The Dollar Kids

  “Do you miss it?” Lowen asked, turning off the bedside lamp.

  “The Albatross, you mean?”

  Lowen wondered how Dylan had learned their name for the house. It made him feel lousy. “We don’t mean it as an insult.”

  “It’s OK,” said Dylan. “My dad built this house for my mom, but it was always a work in progress. And then, when he was laid off from the mill, he didn’t have the heart or the money for repairs.”

  “Tell me about your dad,” Lowen said.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Dylan said. “Dad claims he was never really accepted here; his family moved to town when he was in high school. To the locals, that made him an outsider.”

  Lowen could certainly relate to that.

  “A lot of guys resented him when he married one of the most popular girls in Millville. He says that’s why he was one of the first men to be laid off from the mill.”

  “What is your mom like? Besides popular, I mean.”

  “Why do you care so much about my mom?”

  Lowen shrugged, though Dylan couldn’t see it in the dark. “I don’t know. It just seems weird that you never talk about her.”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s weird that you never talk about that kid who got shot?”

  The snake lunged, cut off his air.

  “Anyway,” Dylan said, giving him a pass, “there’s even less to tell about my mom than there is my dad.”

  Lowen thought for a moment. “There’s always something to tell,” he said.

  Dylan was so silent that Lowen thought he might have fallen to asleep.

  “Guess you’re right,” Dylan finally whispered. “Always something.”

  And then he was snoring.

  Lowen, on the other hand, was awake enough to imagine an Abe comic — something he hadn’t done in weeks.

  He wondered if he’d ever share his Abe comics with anyone. Would people say he was insensitive? That the comics were inappropriate or offensive? Deranged?

  In providing Oliver with a friend (Abe), was Lowen forgiving him? And if so, why? So he, Lowen Grover, could be forgiven? After all, he had never held a gun, but he was as much a murderer as Oliver and he knew it.

  Enough, he told his overactive brain. He didn’t need to show his drawings to anyone if he didn’t want to. (Just like the letter he’d written to Mrs. Siskin.)

  The comics were a safe place for him to work through his feelings about Abe’s death. It didn’t matter what other people thought of them — they were for him, not for anyone else.

  On Sunday, Dylan went to the Cornish Eatery to deliver pasties and Lowen was left alone at home again. He took out his sketchpad, which was mostly empty now. For nearly two months he’d been drawing caricatures, but he was getting really tired of it. For one thing, he was always trying to figure out how much the person wanted a true caricature (which is meant to be funny) versus a portrait (which hopefully makes them look good). It turned out that drawing caricatures with other people’s feelings in mind was a lot like trying to draw comics with someone else’s voice constantly piping up, telling him what to do.

  And somehow his art had become something just for others.

  He took out his old Phenom sketchbook. He read through it, smiling at times, remembering ideas that had been Abe’s — ideas that he had incorporated. He turned to a clean sheet of paper, and without analyzing, drew the next strip.

  Instead of refraining from drawing as a way to honor Abe, he’d use his art to honor him.

  Lowen drew — both a Phenom strip and a new Abe strip — until the rest of the family and Dylan were home. And then, while Dylan was on the phone with his mother, he tried to draw some more but got caught up in the listening:

  “He’s really sick, Mom.”

  “No, really. I think he’d like to see you.”

  “Just the opposite. I think missing you is one of the things wearing him down.”

  “People aren’t thinking anything. Besides, you could stay at his house. In your old room.”

  “Never mind. I have to go. Forget I even called.”

  When Lowen was walking home from school, Ms. Duffey spotted him and waved him into her yard. For the second time, she was holding a shovel.

  “How are things? Are you still drawing caricatures?” she asked.

  “Continually!” said Lowen.

  “Well, that must be good for the Cornish Eatery.”

  “It is, but now I’m worried about not getting the house repairs done on time. The Kellings and the Muñozes could afford to hire people to fix up their houses, and Rena has Coach to help, but we seem to be moving backward.”

