A Place Like This

Living here is going to kill us. I don’t know a soul who would challenge me on that. Of course, everyone we know is here, and it’s going to kill them too. It feels like death here. Definitely looks like it. I mean, given a glance, any outsider would be surprised to learn that people can survive it at all. We’re a small cluster of downcast houses and what’s left of houses, abandoned storefronts, deserted factories, and bare lots along a murky, foul-smelling river. Dingy, littered, decaying, and vandalized—that goes for the residents, too. We’re not alone, of course. Some better-known towns and cities are in similar, even worse predicaments, the ones you see on the news for maybe a minute and a half once a year. And that’s about all they get. No one’s paying attention, not the ones who put us here, and especially not the ones who can do anything about it. Toby says it was decided long ago who matters and doesn’t, and I agree to some extent. Maybe some get lucky, but overall, we’re where someone decided to keep us, and this is as good as it will ever be. We are forgotten folk, destroyed and discarded. 

Walk in almost any direction, and you’ll find the skeletons of industries past that once created and sustained a robust local economy. Refrigerators were made here, along with windows, light bulbs, and, I think, some brand of construction equipment. None of that is left. Factories either relocated or were deemed unnecessary, leaving their line workers, machinists, and administrators with nothing. Doesn’t take a brain surgeon to fill in the rest. Small businesses and restaurants have vanished, along with nearly every other service you could imagine. There is still a school, if you can call it that, a community center, and a little grocery store, but not much else—just houses with sun-bleached for-sale signs and pointless leasing notices on empty storefronts. 

I feel bad for the oldies who were here in better times. They won’t be around for long, but my god, what a way to go out. Their home has gone from prosperity to dilapidation in less than a lifetime. As my dad says, industry giveth and industry taketh. 

When I was a girl, I thought poverty was someone else’s life. I thought it looked like those pictures of Dust Bowl families, starving African children, or people in India picking through trash heaps. We could never see ourselves in those photos, so we must be doing okay. At some point, I realized you can’t always see it. I guess because I grew up with it and had no idea what was wrong. Now I know what it is. It’s the same; maybe the scenery is different, but it’s all the same painful, unjust, inhumane poverty. And I don’t just mean we’re poor. Poor is when you’re on your final notice and praying the lights will stay on. Poor is reversible. It’s a cheese and caviar picnic compared to poverty. Poverty is when being poor is beyond your control, and there are others in the world who are intentionally preventing you from ever improving your circumstances. You haven’t an ounce of power, so there’s nothing to do but bend over and take it. Poverty is a prison. There are no cells with bars, guards, or razor-wire fences, but we’re serving a mandatory life sentence.

I know. Why not just leave? A great many did years ago. Those who didn’t couldn’t. Leaving requires money; money comes from work, and there is no work. Catch-22. So here we are, a couple hundred, maybe a little less, marooned on dead land far from any place that matters in a country that has perfected the practice of selective ignorance. But wait, there’s more.

A while back, maybe more than a year ago, the tap water turned the color of rust. We all listened to the never-ending blame game, but no effort was made to remedy the situation. With all those factories crumbling and leaking leftover oils and whatnot into the ground and river, it’s no surprise that we were hit with all kinds of ailments. Toby used to say they were like biblical plagues, so watch out for falling frogs. The community has seen organ failure, blindness, and even cancers. I, myself, have a strange rash on my arms and chest that refuses to clear up. We all know where those things came from, but if you ever do see us on the local news, notice how great care is taken, not to mention the corporations involved or the unpronounceable chemicals in the water corroding our pipes; every premature death is blamed on unrelated natural causes. Please.

So, Grovers’ Corners, it ain’t. 

Toby has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Full disclosure, I always wanted him to be more than a friend, but that’s not happening. Toby’s time is going to run out before mine, I’m sure of it. He’s losing steam a little more each day. I can’t tell if he’s sick or just doesn’t care anymore. He was an absolute stunner once, with dirty blonde hair, baby blues, and kind of a swimmer’s build. Gorgeous. Now his face is a little gaunt, his eyes look dull and sunken, and with no body fat or muscle tone left, his skin is like a balloon that has lost its air. Nothing fits him anymore, so he is forever hoisting his jeans and punching new holes in his belts. His grandmother is always after him to eat more, but if I know Toby, the chances of him finding his appetite are about the same as finding a job.

