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Harwichport Drug Rehabilitation Center Babysitter

J.J. Brearton

    Esme walked into the Guild of Harwich Artists’ Gallery located on Main Street in Harwichport. She had a painting in a large plastic bag. A woman was seated behind a table reading a book. Esme stood in front of her for a few moments, politely waiting until she looked up.
    “Can I help you?” the woman said.
    “Yes. I’d like to sign up as an artist.”
    “Are you a Harwich resident?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “I live at the Harwichport Drug Rehabilitation Center.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. I’m a babysitter there.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Esmerelda O’My.”
    “O’My, is that Irish?”
    “Yes. We’re originally from Ireland.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Well, I’ll be thirteen next year.”
    “Next year? How old are you now?”
    “Eleven and a half.”
    “I see. Now, do you live here year round?”
    “Well, just for the summer.”
    “I’m sorry. The Guild is for year round residents.”
    “Darn!” Esme exclaimed, stomping her foot lightly. She turned and looked around. She really admired the paintings there. On the other hand, she thought she could do just as well.
    “O.K. Maybe I’ll come back when we decide to live here year round.”
    “Please do,” the woman said. “Come in anytime.”
    Esme stepped out of the gallery and sat on the stoop for a few minutes. She didn’t have anything to do until 4P.M.
    Grabbing the plastic bag that held her painting, she crossed the street to the bike rack and unchained her bike.
    She started to ride away. The plastic bag smashed against the wheel of the bike. Suddenly, it just seemed annoying. Stopping, she took the painting out of the bag, a nice oil and canvas portrait of a horse, and leaned it against a telephone pole. It looked good there. On the back of the canvas she had taped the name of the painting, “Rick Danger, Race Track Spy.”
    Rick Danger was the name of the horse. He could take care of himself.
    Esme said goodbye to the painting, and rode away.

* * *

    When Esme got home, outside the back door she could hear her father swearing.
    “This is it! This is the last goddamn thing! This is it! This is her last day. You tell her,” her father yelled. Then she heard a door slam and it got quiet.
    Esme opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table. It looked like she was thinking.
    She turned when she heard Esme come in.
    “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “Did you hear all the fuss?”
    “Yeah,” Esme said. “What happened?”
    “Well, Patty’s boyfriend---we think---we’re not sure, may have stolen the TV.”
    “Oh, no. Not the TV.”
    “Yeah, sorry, honey. You can understand why your dad was upset.”
    “Yeah. I’m upset too. What are we going to do? Are we going to get another one? Is he going to call the cops?”
    “Your dad doesn’t like to call the cops. You know him.”
    “Yeah, so what are we going to do?”
    Before Esme could get an answer, Patty walked in the kitchen with her three year old, Timmy.
    “Hi, Penny. Here’s Timmy. I’ve got to go. His things are in the bag.”
    She put a paper bag on the kitchen table.
    “Okay, Patty,” Esme’s mother said. “You’re all set.”
    “Thanks, Penny.”
    “No problem, Patty. You look nice.”
    She had a light blue summer dress on and a white t-shirt. It was a cool June afternoon.
    “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be back by five.”
    “Good luck,” Esme said.
    “Thanks Esme. Bye.”
    She quickly left out the back door. Timmy stared at Esme. “Toys?” he said.
    Esme picked him up and carried him into the adjoining game room. She just caught a glimpse of her mother going out the back door. Patty was in the backyard unlocking one of the bikes.
    Through the screen window Esme could hear her mother talking gently to Patty, breaking the news to her. Esme saw Patty spit in the dirt.
    “That’s not fair. It’s not my fault.”
    “No visitors,” Penny said. “That’s the rule.”
    “Bull,” Patty said, and rushed off on the bike.
     “Don’t be upset,” Penny called after her.

