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Mister By Dimelza Cassidy Synopsis: A middle-aged cross-dresser becomes the legal guardian of a girl. "Damn, a letter from a law firm. What could they want?" I asked out loud while sorting through the letters that I'd taken from the mailbox that sat atop a welded chain shaped like the letter "S" at the end of a quarter mile dirt drive. My body tensed as I thought of the joke we call the legal and judicial system. I had been named in a buckshot product liability suit filed by a boob who crashed a bike he'd purchased from the motorcycle dealership I once owned. He crashed it less than a mile from my shop claiming the bike had a defective braking system. The manufacturer and I won the lawsuit, but it cost me thousands of dollars in legal fees and a night in jail after being held in contempt of court for telling the judge to shove the gavel up his ass. He had angered me by pounding his gavel when I rose to speak when it wasn't "my turn." Spinning wrenches was an exact science with customers demanding that bikes be fixed correctly the first time, while the law was deemed "A Practice." I could never understand the difference between a law book and a shop manual - both had clearly defined procedures. If the letter signaled another lawsuit or a verdict appeal I had no idea what I would do. I opened and read the letter while walking back to the house. Ashford, Brown, Babbitt and Allen Attorneys at Law L.L.P. Tower II 37 Edgewater Street Munro, Pa. 19990 Tel. 616-234-5789 Fax. 616-837-5309 e-mail abba.com Mr. Oliver Jamerson c/o Stevens V Farm Rocky Top Way Summit, Pa. 19919 Re: The Estate of Raymond Van Dyke Dear Mr. Oliver Jamerson: Please contact the undersigned at you earliest convenience regarding the above referenced matter. Very truly yours, Sondra Griffith, Esq. "Raymond Van Dyke, Ray Van Dyke. Who the hell was he?" I folded the letter and put it back into its envelope, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, walked back to the main house to put the mail in the owner's home office, and then meandered out to the barn to change the oil and grease the John Deere Model "H". I worked as a caretaker for W. Bennett Stevens, V. As I watched the oil drain, the Ray Van Dyke name rattled around my brain; it seemed familiar, yet I couldn't place it. After the oil change, I drove the tractor to the south meadow, and then cut it back to give it the illusion of being a lawn. The heat of the day and operating a tractor without air-conditioning or a canopy made it intolerable to work any time after two. I shut down the tractor, and then walked back to the carriage house. I lived in two rooms and a bath above the area that once housed horses and carriages. The three bays had been converted over the years to accommodate automobiles and now provided residence for a Rolls Royce, a Mercedes, and a Corvette. My bedroom had been furnished with a mattress placed over a bed frame and plywood, and a night table. The kitchen doubled as a family room and was home to a couch and a television set in addition to a table and two chairs. The building was wired for electricity, but a Vermont Castings wood stove provided heat. My bath had a commode, a sink and a shower stall. The Stevens allowed me to store my tools and motorcycle in the barn. Using my tools would be cheaper than buying their own and my transportation would free him from insuring a non-farm use vehicle. Since I didn't have a telephone and the one in the main house was off- limits for my personal use, I rode the bike the ten miles to the convenience store to use the pay phone to call Sondra Griffith, Esquire. I punched in the telephone number that appeared on the letterhead, and then deposited twelve quarters into the slot. "Law offices," a female voice seemingly graveled by cigarettes groaned. "Sondra Griffith, please. Oliver Jamerson calling. I received her letter dated June 30." "Hold please." I listened to a non-descript song played by an easy listening radio station. "This is Sondra Griffith; may I help you." She sounded young. Perhaps late twenties or early thirties. Her supervising partner probably sloughed the case off on her deeming that she couldn't screw up a simple estate matter. "Oliver Jamerson," I said as a pre-recorded messaged told me to deposit an additional four quarters. "Mr. Jamerson, please give me the telephone number and I'll call you back. Our conversation may take longer than a minute or two." I gave her the number and hung up. Moments later the phone rang. "Mr. Jamerson?" she asked. "Ms. Griffith?" "Good," she said. "Okay, Ashford, Brown, Babbitt, Allen have been named as executors of the will of Raymond Van Dyke and you're named as one of only two heirs." "Excuse me, that's all very good, but I don't know a Raymond Van Dyke. Are you sure that you have the right person?" "We're sure. It took us some time to find you and to verify that you're the person named by the late Mr. Van Dyke. I'd like to schedule an appointment to review the contents of the will. What's your availability?" "Well, I guess that I'll have to schedule a day off. Let me check with my boss and call you back." The name Raymond Van Dyke, Ray Van Dyke continued to bounce around in my brain as I rode back to the farm. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. What could he be leaving me - a person he didn't know? With my luck, I'd inherit his debts. I used the telephone in the barn to call Mr. Stevens to inform him about the letter, my conversation with the attorney, my need for a day off, and permission to use the house phone to call back the attorney. There wouldn't be sufficient quarters in circulation to accommodate additional pay phone sourced calls. He agreed to a day off of my choosing and the one time use of the phone. I called Ms. Griffith and made an appointment for the following day at ten o'clock. That evening, while sitting in the gazebo sipping chilled "Jack Daniels," I recalled the circumstances that led me to this place at this time in my life. The lawsuit and the loss of my business had soured me. I'd worked my way up from entry-level mechanic to owner -- and wanted to share my passion for motorcycling with others. I called it love, while others called it na?ve. Offer honest service, fair prices on new and used bikes and accessories, and modest returns on financing and brokering insurance had been my way. I paid my bills and made a small profit. My business motto had been "Hogs get fat, pigs get slaughtered." It all came crashing down when that guy bought the bike. Yeah, he had a license and a completion card issued by the State Motorcycle Safety Program, and had a trade-in, but trading from an entry-level bike to a high-performance one required a different skill set. He ignored the alternatives -- choosing to buy with his ego. After selling the business, I used the proceeds from the sale net of debts and legal fees to get lost in a sea of country roads, drinking binges, and women. When the money ran out I took the road home. Two hours riding time from the city I'd once called home, I noticed an advertisement for a caretaker on the convenience store bulletin board. The meager compensation offered satisfied my need for a room, employment, and sufficient money to buy alcohol. My binges had driven away most of the business and legal demons, but not the one that haunted me most. I had a need to frequently cross-dress. I tried to run from it, but couldn't hide. Its allure overshadowed bikes, women, and alcohol. The seclusion of the farm allowed me to dress after a day's work. Regardless of how sore my muscles would become, it would recede by wearing a sundress, or a gown, or a skirt and blouse -- heels and make-up. The sound of my watch chiming the hour snapped me from my stupor. With the bottle of "Jack" in one hand and my three inch-heeled sandals in the other, I