He’s everything to me, and I’m terrified. I can’t imagine life without him. Not in a place like this.

Water Wednesday. That’s what we called it. 

It was that time of the year when the summer had nothing left to give. Our street is wonderfully quiet in the morning. It almost lets you forget where you are. I was headed to Toby’s place, towing a utility cart that had lost one of its wheels. He lives less than a block away, so I immediately saw him sitting on his porch steps, waiting, motionless, and gazing into a tree.

“What’s up, punk ass?” I jabbed.

“Same shit, Jules, different day.” Toby pulled his hair back under his Keeley Auto Supply baseball cap. It started to fall out a month or so ago—stress, toxins, or malnutrition, maybe. It’s only when he adjusts that damn hat that I can get a look. There is nothing gradual about it, so it’s not normal balding. Clumps of blonde are gone. The boy has a polka-dot head. So he’s never without a hat.  

I abandoned my cart in the yard and sat down next to him. The tiny, white house belonging to his grandmother was doing its best to remain standing, but it creaked something terrible with every footstep, as if in pain. The windows rattled even in a light breeze, and sometimes its warped doors wouldn’t let you in or out. All in all, it was one of the better homes on the street.

“How’s your grandma today?” I ran my hand over the porch floorboards and watched as paint chips jumped off, revealing the old, gray wood beneath.

“Quiet. She hasn’t been herself. I didn’t even get one of those damn Jesus songs she likes to sing in the morning. You can see her when we get back if you want.” Toby was more interested in staring at the tree and, after a moment, stood and pointed. “Look, Jules. See that? Red-breasted nuthatch.”

“What about your nuts?”

“No, look. Do you see it?”

“Wow. Look at that.” I’m completely uninterested. Nature does nothing for me. Sure, I’d prefer to live someplace greener than this hellscape, but for as long as I have known him, Toby has been watching things move and grow. All I can say is, “That’s nice,” because, among my priorities and the million fears that have set up camp in my brain, that’s all it is. He’ll drone on and on, comparing nuthatches and rose finches, what they eat, how many eggs they lay, and where they go in the winter. Mention an animal, and he’ll tell you where to find them. Show him a leaf, and he’ll tell you about its tree. Yeah, he’s kind of a freak. But truth be told, I’m a little envious. I don’t have anything like that to care about anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.   

“Water Wednesday,” I reminded him, returning to my sad cart. “You ready? I don’t want to get screwed with the end of the line again.” 

“Yeah, let’s hit it.” Toby pulled up his pants, walked around to the side of the house, and returned a moment later, dragging an old Radio Flyer through the yard.

We had to meet every squirrel we encountered as we made our way to the old strip mall, and of course, I practically had to drag him away from some stray cat. Sure enough, by the time we got there, a line had already begun to form. It wasn’t so long that we had to worry, but still, poverty demands punctuality. 

The cast of characters who line up for water each week is better than any I’ve seen on TV. Gordon, a single dad, brings his three kids, one of whom we think has cerebral palsy. Long retired, Bernice has at least one other person in her, and it’s never clear who you’ll get. Kiala wears a baby pouch holding her bulldog, Rex, the so-called support animal who can’t support himself for more than a few steps. Myra Mae is an older-than-dirt alcoholic, yet she continues to avoid the greedy grasp of death. Shalana keeps finding new places to pierce her body—she does it herself, maybe from boredom. And predictably, Jakey, a jittery, toothpick-thin ne’er-do-well we knew from our school days, is working the line with his relentless hustle. 

“Hey Tobe, listen, man. If you can spare a few bottles this week, I’ll make it up to you. Maybe a trade.” Jakey mimed a joint hit and looked around like he was worried the law would tackle him to the ground at any moment. Like anyone cares. 

