Chapter Twelve
On Monday afternoon, when the shop was closed, Max taught an afterschool class for middle school boys at Pops’ Gym. It was a beginner class that taught the basics of boxing and MMA, half aimed at getting them interested in signing up for the other classes—at least that’s how Max had sold it to Pops—but really Max wanted to give the kids something to do to get them off the streets in the summer. It had been so well received he’d decided to offer another class during the fall.
Over the last few weeks, he’d begun noticing a skinny boy of about seven or eight years old hanging around. The boy would never come inside; he would just stare through the window and watch. Max had attempted to invite him in once, and the boy had run off when he’d opened the front door.
This afternoon, Max was trying a different approach. He left the front door propped open and ignored the boy, hoping his obvious curiosity would draw him inside. Max had turned up the music, trusting that would make him feel less noticed. It worked. Halfway through the class, the boy slipped inside to stand at the back.
Max pretended not to notice him until he decided to show the class some techniques with the punching bag.
“Everyone gather around and sit in a circle.” He pointed to the boy in the back. “You, there. Come hold the bag for me so I can demonstrate.”
For a moment the skinny kid looked terrified, but Max just pretended not to notice while he got a pair of gloves. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if the kid would come up to him or run out the door. Then the kid’s scuffed hi-tops come into his peripheral vision.
Max extended his gloved hand, wrist up, and asked nonchalantly, “Can you close up that Velcro for me, kid?”
The boy hurried to comply, pulling them tight around Max’s wrists.
Max grinned at the boy and extended his knuckles toward the kid. “Great job. Give me a fist bump.”
The boy’s face lit up under Max’s small praise, his smile bursting ear-to-ear as he bumped his frail fists to Max’s huge gloves.
“Think you can steady the bag for me?”
The boy shrugged.
“It’s simple.” Max pointed to a spot on the floor. “I just need you to stand here, brace your shoulder against the bag, and hold it in place for me. Can you do that?”
The boy nodded enthusiastically as Max took him by the shoulders and moved him into position.
“Perfect.”
He turned to the class and gave the boys some pointers on how to stand, how to throw a jab, and other techniques.
When he was finished, he turned to the boys. “That’s all for today. Next class maybe you’ll each have a turn hitting the bag. Let’s have a round of applause for my assistant.”
The boy grinned shyly as they clapped.
“Class dismissed.”
The boys all scrambled off the mat. Some of their parents were waiting for them. Max turned to his new assistant. “Could you put these gloves in that box over there?”
He nodded.
Max extended his wrist. “Give me a hand getting ‘em off?”
The boy reached to pull the Velcro loose.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Ben,” he replied softly.
Max extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ben. You can call me Coach Max.”
They shook, the boy’s frail hand looking ridiculously small in Max’s big mitt.
“Well, Ben, you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had. I sure wish you could stick around and help me some more. I’ve got to sweep this big ol’ floor all by myself. I might be here all night.”
Ben thrust his chest out proudly. “I could sweep. I’m a good sweeper.”
“You are? That’s awesome! Come on. I’ve got this push broom. Think you can handle it?”
“I can handle it,” he assured Max with his chin up.
Max led him over to the wall and got the broom. The boy eagerly pushed it around the floor at racecar speed. Max grinned, not sure how much actual good it was doing, but happy he’d finally drawn the kid in.
When he was done, Max asked him if he could come back next Monday and be his assistant again. The boy excitedly agreed.
“You live close by, Ben?”
He nodded.
“Do you want me to call your mom or dad and have them come pick you up?”
He shook his head, his smile disappearing.
“Do they know where you are?”
The boy hesitated.
“Is your mom home?”
He shook his head.
“Where is she? In town shopping?”
“Momma’s gone.”
Max wasn’t sure if he meant she was dead or on a trip, so he didn’t question it. He just nodded. “I see. And where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy’s at the bar.”
That had Max’s chin coming up an inch. “Oh. Is the bar near here?”
“It’s the one with the green frog.”
There was only one bar around that had a frog in the front window—a green neon frog. Otto’s Pub, a tiny dive bar two blocks down on Colorado Ave.
“Do you need to call him?”
The boy shook his head.
“Do you need a ride home?” Max knew it was probably not a good idea to be driving a child anywhere without his parents’ permission, but he hated to have the kid wandering the streets after dark. And this time of year, dark came just after six o’clock.