staggered back to the carriage house. *** I arose the next morning to ready myself for the two-hour ride to the city and Ms. Griffith. With my riding gear in place, I threw my leg over "Bertha the bike," the thirty-five year old Honda 750 -- the only bike I'd ever bought new, and with enough sentimental value to keep -- started and warmed it, and then headed off. The barely paved farm roads held my attention in route to the highway. Both hobby and working farms gave way to housing developments that had sprung up instead of corn as farmers sold off land to developers that abutted roads. They built Mc Mansions - as many as they could. Five thousand square foot houses built on God's little quarter acre. Who in their right mind would buy a big house on a small patch of land? I'd thought that the idea of a home ownership was to acquire land, build fences, plant grass, and then call it the Ponderosa. The farm country twisty roads gave way to the straightness of the highway - ending any joy that would arise from a trip to an attorney's office. As I neared the city, the condition of the highway grew worse. I surmounted pot holes, swerved around man-hole covers, steel plates, and barely missed various and sundry debris, while drivers who sipped coffee, smoked cigarettes, applied make-up, shaved, all while holding extended conversations on cell phones, and reading their morning newspaper took my life in their hands the last ten miles of the trip. The false safety of the Tower II underground parking garage loomed off in the distance, but the mid morning traffic had come to a standstill. Rather than sit in it and burn up a perfectly good air-cooled motor, I shut it off, dismounted, pushed poor Bertha up onto the sidewalk, and then began pushing her toward the glass and chrome office building. At the top of the drive to the underground parking facility, I punched the machine for a ticket, threw a leg over Bertha, and then coasted down to the parking spaces. I put her in a dead space near one of the pillars, and then chained her to it. Early 70s Japanese bikes in original condition had become a popular black market export; and I didn't want her to become someone's new pride and joy as she basked in the sun on the French Riviera. I pressed the elevator button and made the vertical trip to the law offices. The door opened to the waiting area and the bunker that housed the receptionist. It rivaled a Victorian drawing room - mahogany, oak, and leather, windows with views of the harbor, mirrors to make an already big room larger, and Persian rugs. If Van Dyke could afford attorneys that lived like this, then maybe I might make a buck or two out of this deal. I announced myself to the receptionist who turned out to be Miss Gravel Voice. She punched a few numbers into the telephone console. "Ms. Griffith, Mr. Jamerson has arrived." I couldn't help but notice her nicotine stained fingers and teeth. ~Sexy~ I thought ~The woman of my dreams.~ In anticipation of my meeting with Ms. Griffith, my waiting time was filled with watching the harbor traffic. The view consisted of container ships being shoved around by tug boats, ferries shuttling commuters, sightseeing boats escorting tourists, a floating war memorial, and two cruise ships awaiting a full complement of vacationers. ~A pastoral bustle to lure clients into a mellow state.~ I thought. "Mr. Jamerson," the voice from yesterday's telephone conversation announced. I turned to face the body that housed the voice. Had it not been encased in a bag of a business suit it would appear to be petite and possibly athletic. She was only about ten years my junior, despite a voice that still carried a high spirit. "Yes," I said while shifting my helmet and jacket to my left hand to accept her right that had been thrust forward to greet me. "A pleasure to meet you. We had a devil of a time trying to locate you. You've no credit cards, bank accounts, utility accounts, or leases. Motor Vehicles had an address, but that wasn't helpful. By luck we found you. Your fingerprints were on file so it was your check casher that led us to you. It took us three months to find you." I ignored most of her babble as we made our way to a small windowless conference room. Coffee, juice, water, and donuts had been placed on a tray situated on an oak cabinet ... and provided, I assumed, at the expense of the Van Dyke estate. "What's this all about?" I asked while filling a cup with coffee and grasping a saucer. "I don't recall knowing a Raymond Van Dyke." "Mr. Van Dyke and his spouse had been a client of ours for over fifteen years. He named the firm executor and named you as his heir along with his one living relative." "How could he name someone he doesn't know as an heir?" I asked in bewilderment versus surprise. "Well, Mr. Van Dyke knew you and thought highly of you." She had a hypnotic melodic voice. If one wasn't careful, one would fall into it like a bug into a spider's web and then get swallowed up in a legal malaise. "How did he know me?" "He left this letter. Perhaps it will explain his actions." I took the sealed envelope that bore my name, opened it, and then began reading. Dear Oliver, If you're reading this, my wife and I are dead. As you already know, we have named you an heir. I know that you're wrestling with how you know me - well, let me tell you. I came into your shop to purchase a motorcycle -- and you wouldn't sell it to me because I didn't know how to ride. I became very upset with you and stormed out. At the time I couldn't understand how a merchant could turn down a sale - a quite sizeable one. After purchasing the bike I wanted from your competitor, I attempted to ride home, and then promptly crashed causing me to never ride again. As I laid in the hospital thinking about our conversation and my pig- headedness, it occurred to me that you valued people more than money. At that moment I vowed that if anything happened to my wife or me, you would become the legal guardian of our children. You are a man of great compassion and if a child (children) does (do) arise from the marriage, I want him or her (them) to be raised by you. The executor has been instructed to liquidate all of the tangible assets. The cash from the sale will be placed in a trust to be used to educate the child (children). Good luck. I know that my child (children) will be in good hands. Raymond Van Dyke I looked up at Ms. Griffith. "No. This can't be right. It's a joke?" "It's not a joke, and it's correct. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dyke had a daughter. She's eight years old, and you are her guardian." The melody coming from her mouth now sounded like fingers on a chalkboard. "Ms. Griffith, I'm a fifty-seven-year old bachelor - what the hell do I know about raising kids? I barely make a living and reside above a garage that's not big enough for me ... let alone someone else." I thought of adding that I'm a compulsive cross-dresser, but felt it was none of her business. Ms. Griffith could have been a stone wall. Neither would respond to my rant. "Would you like to meet the child?" "No, I don't want to meet her. I want to find a way not to take her." "You can contest the will, but it won't be easy and it'll probably be expensive." "I still can't understand how the attorneys who advised Van Dyke and created this document would allow this." "Well, according to the file, there'd been resistance to the will, but Mr. Van Dyke had been insistent and supported his position with documentation," she said while handing me a folder filled with what looked like the transcripts from depositions. Van Dyke had done his homework. There must have been twenty different documents claiming that over the years I'd been a compassionate businessman, a caring teacher, and a supporter of civic activities. He went as far as to supply photographs of me standing with a youth soccer