The King of Jam Sandwiches Read online

  “Maybe you should start with supper, and if it’s good, then you can stick around for at least another day.”

  She looked surprised by what I’d said. My advice surprised me too. Why did I even care?

  “I guess I’ll add that to my plan,” said Harmony. “See you tomorrow, Robert.”

  “And I’ll see you tomorrow…Disharmony.”

  She headed up the walk. Something about this girl was different. I didn’t usually like different. I liked everything safe and calm and the same as always. Harmony was none of those things.

  FIVE

  I gave Candy one last scratch behind the ear and then closed the door behind me. I took three steps across the porch, turned and went back to make sure the door was locked. It was. It was always locked, but I couldn’t stop myself from checking. I always checked.

  I had five minutes to get to the butcher shop, and it was a ten-minute walk. I started jogging.

  Walking Harmony to her place had made the trip home longer than usual, so I was short on time. Before leaving for work I’d walked Candy, peeled potatoes and put them in a pot of water on the stove, eaten another jam sandwich and changed into my work uniform. Funny, it was about the best outfit I owned, and the pants were the right length.

  I took a shortcut through the alley, looking around anxiously. In this neighborhood it was always better to stay someplace more public. Alleys could be trouble. I’d have to chance it. There were big bins behind each store, overflowing with garbage. Collection day was tomorrow. It should have stunk, but the wind was blowing just right so that the smells coming from the bakery that backed onto the alley overpowered everything else. I loved the bakery. It always had great deals on day-old bread and donuts.

  I hurried in through the back door of the butcher shop. I could hear Mr. and Mrs. Priamo up front serving customers. I started to break down empty cardboard boxes to go into the recycling bin. Keeping the back room and storage room clean and organized was one of my jobs. I stomped on another box, and it collapsed with a loud crash.

  “Good afternoon, Robbie!” Mrs. Priamo sang out as she came into the back room.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Priamo.”

  My boss was always friendly and kind to me. It made me uneasy.

  “Did you get a chance to eat anything after school?” she asked.

  “Yes, I grabbed something, thanks.”

  “It wasn’t enough! You’re so skinny, just skin and bones!”

  I liked to think of myself as slender, but skinny seemed to be the word going around today. Almost involuntarily I looked down at my wrists. Maybe people were right.

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she said. “It’s just that boys your age grow so fast. You need to keep feeding the furnace. Come here and sit down,” she said, patting the chair by the desk.

  I hesitated for a second. I really did have work to do, but it was sort of an order from my boss, wasn’t it?

  “I think you might like this.” She took the lid off a glass container on the desk. A wonderful smell wafted out. The food inside was steaming hot.

  “I made this last night and just warmed it up in the microwave. Do you like chicken parmesan?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never had it before.”

  “No? You’ll love it!” she said as she handed me a knife and fork.

  I cut off a little piece. The cheese was sticky and stretched out in a string as I lifted the first piece of chicken. I put it in my mouth. It was amazing.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t like it”—disappointment flashed across her face before I could finish my sentence—“I love it.”

  She leaned down and gave me a hug. I immediately felt anxious and uncomfortable.

  “Eat, eat,” she said as she released me.

  I popped a second piece into my mouth. It was as good—no, even better—than the first.

  I heard the bell ring over the front door. A customer coming or going. Mr. Priamo appeared in the doorway.

  “Are we paying the boy to work or to eat?” he asked.

  I started to get up, but Mrs. Priamo put a hand on my shoulder.

  “You can’t expect a car to drive unless there’s fuel in the tank.”

  “I’m not putting fuel in somebody else’s tank,” said Mr. Priamo. “He can eat at home. He comes here to work.”

  “This boy is a worker. You know that. You’ve said he’s the best help you’ve ever had!”

  He said something to her in Italian, arms flying. She fired a rapid string of Italian right back at him. He tried to shush her. Her eyes flashed. A couple of times he tried to get in a word, but she wasn’t going to be stopped. Finally he held up his arms in surrender.

  “Eat your parm and then you get to work, okay?” he said.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll stay later if I need to.”

  “You’ll leave on time. In a butcher shop, the work can never be finished.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And isn’t there something else you want to say?” Mrs. Priamo asked her husband.

  He mumbled something under his breath in Italian and then turned to me. “Robbie, next month you will have been with us six months. So I’m going to give you a raise—not too much, but something.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Or maybe we should give you extra food instead.”

  “We will feed him as well,” said Mrs. Priamo. “He’s so skinny!”

  “You think everybody is too skinny!” said Mr. Priamo.

  “Not everybody!” she said, poking a finger into his belly.

  They started arguing, and then Mr. Priamo wrapped his arms around his wife, picked her up and swung her around. She started giggling. I felt almost embarrassed watching them, but it made me smile.

  The bell over the door tinkled. Mr. Priamo put his wife down and hurried back to the front of the store.

  “No rushing,” Mrs. Priamo said to me. “You eat…I have another piece. Maybe you take it home and have it for lunch tomorrow?”