“I have a key.” Ben pulled the red yarn string it hung by from under his shirt as if that made him responsible.
“Can I walk you home? Just to make sure you get there?”
Ben shrugged. “I guess so.”
Max moved to some hooks on the wall and grabbed a hooded sweatshirt jacket that had Fourth Street Gym imprinted across the chest. He glanced over at Ben as he slipped it on, noticing the boy didn’t even have a decent coat. “Hey, Ben, seeing as how you’re gonna be my assistant and all, you really need to wear one of these jackets. Come on.”
Max led him to the office and dug around on a shelf. He knew Pops had an extra one somewhere that he’d gotten for one of his grandkids who’d come to visit from Florida last summer. He found it and pulled it out. It was brown like his, but a small.
He held it out. “Try this on for size.”
The boy turned and slipped his slim arms into it. It hung off his shoulders and down to his knees as he turned with a huge smile, modeling it. Max held out his hand for a high five. “Looks fantastic!”
The boy smacked his hand, and Max led him outside. He paused to turn out the lights and lock up, his eyes automatically straying down the street toward Malee’s bedroom window.
There was no light on.
He turned and held his arm out. “Lead the way, my good man.”
Ben marched off, his chin in the air for all the world, as if he were dressed in a tuxedo.
Max chuckled, flipped his hood up, and jammed his hands in his pocket. A moment later the boy mimicked his actions, flipping his own hood up and tucking his hands in the low hanging pockets. Max reached over and folded back the edge of the too-big hood so the boy could see. They exchanged a grin and walked down the street.
They walked two blocks down Fourth Street, in the opposite direction of Main. When they reached Pitkin Avenue, the boy turned right and led him down two blocks to a less-than-desirable side of town. The boy stopped in front of a small run-down house. The gray paint was peeling, and the tiny yard was nothing but dirt. The house next to it was boarded up, a rusted BEWARE OF DOG sign hanging lopsided by one corner on the chain-link fence. The house on the other side was a drab mud color, but the tiny porch had a rocker and a broom leaned against the wall next to the door. Faded floral curtains hung in the windows. It was run down, but at least the place appeared to be kept tidy.
Max glanced back at Ben’s house. It had no fence, but it should have had a condemned sign on it, in his opinion. The roof looked like it leaked, and one of the windowpanes had been broken at some point and now was repaired with nothing more than a piece of cardboard and duct tape. A navy blue bed sheet hung in the front window as curtains.
“Is anyone home, Ben?”
The boy shook his head.
“No brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head again.
Max glanced down the street. “You have any family around? Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?”
He lifted his bony shoulders in a shrug. Then he turned and inserted the key. Hell of a lot of good the lock did, Max thought. He or anyone could have booted in that flimsy piece-of-shit door without half trying. Hell, he could just punch his fist through the cardboard and climb in.
Max stood on the walk, not at all feeling good about leaving this child here alone. He glanced down the street, wondering if he should call the police or child services, or if he should find Ben’s dad and beat the shit out of him.
“You wanna come in?”
Max’s head swung back. Christ, how many people did this kid invite into his home? Max hesitated. But maybe Ben was afraid of the dark house. Maybe Max should go in just to make sure there wasn’t anyone inside. Feeling uneasy about the whole situation, Max nodded. “Yeah, sure. Just to make sure you’re safe.”
Ben flipped the light on, and Max followed him. The inside wasn’t much better. Ratty couch. Ancient TV that Ben immediately flipped on. An old game system hooked up, so at least the kid had that. Must be his only form of entertainment while he waited around for his alcoholic father to come back from Otto’s.
Max knew he was making all sorts of snap judgments, but he was having a hard time coming up with any explanation for this boy’s current living conditions. Yeah, he knew some people had a hard go of it, struggling to make ends meet, but then why the hell would his father be at a bar drinking away what little money the family had while his son wandered the streets?
“Think I could get a glass of water, Ben?” Max asked, more because he wanted an excuse to see the kitchen than anything else.
“Sure, come on.” Ben led the way.
The floors creaked under Max’s weight as they moved down a hall to the kitchen at the back. It was as ancient as the house. An old chipped porcelain sink and drain board perched atop dingy pale green cabinets on one wall, an old stove squeezed next to it, and on another wall, an old refrigerator with a box of kid’s cereal on top.
“The glasses are in there.” Ben pointed to an upper cabinet and started to climb up on the sink to get one, but Max stopped him.
