Chapter 3
The Key to Happiness . . .
“Scout? Come on, child. It’s getting dark.”
Scout turned as her mother came out of the house without windows. Boards with swirled graffiti filled each socket, eyes to a home without a soul. Dropping the piece of onion grass she’d been nibbling on, Scout stood, her gaze drawn back to the children across the way.
“Momma, what’s that place there?”
Her mother righted her clothing and stashed a bag of her medicine in her pocket. “That ain’t nothing you gots to be worrying about.”
Scout regarded the children running over the blacktop, their laughter floating on the breeze and teasing her in ways she didn’t understand. “But why’s all them kids there?”
Her mother huffed. “That’s a school, baby. Thems is there to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Nothin’ you need to know. We different. Now come on.”
Her small fingers were swallowed in her mother’s bony hand as she was pulled down the sidewalk back toward the tracks. Each time she glanced back at the school, her mother tugged her along.
***
Scout frowned as she carefully drew the letter E. She’d been practicing her penmanship for over an hour, simply writing and rewriting EVELYN KEATS on the tiny notepad she found in the drawer of her motel. A callous formed above her knuckle, and she admired it like the badge of honor it was.
It was three in the morning and she couldn’t sleep. She’d rested for a few hours, but awoke restless and hungry. Nothing would be open until the sun rose, and her mind was running wild with things to do. She desperately wanted to write them down in a prioritized list, but the task was more frustrating than productive. She glanced at her shabbily jotted notes.
FINED HOME
FOOD
COTE
CHANJ ADRES
TUTHE BRUSH
SHAMPU
SOAP
Her bones were weak from thinking so hard. Anger rose, and each time she thought to blame someone else for her problems, she reminded herself her predicament was no one’s fault but her own.
Not knowing what the day would bring, around five she showered again, using tissue to carefully wrap the remainder of soap, stuffing it into her bag. Her clothes were wrinkled and damp from washing them in the small sink. She didn’t want them to get musty, but as the sky pinkened with the first sight of dawn, she grew eager to leave and folded them into her bag anyway.
Her stomach cramped with hunger. She’d taken to stealing dented cans of fruit from the back room of Clemons. It wasn’t technically stealing, being that the damaged cans were on their way to the dumpster. Her belly was revolting, and she was growing weaker with each passing hour. Her stomach needed a real meal, and she finally had the money to purchase one.
At seven, she laced up her sneakers and glanced around the room one last time, making sure she hadn’t left anything behind. She returned her key to the front desk and headed west, where a small diner was open.
Sidewalks were empty at this hour, aside from a distant silhouette moving along. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside. Shiny red stools were lined up along a counter, and there was a pie safe slowly spinning at the end. The snapping scent of bacon brought her hunger pains to the forefront of her mind. Her tired legs climbed onto the stool in the corner, far away from the truckers finding their morning meals. Older couples filled the booths lining the windows.
A waitress with bottled black hair and red lips pressed a napkin in front of her and slid over a grease-stained menu. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
A saucer and a mug appeared as the waitress filled it with steaming dark sustenance. The man to her left dropped some money on the counter and left. Scout eyed the paper he’d abandoned.
“You need a minute to decide, hon?”
Her gaze returned to the waitress. “Can I have French toast, please, and a side of bacon?”
“Sure thing.” The waitress jotted down the order and, before pinning it to the clips lining the cook window, began clearing the place to her left.
When her hand touched the newspaper Scout asked, “Do you mind if I take that?”
The waitress passed it to her and bustled off with an armful of dirty dishes. Scout self-consciously stared at the inky words scrambled over the pages. The door chimed repeatedly as patrons arrived, and soft chatter filled the small eatery, as did the scent of sizzling meats.
A heavy white plate slid in front of her. The French toast wasn’t as thick as the kind they served at Patras, and there were no strawberries, but the dish still earned a jolt of excitement from her empty belly. Sliding the paper aside, she picked up her fork and knife, noting the tiny scratches in the imitation silver, and dug in.
It was irritating not being able to clean her plate, but her stomach was overly sensitive from lack of food. She drank another cup of coffee and asked the waitress to wrap up the rest.
After using the bathroom, she returned to her stool to attempt the paper once more. The morning crowd shifted, newcomers ate, paid and left, and Scout found she was blinking back tears.
When there was a lull in the crowd, the waitress surprised her by sitting in the stool to her left and cutting into a fresh-baked pie. She sliced two sections into creamy triangles and served them up on small saucers, sliding one directly in front of Scout.