  I felt happy and uneasy all at once. Mrs. Priamo went out front, leaving me and the chicken alone. I finished it up quickly and got back to work.

  The car was in the driveway. I wasn’t surprised, but I still felt relieved, especially after the previous night. There was a light on upstairs as well as blue TV light shining out the living room window. I went inside as quietly as possible. Candy came running up, happy to see me. She was always happy to see me, although tonight the foil-wrapped chicken parm I was carrying might have been an even bigger draw. I was sure she could smell it.

  I tiptoed into the living room. My father was in his chair, watching TV, although the volume was so low I could barely hear it. His head was tilted off to the side, his eyes were closed, and he was whistling through his nose. He often fell asleep in front of the TV but not usually this early. The night before must have really taken it out of him.

  Candy let out a little yip, and my father’s eyes popped open. He looked around, still half asleep.

  “What time is it?” he mumbled.

  “Twenty after nine.”

  “I just sat down for a minute when I got home…I must have fallen asleep…did you say it was after nine?”

  “Yes, I just got home from work. Did you have a chance to do the laundry?”

  “I’m barely hanging in here, and you want to know if I did the laundry?” he asked.

  There was no point in saying anything more about that. “Did you eat?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t hungry. Just exhausted.”

  “Are you hungry now?”

  “I could eat something.” He started to get out of his chair.

  “Why don’t you just stay there and watch TV, and I’ll put the potatoes on.”

  He settled back into his seat. As I walked away, the TV volume went up.

  Candy followed me into the kitchen. The potatoes were still soaking in a pot on the stove. I turned on the
burner. There was a tin of meat on the counter that was going to go with the potatoes. I’d just open it, cut it into pieces and…

  I looked over at the foil package I’d dropped onto the counter. I was really looking forward to having that chicken parm for lunch the next day. It would be a real change from the jam sandwich I always had. But I also knew my father would enjoy it. I picked up the can of meat and put it back on the shelf.

  I sat down on the couch, and we watched TV while we ate. I’d studied a bit while the potatoes were boiling. I’d finish my homework before bed or maybe get up early the next day and finish it. Probably both. I couldn’t afford to let anybody get ahead of me.

  It felt good now to just sit here and to hear my father laugh.

  “This is good,” he said. “What did you say it’s called?”

  “Chicken parmesan. Mrs. Priamo made it.”

  “And why did she give it to you?”

  “Oh, she said she accidentally made extra and didn’t want it to go to waste, that’s all,” I said.

  “Good, because I don’t want you taking things like we’re some sort of charity case.”

  “How was work today?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Not good. Being up half the night is hard.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I mumbled under my breath. I wanted to say, So I guess you didn’t die after all, but I knew better than that.

  “I think they’re going to fire me,” my father said.

  “What? Did your boss say that?”

  “He didn’t need to say it. I could tell by the way people were looking at me.”

  “But nobody said anything, right?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” he snapped. “I can tell. I know people.”

  “But Mr. Campbell is your friend.” Mr. Campbell was also his boss.

  “Friends come and go. You can’t count on them. You can’t count on anybody but yourself. Don’t ever forget that. Counting on people is counting on being disappointed.”

  I didn’t agree with most things my father said, but this I agreed with. In the end it was up to you. You couldn’t count on anybody to be there. Not friends. Not family. Nobody but yourself.

  “If they do fire you, you’ll get another job.”

  “Jobs don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “Unless you’re a lumberjack.”

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  Uh-oh. “It was a joke,” I said, trying to keep things light. “You know, lumberjacks have jobs because trees grow.”

  “It’s not much of a joke if you have to explain it. Can’t you ever take things seriously?”

  I was stunned. Everybody who knew me thought I was too serious. Serious was how I took everything. Serious was how I had to take everything.

  “We’re going to have to cut down on things and save some money,” he said.

  “What are we going to cut down on?” I was worried.

  “We’ll spend less on groceries, maybe turn the heat down some more, and we won’t be buying anything extra.”

  What extras did he think we were buying now? How much less food could we have? And this place was already freezing.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said. I was talking to myself more than him. “We’ll get by.”

  Candy jumped up onto the couch beside me and put her head in my lap. She was always there to try to make me feel better. But I had a sudden terrible thought. Was her dog food one of those extras we couldn’t afford? I’d make sure she ate even if I didn’t. I’d take care of her.

  I got up and took the empty plate from my father.

  “Didn’t you mention something about having a test today?”

  “Yeah.” I was surprised he’d remembered.

  “And how did you do?”

  “I got the top mark in the class.”

  “I wouldn’t expect any less. Do you have the test with you?”

  “It’s in my pack.”

  “Go and get it.”

  Another surprise. He was interested in something that wasn’t about him. Something that was about me. Why?

  I took our plates into the kitchen and put them in the sink along with the breakfast dishes I hadn’t had time to do that morning. I’d do them before I went upstairs.

  My pack was on the counter, and I grabbed it and brought it into the living room. I fished out the test and shyly handed it to him.