team and a baseball team. He even managed to produce a "thank you" card from a former customer that I'd privately trained to ride. Dear Oliver: Thank you! Thank you! Thanks for being so patient. Thanks for standing in the rain! Thank you for repeating things ten times only to have me say...What?...and you repeating it for the eleventh time. Thank you for the encouragement and guidance. Thanks for the fun! Elizabeth I remembered receiving the card and wondered how it came to be in his possession. I'd left it and many other private documents in the files when I sold my business. He must have obtained it from the new owner. Memories of a woman came to mind, who had been so determined to learn to ride that time and cost hadn't mattered. I fed off her enthusiasm - maybe that's what Van Dyke saw and used it to create the will. The remembrances from the not so distant past caused more anger than smiles due in part to recollections of the toll that the law and all its alleged good took on me. The manufacturer's attorneys could afford to fight a battle of attrition while I couldn't. After the liability insurance had been exhausted, my money got used and when that was gone, the business had to go as well. Van Dyke, in all of his supposed goodness, had placed me in a similar position. My choices would be: accept the kid, or gear up for an extended battle to rid myself of her. It took money to wage war with the judicial system. Since I didn't have any, I'd have to accept the guardianship. "Ms. Griffith," I asked in attempt to try a different approach. "If I came into your office and asked for your guidance to adopt a child, based on what you know about me, would the city agencies allow it?" She stood silent for a time, and then said, "Your recourse is to contest the will." "How could I contest the will when I don't have a pot to take a piss in? Is there nothing else that I can do?" "The firm's hands are tied. It's a legal document and the only way to oppose it is to, as I said previously, contest the will." "Where is she now; and why can't she stay where she is?" "She's in a Catholic boarding school. She can't stay where she is, because we've found you. We are bound to the instructions outlined in the will." "I know 'contest the will'," I said while running my hand through my hair, and then shaking my head. "I still can't believe that lawyers and judges would agree to allow this ... and please don't give me a line of shit that it's reasonable." Ms. Griffith's face was stone-like - not one emotion could be detected. "As I asked earlier, would you like to meet the child?" "She's here?" I exclaimed. "Her name is Amanda, and she's waiting in my office." "You make the poor kid sound like a package." "I'm powerless in this matter. I keep telling you that our firm is bound by the instructions outlined in the will." "Yeah, yeah. It's a kid ... for Christ's sake." "Look, Mr. Jamerson, You know about the crash. It caused Van Dyke to lose the use of his legs. A faulty electrical circuit caused a fire in their home. His wife managed to get Amanda out of the house, but when she went back in to try to get him, the smoke got her. When the police, EMTs, and firemen arrived, they found Amanda alone and standing in the middle of the street wearing her pajamas. All attempts to resuscitate her parents failed." "The Van Dykes had been active in their church. The city Child Services Department agreed to allow the church and the Sisters to provide foster care until we found you. Her only possessions are the trust and a backpack with her meager belongings." I stood silently thinking about the child. I was in a pickle, but so was she. "I'll go and get her," Ms. Griffith said. After she left the conference room, I kicked my helmet across the floor in rage. ~What a way to die and what a way to lose ones parents.~ Ms. Griffith re-entered the conference room with a tiny, raven-haired beauty with the saddest blue eyes that I'd ever seen. She was dressed in a sack of a school uniform. "Hello Amanda," I said while gazing on the pathetic site before me. ~Damn. I'd look pathetic too if my parents were dead and I'd gotten stuck in a nunnery for three months with the Sisters of Corporal Punishment and Perpetual Misery. I felt for the kid - maybe Van Dyke had been correct in calling me compassionate.~ "Amanda," Ms. Griffith said. "Mr. Jamerson is going to take care of you from now on." The kid stood silent and for reasons unknown to me stared at the floor. I couldn't have been that scary-looking. Resigned to the fact that I'd become the not so proud guardian of an eight-year old girl I asked, "Ms. Griffith, can the law firm buy her a helmet, a pair of long pants, and a jacket so I can take her with me? Send me a bill for it; and I'll repay it over time." "That won't be necessary. I'll try to bury the cost of the helmet and clothes in expenses charged to the estate." Her comment surprised me. It had been the first sign of any kindness. She'd been the consummate cold-hearted attorney to that point. She summoned her secretary, and then instructed her to procure the items that I'd requested. I searched my wallet while she spoke to her secretary. I would have barely sufficient funds to pay for parking and lunch for the kid. "Is there a place nearby to get something to eat while we wait for the helmet and clothing to arrive?" I mumbled. "We'll get something to eat in the firm's dining room; and I'll stamp your parking ticket," Ms. Griffith said. Amanda and I accompanied her to the dining room. Amanda timidly ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sipped a glass of milk; I choked on coffee while Ms. Griffith nibbled on a salad. It would probably be the most expensive lunch the kid would ever eat. After lunch, we retreated to the conference room to find a child-sized, black warm-up suit and a red helmet. I guessed that the helmet would fit, and if it didn't I could always tie my bandana around her head to compensate for the size. Ms. Griffith's secretary took Amanda into the ladies' room to help her change, while I got the parking ticket stamped and signed off on the documents that would cause me to become the legal guardian of Amanda Martha Hunter Van Dyke. I also received a business card from Ms. Griffith. The kid looked a hell of a lot better dressed in the warm-up suit than in her uniform. It bothered me that she hadn't said more than a mumbled hello, but then again how much of a conversationalist could an eight-year old be. Especially one that had dead parents, had been shuttled off to a boarding school, and now was being turned over to someone she didn't know. After bidding Ms. Griffith farewell, I gathered up our riding gear, her backpack, my copy of the legal documents, and then with the smallish hand of Amanda in my right hand, we headed to the parking garage. With the bike unlocked and running, I strapped on Amanda's helmet, picked her up and placed her on the seat, and then instructed her to hold onto my belt after I'd mounted. I felt her hands grip my belt and felt the tension in her body. The poor kid must have been terrified. Some stranger just dressed her up and was now taking her off someplace on a motorcycle. I wouldn't have wanted to trade places with her for any amount of money. I feared that the whole experience would traumatize her into never speaking again. As we rode back to the farm, I thought about my lack of qualifications for raising a kid. Stupid ass that I am, I didn't even ask about where to send her to school. Did she take medication? Did she require a special diet? I had trouble taking care of myself. How could I take care of her? Shit, shit, shit. I'd have to get a phone, find a kid doctor, and buy kid food. She couldn't survive on my diet on frozen pizza, beer, pretzels, and coffee. ~That's it. I'll buy a book. There has to be an "Idiots Guide to Raising a Kid." There's one for everything else. Let me get her settled in first.