Scruffy
by Nico Grey
Part III
It was agonizing, not being able to return to the Crenshaw place on Monday. I needed to know whether Scruffy had thought about what we said and if he still hated me. At the same time, I wasn't sure that I wanted to know the answer.
Instead, I spent an uncomfortable thirty-five minutes in a car driving to Brattleboro. I was alone with Mrs. O'Connor.
She didn't offer any explanation when she arrived at our home Monday morning to pick me up. I opened the front passenger side door and found her alone in the SUV.
She greeted me politely. She made occasional casual conversation as we drove. I was desperate to discover why her son and his friend weren't also in the car. But I was afraid to ask.
I spent the day doing more scut work at the Drop-In Center. I also saw a few of the kids who came there for help. Their dress and behavior was a bit outré. Otherwise, they seemed like fairly normal kids.
All I really knew about them was that most didn't have a home. Some couch surfed. Some lived on the street. A few of the older ones were able to get housing support through the Center's services. Most had less cause for hope than the average kid, I guess. But they didn't seem much different from me or from anyone else that I knew.
They kept piles of literature describing the various services offered at the Drop-In Center on a table just inside the main entrance of the building. On an impulse, I collected a stack of the various brochures and brought it home with me.
Mrs. O'Connor eyed my handful of brochures curiously when I climbed into her SUV for our ride home. But she didn't say anything.
It was just my opinion, but I don't think I was reading too much into anything.
When I arrived at the Crenshaw place Tuesday morning, I'm pretty sure that Scruffy was relieved to see me. It wasn't anything that came across in his words, which were few. His expression was guarded. But there was something about his posture that relaxed slightly when he noticed me entering the dooryard.
He accepted the breakfast I brought without a word. The dog was similarly taciturn, although probably because his mouth was already full milliseconds after I filled his dish.
Scruffy haunted the dooryard while I set up the ladder and resumed work on the barn. He still didn't say anything, but I think it was his offer to help.
I wouldn't even suggest it. I had already realized that I couldn't have him working on the ladder. If anything happened and he fell, there'd be a huge problem with insurance. And I'd never be able to forgive myself.
After a while, Scruffy and the dog wandered away. They kicked the ball down the driveway to the road, then raced each other back. Eventually they left for a walk in the direction of the woods. The dog was leading the way.
I was pleased that they returned in time for lunch. I had put a little extra effort into the meal. I had a small cooler in my backpack full of ham and turkey sandwiches, with lettuce, tomato, and pickles. I had even brought a package of cookies because I believe in eating a balanced diet.
Scruffy still didn't have anything to say. But I was pretty sure that he wanted to say something. I left the conversation for him to start when he felt ready. I was pretty sure that was the right thing to do.
After lunch, I returned to work. Scruffy and the dog remained nearby. From time-to-time I noticed him watching me out of the corner of an eye.
When the sun had climbed past its zenith and had been easing down toward the horizon for a while, he made a production out of gathering soap, shampoo, and the grooming tools I had brought for him. He continued to watch me surreptitiously.
It was the opening that— I guess my subconscious mind— had been waiting for. I had scraped barn siding more than enough for one day. I climbed down the ladder and joined boy and dog.
After we had bathed, Scruffy made a production out of combing his hair. At least he struggled with it more than he had before.
"I think I need a haircut," he observed.
I took the hint.
"I can bring scissors when I come tomorrow," I offered.
He nodded.
"It needs to be done."
It was an opening.
I could wait patiently for the next one.
We made gradual progress that week.
I waited patiently for Scruffy to open a door. I walked through the opening just as far as he permitted, when offered. Then I waited again.
I continued to bring additional supplies for Scruffy and the dog. I found a spare can opener in a kitchen utility drawer, so I brought it and several cans of wet food for the dog. He seemed appreciative.
I gave Scruffy's hair a trim. I think I did a passable job. I even brought a hand mirror that he used to check out my work.
I don't believe it was vanity. I think he just enjoyed using that mirror to remind me of who was in charge.
I brought as much spare food as I thought I could get away with. Sooner or later, I was afraid that my mother would notice and comment.
Mom and I discussed some ideas I had about supplies I needed to buy to maintain the Crenshaw property. But we didn't talk a lot that week. When she was home, she spent a lot of her time on the phone. And while I couldn't be certain, I had the sense that a number of those conversations were with Mrs. O'Connor.
Those calls always made me quite anxious.