“Sorry, Jakey. You know you’re barking up the wrong tree. I gotta take care of my grandma.”

“How ‘bout you, Jules? Help a man out? For a doob.”

I wasn’t as nice as Toby. Even in school, Jakey was never anything but a stoner punk; some days, he hits my last nerve.

“Hell, no,” I said. “I’ve seen you down at the red lights selling what you get, the free water you’re making a profit on. If I had extra, which I don’t, I wouldn’t give it to you. Never a good morning or how are you; you start right in haggling, don’t you? And no one wants your nasty-ass skunk weed.”

“Woah, chill, woman. Can’t blame me for tryin’.”

“Of course I can. All you’re ever tryin’ is nothin’ good. Get the hell out of here.”

Jakey shrugged and walked on, stopping to give the same pitch to everyone. He finally joined his girlfriend, Sheila, at the head of the line. She’s a real piece of work, too, usually strung out on something. Toby told me I shouldn’t have been so mean, but Jakey smokes so much weed that he’ll have forgotten about it almost immediately, and the next Water Wednesday, he’ll be haggling with us again.

Then come the Jesus people. They’re not from this town; they haven’t come for the water and don’t bring any with them. Mormons or something, I don’t know, but every week they’re out here trying to recruit. Most people know their game and wave them away before they even start, but I think they manage to reel one in every so often. Between Jakey and the Bible beaters, I don’t know who is worse. You can always depend on someone trying to take advantage of people who have nothing.

Like every week, the wait is long and tedious; it’s not something you get used to. Behind us, the line steadily grew until it was almost the length of the entire lot. Babies cried, and a few annoying kids played in the parking lot, laughing and running around. I kept thinking how it was too early for that kind of energy, but I suppose when kids get going, they don’t care what the clock says.

“Imagine being their age and living this life.”

“They don’t understand it. This is all they’ve ever known, which I guess makes them the luckiest ones here.”

“You ever think about having kids?” 

“Are you out of your mind? It ought to be against the law to bring kids into this world, here or anywhere else. I shudder to think what things will be like in twenty years. That’s a hell I hope I don’t live to see.”

 “You’re only 22,” I scoffed. “I hate to break it to you, but you got a lot of years left.” I said it, but I didn’t believe it. “My gramps didn’t die until he was 84.”

“Your gramps lived here when it was a boom town, and you could take a shower that didn’t make you vomit. I can guarantee you I’m not getting anywhere near 80. I mean, look at me. You’ll do better. You’re more resilient. Healthier. Sturdier.”

Toby was right. I’ve always been tough and a big girl—a bit overweight. I’m no great beauty either. My skin is a mess, and I keep my hair short so I don’t have to do anything with it. Some people think I’m a lesbian. I guess I give off that vibe. Doesn’t bother me in the least. 

Finally, the churning of an engine was heard approaching, and everyone sitting on the asphalt was on their feet. The white box truck rattled into its usual spot at the head of the line. Everything about the distribution was orderly because everyone knew the truck would leave at the first sign of any trouble. Two cases of bottled water per household—that’s what we can have, courtesy of a non-profit outfit that also arranges health fairs so people can see a doctor or dentist for free. And, bless them, they don’t ask a thing in return. So it seems we’re not entirely forgotten. For now.

At the head of the line, one of the guys unloading the truck asked after my dad, like he always does, and told me to say hi. I say will do and nod, but in my mind, I want to say Dad drank his weight in Wild Turkey last night, but as soon as he’s awake and his hangover passes, I’ll tell him you said hi. 

With a cart and wagon loaded with our rations, we headed home.  

The bottled water supplements what we get from the state every Monday. It comes in a big jug, the kind used in office water coolers. We mostly use it for washing. 

