Five
Curtis took overtime whenever he could, which is why he was still at work the next night when Mom put dinner together. As I helped her, I told her about the training program with Mr. Thurman and then the chance to play for the team. “Their coach wants b-both m-me and Antonio to try out.”
Antonio must have been listening from the front room. “He doesn’t want me,” he called. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“Yeah, he d-does,” I shouted back.
“Why does he need to meet me?” Mom asked, ignoring Antonio.
“There are p-papers you need to sign.”
Mom sighed. “Papers and more papers. All right. Tell him to come by Saturday morning at ten. You’ve got his phone number, right?”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
All week, I stressed about Mr. Thurman. What would he think of Mom, of Curtis, of the trailer, of Jet City? Mom never once mentioned Mr. Thurman; I think she forgot all about him. The only thing she and Curtis talked about was the meeting with the developers who wanted to knock down Jet City.
When Friday night came, Curtis was stuck working late at a job along I-5, north of Everett. Antonio wasn’t home either, which was typical. “Come to the meeting with me, Laz,” Mom said after we’d eaten the tomato soup and grilled cheese she’d made for dinner. Her voice was flat, and she had dark circles under her eyes.
* * *
All the chairs in the gym at the community center were taken, so we stood along the back wall. Mr. Leskov went to the microphone, motioned with his hands to quiet everybody, and then introduced a woman—her name was Heather something—who took his place at the lectern.
She had on black high heels, a dark blue skirt, a white blouse, and a blue jacket. She wore a gold necklace and a bunch of gold bracelets. Her teeth were bright white, her lipstick bright red, her short hair perfect.
After Leskov darkened the room, she showed a PowerPoint presentation explaining what would happen, trying to make it seem like closing Jet City was a great break for everyone because her company was going to pay relocation costs.
“But where are we supposed to go?” a man shouted from the darkened room.
She clicked ahead a few slides. “There are many possibilities,” she said, and then she clicked and clicked, showing trailer parks in Kenmore, Everett, and even Mount Vernon, which is sixty miles away—almost halfway to Canada. “Remember the saying: when a window closes, a door opens. It sounds silly, but it’s true.”
The PowerPoint ended; the lights came back on. “There are brochures on the back table near the exit,” the woman said. “In them, you’ll find a list of all the mobile home parks I just showed you, plus a few more.”
“What about Seattle?” a voice called out.
The muscles in her face tightened, but she kept smiling. “There are some mobile home parks just outside Seattle, and they are listed in the brochure, but they all have waiting lists. Construction will begin on July first, so you will need to be in your new homes by the end of June.”
Shouts came from around the room. “This is our home” . . . “I work here, not in Everett” . . . “Why don’t you move to Mount Vernon?”
Mr. Leskov took the microphone and tried to restore order, but the shouting only grew louder. Mom gave my elbow a pull, saying, “This is going nowhere.” On the way out the door, she grabbed a brochure.
In the night air, she lit a cigarette.
“At least they’re going to pay for moving,” I said as we walked to Jet City.
Mom took a drag and blew out a stream of smoke. “Laz, don’t let that woman in there fool you with her pretty clothes and her fancy words. Their money won’t cover half of what moving will cost, if we can even find a place. She doesn’t care about us. Nobody cares about us but us.”
Six
When I got up Saturday morning, Antonio was gone, off to his morning job at Home Depot. Mom was sitting on the sofa with Curtis, the brochure from the meeting in front of them. I could tell they’d been calling trailer parks. I could see lines drawn through some of the names.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning,” Mom replied, looking up and giving me a smile.
In the kitchen, I poured cereal into a bowl and stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster. Mom and Curtis were taking turns calling, but I could only hear half the conversation, so not much made sense.
I was certain Mom had forgotten about Mr. Thurman, so after eating, I stepped into the living room to remind her.
“Who?” she asked.
“The m-man from Laurelhurst. Remember? He’s c-coming this morning at t-ten.”
Mom punched in another number. “Yeah, I remember now. But he can’t take long. We’ve got to be in Kenmore by eleven.”
* * *
A gold SUV pulled up in front of the trailer at ten on the dot. I opened the front door as Mr. Thurman was getting out, recognizing him right away. You don’t forget a man who tells you that you’ve got a golden arm. He came inside and shook hands with Curtis. Standing side by side, the two of them made our trailer seem even smaller.
Mom had him sit down in the chair across from the sofa. Mr. Thurman started talking about what a warm September it was, when Mom cut him off. “Sorry, but we’ve got to leave soon, so—”
“Okay,” Mr. Thurman said. “I’ll make this short.”
It took him just a few minutes to explain the fall training program. When he finished, Mom nodded. “Okay, all that sounds good. Give me the forms and I’ll fill them out.”
Mr. Thurman started to hand a manila envelope to Mom, but Curtis raised his hands. “Hold on a second. You wouldn’t be breaking any rules having these workouts, would you? I played high school football, and there were strict regulations about out-of-season practices.”
I felt my face flush. He was calling Mr. Thurman a cheater.
If Mr. Thurman was angry, he didn’t show it. “Good question. And the answer is no. The program is run by the YMCA, not Laurelhurst. It’s a regular eight-week class like all the others the Y offers. They’ll be no Laurelhurst coaches there.”
Curtis wouldn’t let it drop. “But all the kids just happen to play on the Laurelhurst team. Come on. We all—”
Mom jumped in. “Curtis, Kenmore at eleven. Remember?” Then her eyes went to me. “Laz, you want to do this, right?”
I nodded.
She turned back to Mr. Thurman. “If you leave those papers, I’ll fill them out and get them back to you.”
Mr. Thurman handed Mom the envelope. “Our first session is Tuesday. Laz can bring the forms with him then.”
“You got forms in there for my son, Antonio?” Curtis asked.
Mr. Thurman stood. “Yes. Laz mentioned Antonio, so you’ll find two sets of paperwork in there.”
As soon as Mr. Thurman had driven away, Mom turned on Curtis. “What was that all about?” she asked, puzzled.
“What was what all about?”
“Hassling the man like that? He’s doing the boys a favor.”
Curtis snorted. “Timmi, he didn’t come here to help Antonio or Laz. He’s here because he thinks they can help him. I just wanted him to know that I know his game.”