I forgot to remind Scruffy that my mother would be driving me to work Saturday morning. She had borrowed the Dawsons' pickup truck again and we had the mower, weed-eater, and more spare gasoline in the back.
"My! Your friend must get up very early," Mom observed as we drove into the dooryard.
"He was probably taking Sebastian for a walk."
Improvisation has never been my strong suit. I gave myself kudos for that one.
Mom watched while Scruffy and I unloaded the mower.
"I don't imagine Kyle is paying you anything for your help," Mom said.
Scruffy's head swiveled around to look at me.
Mom laughed.
I noticed that I only half-hated her in that moment.
She reached back into the cab of the truck and produced a small plastic grocery bag.
"These still had a little wear left in them before Kyle outgrew them. I hope you get a chance to visit these places someday, too."
She handed Scruffy the bag.
"We made some fond family memories there."
I could only imagine what was inside that bag.
The second item was easier to identify. It was advertised right on the side of the box.
"Donuts!"
I think Scruffy and I exclaimed at the same time.
The dog approached. Mom actually seemed apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Sebastian. I forgot. But I'll remember some treats when I come back for Kyle."
That was weird!
Mom hopped back into the cab of the pickup and motored away. She seemed much more confident behind the wheel than she had been the previous week.
Scruffy and I just looked at each other blankly. Him perhaps because of the novelty of the experience— although it's hard to be anything but excited over a box of donuts. Me because I was hoping he could explain what had happened to my mother.
I didn't pig out on donuts. But I did have a pair. Who can resist maple crème donuts?
I left the rest for Scruffy. I knew he wouldn't eat ten donuts in one day. But I figured they would last at least a couple of days; especially if I left him that little cooler to help keep the heat off and the ants away.
I spent my day mowing. The large lawn at that old Crenshaw place was looking pretty good, if I do say so myself. I was hoping that Ms. Schultz might stop by for a look, and to verify to the owners that I was doing my job well.
By mid-afternoon the work was done and I was ready to clean up. We were slowly becoming comfortable with each other in the water again.
While we were toweling off, the last of the ice broke.
"I'm sorry I got so upset at you," Scruffy told me. "I know you're a pretty good guy who just made a mistake. It just got to me. I can explain if you want me to."
I had spent close to three weeks trying to learn more about Scruffy, but I did my best to conceal my enthusiasm.
I didn't get his whole story. But he shared a lot more than he had been willing to before.
Surprisingly, for a young guy, he kept it fairly matter-of-fact. He wasn't very emotional as he recounted a personal history that would have devastated me.
Scruffy didn't have a good home life. His family wasn't very supportive of each other. His mother was very religious. His father wasn't. They fought. Frequently.
Scruffy's younger brother and sister were only a year and two younger than him. There was a lot of sibling rivalry. It sounded to me like maybe the parents encouraged it, seeking allies against each other among their offspring.
He was introduced to sex young. Very young. He wouldn't say much about that, except that it didn't involve an older woman. Or a younger woman.
By the time he was ten, he understood that he was attracted to other guys. He enjoyed how it felt when they did stuff to him. And he had learned that he could enjoy making them feel good, too.
Eventually, as boys developed into older boys with serious sexual attractions, Scruffy realized that he was different from the other boys. Or at least different from the boys who talked about their attractions.
He discovered this difference when he began to hint at his attractions with people he considered friends. Even as a star player in youth soccer, he wasn't readily forgiven for this difference.
There was some bullying at school. Eventually this got back to his mother, who was mortified. She knew who to blame. She came down on Scruffy like the wrath of god in fluffy pink bunny slippers. In the end, his father didn't really make a lot of effort to defend him. Before long, he left home.
Incidents continued at school. His mother became even more wroth with him over his deviance. It really didn't matter that Scruffy never instigated even one of these incidents.
His younger siblings, who tended to ally with his mother against his father, took on their customary role. With a vengeance. His younger brother accused Scruffy of trying 'something weird' with him. Then his younger sister did the same.
Scruffy's mother didn't even bother to notice the apparent contradiction between her deviant son's unnatural attraction to boys and the claim of his sister. Both siblings' claims were accepted at face value.
It was made clear to Scruffy that he had two choices. His mother could call Children's Services and ask them to take custody and make what they would of him. Or he could hit the road.
Scruffy chose the road.
He didn't tell me the price he had paid to get from Claremont to Antioch. But I didn't have to read very far between the lines to understand that the cost had been in more than shoe leather.