When he’s not drinking, well, whether or not he’s drinking, Dad works as a dishwasher at the interstate truck stop restaurant. It’s about an hour on foot for him, over the county line where they have clean running water, and though it’s not his beverage of choice, I always remind him to drink all he can when he’s there. He usually brings home a few bottles he’s filled if he remembers. Little by little, I’ve been stashing what I can in our old basement freezer in case the deliveries and donations stop. Some of our neighbors collect rainwater and snow, but I’m not there yet. In the meantime, we line up every Wednesday for our survival, while in cities, the hydrants are opened for the kids in the summertime, and in the suburbs, the homes and golf courses constantly run their sprinklers. Once, I watered a houseplant from the tap. It died overnight.

Yes, Dad drinks. Plus, I’m almost sure he pockets a bottle or two at the restaurant when he can get away with it. Sometimes, when he’s a bit plastered, he gets into trouble, but not around me. It doesn’t matter how much is in his tank; he’s never been anything but a gentle, protective father. He’s a great guy; he’s just been through a lot, and when you look around, you can hardly blame him for his habit. Life has been and always will be hell. Have a drink. 

“God, this place sucks,” Toby blurted out. It’s a sentiment that has kicked off many a long conversation. “Sad. Not just pathetic-sad, but not happy. Every window looks out to despair. It just wants to die. Not such a bad idea.”

Toby talks about death a lot. Never about ending his life, but I think he’d be happy to go at any time. 

“I think we all walk a thin line between life and death,” I said. “At any moment, either side can be the more attractive option. I guess the trick is to keep walking the line. Dad is sure to drink himself dead-”.

“Gramma’s not well.”

“So you and I will be on our own one day. We’re gonna need each other. Gotta keep walking that line.”

Toby nodded, looking at the ground.

“You ever think about getting married, Toby?” I asked, receiving a scoff.

“What would I want to do that for?” 

“Life is shit. It’d be easier with a partner.” 

“Would it, though?” He looked past me, gazing off at nothing. He does that when he’s in one of his funks, like he’s here, and not, all at the same time. Those beautiful eyes go vacant, and the only thing to do is wait for his light to come back on. 

“How could it not be easier?” I asked.  “Two people can do what one can’t. You could marry me. We’re best friends, and that’s all it would be. Hell, I don’t even want to kiss you, so there’d be no physical stuff. We could just be there to lean on each other. Help make life not so bad.”

“Jules, I don’t have two nickels to rub together.”

“Me either.” 

“So getting married wouldn’t change anything. We’d still have nothing, only twice as much. I think I have enough nothing in my life.”

I wasn’t going to harp on about it, and I knew I made no sense. Besides, whether he realized it or not, we already had a kind of marriage.  

We had a chore. Having dropped their fall colors to the ground, the trees were bare, like umbrellas with uncovered ribs. We couldn’t risk his old grandmother or my drunk father slipping on wet foliage, so it needed to be done right away.

With a lawn rake on my shoulder, I went to Toby’s, where he had already begun. 

“This shouldn’t take too long, and when we’re finished, we can go over to yours,” he said.  He was doing the work, but slowly, like his batteries needed to be changed, and stopping frequently to notice some bird or something.

“Hey, that mobile health clinic is coming back to the old mall next week. I’m gonna go have my lady bits checkup,” I announced as we combed the yard for dead leaves. “Do you need to go?”

“No thanks, I take my grandma to the community center when they have health days. She likes it there.” Toby began drawing small piles of leaves into one mound. “I should see if they have a dental day. She’s lost two teeth this month; I don’t know if it’s her age or something else. I’m afraid they’ll keep dropping, and I’ll find them all over the house.”

“I meant you could come with me for you to be seen.” I added my leaves to the mound, which was now quite large. “When was the last time you had a checkup?”

“I honestly don’t remember. But you go and get yours done. I’ll go when I feel like I need to.”

There was no use pressing the matter. I didn’t want to upset him. 

Soon, all that was left was to bag the leaves and head up to my place. But we looked at each other, realizing what we had forgotten. Toby and I stood silently and then, without a word, dropped our rakes, ran to the pile, and jumped in, cracking up like children. 