  “Have you asked anyone for help?”

  Lowen shook his head. “Sometimes it seems as if people in this town don’t really want us to succeed.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that,” said Ms. Duffey. “But there are people who are skeptical of this program. They’re watching all of you closely to determine whether it’s a help or a drain on the town.”

  The Dollar Families were lab rats, just like Sami had pointed out on the very first day, and it looked like his family was one that wouldn’t make it.

  “Here,” she said, handing Lowen the shovel. “Take your mind off your troubles and help me dig a hole.”

  “Burying more regrets?”

  She laughed. “No, silly, planting a tree.”

  Lowen gave her a sideways glance. “Are you ever going to tell me what you buried last summer?”

  “Nope. But, I’ll tell you this: burying them did me no good. No good at all. So I’m following another book’s advice on letting things go. I’m going to embrace my regrets, accept them, love them. Maybe then they won’t have such a grip on me.”

  Lowen stepped onto the shovel and drove it into the crusty earth. He thought of his mammoth regret, of how much it haunted him — how he had no right to be happy. How could he embrace that?

  Again, he pushed the shovel into the earth and tossed the dirt to the side.

  Pushed. Tossed.

  Pushed.

  Tossed.

  The Abe comic he drew last night came to mind. It wasn’t a new comic, exactly, but a revision of an earlier one:

  Lowen drove the shovel into the increasingly hard earth with all the force he could muster.

  Ms. Duffey put her hand on his arm. “If it’s too hard —”

  “It’s Lowen!” a girl’s voice called.

  Lowen stopped and looked to see Clem and Luna walking down the road, holding hands. “Hey, Lowen!” Luna called out.

  Lowen could feel the heat rise in his face.

  Clem pulled Luna closer to him.

  “Hello, Luna,” called Ms. Duffey. “Hello, Clem.”

  “Oh, hi, Ms. Duffey!” Luna said, pulling Clem into Ms. Duffey’s yard. “I didn’t realize you lived here.” She looked up at Clem and added, “Ms. Duffey has asked me to do a recital at the library. She thought it might help to show that there’s a lot more to Millville than sports.”

  Clem nudged her shoulder — a much tamer reaction than he gave Dad whenever Dad downplayed sports.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with sports,” Ms. Duffey said to Clem, “but if we’re going to keep this town alive, we have to start appealing to people interested in jobs that can thrive in a town like Millville. Since Millville has a low cost of living —”

  “Houses for one dollar!” Clem sang, as if he were selling popcorn at a baseball game.

  Ms. Duffey laughed. “Well, even those sold in the more conventional way are pretty economical. . . . It’s the kind of community where artists might be able to make a living.”

  “Artists like Lowen,” cooed Luna. “Are you ever going to draw my cello for me?”

  “We’ve got to keep going,” said Clem.

  Lowen had been thinking about it. “I might be able to —”

  “Luna has an appointment.”

  And just like that, the two of them were gone.

  When Dylan and Mum
got back to the Albatross after the shop closed, Dylan announced that his grandfather was coming home on Wednesday. “Is it OK if I skip work tomorrow afternoon, Mrs. Grover?” he asked. “My grandfather’s coming home Wednesday and I should clean up the mess.”

  Mum nodded. “Of course. Anneth or Lowen can do deliveries.”

  “Anneth, would you do them?” Lowen asked. Then, to Dylan, he said, “I’ll go with you, if you want.”

  Dylan looked at him skeptically.

  “I could help — do the dishes or something.”

  Mum gave him an approving nod, but he wasn’t just offering because it was the right thing to do. He wanted to hang with Dylan. But suddenly he wondered if he was acting just like Abe. Was he being a pest? Did Dylan even want him around?

  “If you want to come and scrub pots, that’s your choice,” said Dylan, but his eyes were smiling, and Lowen knew that Dylan was deep-down glad.

  The next day, on the way to Mr. Avery’s house, Lowen picked up Sami, who wanted to help too. It was rainy, which made the house darker.