When he finished talking, I tried to envelop him in my arms. He pushed me away.
"I didn't tell you my story for sympathy," he snapped. "I told you that to help you understand what you and your friends did to the boy at that party last fall.
"I don't mind sex. I really like it when I find someone special to share it with.
"But I absolutely hate being forced or pressured into sex. That makes me feel like I'm not a real person. I'm just a thing being used for someone else's enjoyment. And I'm disgusted with myself that I'm powerless to prevent it. Sometimes I even hated myself."
I wish he had just hit me.
Scruffy and I didn't spend a lot of time together on Sunday. He wasn't unfriendly. He just needed time to think. He seemed to be waiting for something.
Since I had no idea what he was waiting for, I waited too. I decided that he would let me know when he had what he wanted.
I was almost through scraping that barn. Ms. Schultz had e-mailed me with the owners' instruction about the color they wanted the barn painted.
I wasn't sure that I would be able to purchase the paint before the following Saturday, so it looked like I might not be working very much the next week. But Ms. Schultz did want me to examine the outbuildings and report on what I could do to spruce them up a bit. I figured that might give me something to do on a slow day.
Before I left for the day, we did our usual routine cleaning up in the stream. I was tempted to ask Scruffy what he needed. But I really had no idea.
I tried a more concrete question. It was also a question that reflected on my own needs.
"If one of the people that hurt you apologized to you for what they did, I mean apologized and really meant it, would that help you to feel better about yourself?"
He appraised me while he thought about his answer.
"Do you think they might really be sorry?"
"Maybe." I really had no way of knowing. "I know that I am."
"You might get in a lot of trouble admitting something like that," he warned.
And that was the rub. I really was sorry for what I had done. But was I sorry enough to risk getting in real trouble? How would Mom react when she heard about yet another one of my poor life choices?
"You'll do the right thing," he assured me.
I was surprised when he hugged me as I prepared to leave.
I thought about it when I went to bed Sunday night. I spent hours tossing and turning before I could finally sleep.
When Mrs. O'Connor pulled up alone in our driveway Monday morning, I was still of two minds. I had made my decision. I was just trying to decide whether it made more sense to wait until the drive home, or to speak while we were on our way to Brattleboro.
If things really hit the fan, at least being in Brattleboro would give me a thirty-five mile head start to escape Mom's wrath.
It made more sense to say what I had to say on the drive to Brattleboro. I just lacked the courage to do it.
I spent my shift at the Drop-In Center bolstering my courage. All I needed to do was get it out once. After that, I didn't need any bravery at all. Whatever happened next would happen.
I had some time to observe a few of the young people who dropped in to the center. I even chatted with a couple of them. I figured it might be a good idea to make friends. If my ride home went as badly as I feared it could, I might soon be living among them.
I don't know whether Mrs. O'Connor had some sort of sixth sense, but she seemed to know that I had something I needed to say. Maybe it was just that she's a lawyer. Maybe it was the way my squirming was starting to wear a hole in the passenger seat's upholstery.
She was receptive. And when I started talking, she just encouraged me to share my story.
I don't know how she managed to do that. If I was talking to someone who had sexually abused my son, I'd have tried to kill him.
Her son Fionn, the boy who had sat behind me on the trip back and forth to Brattleboro two weeks previously, was the boy who had been forced to suck me off at the Frye's Halloween party.
I might have felt better had she raged at me. Instead she remained calm. She had a few questions.
Did I like it?
How do you answer that question? 'No! Your son gives terrible head!'
Of course I 'liked' it. But I hated that I had been part of it. I really hated what I had done to her boy.
She seemed to accept that.
She had some questions about substance use at the party.
I admitted that there had been beer. I thought there had been some marijuana, too. And I was pretty sure that somebody had given her son something else. He seemed pretty far out of it when I saw him.
Did I see any other sex at the party?
I couldn't recall seeing any. But a couple of kids had disappeared into the woods. So I really couldn't say what had happened there.
Did I know what anal sex was?
Yikes! That's a weird conversation to have with anyone's mom. I'm sure she understood my scarlet face and stammered response to mean 'yes'.
Did I see any anal sex at this party?
Absolutely not! I've never seen any anal sex. Not even in internet porn.
Which I've never seen in my life, Mrs. O'Connor! At least, not on purpose.
I'm pretty sure she knew I was lying. About the internet part.
