Chapter Eleven
MATO
AFTER THE contractor walked around the gym, we set a date for him to start the construction.
The easiest part will be the install for joists to hang the bags from, and the wooden floor where the fighting cage will be set up will need to be cut out for a cement pad.
The outlook and estimate for that wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be.
The installation of the locker rooms and showers will take some time, but the second-floor living area, surprisingly, is going to be the hardest part.
Unless I want the reconstruction to take forever, I had to scale back on my vision of what it will be like.
It’s not like I plan to live there long term.
I also asked him about what Breanna told me at the dinner table yesterday.
He nodded his head as he listened, and his lips twisted into an irritated smile.
“That happens all the time. You can’t throw a dead cat without hitting a shitty contractor.
My business partner is licensed for ag-housing crossovers.
I’ll give him your number so he can take a look at it, and no, he won’t charge extra for the drive or having to deal with the local city permits. ”
Even if I have to pay for the septic system myself, Breanna will have her house.
As the contractor is pulling out of the parking lot, the distant sound of puppies whining pulls my attention to the fenced-off industrial area to the north of the building.
It’s a bit of an eyesore, the retired train tracks and a few abandoned train cars were a concern when I looked at the building, but the realtor assured me that there haven’t been any issues.
About three yards of gravel and large, boulder-type decorative rocks fill the strip of land between the gym parking lot and the chain-link fence, which is mangled in some areas and stuck in trees that grew around it in others.
As I step into the shadow of the building to get to the fence, a chilly breeze sends goosebumps up my arms in the absence of the sun that’s moving farther west.
The whining is coming from under one of the abandoned train cars, surrounded by overgrown weeds and bushes. Movement catches my eye when I step up to the fence, and a mixed-breed dog with heavy milk bags hanging from her underside cautiously watches me.
It’s hard to say what she might be a mix of, maybe pit bull and something else.
Her coloring is brown and tan merle, and her head is large and flat like a pit, but her ears are big and floppy.
She only has half a tail, and we stand silently watching each other for several minutes.
I’ll buy a bag of dog food on my way home to bring with me tomorrow.
She turns her head to look in the direction of the whining, but then looks back at me, wondering if I will be a threat if she goes to her babies.
Not wanting to upset her, I turn to go back to the building and am surprised when my eyes land on a four-and-a-half-foot thief that never showed up after school Friday.
He’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in last week, and as the breeze moves his hair, I can tell he gets it cut by someone who doesn’t have any business cutting hair.
The same ratty bookbag is slung over his shoulder, in one hand is a small black plastic box, and he has a black eye that looks a few days old.
Sliding my hands into the pockets of my cargo pants, I walk toward him, his narrow shoulders square up the closer I get. Poor kids used to getting hell.
Instead of being angry, which I suspect is what he is expecting, I say, “I was wondering if you would come back, turns out I’ll need some help.”
The hard edge in his eyes is replaced by cautious curiosity as he tilts his head. “Like what?”
Jerking my chin toward the gym, I say, “Construction starts inside in a couple of weeks, and I’ll need someone here a few days a week to help with picking up, sweeping, helping me assemble, stuff like that.”
“What’s in it for me?”
Yep, this kids been bartering and negotiating for survival for a while. Shifting my weight to one leg, I try to sound casual. “I usually eat dinner here in the evenings, how about I buy your dinner the nights you’re here and fifty bucks at the end of every week?”
His eyes light up, but he tries to play it casual, too. “I have to be home by seven.”
I nod. “I can have you home by seven.” Tipping my head toward the bay door, I walk toward the building. “Come on, I need some help moving mats.”
He drops his bookbag on the floor next to the door and sets the little black box, which rattles when he moves it, next to it, and follows me to the stacks of boxes I found him getting into before.
Slapping my hand on the top box, I turn to him.
“I’m setting up a small exercise area to use while construction is happening, so we’ll need a couple of mats, one of the bags will need to be set up on a temporary stand, and there will also be a cable machine arriving this week.
” I hang my hand on my hip. “Think you can handle that?”
He lifts his bony shoulder, and I can tell by his false bravado that he’ll say anything he needs to say. “Yeah, I can do it.”
“Good.”
We spend the next hour prepping the corner where I’ll be setting up and putting together the stand the bag will hang from. I gotta give it to him, the kid’s no quitter, and he did everything I told him.
Rolling my head from one shoulder to the other, the muscles and bones pop. “I’m hungry. What kind of pizza do you like?”
“Uhm.” The question throws him off, and I wonder if he’s ever had fresh pizza before.
The kid needs some meat on his bones, and I say, “Cheese and meat lovers are my favorite.”
“Mine, too.”
The longer I’m around him, the more I see through the mask he puts up to the world. He’s just a kid in an adult world and has probably never enjoyed being a kid a day in his life. I order enough pizza for him to take some home.
Dropping the greasy boxes that are making our stomachs growl with the delicious smell that all kids need to be familiar with, I flip the tops open.
Looking around for a flat surface, I push one of the tall boxes onto its side, dust lifts into the air around it, and sit down.
He follows my lead and sits at the other end.
Pulling a slice from the box, hot steamy cheese strings between the piece and the pie. Wrapping my finger around the strings, I break them off while I watch him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
He mimics everything I do, except he sticks his finger in his mouth to lick the cheese off. Without looking at me, he says, “Koda.”
“Do you live close by? With your parents?”
A slight hitch in his movements tells me I’m flying too high; if I get too personal, he’ll shut down. Without looking at me, he takes a bite and talks around it. “My mom. Not far from here.”
I’ll have to get information out of him a little at a time, but I have a feeling that won’t be today.
Trying to act like I’m more interested in my pizza, I take my time taking a bite before I ask, “Where’d you get the shiner?”
He doesn’t have to pretend to be more interested in his pizza, he’s starting on his second piece already. He shrugs his shoulder. “Got in a fight.”
“At school?”
He nods, but I can’t tell if he’s lying.
Later, driving to his home, he directs me to an older part of town not far from the gym, and we cross into an area known for heavy crime and drugs.
He’s holding the pizza box in his hands like he’d fight for it, and he points me toward a sad-looking park with a swing set that only has one swing on it and an old metal slide that will probably melt skin off in the heat of a summer day.
Behind the overgrown weeds that line the park is a mobile home park that makes me worry for his safety, especially with hot pizza in his hands.
As I look over the area, I understand why he wears the mask. “I can drop you off at your house.”
He shakes his head, and he’s pulling the door handle before I can say anything else. “This is okay.” Turning back to me, hope is in his dark eyes. “Can I come back tomorrow?”
I nod. “Stuff’s not gonna get done by itself.”
Relief flashes in his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”
Sitting on the gravel shoulder of the potholed road, my truck idling, I watch him walk across the park until he disappears into a copse of trees. I’m not sure why seeing him walk away bothers me so much, I feel sorry for the kid.
My childhood was pretty nice living on the Harlow Ranch, but I had family who lived in housing units through the Cherokee Nation Housing Authority.
They were bad back then. The tiny apartments were so old they were infested with roaches, and every time we visited, Dad told me to shake myself off to make sure I didn’t have any under my clothes before we went home.
Eventually, we stopped going, but this mobile home park reminds me of those days from my childhood and how lucky I felt to be able to leave and go to a clean home when our visit was over. Dad always told me to be grateful for what the Great Spirit gave us, even the little things.