The Shed

Ansel was right, the shed wasn’t much. At least it isn’t if you have citizenship. To most people this shed was little more than a few pieces of plywood, with a makeshift tin roof. The door was just a cutout in the wood with some hinges attached half-hazardly. Whoever made the cut, and attached the hinges must have been on heavy drink, because this was a simple jigsaw puzzle that they were somehow unable to solve. I couldn’t complain though. It was a place to put my mat, and when the rains came I could listen to the drops falling heavy on the tin roof. For the first time that I can remember, I felt safe. For the first time that I can remember I could take the envelope from my pocket. I still wouldn’t open it. I quickly shoved it under my mat and stretched out on top of it, feeling the heat from the roof settling over my skin. It wasn’t long after I closed my eyes that I drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

BANG  - pause - BANG

Ansel’s heavy boot kicking the door catapulted me from my slumber. 

“Soup’s on!” Ansel shouts. 

I rub my hand down the front of my face as I exhale, trying to quietly let out my startle. I squint at the light peeking through the cracks around the door, and particles of dust floating like a galaxy of stars. I need to steady myself. This is my first proper meal I’ve had since….my father was alive. The thought of a casual meal, the thought of swallowing food I didn’t steal, it felt so unnatural. I’m used to consuming scraps in the shadows of the alley like a wild dog. One thing I know for sure is that I’m not about to upset Ansel. I push myself up onto my feet and slowly open the door. Ansel is sitting on the back porch as I make my way through the patchy grass. There are a number of brooms, mops and rakes propped beside the screen door. There is a dent in the bottom of the door, and I imagine Ansel kicking it because it looked at him sideways.

“Hungry?” Ansel grunts his question.

“I...s’pose...uhh, yessir?” I mutter in return.

“Kid, it’s a simple question. Look me in the eye like a man and give me an answer that doesn’t sound like a question. Then, you and I are going to sit at the table inside and we’re going to eat, but I can’t have you stammering and sputtering like a school boy. You have a right to be here because I  say you do. So start acting like it. Now, tell me son, are you hungry?”, he asks again with his eyebrows raised. 

“Actually, yeah, I’m starving.” I give home a crooked smile that I’m sure comes off as boyish, but he seems satisfied. 

Suddenly, he stands and opens the screen door, as it creaks with a greeting. I notice that the actual screen is torn and has been stretched beyond its limits. It billows out like a pillowcase, and I notice a fly make its way through a large hole. I wonder what its purpose is at this point. I guess the same thing could be said about me, with my shaggy hair and my flimsy t-shirt that is stretched at the neck. Like this door, I look a lot like something that once had a purpose, but I’ve taken enough beating that I’ve become a useless shell of what that might have been. I still haven’t quite figured out why Ansel is helping me. Perhaps this is all a set up, and he’s keeping me here until the authorities come haul me in like they did with Father. For a fleeting moment I think of backing away and taking off. I’m almost positive I can outrun this old man. Just as I’m about to shift my weight to my back leg and turn around I’m met with the smell of dinner and the growl in my stomach tells me that whatever has motivated Ansel’s kindness is immaterial. And just like that, I’m liked like a piper at the gate.

The kitchen smells delightful. My mouth actually waters and I take a look around. The refrigerator is beige and about four inches shorter than Ansel. It’s pushed up against a small stove that has two burners and a large white, ceramic sink. The wallpaper is peeling in the corners, and I notice what looks to be a clock, only it isn’t. I inch a little closer to get a better look when Ansel’s booming voice startles me again. 

“I was on the North Pacific Coast when I  picked that up. The top is the temperature, and the bottom is the barometric pressure.” He explains. 

I just stare at him quizzically. 

“Believe it or not, kid, I’ve lived a whole life. One that didn’t include selling street meat from a stall. At one time, I had a boat. I fished. That barometer may not be useful to me anymore, but it reminds me of who I used to be. And I think I need that sometimes”, his voice almost fades to a whisper. 

“Anywho….nothing fancy here, just some red beans and rice. Help yourself. There’s a bowl there, and a fork. I put a glass of water on the table for you. Eat as much as you want, and then you’ll need to wash your dish and the rest. You’ll do that every evening now. It’ll help me out.”