“I got it, son.” He reached up and opened the cabinet, half afraid what he might find. In the back of the cabinet, he spotted a bottle of whiskey, an inch of amber liquor remaining. It was tucked behind some mismatched dishes, a couple chipped coffee mugs, and some glasses that looked like they’d been swiped out of a bar.
Max took one down and leaned to fill it at the tap. He glanced over as Ben opened the fridge and stood looking inside for something to eat. Max could see there was not much there. A bottle of ketchup, four cans of beer, a gallon of milk that looked like it was down to its last glassful, and on the second shelf, a half empty pack of hot dogs.
Ben stared forlornly at the contents.
This was just too much for Max to handle. He couldn’t bring himself to leave this boy here with barely any food.
“Hey, Ben. You want to share a pizza with me?”
Ben’s eyes got big as he swung around. “A pizza?”
“Yeah.” Max rubbed his stomach. “I’m starved. I was just thinking about ordering one.”
Ben nodded his head. “I love pizza. We don’t have it much, though.”
I bet, Max thought, pulling his phone out. “You like pepperoni?”
Ben’s head bobbed in excitement.
Max called the local place and ordered two large pizzas and a six-pack of colas. When he hung up, he looked at Ben and asked, “So, you got any good video games?”
Two hours later, they were full of pizza, the leftovers tucked away in the fridge, Max having purposely ordered more than they could eat so the kid would have some for tomorrow. Max had wrapped it in a piece of tin foil he’d found in a drawer and hidden it down in the vegetable crisper. He’d put his finger to his lips, and told Ben. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone. It’s your secret stash for tomorrow.”
Ben had grinned and nodded.
Max had discarded the empty boxes in the garbage can outside.
Now they were on their third video game; it was almost ten and Ben’s father still wasn’t home.
Max stared toward the window, wondering how he should handle this. Should he wait around for the man and give him a piece of his mind? Would the guy turn the tables on him and call the police, saying he was the intruder or worse, accuse him of being some kind of child molester?
If Max confronted him, would Ben’s father forbid him from ever coming to the gym again? Right now that may be the only safe place this kid had to go. Max might have a chance at being a positive influence for Ben. If he played this wrong, he might be cut out of the boy’s life and any chance of that would be gone.
If he called the police, where would Ben end up? Would he be put in the care of the state? Could he be doing the boy more harm than good by reporting this?
And what did he really know?
The phone on the kitchen wall rang. Ben went to answer it. When he came back, he said, “That’s my dad. He’s on his way home.”
Max nodded and stood. “Good. I guess I should be going, then. You gonna be okay?”
Ben nodded. “Thanks for the pizza, Coach Max.”
He ruffled Ben’s hair. “You’re welcome, Ben. I’ll see you for the class next Monday, right?”
“You bet.”
Max headed to the door. “You ever want to stop by the gym, it’d be okay.”
“Okay.” Ben’s face brightened.
“I have another job. I work at the tattoo shop on Main Street. You know where it is?”
“The one where the motorcycles park?”
“That’s the place. You ever need anything, or just want someone to talk to, you can come by and see me anytime you want, okay?”
Ben’s eyes got big. “Okay.”
Then Max pulled his wallet out and took out a business card with his cell phone number. “You hang onto that. Call me if you ever need me.”
Ben nodded, looking at it.
Max opened the door, but paused to turn back. “You lock up, now, okay?”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Ben.”
“Goodnight, Coach Max.”
He waited until the boy had locked up before he stepped off the stoop. As he headed down the sidewalk in the brisk October night, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. He’d only gotten a few feet when a voice from the neighbor’s porch called to him.
“What business you got with that boy?”
It was the voice of an old woman. Max stopped in his tracks, his eyes searching the dark porch. The rocker creaked, and he spotted an elderly woman sitting in it. A flashlight beam hit him in the face, and he lifted his arm, shielding his eyes from the blinding light. “Ma’am?”
“Who are you? You aren’t that boy’s father.” Her voice was accusatory. She dropped the beam to the ground, and he could see again.
“He was hanging around the Fourth Street Gym. I wanted to make sure he got home safe.”
The beam hit the logo on his sweat jacket. “Fourth Street Gym, huh? That where he’s been going?”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know the boy’s father?”
“Useless piece of garbage is what he is.”
Max walked closer. “I’m Maxwell O’Rourke.”
Her chin came up. “O’Rourke?”
