Joey’s book and started it again from page one. Her voice was animated and sincere, with nary a hint of condescension.
As she read, Oliver alternated his gaze between Mattie’s mouth, Joey’s enraptured expression, and his own wringing hands.
“I did have a mother,” Mattie read. “I know I did. I have to find her. I will! I WILL!” Joey made a snuffling sound. His eyes had grown large and wet. Oliver camouflaged his own tears by pretending to have a pesky dust mite in his eye.
When he finally recovered from the story, Oliver asked Joey, “So how did my mother come to live here, anyway?”
“We met in the hut nouse,” Joey said. “She was on the way in and I was on the way out.”
“So, she paid rent?”
“Sort of,” Joey said. “She paid for all the repairs.”
Mattie gasped, then again like a ratchet. After a final wheezy gasp, she sneezed her delightful cartoon sneeze. Joey fished around in his pocket and handed Mattie a tissue. Then he matter-of-factly said, “Of course it was your mother’s idea for us to get married.”
Oliver stared, open-mouthed, as his mother’s husband inspected whatever residue Mattie sneezed into his hanky.
“I think Oliver has a stepfather,” Mattie said.
“You knew about this?”
“We didn’t talk that long.”
• • •
Oliver had the entire afternoon to think about it. And no matter how he spun it, he had to admit that Joey was right. If he really cared for Mattie, he would need to confront her. Plus, the more he thought about it the more indignant he became—why would she so flippantly put his job at risk? And he didn’t have to wait long for his opportunity. Twenty-four hours after spying on Mattie as she read his notebook, he watched her embark on another unauthorized stroll through the hallway, this time on the fifth floor.
He tried not to think on the ride up. But not thinking only made his brain work harder. It’s impossible to have thoughts and not think them, or at least not consider them a little before shoving them aside. It helped to imagine a closet door, like in cartoons, where he could cram each unwanted thought before it found its footing. But the mind is a vacuum; it won’t remain blank long. So every time he stowed a new thought into his imaginary closet, another more insidious one took its place. They were accumulating so fast now that he had to imagine leaning his entire bulk against the bulging door to keep them hidden away and out of his head.
He decided it might help to think about something else entirely, something unrelated to confronting Mattie or hotel robberies or losing this job or having to find another one. Which is why, by the time Oliver rounded the corner near the ice machine, the whole of his brain was occupied with trying to figure out the last time he’d had a bologna sandwich.
Mattie was midway down the hall, standing still, and staring at something in her open palm. She must have heard Oliver’s footsteps scuffing along the carpet because she looked up, startled, both hands closing into fists as she braced herself for whomever or whatever was wandering the halls at two a.m.
She blinked once, recognition blooming in her face. She seemed to unclench everything at once (everything but the hand she’d been staring at), her smile warm and genuine. And Oliver almost fell for it too. She obviously wasn’t smiling at Oliver Miles. Rather, she was smiling because it was only Oliver and not Sherman or a real cop with handcuffs.
She said, “Hey, you.”
When he opened his mouth to speak, his closet full of unwanted thoughts came spilling out in a flurry of run-on questions …
Where were you? Why didn’t you answer my radio call? Don’t you know how it looks when you go traipsing around the halls in the middle of the night? Do you even care? Has it even dawned on you that you could get us both fired? Then his imaginary cross-examination turned accusatory: Admit it, Mattie … you’re just using me. You obviously stole my notebook. Do you think I’m so naïve that I don’t see what’s going on here? That you’re going to fund this ridiculous move to New York by robbing guests because you know I’m too smitten to try and stop you?
… he couldn’t be sure which ones he’d actually asked aloud.
“Are you okay, Oliver?”
“Don’t patronize me.” Oliver hated the shrieky sound of his voice. So he took a long, cleansing breath and tried again. “Just tell me what you’re doing up here. I mean, we’re supposed to have a system. Didn’t you agree to let me know when you’re leaving the front desk so I can cover for you?”
“Sorry, Oliver. I just didn’t think—”
“And what’s that you’re hiding in your hand?”
Mattie opened her hand and stared at the crumpled five-dollar bill. “I believe this is called a tip, Oliver. I’ve never really gotten one before so I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do with it.”
Oliver heard the scrape and rattle of a chain behind the door of room 541. It opened a moment later and a forty-something woman in a thick, fluffy bathrobe leaned out into the hallway. “Is everything alright out here?”