  Slowly he unfolded it and stared at it. “Thirty-three out of 35. You got two answers wrong then. Not perfect.”

  “Nobody got a perfect score. I told you I got the top mark in the class.”

  “That just shows that you have a stupid class. Don’t go bragging about your marks until they’re worth bragging about.”

  He took the test, crumbled it into a ball and tossed it into the corner.

  I felt my knees buckle a little. I should have known better. I always tried to prepare myself, but never knew what was coming. Maybe if I’d gotten perfect…

  Next time I’d get perfect.

  I turned and walked away. There were dishes to be washed and studying to be done. I’d fallen behind today. Tomorrow I’d have to work harder. Harder than anybody else.

  SIX

  I slept right through the night, only waking up when I heard my father’s car door slamming in the morning. He was off to work. I turned off the alarm before it could ring. I’d been worried about him getting enough sleep and worried about him going to work today. His taking an evening nap the night before was usually a bad sign for one or the other or both.

  There were lots of times he’d woken me up in the middle of the night, and most of them weren’t deliberate. He was often just doing something that had struck him as essential at three in the morning. He could be that way when he was too “up.” He might decide to paint a room or rearrange all the furniture or build something in the basement. Usually he only got halfway through the project, leaving me to try to finish it or clean up the mess.

  When he did things like that it was disturbing, but at least he was inside the house. Sometimes, though, he’d start up the lawn mower and cut the grass by flashlight, or do a building project in the backyard. That had caused more than one yelling match with neighbors and almost a fist fight once with Mr. Delmonte, who lived behind us. I’d gone out in my pajamas and settled that one down before the two of them came to blows.

  My father didn’t really talk to any of the neighbors. They exchanged polite nods coming or going, but mostly they didn’t bother us and we didn’t bother them. I had a pretty good idea that they thought he was nuts, or a jerk. Me, they just felt sorry for. Sometimes I did too.

  Living with my father was like being on an elevator—an express elevator. There was the bottom floor and the penthouse, and no stops in between. When he was at the top, everything was perfect and positive and possible. He wouldn’t—or I guess couldn’t—stop talking and laughing, and he didn’t seem to need to even sleep.

  He would wake me up to talk or he’d just leave the house and go for a drive. One time he was gone for three days before I heard anything from him. I had no idea where he had gone until I got a telephone call. He was halfway across the country, and it had suddenly dawned on him that he should let me know where he was and that he was on his way home.

  It had been another three days before he got back. By then I was almost out of food. There’d been nobody to take care of me and nobody to help. It was just me and Candy. Thank goodness for Candy. I’d been scared. Not just of being alone but also of whether he was ever going to come back. That had happened almost two years ago. Now I was older, we had a bigger supply of food around the house, and I had a job and could buy my own food if I needed to. I knew where he kept extra envelopes of money in the house, and now I even had the password to the bank account. And I had a plan. Actually, I had more than one plan.

  He’d lost his job that time. You don’t not show up for work for a week and expect you won’t get fired. He’d lost lots of jobs. Sometimes it was for swearing at the
boss or taking a swing at somebody or telling everybody that they were stupid. Sometimes it was for being so “off ” he couldn’t do the job. It was strange, but I didn’t worry as much about his losing so many jobs as I did about the other stuff. He always seemed to be able to get another job. He was just as good at getting hired as he was at getting fired. First impressions he was usually good at.

  When he came down in that elevator from the penthouse, he would plummet to the bottom floor. Not the main lobby. More like the parking garage, five floors below the surface. That’s where the elevator door opened. Not at middle floors. Either way too high or way too low.

  In the parking garage, suddenly the world was dark and silent. All the positivity was gone, and days might go by where he hardly said a word. He’d barely move except to go to work. Sometimes he didn’t go to work at all. He’d only eat when I brought him food and he’d rarely get out of bed. And he’d cry. I hated it when he cried, more than almost anything in the world. I hated his tears even more than I hated jam sandwiches.

  Whether he was up or down, I had no choice but to wait for the elevator to move again. I lived waiting, watching, as his finger hovered over the button. When he was up, I wanted him down, and when he was down, I wanted him up.

  When I was younger, I thought he was like that because of me. I finally realized he wasn’t.

  I also used to think that I could control his behavior by doing the right things. But I was even more wrong about that. It was his finger, his button, his elevator and his building. I was only along for the ride. Sometimes I wondered if my mother just got so tired of it all that she wanted to get off the elevator. Could somebody will themselves to die? Was that possible?

  In the brief time when the elevator was racing between the top and the bottom, we passed the middle floors. Those were the places where normal people lived. That was where I wanted to live.

  The night before had been normal. I’d slept all the way through. It would have been wonderful if my father had done the laundry. I should have done it before I went to bed instead of having to do it now. As always, I made my lunch. As always it was the same lunch, but today I made two jam sandwiches and grabbed two apples. We didn’t have any more bananas. I was going to take twice as much in case Harmony had decided to continue her hunger strike at home and needed a lunch.