Kids may not understand it, but they’re lucky to have so many moments filled with that not-a-care-in-the-world kind of joy, unrestrained and nonsensical. Adults lose that once life starts demanding things, but I think cackling yourself silly is medicinal. I’m glad Toby and I haven’t lost it, and I hope we never do.

Practically every damn stray cat in the neighborhood came to see Toby as we walked. They follow him around like he’s their Pied Piper or something. It’s sad how many there are. Folks just let them go when they’re having trouble feeding themselves, I guess, or they left town without them. I’m sure there are as many stray cats and dogs around here as people, maybe more. Most of them are not well and need a kind hand, and they find it in Toby without fail. Honestly, I think he needs it as much as they do. 

Walking down the street, we were stunned to find a flurry of activity at Clayton Noble’s janky, blue bungalow. It was an all too common sight. Furniture, clothing, and appliances were all pulled out of the house and dumped on the curb, where we found Clay sitting on a loveseat that used to be in his living room. At 76 years old, he was the unofficial mayor of the neighborhood and knew everyone, most since they were just small children, including the sheriff directing that day’s actions. Clay was the kind of guy who always wore a big, gleaming smile for everyone he saw and asked after your family members by name, but that day, he sat there on the street like he was waiting for a bus, and he hadn’t a smile for anyone. Toby and I approached.

“Go on out of here, you two. I ain’t want nobody to see me now. Just go, won’t you? Please.” He had that crushing look of a grown man struggling not to cry—mouth twitching at the corners and blinking over and over again to distract his eyes from releasing tears. 

We did as we were told and walked off in silence. To put someone out on the street, in a place like, well, it’s a practice far uglier than almost anything I can imagine. Some plead frantically for their home, and sometimes, the neighbors show up to argue with the sheriff on behalf of the evicted. Others, like Clay, quietly let it happen, knowing full well that there is no stopping it. There was no one to appeal to, no one accounting for all the good this saint of a man has done for the community. They’ll put you out regardless of your age or whether you have kids in the house. Makes no difference. They’ll sweep everyone out the front door like pests and leave an empty house behind to deteriorate for years. That, or the residents become squatters in their own homes.

“He lived in that house all his life,” I said. “They can’t just let him stay there until the end of his days? Not like the house is worth anything.”

“Jules, they’d bulldoze the whole damn town today if they could, then they’d fix the water and build something ridiculous.” 

“The things people do to each other.”

Suddenly, Toby stopped at a corner storm drain and threw up. I don’t remember the last time I saw him eat, so I don’t know what was coming up, but it was a lot. When it was over, he collapsed into a heap on the curb, spitting repeatedly. I sat down next to him.

“You okay?”

“I’m sick.”

“I can see that.”

“No, Jules. It’s something bad. I don’t know what.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Those free clinics won’t be able to do anything for me.”

I didn’t know what to say. The color in his face was gone, the whites of his eyes were outlined in red, and he had little bits of vomit in his spotty stubble. He was as thin as a rail. Whatever he was sick with didn’t just happen, but we never spoke of it before.   

“Can you walk?” I asked after a long silence. “I think we should go back and tell your grandma.”

“We can’t do that, Jules.”

“It’ll be okay. She loves you. She wants what’s best for you.”

There was a sudden but brief breeze, strong enough that Toby held his hat to keep it from blowing off his head. When he turned his head to the light, I could see lines that tears had drawn on his cheeks. 

“How did we ever end up in this miserable place without a chance in the world at, well, you name it? We’re all just supposed to trudge along, growing sicker and more miserable until we’re one less problem for people we've never met. I don’t know how to do it anymore.”

Toby stared off across the empty lots, gently sobbing. I linked my arm with his and placed my head on his bony shoulder. We stayed that way, quiet and motionless, for a long while until I realized we were sinking into our pessimism.  

“Come on, punk ass. Let’s go see your grandma.”

“Nothing she can do.”

“You don’t know that, Toby.”

“Yes, I do. She’s dead.” 

“Toby, no.” I watched as he nodded, sniffled for a while, and then shrugged.