  “Stop judging,” said Dylan as they strolled into the kitchen.

  “We’re not —”

  Dylan stopped and stared at Lowen.

  “Well, I suppose I’m thinking that you’re not the best housekeeper.” Lowen started removing dirty dishes from the sink.

  Sami took the dishes from Lowen and placed them in the dishwasher. “So what did your grandfather do in the mill? Before it closed?”

  “He was a papermaker,” Dylan said. He’d pulled out a trash bag and was collecting discarded food wrappers and boxes.

  “Wow,” Lowen said. He knew from the research he’d done with Sami that that job title went to men who had moved way up in the ranks. It was one of the best jobs in the mill.

  Dylan nodded. “Grandfather Avery always said, ‘You put your time in, you work hard, you reap your rewards.’ Most of the papermakers had college degrees, but my grandfather got the job without one — he was that good.”

  “Do you have a stainless steel pad or something?” Lowen asked. There was no other way this burned-on stew was coming off the bottom of the pot he was scrubbing.

  “No, but you can try this.” Dylan tossed Lowen a sponge that was made for scrubbing, but he didn’t look hopeful.

  “And what about your dad? What was his job?”

  “He was maintenance. He kept everything in working order.”

  “Oh,” Lowen said, failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “Yeah,” said Dylan. “I know. I think he was better at repairing mill machinery than he was at repairing a home. Mom always accused him of taking shortcuts.” He held out his garbage bag. “Throw that pot in here. You’re never going to get that crap off the bottom.”

  Lowen held the pot in his hands. “So the mill closed and your dad and grandfather lost their jobs,” he said. “What happened then?”

  Dylan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, is that when your mom moved to North Carolina?” It seemed kind of cold, if that was the case — hightail it out of town because your husband and dad are out of work.

  Dylan was quiet for a moment, and Lowen wasn’t sure he was going to answer. Then he said, “After the mill closed, businessmen in suits kept showing up in their fancy cars, making all sorts of promises about buying the mill. Dad, always Mr. Hopeful, kept thinking they would. But no one ever did.”

  Lowen wanted to ask what that had to do with anything, but he didn’t want to seem rude. Luckily, Dylan continued. “Then my mother, seeing her opportunity to get out of dying Millville, left with one of those suits.”

  Lowen remained very quiet, not sure what to say.

  “She’s no longer with the guy, but my grandfather can’t forgive her for taking off with him. And my mother can’t forgive my grandfather for always thinking that she’s doing the wrong thing.”

  “What about you?” asked Sami.

  “What about me?”

  “Can you forgive your mother?”

  Lowen expected Dylan to get angry, to spout off. But he didn’t. He took a deep breath and gave the slightest of nods.

  Lowen reached for the garbage bag. He’d throw the pot away if that’s what Dylan wanted.

  “No, don’t,” said Dylan. “My grandfather will miss it.”

  As Lowen walked home from school the next day, he saw Coach walking toward town, carrying a small, square coffee table.

  “Cool table, Coach,” said Lowen, wondering what Coach was doing walking around with a table.

  “Thanks.” Coach paused. “I made it.”

  Lowen ran his hand over the surface. It had a really cool pattern in the wood. “You made this?”

  “Yup. From discarded wood. Thought you knew everything about me, did you?”

  “Nah.” Lowen might only be thirteen, but he’d certainly learned that people were always more complicated than they seemed.

  They walked on. “Rena’s going to try selling my recycled furniture in her shop.”

  It was a cool idea — upstyled clothes and furniture — but Coach didn’t exactly have to walk to Restored Riches by way of the Albatross. Lowen sensed an ulterior motive and braced himself for the pitch Coach was bound to give him about joining baseball.

  But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word about it. Huh?

