I slide the purse back where I found it, drape the comforter over Mom and get out of the car.
This alley is no different than any other. A stack of lumber leans against two recycling cans with beat-up lids. A dead plant falling out of a wire basket lies next to a patch of oil.
I zip up my jacket and start walking.
On the next block is a big park. It has a kiddie area with three swings, a jungle gym and a slide. And a bench dedicated “To June and Matthew Long, who loved this place.”
Parks are Mom’s favorite hangout too, wherever we are. It may be a throwback to when she was little. Or when I was. I once told her she should write a book about urban parks. Do I look like Danielle Steel? was all she said.
Although the swing is pretty small, I wedge myself in. “Push me,” I say aloud. “As high as the sky.” Then I look around to make sure no one heard me. Everyone knows only crazy people talk to themselves.
The park is part of a community center. There’s a library and an arts center and a recreation center with an arena. In the parking lot, dads are hauling kids and huge hockey bags out of cars.
I pump so hard, I am soon high enough to catch glimpses of a long highway with a gas station on almost every block. Behind a mini mall where Mom probably got the coffee stretch tidy blocks of houses surrounded by brick walls and high shrubs.
What it would be like to pump so high the swing cleared the top bar? Scary. Exhilarating. Dangerous.
Talking to yourself and risk-taking activities are two signs of mental illness. I read all about them once in a pamphlet in the waiting room of a doctor’s office while Mom ranted at the doctor in an examination room.
Will knowing what symptoms to look out for keep me sane? Or send me around the bend?
I jump off the swing at its highest point, barely keeping my balance when I hit the ground.
A woman is unlocking the library when I get there. She steps aside for me to enter. “There’s always an early bird or two,” she says.
Another librarian sits staring at her screen. “Can I help you?” she asks without looking up.
“I’d like to use the computer,” I say.
“We have two in the back corner.” She smiles up at me now. “First come, first served. You’ll need a library card.”
“I’m just visiting.” I know how this works. “Can I get a pass?”
She hands me a slip of paper. “Log in with this number.”
Grand’s father bought him a set of World Book encyclopedia when Grand was eight. He says it took him more than five years to study every entry from A to Z. That it taught him everything he knows. How a cow’s stomach works. The weight of the Eiffel Tower. Who hit the most runs in the 1926 baseball season. All very useful.
But when I tried to explain Wikipedia to him, he shook me off. “Too high-tech for this old geezer.”
I’ll probably be stuck on the As forever. Today I’m reading about anthrax when someone sits down at the station next to me.
First I take no notice. When I do glance over, I nearly fall off my chair. “What the heck is that?” Beady eyes stare at me from the opening of a boy’s jacket.
“Never seen a ferret before?” He pulls the creature out like it’s a scarf. The ferret dangles from his hands, blinking at me.
“Not this close.”
“Want to pet him?” He holds the thing out to me. “He’s quite friendly.”
“You gotta be kidding.” I pull away. “It’s a rodent!”
“Ferrets are not rodents.”
“Sure they are.”
He points at my screen. “Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
I only need to read a few lines. “Okay. So it’s not a rodent. You still shouldn’t be dragging it around in your coat. It’s a wild creature. It needs to be free.”
“Bandit would get eaten alive in the big wide world.”
“Bandit?” It’s got a cute little face with black markings around its eyes.
“My sister Steph wanted me to change it to Fluffy.” He grins and tips back his head as Bandit burrows under his chin. He’s skinny, with sandy hair and sandy skin and the palest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“So do you keep it in a little cage with a little wheel to run on and a little bottle to drink out of?” I don’t know why I’m having this discussion with this boy.
“Bandit has a cage with a long run. Ferrets need space,” he tells me. “But I daren’t let him loose too often. Or everyone would be walking around barefoot.” He holds out his leg to show me the chewed-up sole of his runner. “He’s got a shoe fetish.”
I tuck my feet under my chair. These are my only shoes. “I never had a pet,” I tell him. “But if I did, it wouldn’t be that.”
“I’ve got others. But Bandit is my favorite. ”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got mice in your pockets, hamsters up your sleeves?”
“Not here. At home. I have thirty-one in my menagerie. All kinds.”
“Thirty-one? Don’t you need a license or something?”
“Nah. I keep them in the garage. For my twelfth birthday, Dad cleared it out and helped me make cages. Now he keeps his car in the driveway.”
The last thing I got from my father was a ten-dollar movie card in the mail. That isn’t even enough for popcorn with the movie.
“Want to come over and see?” the boy asks. “I’ve got a pair of albino rabbits. All girls love rabbits.”
How many girls? I wonder.
I’m not much of an animal lover. I’ve seen rats in alleys. A dead cat under a bed. Too many mean dogs.
“Well?” the boy asks.
Before I can answer, a man appears at my side. “You using that? Or can I get on?”
I look at the boy, then back at my screen. “Yes, I am using it.”
“What about you?” the man asks Bandit’s owner.
“It’s all yours.” When he gets up, he keeps one hand on his stomach. A bump there shows where the ferret has settled. Either that or this kid’s got a huge tumor.
“I’m Jake, by the way.” He puts out his spare hand.
What kid our age shakes hands? And who knows what kind of deadly animal germs he’s carrying around on his skin?
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Better be prepared for when the next anthrax scare happens.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.” He blushes. “And your name is?”
“It’s Leni.” I keep my hands on the keyboard.
“See you around, Leni.”
I don’t watch him walk away. But I hear every step, then the door opening and closing behind him.
It turns out that ferrets are in the Mustelidae family. Also known as the weasel family. Even rodents or weasels have to be easier to understand than people, I figure.
The man at the next computer is on a dating site. I imagine how he might describe himself. Overweight, middle-aged man with body odor wishes to meet soul mate. Good luck with that, I think. Then I catch myself and cringe. He’s probably another lonely schmuck.
I check Craigslist for rental listings before I log off and then grab a copy of Country Living from the magazine rack. I turn to the ads for stainless-steel plumbing and Irish linen towels. Wrought-iron hardware and blown-glass lamps. After Dad left and Mom started moving us from place to place, I filled a scrapbook with details of the house I want one day. I picked paint colors, drapes, throw rugs and end tables.
The scrapbook got left behind in some dump we stayed in.
Whenever I open one of these home-decorating magazines, I feel a worm of envy in my gut.
For everyone else’s life.