Did I see her son leave the party?
I had. Mr. Frye, Benjer's father, had pushed the boy into his truck and driven away as the party was winding down.
Did anyone else go with Mr. Frye and her son?
I hadn't seen anyone. I was pretty sure that they had left alone.
And that was it. But she seemed satisfied with my answers.
She didn't offer any reassurances, but she drove me straight home. She didn't get out of her SUV and come inside to talk to my mother.
I was perplexed. I didn't know what was supposed to happen next, but I was pretty sure that it wasn't nothing.
I considered the possibility that just maybe I had survived radical honesty. Maybe.
At least I had hope. . .
I didn't talk to Scruffy about my conversation with Mrs. O'Connor when I saw him the following morning. Maybe he sensed that I had made the right decision. Maybe he had just needed to get his story off his chest and was feeling better as a result. He was much more open with me than he had been on Sunday.
I really didn't have much work to do. I spent a couple more hours going back over that old barn, making sure I had removed all of the loose paint. I had read something online about sanding after scraping to prepare a surface for painting. I thought that might make a project for at least part of the week.
There were some areas around the house that I thought might once have been flower beds. I went through them pulling out the obvious weeds and trying to make room for the flowers to grow. It exceeded what the house's owners had asked of me, so I figured I wouldn't bill for the time. But maybe they'd appreciate the extra effort.
Scruffy, Sebastian, and I spend some extended time together with the soccer ball for the first time in more than a week.
I did some mental calculations in my head and realized that summer practice sessions for our high school soccer team would start in four or five weeks. It was already past time to be getting ready for the soccer season.
We ended the day in the stream. It felt good to cool off after running around for so long.
Scruffy had been observing me in the water.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I guess he thought that I was being unusually quiet. And here I thought it was him keeping his thoughts to himself!
On reflection, I decided to share my conversation with Mrs. O'Connor. . . as well as the news that the boy at the Frye's party had been her son.
"Did you hire her to be your lawyer first?" he wondered.
I guess I must have mentioned her profession. And he had heard about the client confidentiality requirement for lawyers somewhere.
Unfortunately, I hadn't even considered that possibility.
"But she didn't get upset?"
For some reason, that didn't seem to surprise Scruffy as much as it had surprised me.
"She just asked a lot of questions," I assured him. "I'm not sure, but I got the impression that maybe she already knew what we did to her son."
He tried to puzzle that out. Then, so did I.
The questions she asked didn't really have anything to do with what I had done. We couldn't figure out what she wanted to know.
He surprised me with another hug when I was preparing to go.
He surprised me even more with a quick kiss on my cheek.
"You did the right thing," he assured me.
But I thought I saw concern somewhere in the back of his eyes.
Mom. . . wasn't Mom?
After more than a year of her constant nagging and criticism, suddenly she was warm and supportive.
I hoped that she wasn't sick. It would really suck to lose both of my parents before I graduated high school. I mean, I could live with Scruffy and the dog. But really!
I arrived at the Crenshaw place a couple of hours late on Saturday. Mom and I had driven the Dawson's pickup truck to Brattleboro to pick up the paint that the property owners ordered.
While in town, Mom also fronted me the money to purchase a few brushes, supplies, and materials that I would need to paint the barn. We loaded everything into the back of the truck with the mower and headed back north.
Scruffy seemed concerned that we were so late. He and the dog were waiting in the dooryard, apparently doing nothing but keeping an eye on the driveway.
Mom had picked up bagels while we were in Brattleboro. Apparently they were a healthier choice than donuts!
Both were full of carbs. I tried to explain it to her. But nice as she was suddenly being, she didn't listen. I was really in the mood for a maple crème and some coffee.
She had tasked me with a mission that day. I didn't know what to make of it, but I was suspicious.
She had noticed that Scruffy's sneakers were looking quite worn. She wanted me to figure out what size shoes he wore, without him noticing. And I had to make sure his current shoes fit well!
I worried that she was on drugs.
Scruffy and I unloaded the paint and supplies from the truck. We locked everything in one of the sheds. The dog and Mom supervised. She seemed to spend a lot of time hovering around Scruffy.
Because my day started so late, I barely finished the mowing before the sun had started down in the sky. I was hot and tired. I just prayed that we could finish washing up before Mom caught our bare butts dashing out of the water and racing for our towels.
Fortunately, we were dried and dressed before Mom finally arrived at five-thirty.
