Disposal of Property
By Sarah Starr Murphy
“He doesn’t come from a broken home. His father and I both work at the hospital, but one of us is home every night with Peter. If he doesn’t have his homework, I expect a phone call.”
“I understand,” Jennifer Marshall said. She stared out her classroom window at the apartments across the street. They were due for rain, but many balconies were still draped with laundry. There was a jumble of brightly colored garbage by one of the doors. “I’ll definitely do that in the future. I’m sorry I...”
“He had straight A’s last year. He’s picked up some nonsense from those little friends of his, but if you have a problem with my child, I expect to be notified. I don’t play. Not with my children’s education. I do not play, Ms. Marshall.”
“I understand. I’ll be sure to...”
“Thank you,” Peter’s mother said, and hung up.
Jennifer tossed the phone onto her cluttered desk and groaned. She should’ve called weeks ago about Peter’s homework grade, not let the parents find out from a progress report.
Peter was a sweet boy, quiet, hair neatly braided in four straight lines. He worked hard in class, but he never had his homework. She’d assumed problems at home, thought she was helping by not demanding more from him. Once again, she’d done precisely the wrong thing.
Mr. Aziz, the math teacher, strode into the room.
“The kids are too wild coming out of the cafeteria,” he said. He was the team leader, a few years older and good-looking in a way that made students work hard to impress him. She had to admit she didn’t mind watching him talk.
He looked out the window at the apartments and shook his head. “They never let up with those damn evictions,” he said.
Jennifer made a sound of agreement and followed his gaze to what she had assumed was garbage. She thought of the dozens of similar piles she’d seen since she moved to the city three months ago. She hadn’t until this moment known what they were.
“Anyway, after lunch tomorrow, pick your class up and escort them to your room,” he said, and she nodded. Mr. Aziz left, reaching his hands up to tap her doorway on the way out.
“Go home, it’s late!” he yelled.
The sky was releasing a rain that had just enough chill in it to be thoroughly unpleasant. Jennifer pulled her car up to the red light at the end of the school parking lot, directly facing the apartments and the pile. T-shirts with glitter, ripped jeans, and bright floral toddler dressers on the ground next to a small, veneered dresser with its drawers ajar. There was a Princess Tiana rubber playground ball, a baby swing with dangling farm animals, a few Barbie knockoffs. One kitchen chair with splayed legs, a twin mattress with no sheets. On the mattress was a dog, a small brown mutt, curled up tight. It wore a pink collar, and its coat was shiny and clean. It must be cold, she thought. She felt tears prick and scolded herself. Was she really sitting here, feeling more empathy for that dog than for the children whose toys those were and the mother who would come home to find this on the lawn? What an asshole she was.
The light changed to green, but Jennifer didn’t move. She couldn’t. There were no cars behind her and so she sat, staring at the dog, while the light changed from yellow to red. What could she do? There was a social worker at the school, but only on Tuesdays. It wasn’t Tuesday. A housing advocate had spoken at a faculty meeting, and Jennifer had a brochure somewhere. What good would that do with no one to give it to?
She looked around the empty neighborhood. Surely, other people were better qualified? But she was here. She was here and she could not drive away. The light turned green again. Jennifer worried she would make yet another well-intentioned blunder. She stared at the pile of things; the dog did not move. Everything was getting wet.
Jennifer remembered that she had a tarp in the back of her car, a thin green one she had used as a tent rain fly. She did drive forward then, unfortunately through a red light, and two cars honked and swerved. She waved an apology, heart pounding. Jennifer parked next to the heap and jumped out of the car. It was pouring now, but she popped the trunk and pulled out the tarp. It was much too small. The dog picked up its head and looked at her, pulling back its lips as she approached.
She decided that the baby swing and the dresser were the most valuable possessions. Jennifer covered them with the tarp, tucking the ends underneath. The dog put its head back down on the wet mattress. In her car, she rummaged until she found the housing brochure. She stuck it inside a plastic bag leftover from lunch and placed it on the tarp, weighed down with one of the dolls. Thunder boomed and she jumped back in car.
--
The next morning, the pile of belongings was still there, but the tarp and the dog were gone. Jennifer didn’t know what this meant, if she’d helped or not. She watched the pile for days, watched when the garbage truck took it away. Weeks later, she thought she saw the dog behind the school, skinnier and dirtier. She followed it around the back of the building until she ran into Peter, guiltily shoving something into his pocket. He looked from her to the fleeing dog.
“Ms. Marshall, please don’t tell me you’re chasing that mangy dog. That’s messed up.”
Jennifer sighed. “C’mon Peter, you don’t belong back here.”
He gave her a look that said, neither do you.
THE END