The Stardust Lounge_ Stories From a Boy's Adolescence - Deborah Digges [38]
But I knew I could trust him to see to Buster's best interests, trust he would give him the right medications, limit Buster's playtime with the ball, and know exactly what to do if and when he seized.
Pulling in our driveway from New Hampshire with Buster, I'm greeted by Stephen and a boy who introduces himself as Trevor. They help me unload the car, pet and play with Buster. Then Stephen takes me aside.
“Mom,” he says. “Now, Mom, listen. I've got to talk to you about something important.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. I'm beginning to know this preamble well.
“Promise you won't interrupt.”
“Okay.”
“Say you promise.”
“I promise.”
“Okay. Mom, Trevor's homeless.”
“What?”
“You promised.”
“Sorry.”
“You're forgiven. Mom, listen. He's homeless. He can't go home. He's been kicked out. He's been away this whole past year at DYS. I knew him a little last summer, but then he got shipped off.”
“May I ask for what?”
“You can ask. Things.”
“What things?”
“Things, Mom. Stuff like I've done. What does it matter? He paid his dues. He just got home from a year in juvie, but no one wants him. They say he'll just make trouble again. He's been sleeping in a friend's car. I told him maybe he could stay here—just for a night or two. Mom, I'll cook the dinner. I'll make it fair, Mom.”
“Just for a night or two,” I answer. “We've got a lot going on, huh? School's just started. I'll be at Tufts three days a week now, and you've got school, and your community service, and the animals …”
“I know.” Stephen is clear, earnest. “I've been thinking about all that. But look, Mom. We just rescued a dog who's epileptic. Here's a kid, Mom, a kid who's homeless …”
Trevor in trees / Photo by Stephen Digges
Fall, 1994
In late October Mugsie the cat gives birth to a second litter of kittens. A week later she is killed by a car on Blue Hills Road. Trevor finds her as he walks home from God knows where. He places her on the front step. The dogs solemnly circle and sniff her.
It's about three in the morning of a weeknight, but we're all up, our lights burning on through the November night, each of the boys carrying out some business of his own, music or reading. I've been what might roughly be called asleep, released for a while upstairs like a flag at the top of the house.
Stephen kneels and weeps. He lifts Mugs's head to see and to show her slack gaze, the small stretched body pooling a bit. Steve gently turns her over.
Trevor curses and goes to his room. Later we will hear from him bitterly. We're still getting to know each other, though he's lived with us now for a year.
Things hadn't gone well regarding his return home to his family from DYS. After a month or so it was clear that if he didn't stay on with us, he'd be returned to the Department of Youth Services shelter in Springfield. Though he was living at our house, attending high school with Stephen, I had no authority to speak with his teachers about his work, his status.
“I'm sorry,” the guidance counselor would say, flatly satisfied, “but you have no rights in this matter.”
In the end I applied to the state boards to become his foster mother.
At sixteen, Trevor is quiet, thoughtful by nature, an observer of life. It's hard for me to imagine him acting out the trouble everyone, including the school, holds against him. He loves the animals, especially the cats, and he has given African names to several.
One must look closely into his dark eyes to get a fix on his mood. He is polite, solitary, powerful in his silences.
I've begun to think of him as our Queequeg. Who can explain it? His presence has completed the circle around us. Trevor and Stephen call each other brothers, defend the other in all things. By way of their pact, they are willing to take on new responsibilities.
They work together