Scruffy wasn't embarrassed at all to give me a hug before I left. Mom looked on approvingly. There was something wistful about the twinkle in her eye.
I refused to even make eye contact with her on the ride home.
I got an intense shock Monday morning.
I opened the front door of Mrs. O'Connor's Audi SQ7. The passenger seat was empty. But there were two people sitting in the second row of seats.
I must have looked like I was having a seizure.
Mrs. O'Connor was very friendly as she invited me to sit down. But it felt like a trap.
Her son Fionn and his friend were as quiet on the ride into Brattleboro as they had been three weeks earlier. I kept expecting to feel their eyes boring into the back of my neck, but I really couldn't feel anything. I wondered briefly if I was already dead.
A sense of foreboding followed me throughout the day as I worked at the Drop-In Center. There was no rational explanation. But a sense of doom hung over me.
I was starting to feel a little better by the time we started the drive home from Brattleboro. Fionn O'Connor and his friend sat in the backseat, their heads together, chatting very quietly. It felt like each of the previous three trips I had taken with them, except. . .
Several miles north of Brattleboro, Mrs. O'Connor pulled the SUV over at a little café along the side of the highway. She opened her door and invited all of us to follow her inside the café.
She found a table in a quiet corner of the room and sat down. She dominated the small talk while we waited for our orders to arrive.
Once the waitress had arrived with beverages and a large plate of pastries, Mrs. O'Connor turned to me.
"This probably isn't very fair, Kyle. I should have warned you. But I need you to tell Fionn the story you told me last week."
I would imagine that the shock on my face was comical. On the inside, that shock felt potentially fatal.
Mrs. O'Connor was patient with me. She was encouraging.
"Fionn deserves to hear this, Kyle. You've already told me, but it would be better coming straight from you."
Again, it felt like a trap. A trap baited with something sweet— maybe maple crèmes! — but still a trap.
She did have a point, however. I had already told the story. And if I couldn't tell him myself, her son was still going to hear it from somebody.
So I started talking.
I had a terrible time making eye contact with him. It really was almost impossible.
Fionn was a small boy, around fourteen years old, and seemed quite reserved by nature. But in that moment I found him extremely intimidating.
I managed to get the story out, mumbled into my chin. His mother had to ask me to repeat some parts. But I did get it out.
When I was done, he spoke for the first time.
"How many?"
How many? Did he mean how many times did he blow me? Or how many people he had blown that night?
I tried to give him a thorough answer.
"Just once. . . you know. . . you and me. But the whole night? I don't know. I saw a lot of people, you know, with you."
He started to collapse into himself. His friend glared at me fiercely.
I finally found the courage to meet his eyes for a brief moment.
"I'm sorry, Fionn. I'm really sorry. I wish I had never done what I did. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I had never gone to that party. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
By the time I was through, I was babbling. Really close to tears.
But somehow that seemed to help him regain his composure a little.
His mother was a big help. . . and no help at all.
"The sheriff has an office just a mile down the road, Fionn. What Kyle did to you is called sexual assault. It's against the law. We can bring him to the sheriff and you can ask to press charges."
She eyed me like there was no way I could refuse to get back in her SUV and allow her to haul my ass off to jail.
And in the state I was suddenly in, she just might have been right.
Fionn's friend was an even bigger help.
"He deserves it, Fionn. He admitted what he did. You deserve justice."
He reached out and took Fionn's hand.
I had a sudden vision of the three of them hauling me outside and hanging me from a nearby oak tree.
The friend, Alex, wrapped his arm around Fionn's shoulder and whispered in his ear. I couldn't hear what was said, but the friend's demeanor was intense.
I thought Mrs. O'Connor's gaze was sympathetic as it passed over me.
" It's up to you, honey," she took Fionn's other hand. "What Kyle did to you was wrong. It was against the law. If you want us to press charges, we will. Kyle will have his day in court. He can explain what happened to a jury."
When Fionn raised his eyes, he looked much stronger. He looked directly at me.
"Did you mean what you said?"
When he noticed my confusion, he clarified.
"Did you mean that you wish you hadn't done it?"
It felt like he and I were alone in the room for just a few moments. I wondered if it was what judgment day would feel like. I couldn't speak anything but the truth.
"I did. I've regretted what I did every single day since then. I regretted it while I was doing it. I wanted it to stop."
I shrugged helplessly.
"But my friends were there. They had done it already. They were encouraging me. I was just too weak to do the right thing."
