Mom was right about one thing—the apartment on the top floor of the Paramount was nicer than our old home. The den and kitchen combined to make one large room, and the kitchen had all new appliances. A bay window overlooked the back parking area and the wooded lot just beyond, allowing plenty of morning sun into the den.
There were two bedrooms—one facing the front, and the other up two or three steps in what looked more like a large attic space. I got the attic room. It was twice the size of my small room back home, had a bay window facing the back—just like the den’s, but smaller—and an angled ceiling. I figured my parents would want that room, since it was the bigger of the two. But Mom said she hated the carpet. It was purple—a rotten, grape-juice purple. I thought it was great but Mom said it looked like the Kool-Aid man had thrown up in there. Ugly carpet seemed a lame reason for Mom to give up the best room, since all she had to do was replace it with a different color. She was obviously trying to ease her guilty conscience.
Each bedroom had its own bathroom. Mine wasn’t much bigger than a closet, but it had a shower stall, a sink just the right size for washing your hands, a lighted medicine cabinet with a mirror, and a set of small shelves above the toilet for towels and things. Mom said that since I had my own bathroom, it was my responsibility to clean it. I could leave toothpaste on the sink and dirty towels on the floor without getting yelled at—as long as it was clean by Wednesdays, Mom’s inspection day.
We spent the second week landscaping. Dad had started while waiting for us to move in, but the yard was still a mess. “First impressions are important,” he said, “and when people see how we care for the outside, they’ll think we take care of what’s inside, too.”
I figured the first impression people would get when they drove by was that we didn’t like to mow. By the time we finished all the mulching and planting out front, there was barely any grass left. Still, it did look nice. The boxwoods and holly bushes, pansies and marigolds, lawn edging and cypress mulch looked as good as any of the professional landscaping in town. Mom even created a sitting area in the back outside the guest kitchen. It had a couple of benches, a path of stepping stones set in river gravel, and a small pond that she stocked with three Japanese koi and some water lilies.
Behind the home a grassy patch stretched from the back parking area to the edge of the woods. The spot was popular with the local wildlife. In the early mornings and late afternoons, I could look out our big bay windows and watch the birds, squirrels, raccoons, and deer hunt for goodies in the grass. On our first trip to Walmart, I bought a twenty-five-pound bucket of wild animal feed. I sprinkled some around, and the next morning the lot was crawling with forest critters. Spying on real animals was more fun than watching staged documentaries on TV. Soon I was feeding the animals every night. I even talked Dad into a couple of birdbaths and some feeders to attract more birds to the backyard zoo.
Some of the animals preferred fresh bugs and worms to the dried corn in the feed. Clawed-out holes began to appear in our new landscaping, and Mom’s favorite plants were dying as a result. Mom mentioned this one day as she made small talk with the cashier who checked out our groceries at the Piggly-Wiggly.
“Armadillers. They’re lookin’ for grubs,” the clerk said. She scanned the cans of green beans one at a time. “Tough little boogers, ’cept they ain’t too good at crossin’ the road.”
“I haven’t seen any in our yard,” Mom said.
The clerk groaned as she hoisted the bucket of laundry detergent over the scanner.
“You probably won’t see ’em. They don’t come out ’til dark. But you’ll see the holes where they been diggin’. They got sharp feet.”
“How do I keep them out of the flowers?”
The clerk pointed to the far end of the store. “Aisle thirteen. Get yourself some mothballs. Armadillers hate the smell. Can’t say as I blame ’em. Would rather have moths than the mothballs. But don’t be surprised if mothballs don’t work. Most people, if they can’t get shed of ’em, have to get them electric fences to keep ’em out.”
When we got home, Mom set out new plants to replace the dead ones. Then she gave me a box of mothballs and told me to scatter them around in the mulch. The smell of the unopened box would have been enough to keep me away. Our armadillos, however, had developed an immunity to mothballs. When I went outside the next morning, our yard looked like the green for the Armadillo Open golf tournament. Mothballs were everywhere but in the mulch, and the armadillos had used Mom’s flowerbeds as concession stands.
Once again, Mom put me on mothball duty. This time I had to gather them all and put them in the dumpster. That evening during supper, I watched through the bay window as the guys from Swat Team Termite and Pest Control installed an ultrasonic pest barrier. The Swat Team crawled around in the bushes and across the mulch in their roach colored
uniforms. Their names glowed in bright yellow on their backs: Team Member Steve, Team Member Dave, Team Member Jim. We had just started dessert when Team Member Steve walked up the back steps and knocked on the kitchen door.
Mom opened the door. Team Member Steve held out a clipboard and pen. “If you’ll sign this, ma’am, we’ll be on our way.”
Mom signed the bill. Team Member Steve yanked it off the board with a flourish and handed it to her. “Thanks for calling the Swat Team, ma’am. You have a good night.”
Mom sat back down to finish her dessert. Dad picked up the bill. He stared at it, his face paler than usual. “Freda, didn’t you ask them how much this would cost before you agreed to it?”
Mom leaned over her cherry cheesecake so she wouldn’t have to look up at Dad. “We didn’t have a choice. We can’t have armadillos digging around, tearing up all our work. We’ve already spent too much money on the landscaping to let them ruin the rest of it.”
The air conditioner kicked in with a loud ha-wumph, but my parents didn’t need any help. There was already plenty of chill in the air. Dad left his half-eaten cheesecake on the table and walked out the back door. I heard each heavy step as he slumped down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, I saw him walk toward the road, hands in his pockets, chin to his chest.
Mom just sat there, leaning over her dessert, her fork stuck in the cake. A tear slid over her cheekbone and hit her plate with a soft splat.
I dumped the rest of my cake in the garbage disposal and went to my room.