Suspension was just another word for "vacation." Jack Carr dug his hands into his pockets and strode right out of the principal's office, past the receptionist's desk, and out the front door. He could use a little time off from the sordid hallways of McDovall Academy, crowded with misfits and delinquents. Reform school was having a bad influence on him. A rusted Buick idled in front of the school, and a cloud of cigarette smoke drifted out when he opened the door and climbed in.
Mildred Crosby, his social worker, had been courting retirement since she met Jack. He wasn't sure why she didn't kick back and start collecting her Social Security checks, but Mildred just wouldn't quit. Once she told him it was to keep him from raining terror on poor unsuspecting foster families, but Jack had a feeling she had a soft spot for him, despite his bad behavior.
A cigarette dangled precariously from Mildred's lips. A thick coat of rose lipstick clung to the filter. Her right eye was clenched shut to avoid the upward flood of smoke rising from the bright cherry tip. Mildred told Jack smoking was a disgusting habit, but it was her one vice, and overall, one vice wasn't too bad. A ribbon of smoke curled in the air. Jack pictured the Nile River and the way the water flowed northward, not south like most rivers, the muddy, silt-filled river gushing upward against the sag and pull of the heavy earth, trying to drag everything down.
He rested his head against the back of the seat and glanced over at Mildred, her hair a football helmet of white curls. Every once in a while she would leave a pink sponge roller in her hair way in the back where she couldn't see it, and he would have to fish it out while she screeched, "Get it out! Get it out before someone sees!"
Jack didn't know what the big deal was. It was just a hair roller; it wasn't like her fly was open—but she was old-fashioned, always wearing dresses. When he thought about it, he was just thankful she didn't have a fly. She glanced over and motioned to his seat belt. He dutifully put it on.
"Well, mister, you're lucky the principal owes me a favor. This is your second suspension in two weeks. One more and you get kicked out for good." Mildred clicked her tongue and shook her head. "What were you thinking, hitting your gym teacher in the fanny with a dodgeball? That could seriously hurt a man."
"He's lucky he turned around when he did," Jack said, rolling down the window to let in some cool air. "Because I wasn't aiming for his fanny."
"Young man! You can't solve your problems with violence. Did you try taking deep breaths and counting to ten like I told you?" Mildred put her cigarette in the ashtray and gripped the steering wheel in both hands. She probably wanted to strangle him.
"No, but I didn't throw the ball that hard." Jack squirmed in his seat. "Plus, he deserved it. He makes me do extra push-ups and run the track three more times when the other kids get a water break. He says it's character building. But that's not fair."
"I know it's not fair, but we talked about that. You certainly got shortchanged in the fair department, but you have to get over it. Life isn't fair," Mildred said, reaching over and brushing the hair out of his face. "If you get suspended again, I don't know what I'll do."
"Sorry, I'll try harder next time." Jack glanced out the window, avoiding her gaze.
"Well, when you apologize, at least try and sound like you mean it."
"Sorry," Jack said in a sappy voice, then burst out laughing. Mildred had him so figured out. "Hey, at least you got to leave your office to come pick me up."
"Actually, the timing was perfect." She pressed her lips together and smiled widely—too widely. That smile was a sign Jack had grown accustomed to, and it was the sign of oncoming, lightning-strike change. She continued: "I was going to wait and tell you after school today, but since I'm here, I have some good news for you." She beamed. Emotionally, Mildred could turn on a dime, disappointed one minute and happy the next. "I found a new foster home for you."
"Are you serious?" His stomach jumped. He knew she was, because Mildred rarely sugarcoated the truth, life-altering as it might be. "You could have warned me."
She stopped at a red light and glanced over at Jack, ignoring his comments. "You won't be spending another night in the group home. I know that will make you happy," Mildred said, patting his knee.
Jack shrugged. He didn't mind the group home that much. He thought of it like the pound, just for kids. Everyone wanted the puppies, and he was an old dog.
"I packed all your stuff for you." Mildred twisted up her mouth in disapproval of Jack's hobby. "We're going to your new home right away." She paused, picked up her cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled slowly. "I know it took a while to find you a place this time, but this one will be different. I promise." She nodded confidently.
"Yeah, I guess." Jack tried to smile. As tough as Mildred was, he knew she went easy on him, and he was grateful. "I'll give this foster home six months," Jack said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes that poked out of Mildred's purse. She slapped his hand and stuffed the pack deep into the chasm of her handbag.
"I thought I told you never to go inside a lady's purse."
"They were hanging out the side." Jack grinned. On the first day they met, Mildred warned him that she had an alligator in her purse, and if he ever went inside, it would take his arm off. He believed her.
"Six months. You're optimistic. I'll go with four," Mildred said, playing along.
"Four months is good."