That was another damning admission. I had been too weak. I had known what was right. I had just been too weak to do it.
Maybe it was a moment when I was stripped of my teen bravado. All of the posturing, the defenses we build around ourselves, had been stripped away. And I had been exposed in front of these people as pathetically weak.
That really sucked. I had revealed myself to three near-strangers as too weak to do what I already knew was right.
It was going to take a long time to rebuild those defenses, that armor. Maybe, I reflected, it would be easier to become a better person, instead of wasting all that effort on pretending to be better than I really am.
That felt like a calming thought. It even allowed me to meet Fionn's eyes.
And maybe that allowed him to see into my eyes and assure himself of the truth of my admission.
"We don't need to talk about this again," he said. "It's over and done. Punishment isn't going to help anyone."
When his friend started to protest, Fionn silenced him. Right in the middle of the café. He kissed him squarely on the lips.
His friend's expression would have been comical if I wasn't so shocked. And when I had a moment to think about it, it really wasn't funny at all. It actually looked . . . nice?
Fionn had given his friend the assurance he needed. What had happened didn't haunt him anymore. He was free to be himself without any reticence or concern about what others might think.
After she dropped her son and his friend off in Judah, Mrs. O'Connor apologized to me.
"I would have preferred not to shock you like that," she said. "But that worked best naturally, with nobody prepared for what they would hear or say."
"What if Fionn wanted to bring me to the sheriff?"
That was still on my mind, at least a little.
"Then you would have gone to the sheriff," she told me. "But I didn't think it likely. I know my son."
"His friend was being quite persuasive," I pointed out.
She smiled.
"He was. But I am a lawyer. I may not be a litigator, but I know my trade. I understand people.
"That's how I knew you would do what was necessary."
"Necessary?" That confused me. "How was that necessary?"
"You don't understand because you've never been in that position before, Kyle. But the worst thing that sexual assault does to its victims is to strip them of personal agency and power. It's a terrifying reminder of how little control they might suddenly have over their own lives. It can lead to mental health problems like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
"What we did today demonstrated to my son that he does have power to control his life. We gave him power over a person that took it from him."
I really didn't need her pointed glance to understand who she meant.
"We allowed him to feel in control again. What we just did will help him to heal more thoroughly than dozens of therapy sessions. You did that for him."
"But what if he had sent me to jail?"
The idea was still unsettling.
"Like I said, I know my son. We gave him power back over his life and he chose to do the responsible thing. He did the right thing. He'll recognize that in time. And that will help him to feel even better about himself."
She regarded me thoughtfully.
"It gave you power, too, Kyle. You did something that you probably never imagined having the strength to do. Next time you're confronted with a difficult moral choice, you'll remember this day and know that you do have the strength to do the right thing."
That was actually an encouraging thought.
I just hope that she's right.
The experience probably didn't change my life. Although I almost had to change my underwear.
I don't know which was more terrifying, the prospect of public opprobrium and jail, or revealing my own inadequacy to relative strangers.
I think maybe I could have handled a public trial and jail time better than looking that boy in the eye— or trying to— confessing what I had done to him, and then admitting to him and to myself the reason I had done it. Just thinking about it still makes me feel about two feet tall.
I was relieved that I wouldn't have time to think about it when I arrived at the Crenshaw place Tuesday morning. It was painting day!
More important— at least to him— it was Scruffy's first chance to pitch in fully to help me.
I had already decided that I wasn't going to allow him up on the ladder. Nothing had changed. It was still too risky.
Better, with me on the ladder and him working below me, I had the opportunity to 'accidentally' spatter him with a bit of paint.
It was loads of fun until he pointed out I was on the ladder. . . and he was under it.
It took a few moments for that threat to sink in.
After that, we took our work much more seriously.
During lunch, I decided to share my 'adventure' from the previous day with Scruffy.
I can't put it clearly into words, but the warm glow of approval I noticed in his eyes actually made me feel better about myself. It's almost like I could imagine an older brother feeling when he notices his younger brother looking up to him.
It felt good.
"And he forgave you?"
"I'm not sure that he does forgive me. But he did say that he just wanted to let it all go. Maybe that's forgiveness?" I speculated.
Scruffy took a moment to digest that.
"What will you do now?"
I understood what he was asking.
"I'm not sure. I'll be his friend, if that's what he wants. I'm just not sure that he would want that.
