In Harmony(16)

“For your little brother?” she asked as she brought the card balance to zero.

“Yeah,” I said.

She smiled. “How sweet.”

At the mall food court, I grabbed a slice of pizza and a Dr. Pepper, then headed back to Harmony. I still had an hour before I was due for work at HCT; I veered back to my end of town, taking the customer road that flanked the eastern edge of Pearce Auto Salvage. At the far end, where the scrapyard’s fence served as the backyard to a row of small houses, I parked and got out.

An old rusted out pickup truck, upside down, lay against the chain link. Like a forgotten prop in an action movie. From inside the cab, I heard a voice softly singing Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.”

I put two fingers to my lips and gave a low whistle.

The singing stopped and Benny Hodges climbed out from the truck. His grin flashed, bright white in the dark of his skin, before he dialed it down to a thirteen-year-old’s bored nonchalance.

“What’s up, my brother?” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans then offering me a fist bump. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“Mama made you something. Hold up, let me get it.”

He ducked through a tear in the chain link fence, his too-small coat flapping behind as he ran across the snow-deadened grass. He went into his house and came back out with a small, round cake on a plate under plastic wrap. Forks stuck out of his pocket and jangled as he ran.

He climbed back under the fence and held out the cake to me. It was white with cream cheese frosting and Happy Birthday Isaac! in a boy’s messy orange lettering.

“Carrot cake,” he said, beaming. “Your favorite, right? And I did the words.”

“Thanks, Benny,” I said, my heart clenching. “Thank Yolanda, too.”

“She’s at work, but told me to tell you Happy Birthday.” He peered up at me, undisguised eagerness in his deep brown eyes. “We’re going to bust into that now, right?”

I chuckled, “Yeah, let’s do it. But first…”

I set the cake down on a semi truck tire, and held out the bag from The Outpost. Benny peered at it suspiciously.

“What’s that?”

“A jacket.”

“Is it my birthday or yours?”

I held out the bag. “Yours is too small. Take it.”

He hesitated, pride keeping his hands at his sides.

I sighed. “Your ma keep a roof over your head?”

“Yeah.”

“And food on your plate?”

He nodded.

“Damn straight,” I said. “And how often does she make something for me and Pops?”

Benny scratched his chin with one finger. “Once a week?”

“At least. That’s her looking out for us.” I held out the bag. “This is us looking out for you. Take it.”

He took it.

“The kids at school were giving me shit…” He shrugged out of his old coat and put on the new. Zipped it to his chin and smoothed down the sleeves. He smiled and for a moment, he was an ordinary kid, not a young man forced to grow up fast without a father.

“It’s warm,” he said.

“Good.”

We shook hands, and then he gave me a half-hug and a manly thump on the back.

“Thanks, bro,” he said thickly, holding on a little longer than necessary. I let him.

I met Benny three years ago. Or found him, rather, out here by the fence. He was huddled against the semi tire, sobbing over his father—killed in Afghanistan when Benny was five. He wanted to cry somewhere away from the house. “Where Mama wouldn’t see and worry,” he’d said. He told me it was his job to take care of her now. I told him I took care of my Pops the same way. We’d been friends ever since.

Benny let go of me and left the sentimental moment to blow away in the cold air.

“How was school this week?” I asked as we dug into the cake.

“Aight,” Benny said. “Science test.”

“And?”

“Eh.”

“You’re too smart for ‘eh’. Work harder. You staying out of trouble?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

I glanced down at him with raised eyebrows. “Always.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right. Who’s your new girl this week?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Bullshit. You’re the king of booty calls.”

“Your ma know you talk like that?”

“No.”

“My ass.”

He shrugged. “She don’t care.”

From what I knew of Yolanda Hodges, she cared plenty. She cared too, about what kind of example I was setting for her son. But I’d let him mess around with my phone one night and he saw an age-inappropriate text from one of the girls I sometimes hooked up with. To take the edge off.

Naturally, Benny asked a thousand questions. I didn’t bullshit him then, and I wasn’t about to start now.

“Listen,” I said, trying to form a few smart words, my jaw working like a rusted hinge. “You got to treat all girls right. No matter what. No matter when.”

“I will.”

“I’m not fucking around. The girls that I—”