~ "Oh shit," I shouted into my helmet. ~My wardrobe of women's clothing. It's hanging on the bedroom door. I'm screwed. What am I going to tell the kid? Your new guardian is an old man who likes to dress up like a woman half his age.~ *** After arriving back at the farm, I parked the bike in the barn, dismounted, lifted her off, and then headed toward the carriage house with the kid in hand. I cursed myself for not removing her helmet. What could she be thinking? ~Why is this on my head? Where is he taking me? What is this place? Where is this place? I'm afraid. I think I'll cry.~ Once inside the house, I remembered to remove her helmet. "Amanda," I asked, "do you have to use the bathroom?" ~Are eight-year olds potty trained?~ I didn't know. She looked at me as if I'd just asked her to jump out of the window. I pointed to the commode. She recognized it, smiled, and then headed toward it. While she did what she had to do, I raced into the bedroom, shoved my wardrobe of feminine finery into a plastic garbage bag, and then stuffed it under the bed. My days of shielding an alter ego in machismo had returned. Over the years I'd hidden it from riding companions, girlfriends, business associates, and drinking buddies. The relative safety of the farm granted me freedom to dress. An eight-year old had just shoved me back into the closet. She came out of the bath, and then stood motionless in the center of the kitchen. ~Do I try to talk to her? Do I show her where she'll sleep? Do I unpack her clothes, what little there are? What the hell do I do now?~ I picked up her backpack from where I'd placed it, and then extended my hand to her. She took it, and then we headed toward the bedroom where I placed her bag upon the bed. "This is your room. You'll sleep here." She nodded, and then took a seat at the edge of the bed as I left the room. Food. Oh shit, food. I looked in the refrigerator and took inventory and found one six pack of "Bud," a bottle of "Jack" one apple, and one orange. The freezer contained one frozen pizza. ~Now what? Leave her here, and then go shopping? I can't do that. There's a law about leaving minors unattended.~ "Amanda," I called. "We have to go food shopping. Come on, let's go." "Do I need this?" she asked, as she entered the kitchen with her helmet in hand. ~She speaks. When that voice matures, I'd need a club to beat back the legions of swooning randy-eyed boys waiting to date her. Oh shit.~ *** I'd taken my soft saddlebags as a means to transport our purchases. As we made our way up and down the aisles of the grocery store, I searched my brain and tried to determine what a kid would like to eat. "Do you like chicken?" She responded with a shrug of her shoulders. "Do you like macaroni and cheese?" She nodded her head. "Do you like broccoli?" She shook her head. I didn't blame her. ~Damn, the first George didn't like broccoli and said as much. His vice president couldn't spell potato, or was it tomato.~ ~I had fifty dollars to last me until payday. How many meals could I scrape together on it?~ ~Shit, shit, shit. I have to buy something for breakfast. What about lunch? What about between meal snacks?~ We once again cruised the aisles and loaded up the carriage with milk, corn flakes, peanut butter and jelly, white bread, and cookies. I also took a chance that the kid would like pork chops, Stove Top Stuffing, and carrots. "How are you doing, mister. Is she your granddaughter?" a chipper, young cashier asked. ~Now what? Should I tell the truth, lie, or smile and not answer?~ I smiled. That seemed to be a safe response. "She has your eyes," she said, while sliding the purchases over the scanner and packing them in plastic tote bags. ~You idiot,~ I thought. ~How could she have my eyes? I met her all of three hours ago.~ "Thank you," I said. The purchases totaled almost thirty-five dollars. ~Great, fifteen dollars to last two days. Well, at least we could eat.~ *** Our first meal together consisted of chicken, macaroni and cheese, and French styled string beans. Dinner conversation became a series of shoulder shrugs, affirmative nods, and negative shakes. ~Maybe she has nothing to say - maybe she's afraid to talk - maybe the Sisters of Punishment and Misery ate in silence. She'll talk when she has something to say.~ As the clock chimed nine o'clock, I guessed that it might be time for her to go to sleep. "Bedtime Amanda," I said. "Let's get your hands and face washed and your teeth brushed and call it a day. Lots of thing happened today and I'll bet that you're tired." No words -- just the nod. I watched as she went into the bedroom, opened her backpack, and then removed a toothbrush. She entered the bath, turned on the water, soaped up the washrag, and then used it to wipe her hands and face. After patting herself dry, she worked on her teeth. Did eight-year olds know how to do all of that stuff by themselves or did she have to learn it from the Sisters, or on the fly? "Do you have something to sleep in?" I asked. I got a shake. I reached into one of the plastic storage containers that served as my chest of drawers and pulled out a motorcycle event t-shirt. "Sleep in this; we'll get real pajamas tomorrow." With t-shirt in hand she headed into the bedroom. I expected her to close and latch the door. She didn't - leaving the door open about three inches. Maybe she was afraid of the dark. ~What the hell did I know?~ After about ten minutes, I peaked into the room to check on her. I felt like such a voyeur checking on her while she changed. I damn near shit in my pants at the scene in the room. She'd removed the black warm-up suit, folded it, and then placed it on the table. The school uniform and its blouse had also been neatly folded. It appeared that she had another uniform blouse and two pair of clean panties. Could the Sisters spare it? A toothbrush, one uniform, two blouses, a change of underwear. Sure she lost everything, but couldn't they give her something? So much for charity, giving, and compassion. Okay, she was a neat freak. Then again, maybe the Sisters made her do that. Perhaps her mom and dad taught her to be neat and tidy. What caused the pucker was her kneeling at the side of the bed dressed in the too big t-shirt -- saying her prayers. "God bless Mommy and Daddy, the Sisters at school, the nice lady in that big building and Mister Man who brought me here. Amen." She rose to her feet, and then got into the bed and covered herself with the sheet. I should have tucked her in after she said her prayers. ~Damn. Had the Sisters tucked her in?~ Her mom or dad or both probably read her a story before bed. She had none of it now. All she had was a tired old fool who knew nothing about kids. So I'm "Mister Man." I guess that it's better than "dope, idiot, or stupid." One day she may call me Oliver or Ollie. I'd settle for either. I sat at the kitchen table, and then began a review of the folder filled with the papers received from Ms. Griffith. I'd previously reviewed the guardianship papers. ~Maybe I should consider adopting her. That would be a good idea; and it would prevent anyone from trying to take her away from me.~ The trust agreement looked like standard stuff. I'd have to call Ms. Griffith about the quality of the investments. The monies should be placed in principal preservation accounts and not in anything too aggressive. If the trust had stocks in it, they, at least should be set up to allow for dividend re-investment. I never trusted investment types so monitoring their activity would be a priority. I reviewed medical records and school transcripts. ~Hey, the kid's smart.