" I think the best I can do is make sure that other kids leave him alone. Give him space. Let him decide for himself what he wants."
Scruffy nodded thoughtfully. He and the dog consulted.
"That makes sense," he agreed. "But find a way to let him know how you feel.
"Find a moment when he isn't surrounded by people. Just say 'hi' to him. Smile. That will let him know you want to be friendly.
"Then just be low key about it. If he approaches you, or says something to you, be friendly. Just take it at his pace. Maybe he will decide to be your friend."
That seemed unlikely after what I had done to him. But if Fionn wanted a friend, I owed him that and more.
The painting job kept us busy all afternoon. We barely had time to clean ourselves and our equipment before I had to head home.
Something about Scruffy's hug goodbye felt a little less about exploring our boundaries and more about securing established boundaries. It felt comfortable.
Before I left, I was reminded of the literature I had taken from the Drop-In Center a week ago. I dug it out of my pack and gave it to him. I guess it wasn't the right time.
I thought he might hit me.
After he glanced at a couple of brochures, he looked at me like I had betrayed him.
"I just want you to know about some of the services," I tried to explain. "You know, for kids like you."
I thought he looked sad. Too late, I realized that he probably didn't need the reminder.
To me, it seemed like a good time to stop digging.
He took some time to settle his emotions.
I used the time to ponder how a hole had suddenly opened up under my feet.
"Who's going to help you finish painting?" he wondered sadly.
I knew the right answer to that question.
"You are, Scruffy!"
I initiated the hug this time.
"I only gave that stuff to you in case you decide that you want to leave. You know. Just so you understand what options you have."
I could feel him trembling. I had another thought.
"But I really hope you decide to stay," I whispered in his ear.
The front of my shirt felt damp when I finally had to leave. But something about it also felt clean.
Homemade blueberry muffins.
Who brings homemade blueberry muffins to a work site?
My mom. That's who.
I think Scruffy had really started to look forward to Saturday mornings.
Mom dropped me off with the lawn mower and the spare gas can. She had a second package for Scruffy.
He was confused, then uncertain.
"Kyle told me that you're helping him paint," Mom explained. "I can't have you ruining your own good sneakers. Since you're working for the Murphy family, I thought that the least we could do is buy you some sneakers to work in."
Another couple of t-shirts. Shorts. A pair of jeans.
I recognized them. Mom had spent some time going through my old clothing.
A sweatshirt.
"Just in case it gets cold," Mom said.
Watching the emotions play across Scruffy's face, I wasn't sure how he'd react. So he surprised me. He hugged her and buried his face in her shoulder.
And mom. . . ate it up?!
Yes. She did. I recognized the self-satisfied little smirk on her face. Usually it means she's gotten something over on me in one of our endless little skirmishes about my life choices. But apparently it was a dual-purpose smirk.
"I don't want to delay your work, so I'll leave you boys to your breakfast," Mom said.
But I noticed that she got an extra squeeze in before she let go of Scruffy.
Did she ever do that for me?
I started paying closer attention to Mom after that incident.
I never actually noticed her doing much worth noticing. Most of the time she was watching me thoughtfully.
But I also noticed her spending more time on the telephone when she was at home.
It really wasn't any of my business, but I started to wonder who she was talking to. She hadn't even hinted at a man in her life since Dad died.
The name that showed up most often on our caller ID was "O'Connor, Eamonn". That was an odd coincidence.
I guess O'Connor is a common enough name. But I hadn't known of any other O'Connors in Antioch until I met Mrs. O'Connor. And I was pretty sure that Mom had called her Fiona.
My next stop was a Google search. And then another one. And then yet another one.
Eventually, I determined that Antioch was home to both an Eamonn O'Connor and a Fiona O'Connor. They shared the same street address. Coincidence? I thought not!
Oh my god! Was Mom involved in a three-way with Mrs. O'Connor and her husband?!
There are things that a sixteen-year-old guy just never wants to find out about his parents. Kinky sexual escapades might not top that list, but they definitely rank!
I just couldn't figure out when Mom might have been getting her freak on with the O'Connors. I guess maybe on Saturdays and Sundays, when I was out at the Crenshaw place? But hadn't I heard that the O'Connors had lots of kids? Where would they find the time and the privacy?
That seemed a very reasonable question. I hoped that it was.
I panicked over the disturbing possibilities for several days before clear-eyed reason produced an even more disturbing possibility! Maybe Mom wasn't involved in some sexy action with the O'Connors. But she was talking to them. What if they told her what I had done to their son?!!!