“You look like you could use some pie.”
Caught off guard by the generous offering, Scout stared. Her eyes went to the name tag clipped on the waitress’s blouse. It started with a B.
“Go on. It’s on the house.”
Instinctively, Scout hesitated. Food was something she was rarely treated to prior to Lucian. She smiled and reached for a fork. The pie melted like a cloud of heaven on her tongue. Chocolate.
The waitress grinned and moaned as she took a bite of her own slice. “Good, right?”
“It’s delicious.”
“Thanks. I made it this morning. Girl’s gotta have chocolate. Best substitute for sex there is.”
Scout laughed. “I should have a dozen then.”
The waitress snickered. “You having men troubles?”
Scout truly laughed. “Oh, you could say that. The trouble is I don’t want one.”
The waitress nodded knowingly and bit into another forkful of chocolate heaven. “Don’t want one, but your heart says otherwise, I’m guessing.”
“I’m not on speaking terms with my heart right now,” Scout admitted, scraping up the last bit of whipped chocolate from her plate.
The waitress laughed. “I’m Barbara.”
Scout smiled. “Scout.”
“You looking for something particular in that paper? Been thumbing through it all morning.”
She opened her mouth, but hesitated. “I’m trying to find an apartment.”
Barbara glanced at the paper then, with halting progression, reached over and turned a few pages. “The apartment listings are here, hon, under the classifieds.” She met Scout’s gaze, a curious look in her eyes. Leaning close, she whispered, “Can you read, Scout?”
Swallowing tightly, lips sealed, she shook her head. “Not much.”
Barbara scooted closer and nodded. In a soft voice, she said, “Okay, well, here’s one that’s not too far. It’s a one–bedroom loft, rents for eight-fifty a month.”
Scout’s breath shook on an exhalation as she nodded humbly.
“And this one here’s a little less, but that isn’t in the greatest section of Folsom. It’s an efficiency. You pay utilities and the rent’s seven-twenty. Are you looking to be close to a certain area?”
“I work at Clemons Market.”
“I know where that is. Let’s see . . .” Barbara pulled the paper closer and dragged a painted fingernail down the typed column of listings. “Here we go. This one’s around there. Oh, and it rents for only six-fifty. Says it’s an efficiency. You pay utilities. There’s a number here. You got a phone?”
“My phone broke.”
Barbara glanced at the cook window, then reached over the counter, a cordless phone appearing in her hand. “Better let me make the call. My boss gets a bug up his ass whenever I let the customers use the phone.”
Scout nodded and Barbara dialed, her fingers drumming over the Formica countertop as she waited. “Yes, hello, I’m calling about the apartment located at twenty-five South Knights Boulevard. . . .Mm-hm . . . No, just me . . . Today at two o’clock?” She glanced at Scout for conformation and whispered, “He can show it at two today.”
Scout nodded.
“That would be wonderful . . . my name’s Scout . . .” She looked to Scout questioningly.
“Keats.”
“Keats. Scout Keats, and I’ll see you at two. Thank you very much.” Barbara clicked off the phone and returned it to the other side of the counter. “There you go, hon.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you!” she said in return. “I’m hoping some good karma will pay off tonight when they pull the Powerball.”
“Well, I hope you win,” Scout said.
“Me too. Mmm! What I could do with a couple hundred thousand.”
Scout grinned. “What would you do?”
“Oh, I’d buy this here diner and make it into the cutest little pie place Folsom’s ever seen. Get rid of my man and find someone who treats me nice, someone who really appreciates me for me. Maybe buy one of those fancy televisions.” She giggled. “Who knows?”
Scout saved her comments. There was no point in letting her jaded opinions of the cost of frivolous luxuries taint this woman’s dreams. She hoped Barbara someday had her own pie place. Her pies deserved a good home.
Taking out her money, she counted out a generous tip. “You buy yourself an extra ticket with this.”
“Aw, you don’t have to do that, hon. That pie was my treat.”
“I know. I want to. Take it as a thank-you for helping me find an apartment.”
“Well, I hope it’s real nice for you.”
***
Scout cooled her heels on South Knights Boulevard for twenty minutes waiting for the landlord to show, checking her cheap watch. She paced, hoping he hadn’t given the apartment to someone else.