~ She'd received nothing less than an "A." I'd have to line up a kid doctor and enroll her in school. ~I'd better get a telephone or convert every remaining dollar to quarters~ *** I awoke the next morning to the sight of Amanda dressed in her school uniform standing over me. I'd slept on the couch in my work clothes. There would be no way that I could sleep in a teddy or a nightgown with her in the house. "Hungry?" I asked through the haze of residual sleep. Her nod told me she was. I filled a bowl with corn flakes, and then added milk. She took a seat and began to eat while I stumbled around trying to make coffee. As the percolator perked, I watched her finish her meal. I wondered why she chosed to wear that awful uniform instead of the warm-up suit. Perhaps she felt safe in it and thought of it as her only link to a life she once knew. "I have to cut the grass in the meadow this morning, would you like to come? You can ride on the tractor." She answered with the shoulder shrug and a head nod. It would be another day of my questions, responded to by shrugs, nods, and shakes. ~One day she'll talk.~ We spent the morning cutting the grass. She sat on my knee as I lapped the field and seemed to enjoy steering the tractor as I operated the foot controls. Her steering, regardless of what she did could be controlled by the braking system. I could compensate by applying one or both of the rear wheel brakes. An occasional smile crossed her face. It was a cute smile, and when it matured would drive boys insane. After her peanut butter and jelly lunch sandwich she put on her warm-up suit, and then we headed to the convenience store to telephone Ms. Griffith. The call consumed twenty quarters, but I managed to change the trust's investment strategy. I also made arrangements to start the adoption proceedings. Not knowing what would be involved, I envisioned spending dollars that I didn't have. After the phone call, she pulled me toward the convenience store door. With ten dollars in my pocket I feared the embarrassment of not having sufficient funds to pay for her request. She headed toward a children's storybook rack. After a few moments she selected a book. "Little Women" Damn, did kids still read that? I'd thought that it would've been out of print. "Could we buy this?" she asked. ~Hell yeah we can buy it. I'll sell my watch to pay for it. If the book will get you to talk, I'll sell the bike.~ I wouldn't sell the bike, but I'd find a way to pay for anything that would bring her out of her shell. We headed back to the farm with five dollars in my pocket and a smile on her face. *** After putting her in bed and remembering to tuck her in after she said her prayers, I sat at the kitchen table and savored a shot of "Jack" and a can of "Bud." ~Where am I going to get money to buy her clothes?~ She needed more than what she had. "Stupid ass," I said just above a whisper. "You have those cans and jars of loose change that you'd been stashing away. Break them out, count them up, exchange them for currency, and then go buy the kid something to wear." I spent the night counting coins. When she awoke, two hundred dollars had been amassed and there were still five coffee cans remaining to count. After breakfast, I taught her how to count and wrap the coins. "Put fifty pennies in this kind of roll, forty nickels in this one, fifty dimes in this one, and forty quarters in this one." While she counted, I spent the morning cutting the north meadow. She chosed peanut butter and jelly over the leftover chicken ... and drank a glass of milk. ~How can kids eat that stuff every day?~ She'd made a sizeable dent in the remaining cans. Our treasure now exceeded three hundred dollars. Tomorrow she would have clothes. After exchanging $410 in coin for currency, we headed for the Target store. I'd made a mental list of what I wanted to buy her, but once in the children's section - - I froze. Buying women's clothing didn't present a problem; I'd done it for years, but children's clothes. ~How do I do that?~ ~What's a size two-T? For that matter what's a four-T? Who invented these sizes? Four to six-x - what the hell is that? Size seven to sixteen - how can a size sixteen fit her? She's a peanut - damn, I'm a fourteen.~ We walked the aisles looking at panties, tops, blouses, skirts, pants, dresses, socks, shoes, warm-up suits, pajamas, nightgowns, and jewelry. I knelt down to face her and we both must have recognized each other's fear. "May I help you?" a voice from above asked. I looked up to see a store associate staring at us. "Ah, yes," I said. "I want to buy her - Amanda - a new wardrobe." "What a sweet grandpa you are. We'll have to get you a t-shirt that says that." That was the second time that I'd been called "grandpa." ~I must really look old. When she starts school what would the teachers and parents say?~ "Amanda," I said. "This lady is going to help us buy clothes. You may have to try stuff on so you'll have to go into that room over there. I'll be standing near by so don't be afraid. Okay?" I got the nod. The associate asked, "Where do we start?" "She needs undergarments and either pajamas or a nightgown." "She's a bit young for a nightgown." "You know what I mean." My patience was wearing thin. Frustration at the futility of someone like me raising a child had set it. "Something other than pajamas," I said hoping to move on toward our goal. I wrestled with thoughts of jealousy and joy while watching Amanda and the associate fill the cart with articles of clothing. It had always been my dream to have someone to help me shop and now I had to endure the pain of watching the kid who I watched over revel in the joy of acquiring a new wardrobe. As articles of kid undergarments found their way into the cart, I thought back to the time when I first purchased lingerie. I guessed at the size based on the charts in a catalog. She had someone to measure her. Her fit would be better than mine had been, and I hated her for it. I had the same feelings as we selected shoes. She got measured, while I had to use trial and error. Many a pair of unworn shoes had found their way into a used clothing bin as had wrong-sized slacks, blouses, skirts, and dresses. As she continued her spree, I thought about what four hundred odd dollars would yield if I shopped at the booths at the flea market and the city's thrift stores. It would have yielded sufficient items to swaddle me in blissful satisfaction for a great many months. Thoughts of the sacrifices and compromises that loomed on the horizon caused additional anger. The fear of becoming a person that used kids as an excuse for immoral business dealings began to haunt me. They always used the line "...I got kids..." to justify protecting their jobs. I thought of registering a protest when the sales lady and Amanda purchased bubble bath and an after bath powder. We didn't have a bathtub so how could it be used? Rather than make it an issue and disrupt the growing smile on the kid's face, I resigned myself to the line "...I got kids..." My jealousy got the better of me because of the inability to use my powders in her presence. She had pierced ears. I hadn't given it much thought as all of the girls that prowled the streets of my youth had pierced ears. It seemed as if they'd been born that way. At the jewelry counter Amanda chosed a pair of dream catchers, a faux gold necklace, an ankle bracelet and a ring that looked like some kind of decoder mechanism. The last two items that landed in the cart were dresses. I'd always thought that little girls gravitated to pink, but she chosed pale purple and yellow. I imagined that they were stylish since I had no point of reference. I envied the process, but not her choice. I thanked the associate and tried to offer her money as a token of thanks, but she refused. As we headed toward the cashier, Amanda spotted the book and magazine section. The tug on my hand signaled that another book would find its way into the now library of one. She looked at the children's book section while I glanced at the cover of "Parents" magazine. The selection of "Idiot's