The dinner is actually really tasty. I have to work to pace myself and not inhale it. We eat in silence, which I’m thankful for. Just sitting here, trying to be someone who is….proper. This is a lot of work for me. For some reason that I can’t quite put my finger on, I don’t want to disappoint Ansel. How could a kid who lives on the streets, who steals food, who let his little brother starve and freeze in a tent at the barrier - how in the world do I suddenly care what anyone thinks? It’s not that Ansel isn’t scary, because he definitely scares the living daylights out of me, it’s that he seems to want to help me. Not for himself, but for me. Maybe there is some benefit that I’m not aware of, so I need to try not to let my emotions attach to his approval. 

After dinner Ansel disappears and I set about washing up the dishes. The sink is one large porcelain tub that has a small drape covering the bottom compartment. The porcelain wrapped over the top of a small cabinet on either side. There were small, smooth grooves in the porcelain that capped the cabinets on either side, and I realized this was to catch the water and channel it back into the sink as the dishes dried. I root around under the drape and find some soap and a sponge, then set about the task. I’m full, and my mind is swirling around with thoughts of the market tomorrow, the shed, and with that barometer that hangs on the wall. I wonder what the Ansel that bought that barometer was like. Was he more gentle then? More free? I can’t imagine it, but then again, I’m a different Franky than the Franky that ate ice-cream with Father and Joseph. I became a different Franky when I shoved Joseph’s body under the ice. It occurs to me that Ansel doesn’t know any of my secrets, and I know none of his. 

I place the last of the dishes onto the ceramic surface to drain and dry overnight and shuffle toward the door. I reach up for the string that dangles down from beside the lightbulb in the ceiling, and give it a tug. I’m suddenly surrounded by darkness and the sound of crickets and frogs. I reach for the door as I hear Ansel shout from another room, “Sleep good, kid! We got work tomorrow.”

My answer is barely a whisper, “Yessir”, and I let the screen door close with a rattle behind me. I shuffle toward the shed enjoying the breeze that comes in the evening right after the sun sets. I’m used to sleeping outside, and I realize how different this all feels right now. I open the door of the shed and nearly trip. Ansel has left a flashlight and a blanket for me. I feel irritation rise up inside of me. Why? I’m not upset with Ansel. What is this feeling? It finally settles over me, and I know what it is. I’ve already given up on all that I am, and all that I was supposed to be. I’m irritated that it’s only a matter of time before it becomes obvious to Ansel. Maybe things were better when we both agreed that I was useless. I collapse onto the mat and press the rubber button on the flashlight. The small shed fills with warm light. I cover myself with the blanket and click the button once more. Suddenly, the shed is drenched in darkness again. After rolling from one side to another, trying to find a comfortable spot on this mat with my irritation, I finally begin to feel the heaviness of sleep pursuing me. As I begin to drift, my eyes close and I see the boys from the alley, and then Joseph, and then Imelda. 

I’m awakened by what sounds like a rooster. I do not recall a rooster, or any other animal on the property. But then I hear it again. I crawl over to the door and press my ear against it to get a better listen. It’s quiet now. I begin to pull away when I hear an ear piercing rooster crow. It startles me so much that I jump backward, forgetting myself for a moment, and banging my head on the ceiling of the shed, right before tumbling to the ground. That’s when I hear a loud cackle, as the door swings open, Ansel is hunched forward in a fit of laughter. 

“Oh, kid I’m sorry”, he howls before his laugh breaks into a cough. A moment later, he recovers and nods toward the house. “You’ll probably want to shower before we head out.”

The sun is just breaking the horizon when we arrive at the market. The other stall owners are arriving and beginning to set up for the day. A man setting up adjacent to us stall gestures for Ansel to come closer. I set about the task Ansel has given me, trying not to eavesdrop, but failing nonetheless. I can’t help but hear their hushed tones over my knife hitting the cutting board.

“Enforcement officers are s’pose to show up sometime soon. I hear they’re checking to make sure we ain’t hiring unchipped employees. Reckon they’re tryin’ to crack down?”, he looks at Ansel nervously. 

“Even if they are, what do we have to worry about? I only have a handful of fellas helping me, and they’re all proper. Besides, those kinds of operations happen mostly around the cities. I can’t imagine they care much about what’s going on in these parts.” Ansel’s voice sounds confident, but I notice a tightness in his jaw. 