He’d heard the censure before in townspeople’s voices when they said his name like that. He was an O’Rourke. No matter that he’d never been in any serious trouble before. He was one of those wild parentless O’Rourke boys, and they all knew no good ever came from them.
“You one of Betsy’s boys?”
Max cocked his head to the side, frowning. “You knew my mother?”
“Yup. Knew both your parents. Used to come in our store all the time.”
“Your store?”
“My husband ran Larsen’s Hardware. I’m Ingrid Larsen.”
Max leaned forward and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Larsen.”
She looked over to Ben’s house. “I keep an eye on the boy. Saw the pizza delivery. Take it you fed him.”
“Yes ma’am. There’s hardly any food in the place. He said his ma was gone and his dad was at the bar. What’s the story on the kid?”
“His mother died a couple years ago. The father’s been a drunk ever since. Lives off some bogus disability claim and whatever he gets from social security for Ben.”
“So he drinks away most of it?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Jesus Christ,” Max murmured half under his breath.
“I try to make sure he eats. Share what I can. I had some soup on the stove. I was going to ask him to come over and have some. You want a bowl?”
Max wasn’t hungry, but he thought the woman might be a source of more information on Ben, so he accepted. “If you don’t mind sharing, sure.”
She was slow getting up out of the chair that rocked as she stood. She wore a faded floral housedress with a full smock apron over it, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun.
He followed her inside, the aroma of something delicious cooking on the stove wafted through the house to him. The front door opened into a small living room. The furniture was old and had seen better days, but the place was clean and tidy. She led him through to the kitchen in the back.
“Sit down, Maxwell.” She indicated a mint green, chrome and Formica dinette set straight out of the 1950’s. He took a seat while she moved to the stove and began ladling up two bowls of soup.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“No, dear. I’ve got it.” She carried over a steaming bowl and set it before him, placing a spoon down next to it. Then she set a plate with some rolls in the center of the table and returned for another trip with her own bowl. She sat across from him.
“It smells delicious, ma’am. Thank you.”
“It’s homemade turkey noodle.”
He spooned a helping and tasted it. It was wonderful. “Mmm. This is great.”
“Thank you. The boy likes it.”
“Do you feed him often?”
“Most nights.”
Now that they were in the light, he got a look at her face. She must have been a beautiful woman in her youth. Her eyes were a pretty blue, and her silver hair still held a few wisps of blonde around her face.
“So you owned the old hardware store, the one on Main Street?”
She nodded. “Forty-seven years.”
“I remember it, vaguely. You had some die cast metal cars on a shelf in the front, right?”
She smiled at his recollection. “By the cash register. Some of the young boys in town collected them.”
He nodded. “I was too old, but I remember Liam and Rory being into those.”
“Your father used to bring them in with him when he needed something.”
Max stared into his bowl. “That was a long time ago.”
Her wrinkled hand moved across the table and covered his. “I’m sorry about the accident.”
He looked up and saw only sincerity in her eyes. No pity. He used to hate when the town folk would look at them with pity. “Thank you.”
Her hand slid away, and they both went back to silently eating. She tore a roll in half and dunked it in her bowl.
Max wondered if this was what her dinners usually consisted of—some soup and bread. He paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “How long has the store been closed now?”
“Going on eleven years. Just after my Gunderson passed away.”
“So you’re a widow?”
She nodded.
“No children?”
She shook her head, a trace of sadness in her eyes. “We weren’t blessed with children.”
“And now you have Ben to look after.”
Her face brightened a little. “Yes. Now I have little Ben, and he has me.”
“I’m glad he has you. He needs someone.”
“What he needs is a good man to look up to. One to set an example.” She set her spoon down and looked him dead in the eye. “Are you that man, Maxwell O’Rourke?”
Max dropped his eyes to his bowl, moving his spoon in a slow circle in the soup, considering her question. “I don’t know if I’m anyone’s good example, but I want to help the boy. He needs looking after.”
“That he does.”
“You remember me from back then, all the trouble I got into?”
“I remember. I also remember who turned you around.”
Max glanced up into her knowing eyes. “Pops.”
She nodded. “Pops. Maybe you can be for that boy what Pops was for you.”
He looked away, his eyes stopping on the slow drip coming from the old faucet as he remembered how his life had changed the day Pops had taken him under his wing. Could he be that for this boy?
