Chapter 10: Calloway Street
The house at number forty-one looked smaller in daylight.
Yellow porch light off now, replaced by thin November sun.
A pot of chrysanthemums by the front step, orange and slightly past their peak.
A child's bicycle leaned against the side of the house, one stabilizer wheel still attached.
Teresa opened the door before we knocked.
She was younger than I'd imagined from Chloe's description — maybe early forties, with dark circles under her eyes and the kind of composure that comes not from calm but from having held things together so long that holding things together has become automatic.
"You must be Carol," she said.
"I must be," Mom said.
And she stepped forward and took Teresa's hand in both of hers, the way she used to do at Dad's church when someone needed steadying.
Teresa's composure slipped, just for a second.
Then she pulled it back.
"Come in," she said.
The living room was small and warm.
A television in the corner, volume low, cartoons playing.
And on the sofa, wrapped in a fleece blanket with a book open on his lap, was a small boy with dark eyes and a glucose monitor on his arm.
He looked up when we walked in.
"Uncle Richard," he said.
Completely matter-of-fact.
Like this was any morning.
"Hey, buddy." Richard crossed the room and sat on the edge of the sofa.
"How are your levels?"
"Ninety-four," Danny said, with the precision of a child who has been monitoring his own numbers long enough to recite them like a weather report.
Then he looked at Mom.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Carol," Mom said.
"I'm Richard's friend."
Danny considered this.
"He talks about you," he said.
"He says you make good pie."
Mom laughed — a real one, surprised out of her.
"I do make good pie."
"What kind?"
"Chocolate, mostly.
But I can do apple."
"I like apple," Danny said.
Teresa had her hand pressed briefly over her mouth.
She turned toward the kitchen.
"I'll make tea."
I followed her, leaving Mom and Richard with Danny.
In the kitchen, Teresa filled the kettle and stood with her back to me for a moment.
"He's never brought anyone here before," she said.
"In two years."
"I know."
"She must be important to him."
"She is."
Teresa turned around.
Her eyes were dry but her voice was careful.
"The attorney called twenty minutes ago.
She's already sent Garrett a letter.
She said his claim about unsupervised access has no legal foundation — Richard has never been alone with Danny, I've always been present, and there are two years of medical logs showing his involvement was coordinated with Danny's care team." She paused.
"She also said that using financial leverage to coerce a custodial parent into renegotiating a parental rights agreement is sanctionable conduct.
She used that word specifically.
Sanctionable."
"Good," I said.
"He's going to be angry."
"He already is."
Teresa looked toward the living room, where we could hear Danny explaining something to Mom about his book.
"I just need him to go away," she said quietly.
"I don't want a fight.
I don't want drama.
I want to get Danny through this procedure and I want Garrett to go back to wherever he's been for three years and stay there."
"The attorney will handle it," I said.
"And the funding application is already in."
Teresa looked at me.
"Karen from St.
Catherine's called me this morning.
She said it would be approved by Thursday."
"Then by Thursday, Garrett has nothing to offer and no leverage to use."
Teresa was quiet for a moment.
The kettle began to hiss.
"Why is your family doing this?" she asked.
"You don't know me.
You don't know Danny."
I thought about it.
"We know Richard," I said.
"And Richard has been showing up here every night for two years.
That tells us everything we need to know about what kind of people are worth knowing."
She turned back to the kettle so I wouldn't see her face.
But her shoulders dropped about an inch, and she didn't say anything else, and I thought that was probably the closest Teresa allowed herself to relief.
From the living room, Danny's voice floated in: "Uncle Richard, can Carol come back on Thursday?
I want to show her my model airplane."
A pause.
Then Richard's voice, low and warm: "You'll have to ask her yourself."
A moment later, small footsteps in the hallway.
Danny appeared in the kitchen doorway, blanket still draped over his shoulders like a cape.
He looked at me, then apparently decided I was not the relevant party.
He looked at Mom, who had followed him in.
"Can you come back Thursday?" he asked.
"I have an airplane.
It took me six weeks."
Mom crouched down slightly so she was closer to his level.
"Thursday," she said, "I will bring apple pie."
Danny nodded, satisfied, and turned back toward the living room.
But at the doorway he stopped.
He turned around and looked at Richard.
"Is she going to be here more?" he asked.
"Like, regular?"
Richard looked at Mom.
Mom looked at Richard.
"I think so," Richard said.
"If that's alright with you."
Danny shrugged with the supreme indifference of an eight-year-old for whom this was clearly the correct answer and required no further discussion.
"Okay," he said.
And went back to his sofa and his book.
Teresa's attorney called at 11:52.
May you like
Garrett had received the letter.
He had responded.