"I meant four weeks." Mildred's laugh was gravelly, and a long stream of ash fell from the tip of her cigarette and scattered across the burgundy seat. She and Jack had been together for five years now. Five years of strange homes, strange people, and their strange ways. He sighed, trying to relax. He could only imagine what kind of place he was about to walk into.
Mildred eased the Buick up to the curb in front of the latest foster home, and, boy, was it a doozy. "It's the Victorian one right up there," she said. She'd scraped the tires against the curb, and Jack rolled his eyes, because she always did that. Before getting out of the car, Mildred flicked her cigarette butt through the open window, leaned her head back, and exhaled a lungful of gray smoke. "Ready, baby?" she said. Jack pulled his duffel bag out of the trunk and slammed it closed. "Do you have your book?" Mildred asked the way she always did.
Jack's book had been given to him by his first foster parents, an old priest and his lilac-smelling wife, many years ago. It was a good-bye gift. In Jack's opinion, reading was pointless unless it was for school, and then it was simply pointless with consequences if he didn't do it. But this book was different. The man on the front cover had on old-fashioned bathing trunks, and his muscles bulged like a wrestler's. He was wrapped in chains with thick padlocks dangling from his arms and legs. The chains forced him to bend over from the weight as if an invisible ceiling pressed down on him and he couldn't straighten up.
The book was about magic. Not real magic, though, but trick-of-the-eye magic. The man in chains was not a prisoner or a slave, but a magician. And his name was Harry Houdini.
"Yes, I've got my book," Jack said the way he always did.
They walked the long, steep path up to the house, which loomed atop the scraggly lawn. The path was made of slabs of broken slate positioned like stepping-stones across a weedy ocean of grass up to the front door. The house resembled a witch's dollhouse with elaborately carved trim that looked good enough to eat, but would surely kill him with one bite. Tall, pointy spires pierced the still, blue sky. The house could use a good paint job, but it had a lot of windows with tall shutters and a porch surrounded by spindly columns. "This house is right out of Nathaniel Hawthorne," Mildred said, craning her neck and shading her eyes against the sun as she squinted up at it.
"Who's that?"
"A famous American author—remember that. The man who lives here is a professor. This could be your big chance of having a real mentor. Someone to look up to." Mildred squeezed his shoulder. "Need I remind you you're running out of chances? This could be your last one. We got lucky. The professor asked for a boy who liked magic, and I knew you would be perfect."
"OK, so what did this Hawthorne guy write?" Jack sighed, bracing for the inevitable lesson on famously boring writers he couldn't care less about.
"The Scarlet Letter."
"What's it about?"
"Lust, adultery, and impure thoughts, and poor Hester Prynne had to wear a scarlet letter pinned to her bosom." Mildred clutched at the front of her knit cardigan.
"Bosoms!" Jack wrenched his neck, jerking his head toward Mildred, and burst out laughing. "This was your first choice of places to leave me, a house that reminded you of bosoms?"
"I'm not leaving you." She grasped his sleeve. Her eyelashes fluttered, her watery blue eyes brimming with tears. Jack had made a critical error. Mildred was a crier.
He squeezed her hand in his, her skin a soft bruised peach. "Don't cry, Millie." She loved it when he called her Millie. Last time she cried, half her makeup ran down her face, and it was not pretty. He had had no idea that women put a skin-colored layer of makeup over their faces. (Jack was learning that women were highly layered, and it was not a good idea to get them wet.) Mildred dabbed at her eyes with a wad of crumpled-up tissue.
"Just give me a ring if he turns out to be a murderer, and I'll be back in a flash." Mildred tried to pat down his light brown hair—it was a little too long all over, but it didn't go all the way to his collar. She licked her thumbs and pressed on his temples.
Jack swatted her hands away. "Millie, stop. Why don't you just spit on me?"
"Don't say 'spit,' young man. And when we get inside, don't say 'booger,' 'loogie,' or 'fart.' And don't talk about any other bodily functions in front of your new foster father. Please try. Please try to let him like you."
Jack stared into Mildred's eyes as she inspected his face for any microscopic filth that might still be visible. "Mildred, we all fart."
"Not necessarily. I was married for thirty-five years and never once expelled gas in front of my husband." Mildred held her chin high, as if the suppression of one's bowels were an admirable quality in a woman.
Jack scrunched up his face and asked, "What'd you do when you had to fart?"
"I would run into another room and sit on a pillow," Mildred said, revealing yet another layer of her complicated female persona.
"Fine, I won't fart. I'll probably get some intestinal disorder, but I'll hold it in."
"Good boy, Jack."
She kissed his forehead, and held his head in her hands like she was sending him off into the Wild West. Jack liked to think he lived his life like a cowboy with nothing behind him, riding into that big sky country, dodging arrows and Indians. Mildred smoothed her hands over her dress and pushed the doorbell.