He’d been yearning for something more fulfilling for a while now. Although he loved tattooing, and knew it could be healing for so many clients to have their grief expressed in a visible way, he felt there was room in his life for more. Brothers Ink would always be his work. It was the family business, but he enjoyed the time he spent at the gym teaching the young kids. Perhaps helping Ben wouldn’t be such a hardship.
He looked back at Mrs. Larsen. “I’ll help him any way I can. I’m at the gym on Monday nights to teach a class, and sometimes I’m up there to close up the place. I told Ben he’s welcome anytime. I kind of made him my assistant for the class. Hoped it would get him off the street. He’s been hanging around outside with his nose pressed to the glass. Every time I tried to talk to him, he’d run off. Tonight was the first time I was able to coax him inside. Had him helping out a little. Told him he could be my assistant from now on.”
“Good. The boy needs a place to go.”
“I gave him my card and phone number. Told him he could call me if he needed anything.” Max reached into his wallet for another one. He slid it across the table to her. “I want you to have it, too. You or the boy need anything, just call.”
She nodded.
“I guess I should be going.” He stood and carried his bowl to the sink. “Thank you for the soup.”
“You’re welcome. It was nice to have the company.”
He hesitated. “Mrs. Larsen, I don’t know how to say this without sounding…”
When his voice trailed off, she prodded, “Just say whatever’s on your mind.”
“You’re on a fixed income. Things must be tight, yet you share what you have with the boy.” He nodded to the table. “And with me just now. Would you let me help you out with a little grocery money, so you can continue making sure the boy eats?”
She gathered her bowl and carried it to the sink. Setting it in the basin her hands clenched on the rim as she considered his offer.
Max studied her stooped back and boney hands, hoping he hadn’t offended her.
“I should refuse. But I can’t let my pride stand in the way of that poor boy getting enough food to eat.” She turned to face him. “So, I’ll take you up on your offer and thank you for it.”
Max nodded, a smile bursting on his face with his relief. He reached for his wallet and pulled out three twenties, holding them out to her. “I’ll stop by with more every week.”
She reached up and took them, tucking the bills in her apron pocket.
He turned and headed toward the front door, and she followed behind him. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned. “Thanks again for sharing your meal with me. I’m glad we got a chance to talk. Take care.”
“You, too.”
“You’ve got my number now. Think you could give me a call tomorrow night, just to let me know Ben’s okay?”
She nodded. “I will. I promise.”
“Well, goodnight, then.”
He moved out the door, pausing on the porch, his eyes moving to Ben’s house. The place was quiet, so he stepped off and headed up the street.
At the corner he glanced back, wondering if Ben’s dad had shown up when suddenly he sensed movements in the darkness toward Main Street. It was a man approaching. Max pulled out his phone and pretended to take a call as he stood and watched. The guy walked right past him, barely glancing up, but it was enough for Max to get a good look at him and smell the alcohol on his breath. The man moved down the street and up to Ben’s house. He swayed slightly on his feet as he unlocked the door.
When he disappeared inside, Max moved closer, trying to listen for any yelling. When he heard none, he flipped his hood up and headed home, the man’s face embedded in his memory, filed away in case Max ever had to drag the bum out of Otto’s some night.
Max walked the four blocks back to Pops where he’d left his truck parked. As he approached, he glanced up the street toward Main. In his concern for Ben, and getting him home safe, he’d forgotten to check for a note from Malee.
He got in his truck and drove the few short blocks. Pulling to the curb of the side street, near the back alley that led to Thai Garden, he put the vehicle in park. Leaving the engine idling, he got out and jogged up the alley. All was quiet as he moved to the pipe to look for a note. He spotted a piece of notebook paper that had been folded up into a little square. He pulled it out and jogged back to his truck, climbed in, and sat in the warmth, his cold fingers unfolding the paper. He flipped on the overhead light and read it.
Dear Max,
I missed you today. But something wonderful happened. My favorite aunt came to visit and has rented an apartment across the street from your shop. It’s above the empty storefront next to the coffee shop.
Tomorrow I am going over there to help her unpack. Perhaps I’ll catch a glimpse of you out the window.
I miss you.
Malee
Max grinned. She missed him. That thought had a feeling like warm honey spreading through him. He leaned and dug through the glove box, coming up with a pen and pad of paper that he’d stashed in there for just this occasion. He quickly jotted down a response, tore the sheet off, folded it, and jumped out of the truck. Jogging back up the alley, he hid the note before driving home, happy for the chance to maybe see her tomorrow.