“Franky! Deliveries are here, I’ll finish that up, go help unload!”, Ansel barks at me as he moves over to take the knife. I hold the knife up as an offering to him, and he scoff’s. “Kid, you never offer a knife blade first. Is today your first day or something?!”, he says it with a half smile, but his eyes don’t match the expression. I nod and back away before I can mess anything up, or say something stupid. I know the farm sends a box truck every morning and that it parks behind the stalls. I don’t even have to ask directions because I’ve observed this enough times. Not too long ago, I would perch on top of the block wall two or three stalls down casually observing. I never felt bold enough to steal directly from the truck. There was always someone around either picking up a delivery, or paying for goods. As I round the corner, I spot the white box truck with the back door rolled up, exposing crates of fruits, vegetables, and sacks of grain. The morning sun causes me to squint as I walk under the shadow of the truck, and I walk smack into Imelda, knocking a basket full of potatoes from her hands. 

“Oh my gosh, Imelda. I’m so, so sorry.”, I implore stooping down to help gather the rogue potatoes that are now rolling to rest against the curb. As I stand I notice a redness in her cheeks and creeping up her neck. 

“It’s fine…um, I’m sorry. I don’t know your name?” she says softly as the red starts to fade from her face. 

“Franky. I’m Franky. I just started working for…er…helping Ansel. He sent me here. To get things.” I’m stammering and now I feel redness creeping into my own face. 

“Oh, right! I have Ansel’s deliveries in the truck. Let me grab those for you.” She briskly walks past me, as I turn to follow. As we approach the truck I take a deep breath, and the fragrance of freshly grown produce washes over me. It smells like the ground. I want to hold it inside because I haven’t smelled something so honest in such a long time. “Here we go!” she announces ceremoniously as she walks down the ramp from the back of the truck holding up a basket. She places the basket by my feet and pulls a tablet from her apron and suddenly I’m frozen with fear. My stomach feels like I swallowed a pin cushion full of needles. She is going to expect me to hover my finger to accept the delivery. Instinctively, I put both hands in my pockets. I suddenly feel so cold, yet I have sweat beading up on the back of my neck. 

“Sorry ‘bout that Imelda! I forgot today is the boy’s first day.” I hear Ansel’s booming voice behind me and the sound floods me with relief. Slowly, I back up, taking care not to let my knees buckle beneath me. Sometime soon, I know it will head straight for me. Sometime soon, Ansel will know that I’m not a legal citizen. Will he understand? Will he rage at me for putting him at risk? I know where this journey is going to terminate, but for some reason, I refuse to get off the road. Arriving back at the stall, I walk back to the cutting board, and with a shaky hand begin slicing garlic again. 

Suddenly, a soft voice floats from the stall on the other side of me. “You want to curl your fingers under.” Philomena is peeking over the stall at me.

“Oh, okay. Wait, what?”, I say to her, not really understanding.

She walks around and sidles up next to me, takes the knife, and demonstrates. “Like this. You protect your fingers this way. See? When I was a girl Wai Po taught me this way. Unless you want to end up like Ansel over there.” She smiles and her eyes almost disappear into her face. Softly, she places the knife back into my hand and walks away. 

“Thank you!”, I shout after her. 

Soon the day is over, and my bones actually hurt from all of the lifting and chopping. The rush of people has slowed to a trickle and my earlier anxiety has faded into a slight whisper in the back of my mind. Perhaps it was the physical demand, or it was the weariness from doing an honest task, or maybe it was that for once I feel connected to something other than myself, but all at once I feel a sense of belonging. Philomena places a cardboard box lined with wax paper on the table next to me and smiles. “Franky, son, you worked hard. I never thought I would see you like this? I think maybe…I think Ansel might need you. You keep your nose clean okay?”, she has a look of wariness on her face that seems to chase away her smile. I’m not sure what I can say to put her at ease, so I simply nod. As she walks away something cold and wet pokes me in my shoulder. I turn toward it, and Ansel is holding a bottle of water out to me. As I grab the bottle, the condensation trickles down my forearm. I don’t bother to wipe it away, I welcome the slight burst of coolness on my skin. 

“Don’t let that old battle-axe bust your chops son, she’ll warm up to ya.”, Ansel rocks back on his heels. I’ve noticed he does that a lot when he isn’t sure what else to say. Honestly, I’m not sure what to say either, and almost instinctively, I rock back onto my heels and look at the ground. 

“Let’s head home kid”, he says as he shuffles to the truck, and wrenches the door open with a loud squeak from the hinges. Taking care not to forget the peace offering from Philomena , I make my way to the other side of the truck. “Home.” I whisper the word to myself before opening the door and buckling my seatbelt.