“When I woke up, she was on the sofa with the TV on. I shook her. I couldn’t stop shaking her. I just wanted her to sit up and smack me for disturbing her rest. No. Must have gone sometime in the night.”

“God, I’m so sorry, Toby. Do you know what-”

“I don’t know what to do. I mean, who do I call?”

“Come on. I’ll help.”

An agonizing two hours later, the police and ambulance finally arrived to remove Toby’s grandmother from the house.  He had signed a release with the coroner stating he couldn’t afford to bury her, so there would be no funeral. They’d cremate her, and if he could cover the cost, he could buy back the ashes. But he’d never have that kind of money to spare. 

We sat up for a while that night, but there wasn’t a lot of discussion, and not a word about his grandmother’s death or whatever was ailing him. My heart was broken for my friend. He already had so little. Now, he was sick and all alone in that rickety house. 

“I’ve been summoned to the police station. Will you come with me?” I asked. 

Toby is always there when you need him, no questions asked. But he already knew why we needed to visit the police. It wasn’t the first time. 

The officers, slow-moving and looking bored, knew me better than I wanted them to. Dad was becoming something of a local celebrity drinker. His greatest hits included public urination (in the middle of Main Street), “rescuing” (his word) lawn ornaments, and passing out on the doorstep of a church with his pants around his ankles. Usually, he was brought in to dry out and wasn’t charged with anything. But this time, he talked one of his buddies into borrowing his car and got a DUI. It wasn’t his first. Toby stayed in the lobby while I was led back to a holding cell with large panels of chicken wire-reinforced glass. There was Dad drinking coffee and looking like who shot John. His hair, which he wore just above the shoulders, was damp and limp, his wrinkled face was red, and he had been given a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt to wear, each bearing the police precinct emblem.  I didn’t want to know where his own clothes were.

“Daddy, you’re not coming home. They’ll take you up to see the judge tomorrow. The sergeant tells me there are mandatory sentences for this many arrests, but even if you were allowed bail… Well, I don’t know what we could do.”

My father wouldn’t respond. He wouldn’t even lift his head to look at me. I could tell he was embarrassed and ashamed. And even if he didn’t admit it, I knew it was all an attempt to escape his circumstances. 

“Well, like it or not,” I grumbled, “you’ll get sober in jail. I’ll call up to Casey’s and tell them you won’t be in to work anymore. Maybe I can talk them into giving me your job.” I looked at my pathetic father and finally caught his eye. “I don’t know what happens now.”  

“I want you to go, Julie.” My old man finally looked up at me with tears in his eyes. “Go somewhere you won’t end up like me. Or worse. There’s a little money in a coffee can in my closet. Sell anything that you can and go.”  

“I’m not going anywhere. Somebody has to stay in the house until you get out.”

“Gonna be a long wait, Julie. And sooner or later, they’re going to come take that house. I honestly don’t know how we managed to stay this long.” 

“It’s not just you. Toby’s here, too. Maybe I'd take off if neither of you were around, but I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Take him with you.”

“He’s not well.”

“Right,” he replied, sounding disappointed. We sat in silence, and though I was on edge just being in the police station, his sad eyes were strangely calming. “Julie, I know I’m the last one who should be giving anyone advice. I should have insisted you leave years ago, but I guess I was being selfish. That was a pretty shitty thing for me to do. But for god’s sake, however you do it, get the hell out of here. Anywhere else. Before you’re here forever.” 

That night, I was hanging out with Toby at his house. On the news, they announced a plan to clean up the river and replace the old, corroded pipes, but I couldn’t find any reason to be thankful. From the report's tone, it was as if they were doing us a great favor, and there was no mention of what took them so long or when the work might start, let alone be completed. If it’s like anything else, they’ll do just enough to keep everyone quiet for a while. As long as we believe they’re working on it, nothing will get done. 

“If I could go back a few years, I’d say, Come on, Toby. We’re getting on a bus and going someplace we never thought we’d go. And after we had done that, we’d go someplace else, and then again, and again, one random place after the other, until we found someplace that felt like us. And we would never have to come back here.” 