Guide" books didn't have one dedicated to parenting, however there was one on step parenting and adoption. Neither proved to be of any value. I'd have to wing it and learn as I went along. I learned how to fix motorcycles on the fly - I could learn how to raise a kid the same way. Today's book was titled "Aquamarine" or something to that effect. It had a photo of three girls on its cover - one of which had a fish tail - maybe it was a story about fishing. Much to my surprise, we'd only spent three hundred-twentyfive dollars. The associate chosed numerous sale items -- she must be a mom or something. After packing the children's clothing on the bike, we spotted a Verizon store. With almost all of the remaining money, I opened a cell phone account and received a free telephone. I had to pay for the charger and all of the related paraphernalia, but at least we had a phone now and we'd no longer have to feed quarters to the convenience store pay phone. My jealousy and anger simmered as we rode home. A two-week change of clothes had been purchased and stuffed into the saddlebags, and if she coordinated, it would be longer. Stored under the bed I had a total of three dresses, one bra, one pair of sandals, and one pair of panty hose - damn her. A left-turning vehicle that nearly wiped us both out snapped me back to reality. I was bemoaning the fact that I'd spent over three hundred dollars to clothe her when I should have been thinking about a kid who had lost everything and now had something. Granted it was a big box store wardrobe, two rooms over a garage, and an old fart cross-dressing guardian, but it was more than she'd had a few days before. After unloading the bike and taking the packages into the house she took each article of clothing from the bags, folded it and either placed it on the nightstand or neatly onto the bed. My brain cells activated and remembered some bits of furniture that had been stored in the barn. Reluctant to leave her alone, I headed for the barn in an attempt to locate something that might serve as a dresser. The room off the barn contained furniture, but there hadn't been anything with drawers or doors. I spied a massive seven-shelf bookcase and deemed it suitable to store clothing. After wiping the dust from it I managed to get it into her bedroom. I nearly fell over when I saw her. She was off in her own world spinning around in front of the mirror wearing one of the new dresses. Startled by my appearance she stopped. I imagined that she feared a scolding for playing in her new clothes. I envied her. The night before we'd met, I'd done the same thing. "You can put your new clothes on these shelves," I said, while placing the bookcase against the wall. Turning to face her I asked, "Are you hungry?" She answered my question with a nod. I gave her milk and cookies, and then tried to figure out what to feed her for dinner. Our fare would have to be the frozen pizza. We'd shop for food for the week when my paycheck arrived in the next day's mail. *** She'd been with me for a little over six weeks and we'd started the beginnings of a friendship. Her eyes no longer examined the floor when we ate or I attempted conversation. She'd stopped wearing the school uniform, and each day she dressed in a different outfit. Her color combinations were "out there," but everything seemed to coordinate. My color sense was pale in comparison to hers. "We have to go register for school today." "Okay," she said. My God, an answer, and a cheerful one at that. Perhaps she liked school. She came out of her room wearing the black warm-up suit. ~She must equate it with riding the bike.~ I wouldn't try to change her mind; instead I related it to the same safety that the school uniform seemed to exude. At the school administration building, I delivered her transcripts, a copy of the guardianship papers, and registered her for school subject to a medical examination. The administrator told me that based on her age, transcripts, and developmental tests, she'd be placed into the third grade. Not having a clue as to her development, I agreed. She also suggested three doctors and was nice enough to call each one to check the availability of an appointment prior to the start of the school term. We got lucky and one of the doctors would see us so we headed off to the medical complex. After filling out a form, handing over her medical records, and another copy of the guardianship papers, she received a check over. The nurse said she would fax her clean bill of health to the school administrator. I made arrangements to pay the doctor in installments. School started the day after Labor Day and with no bus service to or near the farm, I would have to transport her. It wouldn't be a chore, it would represent more time together and another step toward a growing trust. As we made our way back to the farm, I stopped at the convenience store for gas and cake mix. Her birthday was two days away and I'd thought it would be a good idea to bake her a cake. ~How hard could it be? Read the instructions, put it in the oven, wait the allotted time, let it cool, and then eat it.~ If I could read a shop manual and fix a tractor or a backhoe, I could make a cake. She wouldn't get a gift because I didn't have any extra money, but she would have a cake. "Would you like to invite the Sisters to share your birthday cake?" I asked, as we dined on a meal of chunky beef soup and bread. "Could we invite the lady from the big building?" "I'll call her tomorrow and invite her." It intrigued me that she wanted to invite the lawyer. She mentioned her in her prayers so there must have been some kind of connection. She mentioned the Sisters, but didn't want them to come. Maybe they beat her and she likened them with punishment while she thought of Ms. Griffith as a smile, a cookie, and milk. The next morning, before we headed out to the barn to grease the wheel bearings on one of the trailers, we called Ms. Griffith. After making the call and getting past the receptionist, I handed Amanda the telephone. "Ms. Griffith," I whispered. "Ms. Griffith," she asked, "would you like to come to my birthday party?" The smile on her face told me the answer had been "yes." She relinquished the phone, and then headed into her room as I gave Ms. Griffith directions to the farm. *** When Ms. Griffith arrived she mistakenly tried to enter the main house. I ran out to greet her and escorted her to the carriage house. "I thought you lived in there," she said, as we made our way further down the drive to the carriage house. "I told you when we first met that I lived in the carriage house, and that it was sparse and not all that conducive to raising a kid." "I thought you were lying to get out of the guardianship." "Ms. Griffith," I groaned. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a liar." When she entered the kitchen/living room, her expression was one of surprise, mixed with something that looked like anger. We didn't live like slobs and we didn't have that much, but what we had was neat and tidy. Amanda came out of her room to greet her. Ms. Griffith's look changed when she saw her. Amanda wore one of the dresses we'd purchased. Her hair was clean, neatly combed, and her eyes had the beginnings of a sparkle. "Come into my room, I want to show you my books. We can read," Amanda said, as she took Ms. Griffith's hand and led her into her bedroom. I watched from the door as they sat on the floor and turned the pages in the books. Amanda read the story, showed Ms. Griffith the pictures, and gave an explanation of each. She never did that with me. Then again, we'd read the books almost every night. Maybe she didn't think I needed an explanation. After about an hour of reading they joined me at the kitchen table. I sat on a plastic milk crate while Amanda and her attorney sat on chairs. Ms. Griffith and I drank coffee with our cake while Amanda sipped milk. Ms. Griffith's gaze turned severe when she spied the three bags of empty beer cans that I'd placed near the stove. Her stare could have frozen meat instantly. She probably thought I was a boozer who got drunk in front of the kid. "Amanda," Ms. Griffith said. "Let's go back into your room and unwrap the present that I brought." I eavesdropped on their conversation. "That's a very pretty dress Amanda, where did you get it?" "Mister bought it for me. He bought me these too," Amanda said, as she guided Ms. Griffith to the bookcase. "He said when we get more money we can buy more. It was fun. We took coins and put them in tubes, and then we went to this place that said Bank on the window. We gave the tubes to this lady and she gave us paper money, and then we went to the store to buy the clothes. One time we went into the barn and Mister got some of his tools and we took them to this place where a man gave him paper money for them. Mister said that tomorrow we're going to a place that will give us paper money for the cans that we found by the road and put in the plastic bags. He said that we can buy some more food and another book." "Does he ask you to call him 'Mister'?" "That's his name," Amanda said. "When we went to the store for food the woman called him 'Mister.' At the doctor, the lady called him 'Mister.' They called him 'Mister' when we went to the school too." "Does Mister sleep with you in this bed?" "No-o-o-o," Amanda giggled, "Mister sleeps on the couch." At four, Ms. Griffith said that she had to leave despite Amanda's pleading that she stays for dinner. As the three of us made our way to Ms. Griffith's car, Amanda held Ms. Griffith's hand. "I'm sorry," Ms. Griffith said to me, "but I didn't expect this." "Going forward, perhaps you should listen to your clients when they speak. They might be telling the truth. What did you two talk about while you played?" "Not all that much - we played mostly." She knew when to lie, when to remain silent, and when to speak almost truths - like a good attorney. I helped her into a car and we waved good- bye as she drove away. "Did you have fun today?" I asked, placing my hand on Amanda's shoulder as we walked down the drive to check the mailbox. I got the nod. *** The Stevens hadn't spent much time at the farm during the summer, but called to tell me they'd planned a Labor Day extravaganza. Their parties generally lasted days. Guests would begin arriving the Friday before and possibly leave on Labor Day or the day after. There would be entertainment each night and a caterer would prepare the meals. My tasks would include preparing the grounds, stringing lights, and running an electric service to the gazebo, as it would serve as a bandstand. They also wanted a dance floor, so I'd have to build a platform near the gazebo. The platform didn't present a problem to build and would require a day's labor. I'd also have to park the guests' cars and transport their luggage. I hadn't told the Stevens about Amanda and doubted that they'd care that she now lived there with me. In the past, they'd "looked the other way" when I ferried the occasional female companion to the carriage house. The Wednesday before the Labor Day weekend, they arrived to ready the house for their guests. Amanda and I had been cutting the east pasture when they pulled up. She'd become accustomed to driving the tractor - well - steering it, leaving me an idle moment or two to contemplate the challenges that having a child in school would pose. We drove the tractor past the front of the house, as Mrs. Stevens stepped out of her car door. "What have we here?" she exclaimed. I shut down the tractor, and then Amanda and I climbed down. "Mrs. Stevens, I'd like you to meet Amanda." I damn near fell over when she curtsied to greet Mrs. Stevens. I'd never seen anyone do it while wearing jeans. "Well hello there." Mrs. Stevens was about my age. She and her husband, also about my age, amassed their wealth exporting replacement parts for heavy equipment. Despite the wealth they didn't flaunt it. "Mrs. Stevens," I said. "I'm Amanda's legal guardian. Her parents passed away and charged me with raising her. She's staying with me in the carriage house." "Oliver, that child looks as if she's been rolling around in the creek. What do you have her doing?" "She comes with me when I tend to the property, fix the equipment, and mend the fences. To be honest, I enjoy her company and I kind of miss her when she's not around. I'll probably be upset when she goes to school on Tuesday." "How will she get to school? Buses don't come out this way." "I'll take her on my bike. We've been out and about on it since she came to stay with me." "What about inclement weather?" "Truthfully, Mrs. Stevens," I said, angered at my own lack of planning. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet." "I'll have none of that. Mr. Stevens will arrange for you to use one of the farm trucks." The following day, before starting work on the platform, Amanda and I exchanged the farm license plates for commercial ones. While I built the platform, Amanda pounded on the occasional nail despite it being screwed together. "Mister," she asked. "Yes Amanda." "If we use the truck does that mean we won't use the Bertha bike?" She hadn't become a brilliant conversationalist, but she'd begun to talk. "We'll use Bertha whenever you like." *** The guests began arriving shortly after two on the Friday of the Labor Day weekend. While I removed the luggage from the cars, and then parked them, Amanda watched. "Mister, the ladies are so pretty." "Yes they are, Sweetie," I said envying them their outfits and wishing that I could be wearing them. "One day maybe you'll wear clothes like that." "Do you think so?" After the guests arrived, we retreated to the carriage house to have dinner. I'd gotten better at shopping and could actually plan meals. It being Friday, we ate fish. Amanda called it fish fry night. I called it another night without pizza and pretzels. We had finished cleaning up when there was a knock at the door. "Mrs. Stevens," I exclaimed, with some surprise, as it was her first visit to my quarters. "Is there a problem with the lighting, the platform, or the electrical service to the gazebo?" "Everything is fine," she said. "I came to visit with Amanda." Amanda reverted to shoulder shrug, nod, and shake of the head mode. It appeared that whenever she was unsure of the situation she'd retreat to her shell. "Amanda dear," Mrs. Stevens said. "How would you like to come to the party tomorrow night?" She shrugged her shoulders. I wouldn't force her to attend, but I took the unfolding event as a forerunner of her first day at school. "Sweetie, wouldn't you like to go to the party and see all the pretty ladies and all the pretty dresses?" "I'll bet that you'll be the prettiest one there," Mrs. Stevens cooed like old ladies talk to kids when they try to sweet talk them into something the kids aren't sure about. I tried to use adult conversation as much as possible to build Amanda's vocabulary and to try to acclimate her to the adult world, if there was such a thing. "Could Mister come too?" Amanda asked in whisper. "Of course he can," Mrs. Stevens said. "'Mister' will be sitting or standing at, or near, the gazebo all evening. You and I can go shopping in the morning for a new dress." "Sweetie, get ready for bed -- Mrs. Stevens and I have to talk a bit." I steered Mrs. Stevens out of the carriage house, away from Amanda's ears. "Oliver," she asked. "Permit me to spoil her when I'm here. She's such a precious little thing." "I don't know. If you buy her things, she may come to expect it and quite frankly I can only afford just so much." "That's why I want to do it. I know that your means are limited. Let it be a treat for her. Let me buy her the little pretty things a girl wants ... like a dress for tomorrow night." "She could really do with a winter coat." ~Buy me the dress, and her, the coat, and we'll call it even.