Like a gap-toothed grin, the Boulevard was made up of storefronts separated by cavernous alleys. Clemons was three blocks away, and Patras was over four miles distant. Scout liked the location for its practicality. Number twenty-five was an old building. The bottom floor was an office of some sort. At two thirty, a blue sedan finally pulled along the curb.
“Ms. Keats?” The pudgy older man called as he climbed out of his car.
Scout smiled. “Yes.”
He bustled over and held out a hand. “Name’s Snyder. You ready to see the apartment?”
Nodding, she followed him down the alley beside an office building. A nondescript brown door was the only interruption in the long brick wall. Mr. Snyder dug out a set of keys and, with a little elbow grease, got the door open.
“I just had new paint and carpets put in.”
The new fibers of the gray rug tickled her nose and tempted a sneeze as she followed him up a steep set of stairs. The landlord hunched a little once he made it to the top. The entrance was small.
The ceilings were low. Mr. Snyder was short for a man, but seemed hunched in the squat apartment. Everything was painted a clinical shade of white. There was a small stove on a tiny patch of linoleum and a sink. No counters. The fridge seemed made for dwarves.
Walking across the new carpet, Mr. Snyder opened a cheaply made wooden door, also painted hospital white. “This is the bathroom.”
Tiny black and white tiles made up the space. There was a pedestal sink and a claw-foot tub. A dormer took the ceiling space over the tub from seven feet to about five. She wouldn’t be taking many showers there.
“Over here’s a closet for your clothes.” It was more like a pantry.
Her stomach sunk and then propelled somewhere behind her heart. She could afford this place. It wasn’t much, but it could actually be hers if she played her cards right.
This was going to be her home. Her first home. She could make it her own and fill it with personal touches.
Mr. Snyder’s cheeks flushed in a way that spoke of too many heavy meals and not enough light exercise. He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “What do you think? Utilities won’t be much here.”
Her lungs released a pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It seemed that breath had been held for twenty-three years. “I’ll take it.”
“Great. All I need is the first and last months’ rent. I’ll take a check. You can move in today if you’d like. I have the lease here.” He handed her a long, yellow slip of paper with a pink carbon copy on the back.
Paperwork.
Taking the paper, she glanced over it. It was a lot of printed writing. For the first time she missed Parker. He always helped her with this sort of thing. “Do you have a pen?”
He handed her a blue pen. “Guess there isn’t really a place to write, being there’s no furniture. Tell you what. Why don’t you just write out your name there at the top of the lease and sign? I already filled in the numbers. I’ll do the rest when I get back to my office.”
The literary gods must’ve been smiling on her that day. She carefully wrote her name, then signed the bottom, much like she’d signed her name at the bank. Finding her temporary checks, she pulled one out. She thought about what Lucian’s check had looked like.
“The check’s for how much?”
“Thirteen total. Then your next check will be due on the first of June. It’s a month-to-month lease, but it states you give me sixty days notice of intent to move. Electric’s already set up. The bill arrives on the fifteenth of the month. You can pick it up at the insurance office directly downstairs. Once I get the company a copy of the lease, your name will be added to the account. Cable and phone are your responsibility to set up.”
Leaning against the stove, Scout drew the numbers 1300.00 in the box on the check and signed her name. Tearing the check from the others, she handed it to him. He frowned. “You forgot the rest, dear.”
“Um . . .” She swallowed. “I . . .”
He tilted his head. “You special?”
She bristled. “No, I am not special. I . . . I hurt my hand yesterday. Would you mind filling out the rest?” Dickhead.
“Oh, my apologies.”
She scowled at him as he filled in the rest of the check. He turned and held out his hand. “Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Keats. Oh, before I forget. Here’s your key.”
Her heart stuttered. Her key. She took the small piece of carved metal and squeezed it tight, its jagged edges a welcome pinch of reality in her palm. “Thank you.”
After tearing the carbon copy from the lease, Mr. Snyder, her new landlord, handed it to her. “My office address is at the top. I charge a late fee after the fifth, so you want to have your check in the mail well before then. You have any trouble, you call my office.”
After a few more instructions, like where to find the breaker box and thermostat, Mr. Snyder left and she stood alone in her apartment. It was surreal.
Scout turned slowly in a circle and took in the space that was now her home. Her cheeks pulled as a grin slowly split her face, and suddenly she was jogging in place doing a happy dance and squealing like a child.
She fell to the stiff carpet in a fit of giggles and held her stomach. “Home,” she whispered. “You have a home.”