  Coach had come down to Mum’s to recruit him for basketball. He’d offered him private lessons. Now baseball was coming up and he hadn’t so much as asked if Lowen wanted to try out. Maybe it was just his height that had interested Coach. Maybe Coach thought a tall kid could accomplish anything on the court. Guess Lowen proved him wrong. Coach was probably tired of trying to teach a kid who had no natural talent to play ball.

  Lowen walked into the Eatery the same moment as Mrs. Corbeau. This could only mean trouble.

  “Why, the shop is smaller than I imagined,” she said, leaving off any polite greeting, “but, then, there are those offices behind your restaurant.”

  “Hello!” Mum said. “Is this your first time in here? Beautiful spring evening, isn’t it?”

  “We could use more rain,” clucked Mrs. Corbeau.

  “After all that snow?” Mum asked.

  “Snow doesn’t do a thing for the flowers. They need a good soaking.”

  “Oh,” Mum said, “I didn’t realize.”

  “I came by to tell you to expect a visitor to your home next month.”

  “Oh?” said Mum again, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “As you may have heard, I’m standing in for Mr. Avery on the town council until he’s well enough to serve again. The town cannot sign over any of the dollar houses unless they are deemed safe and insurable. An insurance inspector will be coming to Millville to conduct inspections — to basically make sure that you have restored the house per your agreement.”

  “But we still have more than two months,” Lowen said, knowing full well his mother would get on his case for being disrespectful.

  “True. Two months to make the repairs” she said. “You might as well know if additional work will be required. A lot can happen to a house in a year. Also, we’re trying to gauge the probable success of the program. There are some folks in town — Coach, for one — who would like us to offer more houses next year.”

  “I take it you don’t agree with that plan,” said Mum.

  “I don’t see how giving houses away has helped anyone,” said Mrs. Corbeau. “I, for one, believe in people making their own way.”

  The fact that there were only two months left to restore the Albatross put the Grovers into crisis mode. They agreed that the outside of the house had to be tackled immediately. The exterior would provide a first impression; if it still looked run-down, there was no way an inspector was going to accept the rest.

  Dad quit his job in Flintlock. Just like that. He decided that the only way this crazy plan would work was if he moved to Millville and worked on the house full-time. He knew that it was risky, but he also knew
that if they failed to purchase the house, it would leave them even more battered and sad than when they first arrived. So while Mum kept the shop going (now their only source of income), and Dad repaired the flashing and shingles around the chimney, and Clem and his buds dug holes in the newly thawed ground, placed the porch posts, and began construction on the porch frame, Lowen and Anneth scraped peeling paint off the old clapboards. It was grueling work, but Lowen couldn’t help notice, with some satisfaction, that his biceps were growing.

  Their house still looked terrible from the outside, but they were clearly on it now. It was great to have Dad in Millville every day, and there was a new energy around the Albatross.

  So it was probably no coincidence that one week after they had made significant progress, Virginia Corbeau upped her game and the Busy Bee started serving dinner. And Mrs. Corbeau was offering lots more than pie. She was luring folks in with three-cheese lasagna and baby back ribs. The impact on the Cornish Eatery was immediate and extreme: folks in town were saving their money for dinner out at the Busy Bee. For the first time since they moved to Millville, Mum lost all her fight. She stopped getting up at dawn to make a list of the things she needed to do. She stopped searching for new pie recipes. She even forgot to place an order for flour and shortening and had to close early one day.

  To ease their worry about finances, Dad was forced to spend fewer daylight hours working on the house and more time investigating the possibility of opening a clinic in town. He knew he needed the supervision of an actual doctor, and he was trying to convince one of the doctors he’d met when he’d brought Mr. Avery to the hospital to sponsor him. So far he hadn’t had much luck. “They all think it’s a waste of resources,” Dad said. “Millville is too small and too rural — to say nothing of too impoverished — to guarantee steady business. They’d rather have me working out of the hospital. But the commute would kill me; I’d see you guys even less than I saw you when I lived in Flintlock!” But he kept at it, hoping to wear them down; if Mum’s shop went under, it would be up to Dad to keep them afloat.