Mom hadn't heard that story yet.
She was privy to a long list of my sins. But getting head from a younger— and especially unwilling and probably drugged! — guy hadn't yet made its appearance on my Bad Boy Bingo card. At least I prayed fervently that it hadn't.
I didn't know what it meant, but Fionn O'Connor and his friend hadn't returned to the Drop-In Center to volunteer since my revelation to him.
Without being too obvious, I sought some reassurance from Mrs. O'Connor that he was okay.
She missed my point, but was able to report that he was fine. He and his friend had just been getting together with some older friends more often once summer was well under way.
Apparently both boys were running as they prepared to enter high school. They were planning to participate in fall sports.
I thought that was a great idea! I extolled the virtues of our school soccer teams.
Mrs. O'Connor mentioned that Fionn preferred lacrosse but had played soccer before the family moved to Vermont. His friend Alex preferred cross country. She was still waiting for the boys to tell her about their plans.
I hoped that her son would choose soccer. He might only play on the freshman team. But all the soccer teams practiced together. It would give me an opportunity to look out for him. . . assuming that he would let me.
I thought that I was being clever. Scruffy had been on my mind a lot; especially his reaction when I gave him the literature about programs to help homeless youth.
It was still weeks away, but I was aware that summer would end sooner or later. I couldn't imagine what he would do once school opened, I got busy, and the weather started to get colder.
So I asked a lot of questions about homeless youth. I pretended to wonder about some of the kids I had met at the center. Of course she couldn't talk about specific individuals. But she was willing to talk about the problem in general terms, as well as various ways that young people could find help. She was particularly enthusiastic about something she called 'natural supports'.
She told me that with a twinkle in her eye.
Once he recovered from his surprise, Scruffy had been delighted with Mom's gift. His own sneakers were already well worn from his travels, so they became his 'work' shoes.
Whether or not it was the sneakers, he also proved a good worker. I hadn't really known what to expect from a thirteen-year-old boy, but Scruffy was diligent, attentive to detail, and he learned from mistakes.
The only real mark against Scruffy was Sebastian's tendency to try to distract him when the dog got bored. That was the only thing that could interrupt that boy's focus on a job.
My first paycheck had arrived!
Ms. Schultz had stopped by the place while we were about halfway through painting the barn. I thought she seemed a little uncertain about Scruffy's presence. But when she saw the quality of our work, she was impressed.
She stayed to talk for a while. She approved of the work we had done on the lawn. She listened to ideas I had about cosmetic improvements I could make on the outbuildings. She agreed that she would ask the owners about hiring a carpenter to do any structural work that was beyond my ability.
Before she left, she took a bunch of pictures of the half-painted barn and the grounds. She smiled as she drove away.
A week later, I received a check for over five hundred dollars in the mail! There was also a brief note from the property owner thanking me for the work and promising to consider having the house painted once I had done what I could for the outbuildings.
Mom was almost as proud of that check as I was. She suggested bringing Scruffy and me out to breakfast Saturday morning.
I probably should have consulted with him, but I told her that we couldn't afford to take the time off work. Donuts would make for an adequate celebration. Maple crème donuts.
Once I started to clear out the outbuildings, I purchased another lock for the second building. It should have occurred to me sooner. Scruffy needed a place to store his clothes and personal stuff. We hadn't seen much rain yet, but eventually July would produce some serious downpours.
He didn't know how to react when I handed him five crisp twenty dollar bills for the work he had done.
"I didn't do it for the money," he insisted.
I insisted that he take it, just in case he had an emergency.
He reminded me that I had shown him the way to my house.
"If I have an emergency, I'll come find you. Where else would I go?"
If only I had as much confidence in myself.
I continued to check the Caller ID on our home phone. I didn't feel the least bit guilty for doing it. It might save a life someday, I rationalized.
I also continued to see at least a few calls a week to or from that "O'Connor, Eamonn" number.
That was starting to trigger some anxiety. Mom wasn't treating me any differently than she ever had. Or if she was, she seemed to be treating me with more respect and trust. At times, she almost seemed proud of me.
Mrs. O'Connor was actually becoming friendlier to me during our Monday excursions into Brattleboro. There was no sense of parents talking behind my back, getting ready to bring down the hammer.
Could she, Mom, and her husband really be having a three-way? With her kids right there in the house?!?
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