“It was never possible, though.”

“I know. But we’re both on our own now. Why don’t we?” I smiled and looked at my friend, sick and sullen, who replied with the saddest words I had ever heard.  

“Maybe one day.”

“Look for the beauty,” he said.  “My grandma used to say that. Look for the beauty in everything. Then, ask yourself why it’s beautiful. It’s not just a matter of what is pleasing to your eye but why it triggers your emotions, good or bad. Bad things can be beautiful.” He looked around in all directions, stopped, and raised his arm to direct my gaze.  

“Do you see that cardinal up there in the elm?” he asked. “That’s beautiful.”

“Okay. Now, why?”

Toby watched the cardinal as it twitched its head and took off. His ponderous gaze fell to the ground, and he closed his eyes.  

“It’s the red. Not just the color we see, but birds are different; they see colors we can’t. That male cardinal shows up, a proud wearer of that striking red in a place like this that doesn’t deserve it. It’s the color of all colors, right? But there’s something even greater than red in those feathers. We’ll never know what other birds see, but it only takes a fraction of it to please our eyes. It’s their secret. They’ve got something on us. To me, that’s beautiful.”

Well, now I wish I had listened to him all those times he rambled on about whatever mouse or chipmunk he saw. The things that must go on in his head. He sees things I can’t, just like his birds.

“Okay, but don’t birds feed their chicks by vomiting food into their mouths?”

“Nobody’s perfect. It may sound bad, but that’s beautiful, too.” 

Toby is the smartest person I've ever met. I mean, he can’t tell you names and dates of historical events, and his math skills are for shit, but he has all the real smarts that can’t be taught. When I think of our ambitions back in school, I think of the optimism for the futures we had all mapped out. He was going to work with animals, and I was going to be a nutritionist. We never had a snowball’s chance at any of it, not here. Toby’s mother died, and his father dumped him on his grandmother before running off to who knows where. My dad began a long-term relationship with whiskey. Finding work became an impossible task. To think there was a time when we hoped for careers that wouldn’t make us rich but instead do some good in the world. Now, it’s hard to want better for the world when the world doesn’t want better for you. 

Water Wednesday. My sad utility cart is about to lose another wheel. I blame the streets they stopped maintaining a long while back. My wobble wheel might be humorous if so much weren’t riding on it.  

I knew the instant I saw his house. There, waiting on the stoop for me, was no one. The overcast sky darkened the yard, and everything was so quiet. With no breeze, the leafless tree branches stood frozen, solemn, and, as far as I could tell, without a single perched bird. I stood in the yard and examined the little house, which had been like a second home to me. Now, with its half-drawn shades, never-attended strips of peeling paint, and slightly slanted porch, it seemed to convey a great sorrow. I shook. Toby was inside. I couldn’t go in.

Suddenly, my stomach wasn’t stable, and my mouth was sweating, so I planted myself on the top step, Toby’s spot, and kept a slow pace of deep breaths, trying not to throw up. I couldn’t cry, though the grief I felt could have had me wailing for days. Instead, I looked around at the street and its ruins, with the cold and dismal weather giving it all that hopeless aura I had come to know so well. 

Look for the beauty, he said. Nothing caught my eye. Not a nuthatch, cardinal, or even a lousy old robin in sight. Not a squirrel or stray cat. A shrill siren rang out somewhere in the distance, disturbing the stillness. Through glassless windows, a tiny abandoned house across the street, nothing more than a shell, offered a glance at the emptiness within, where life once existed. It was all so ugly. 

But it started to snow. Not a lot, just a few flakes that melted on impact. I looked up into the light flurries, confused. How could something so lovely happen on the worst day?

My longest and dearest friend was gone. His grandmother was gone. My dad was locked away. There was no one else. I thought Toby would be at my side for the rest of my life. I did. 

He’s a bird now. That’s what I want to believe. I don’t know what kind, but it comforts me to think of him soaring above, somewhere better, seeing all the colors we can’t.  

And that is beautiful.