~ "Then I'll buy her a coat as well. I insist." "Before we start planning things for her, why don't we ask her what she thinks. Amanda, honey, would you come out for a second?" She'd already changed into what I called her little girl nightgown and was ready to wash her face and hands and brush her teeth. "Mrs. Stevens would like to buy you a pretty dress for the party and a winter coat. Would you like that?" We were still in nod mode. "We could go shopping tomorrow, dear," Mrs. Stevens said. Amanda nodded again, and then ran into the bath. "I'll come by for her tomorrow morning, Oliver." After she left, I stared at the ceiling wondering how I could raise money to buy her additional clothing. All of the loose change was gone and she still needed clothes for the winter months. ~Well at least she'd have a coat thanks to Mrs. Stevens.~ Maybe I could sell off more of my un-used tools. I'd inventory them over the next few days, and then take them to the flea market. *** Amanda and Mrs. Stevens went shopping, while I picked up after the guests who had enjoyed a volleyball match. At Mr. Stevens' request, I hooked two trailers to one of the tractors to create an improvised hayride complete with two musicians. Mrs. Stevens and Amanda had returned from their shopping trip. True to her word, she had a new party dress and a down jacket. The kid couldn't contain her excitement and started to get ready immediately for the evening's festivities. I dug out an oxford cloth shirt and a clean pair of jeans in anticipation of becoming invisible on or near the gazebo. Amanda, on the other hand, would be paraded around on the hand of Mrs. Stevens. As much as I didn't care for it, I knew that the experience would be joyful. Amanda needed it - she deserved it as she'd endured a lot in a short time. Despite the two of them spending the better part of the morning and afternoon together, Amanda continued to be shy in the presence of Mrs. Stevens. I watched as the women gushed and generally acted silly in the presence of the kid. The men too showed silliness. Amanda ate it all up as her shell started to fall away. Her smile, that I'd only occasionally witnessed, seemed permanent. When the music started, it seemed that everyone wanted to dance with her. She'd have a sweet memory to recall - one that would contrast to the bitter ones. At about eleven I tucked a very exhausted kid into bed. Her prayer that night included Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. I envied the women dressed in their summer gowns. Had Amanda not been with me, and the Stevens not on premises, I'd been twirling away in the gazebo in my yellow chiffon number. It'd been two months and two days since I'd last dressed. The forced layoff had begun to take its toll, as I found it more difficult to hold my temper. Past experience had taught me that abstinence caused irritability, which ignited anger, which resulted in fistfights. I'd have to find a private moment of my own -- and soon. *** At half past six in the morning we headed out to the regional elementary school. It would be a forty-five minute ride so she'd be fifteen minutes early. I allowed sufficient time for a pep talk and a "have a nice day" pat on the head. I parked the bike in a dead spot, dismounted, lifted her off the seat, took off her helmet, handed her the backpack, took her by the hand, and then led her to the building's front door. Streams of kids jumped off buses, parents driving all sorts of vehicles shoved their kids out the door, to speed off to wherever, and kids parked bicycles. The teachers -- carrying backpacks, briefcases, and shopping bags -- headed toward the building. I thought about tagging along with her to meet her teacher after we'd checked in with the office to get her class assignment. ~Would it be "over the top" to do so? Would she be embarrassed by it?~ While we walked toward the building, she seemed to be taking it all in stride. ~Who was more nervous, she or me?~ ~To hell with it all.~ After a stop at the office, we made our way to the classroom. Her teacher would be Mrs. Benjamin - a frumpy looking farm wife. I was tempted to tell her Amanda's story, but decided against it. Word about her had probably made its way to her before we entered the room. Hopefully, Amanda wouldn't go into shrug, nod, and headshake mode. With a pat on the head and a gentle press on her nose with my right index finger, I bade her farewell -- farewell until two forty-five. Before heading back to the farm, I stopped at the laundromat. Between watching the clothes spin in the washing machine and the dryer, I read an article in "Parents" magazine titled "Being the Perfect Parent May Not Be a Good Thing." After reading the article, I came to the conclusion that I'd been better off before reading it. Parenting in my mind seemed to be a case of trying to do the right thing and good old common sense. As I folded our laundry I thought about the old axiom of "Spare the rod and spoil the child." That would be good - daily beatings - beatings are good. "Children are seen, but not heard." ~That's a good one too. I'll stuff a rag in her mouth so she talks less that she does now.~ ~Screw it all. I'll feed her, clothe her, and love her - maybe that'll work?~ I returned to the farm, put Amanda's laundry on her bed, mine in the storage bins, and then went out to the barn to change the front tires on one of the tractors. I couldn't stop thinking about the things that my salary wouldn't provide. All of my un-used or seldom used tools had been sold, the coffee can coins were gone and few dollars that I'd stashed to buy a new dress for myself bought her shoes. ~Maybe I should find another job?~ A little before two, I headed out to pick-up Amanda. During the ride thoughts of finding a better paying job came to mind. Moving away from the farm didn't set well. Exchanging country air for city pollution and country schools for those crowded things in the city didn't make any sense. Money, money, and more money - throw money at the problem and it'll go away. The need for more money would create additional problems. When the school's bell sounded the inmates stormed the buses, cars driven by parents, and bicycles. Amanda came out of the school alone. ~Has she made any friends? Could kids make friends in one day?~ It'd taken me years to make friends and the few remaining ones who were still around were moving to warmer climates in search of broken bone friendly weather. She picked up her pace when she saw me standing by the bike that I'd parked next to one of the light poles that dotted the parking lot. With one knee to the ground to lower myself to her level, we hugged. It felt stronger than her usual one - maybe she'd been happy to see me. After an affectionate pat on the head and a gentle poke of my index finger on her nose, I asked, "How's school?" "Okay," she answered. Something in the tone of her voice bothered me. She didn't sound the way she had the previous day or when I'd left her earlier. ~Maybe she was getting sick - it could also be my imagination.~ "Did you make any friends?" "I think so." "Does your friend have a name?" Our conversation went on at a snail's pace. ~This is nuts. Do I have to ask her everything? Why can't she string more than three words together?~ When we returned to the house I left her seated at the kitchen table to do her homework while I returned to the barn to finish mounting the tractor tires. The idea that something had bothered her crowded my thoughts -- making the work on the tires take that much longer to complete. ~Did she trust me enough to tell me?~ Or would it be kept bottled up inside. The vibration of the cell phone interrupted my daze. "This is Ollie," I said after pressing the receive button. "Hi it's Sondra