Part 26 (1/2)

The sign could say: DADDY DIED.

PLEASE HELP ME FEED MY FAMILY.

So far, we're still eating. But Mom's bank account is definitely dwindling. She's out right now, looking for a job. I should be doing that too, instead of combing through Jack's clothing, hunting spare bills, or at least change. One little bet could make it all right.

Food. Bills. Insurance. Oh yeah, and bud. I've pretty much had to go cold turkey on that, and a good d.a.m.n buzz would make everything easier.

I've Scrounged Four dollars, give or take, when Mom comes slamming through the garage door. Better exit her closet!

I tuck the cash into a pocket, head toward the kitchen. She's at the sink, faucet running, and over the top of the water splash against stainless steel, I can hear her crying. I don't want to scare her, so I make a lot of noise, stomping across the floor.

Her shoulders droop, so I know she's heard me. ”What's wrong?”

She keeps her back toward me, keeps on scrubbing her hands.

Only when I touch her does she speak. I don't know what I was thinking. How can someone like me find work in Las Vegas?

The only places that will hire a person my age are Wal-Mart and McDonald's, and even then I have to compete with young people. It's like once you turn fifty, you become disposable.

I reach around her, turn off the faucet. Then I spin her gently around to face me. ”You are not disposable. Don't ever say that again. Cory and I need you more than ever... .” Especially Cory, who needs an intact parent to turn him around before there's no more turning. But I can't say that. She's got more than enough on her mind.

What I say, despite Mom's tears, is, ”Please try not to worry.”

Don't worry? We're going to lose the house! The foreclosure notice will arrive any day. We'll be out on the street.... Her body shudders, and she slumps into my arms.

I carry her to the sofa. She's light as weathered bones, and her skin looks like old paper. ”Mom? Mom!”

At my voice, she comes out of her trance.

I'm okay, she mumbles. Jack's pension will come through. We can always rent a little place. We'll be just fine.

That Phrase Again More and more, I'm starting to believe we won't be ”just fine” after all. But I can't let Mom know I feel that way.

”Yes, we will. You rest now.”

She closes her eyes, and I sit beside her for a few minutes, holding her hand and brus.h.i.+ng obstinate wisps of hair back off her face. Foreclosure. The word has been in the news a lot lately, especially here in Vegas. But I had no idea it would ever threaten us directly. Mom sinks into troubled sleep. I have to do something. But what? A job like GameStop won't pay the mortgage.

Neither will Wal-Mart. So what?

Quick cash-shortage fixes are plentiful in Vegas. Payday loans won't work, since I'm currently not getting paid.

Credit card advances are out, considering every card in the household is currently maxed.

(Thanks mostly to me.) One solution remains. I go into my room, look around. Not the computer. Not yet.

TV? Check. Stereo? Check.

And in the corner sits one more dream I'll never attain anyway- my guitar. I carry TV, tunes, and instrument to my car, head toward the far end of the strip, where p.a.w.nshops are plentiful. I choose the one that claims, ”We Pay Top Dollar.”

The little puke behind the counter is not impressed by my twenty- inch flat panel television, nor my pricey Bose Wave Music System. Fifty bucks for both.

Neither will he give me much for my amazing Martin guitar.

Forty. But beggars have no power to negotiate. The dude thinks this stuff is hot, anyway.

As I'm filling out the paperwork, he spies the ten-dollar gold piece (a gift from Jack), hanging on a gold rope chain (a gift from Mom) around my neck. You interested in a loan against those?

He eyes them covetously as I run my fingers over the chain.

f.u.c.k it. They're just things, right? Still, I can picture Jack, three Christmases ago, when he handed me the little present, wrapped in s.h.i.+ny purple foil.

He was so proud! I haven't taken it off since that day.

But now I ask, ”How much?”

The p.i.s.sant wants to see them closer, and after a quick inspection offers one-fifty. ”Two hundred,”

I counter, not expecting him to say okay. But he does. I walk out of Superduper p.a.w.n not quite three hundred dollars richer.

It weights my conscience heavily.

Now the question becomes, what do I do with the money?

It Won't Cover Even a quarter of the mortgage payment. It might pay last month's power bill, but that's about it.

I can't forget Ronnie's birthday.

Twenty will cover supermarket flowers and a card. Wait.

My insurance is due. Can't let that lapse, or the state of Nevada will slap me with a hefty fine.

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. Three hundred bucks is nothing! Maybe I should turn around, go back for my stuff.

It's evening, thank G.o.d, a desert breeze lifting to fight the almost unbearable summer heat. As I go to my car, the streetlights pop on.

They like to keep the sidewalks lit here in Sin City, especially in the seamier parts of town, where crimes are nightly events. Some are serious-robberies, gang shootings. Others don't bother me much. Prost.i.tution, for instance.

A quick glance reveals five or six working girls, a transgender and a straight-up guy. Okay, maybe not so straight. The driver of the car that stops to make a deal with him is definitely a dude.

Hey, whatever dings their dongs.

As for the girls, one is kind of cute. She's young. Doesn't look all used up, like the other ones.