“Yes, Ms. Jacobs. Everything is fine.”
“I thought I heard shouting.”
“I’m afraid you did. But I think everything has settled down now.” Oliver could hear the smile in Mattie’s voice, but when she turned to face him, it had been hijacked by a cold, hard stare. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Miles?”
“Um, yes. Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Johnson.”
“It’s Jacobs,” Mattie said. Oliver watched her expression transform again as Mattie turned to address their guest. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, I don’t think so. And thanks again for bringing me the toothbrush at this hour.” Ms. Jacobs shared a look with Mattie, then addressed Oliver again with a nervous chuckle. “I’m still embarrassed I forgot mine, but I’d rather be embarrassed than sleep with dirty teeth.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Mattie said. “And if you need anything else at all—anything—you know my number.”
Mattie turned her fist into a large zero. Ms. Jacobs looked confused for a second, then smiled at Mattie’s joke.
Mattie didn’t speak to him on the elevator ride down. She wouldn’t even look at him. But that didn’t stop Oliver from trying to make sense of things, to make amends, to make that sick feeling in his stomach go away.
“A toothbrush, eh?”
She didn’t answer. A Muzak version of “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” tinkled out of unseen speakers. When Oliver couldn’t stand the ironic serenade any longer, he tried again.
“I’m sorry, Mattie, I just thought …”
The music faded, then a cheery female voice encouraged elevator riders to stop by the hotel restaurant for one of Nashville’s premiere dining experiences from a world-renowned chef. The door opened and Oliver watched Mattie go. When he stepped out, she turned and looked at him, hard.
“For your information,” Mattie said, her voice quiet. “Ms. Jacobs isn’t forgetful. She’s afraid.”
Oliver didn’t know what to say, or where to look. So he said nothing and stared at the tops of Mattie’s red and yellow saddle oxfords.
“That’s the third time she’s called tonight. I’ve had to bring her a toothbrush, a comb, fresh towels, more soap, hairnets, just whatever she can think of.”
“I’m sorry, Mattie.” Her silence made his heart cramp. “Are you going to be mad at me forever?”
“I’m not mad, Oliver.”
For once, hearing her say his name sent the wrong kind of thrill through him. “What are you then?”
Oliver was preparing for disappointed or conflicted or disenchanted or even you really hurt my feelings. What she said was much worse; the way she said it was heartbreaking.
“Apparently, I can’t be trusted.”
And as luck would have it, he found his notebook a few hours later.
It was in the garage, perched atop his mother’s pile of cardboard boxes. There was a Hello Kitty sticky note affixed to the front that said simply: Oliver.
She’d obviously left it there when she snuck into his garage and spent an hour as Joey’s prisoner. But Oliver had been too distracted by all of Joey’s new information to notice it.
He leafed through the pages, both stunned and exhilarated to see her handwriting mingled in with his. She used colorful pens—neon pinks and glittery purples—where Oliver wrote exclusively in black. Her loopy cursive lilted and cascaded, impishly darting between his blocky paragraphs, sometimes even daring to resurrect his scratch-outs. She’d even found the page he’d mutilated with stab marks and connected the dots into a cartoonish version of Oliver onstage with a fat, old-fashioned microphone.
It didn’t take a great deal of imagination to figure out when she’d left it.
• • •
Mattie sustained her silent treatment until their shift ended. She didn’t even acknowledge his goodbye.
Oliver skipped school again, deciding instead to confront his mother about her clandestine marriage. But she was sleeping in her recliner when he arrived. He considered waking her up, but what would he say? Did she really need his permission to get married? Or his blessing? Would she even remember getting married? He’d assumed Joey was confused, or just making it all up. But all that wishful thinking had dissipated when Joey bounded off to the garage to find his marriage certificate.
The longer he watched his mother sleep, the harder it became for Oliver to cling to his hurt feelings. But when he began to sense an emotional U-turn, he quickly kissed his mother and left. There was no sense harboring resentment over his mother’s decision to marry the handyman. But he refused to be happy about it.
He spent the rest of the morning at home reading through his notebook and dialing Mattie’s apartment. She didn’t answer and he didn’t leave a message because he didn’t really know what to say.
Eventually he closed his notebook, placed it atop his unpacked suitcase, and tried to sleep.