* * *

    Esme set up some wooden blocks and got out coloring books. She started to read to Timmy. She had picked out an what she thought was an appropriate book, “Johnny and the Policeman.”
    Timmy was a nice kid, Esme thought, even if he did disgust her. He always had a runny nose. He was one of the dirtiest babies she’d ever seen.
    Esme’s parents, Jason and Penny O’My, ran the Harwichport Drug Rehabilitation Center. It was located in an old antique store in Harwich. They had moved out of Harwichport, and the basement of a framing shop there, as they had promised, in accordance with the grant they had received from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
    Jason had a master in psychology. Penny had one in social work. They’d met in Brooklyn College, and dreamed of setting up a drug rehabilitation center. Now the reality of it was setting in, and it wasn’t pretty.
    “Fat people!” Esme heard her father yell.
    He was in the kitchen.
    “Penny, where are you? I’ve got it! Fat people!”
    “What do you mean, fat people?” Penny said, as she came in the back door.
    “Fat people. No more of these drug addicts. I’m sick of them. They’re too dangerous.”
    “Keep your voice down,” Esme heard her mother say. “Timmy’s here.”
    “The hell with Timmy,” Jason said, in a slightly lower
    voice. “He’s out of here.”
    “Quiet,” Penny said.
    “Fat people. We’ll do a fat farm.”
    Penny closed the door to the game room.
    After about a half an hour, Timmy fell asleep. Esme had gotten a warm bottle for him.
    There was a knock on the outside game room door. Esme looked over. It was Ricky Walker.
    “Want to play golf?” he said.
    “When?”
    “Right now.”
    “I’ve got this kid.”
    “Ask your mom to take care of him.”
    “It’s my job, stupid.”
    “So, how long do you have to do it?”
    “She’s supposed to get back at five.”
    “So, at five then.”
    “Sure,” Esme said. “Five.”
    “Okay, but hurry up. It’ll start getting crowded at five. Meet you there, okay?”
    “Yeah, put a ball in the slot.”
    “Right.”

* * *

    Esme got her clubs together and waited for Patty. She got a couple of new looking balls and some tees. She started searching for a glove. Just then, Patty arrived. She was early. She picked up Timmy, kind of roughly, and said, “I’m sick of this place, anyway.”
    Esme didn’t say a word. She just grabbed her clubs, put them over the handlebars of her bike, and headed off to the golf course. Widow’s Walk Golf Club, a nine-hole public course, was about a ten-minute bike ride. She didn’t need to ask Ricky where he wanted to play golf. Widow’s Walk was the only one that would let them play without their parents.

    Ricky sat on the front porch of the clubhouse waiting for Esme. He wasn’t exactly sure about hanging out with Esme, but nobody else his age really knew how to play golf. Not as good as Esme, anyway. For nine holes, she could break fifty. She almost had a 44 once, but was too honest. She counted a lost ball, took a 6 on the ninth and ended up with a 46. None of Ricky’s other buddies counted all their lost balls and penalties. When you played with Esme, you had to play by the book. “No cheap pars!” she used to say. “No fake birdies!” She had a lot of rules.

    Esme locked her bike to the chain link fence, pulled a nickel out of her pocket and said to Ricky, “Call it.”
    “Heads,” Ricky said.
    He was wrong.
    Esme teed off, and hit a low liner into the first fairway. Esme always hit low liners. “Only way to play in the wind,” she said. Ricky knew she didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t that windy. For some reason, Esme just couldn’t hit it high.
    “Hey,” she said, as Ricky teed it up, “do you know where you can get a used TV?”
    “Sure,” he said, and hit a brutal slice. “Fuck, I can’t believe it.”
    “Where?”
    “Where what?”
     “Where can you get a used TV?”
     “Jerry’s”
     “Oh, Jerry’s.”

* * *

    The next morning, Esme was waiting outside of Jerry’s at nine a.m., when it opened. Jerry’s was an antique store, which sold used books and CDs.
    Esme watched Jerry flip the sign on the door from closed to open. Then he unlocked the door.
    “So,” she said, when she got inside, “got any used TVs?”
    “Yeah, I just got one in. What are you looking for?”
    “Let me see what you got.”
    Jerry brought her into the back of the store. “There it is,” he said, pointing to Esme’s old TV.
    “So,” she said, “you just got it?”
    “Yup. Bought it from an old lady on vacation.”
    “She had a TV on vacation?”
    “Yeah, she said she didn’t think her room came with a TV, but it did, and she decided she liked the room so much, she’d stay for a while longer if she could sell her TV. So, here it is.”
    “Was she a young looking woman?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Blond hair?”
    “I don’t check hair color.”
    “Okay,” Esme said on her way out. “Maybe I’ll stop back later.”

* * *

    The next morning Esme was having a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. Her mother was washing the dishes.
    “Mom, what’s this with fat people?”
    “You heard that?”
    “Yeah. You can’t help hearing when he yells.”
    “Well, Esme, it’s not really fat people. You can’t say that. It’s overweight people, I think. There’s some euphemism, I’m sure. Not fat people. Don’t call them that.”
    “Are we going to do that?”
    “Well, not just fat-I mean, overweight people. It’s a stop smoking program, for overweight people. We have to do substance abuse, for our grant.”
    “That sounds better. Do you think we’ll get anybody?”
    “I don’t know, sweetie. It’s a long shot, but your father’s just fed up with the drug addicts. We sure do need some income.”
    “I found our TV.”
    “You’re kidding?”
    The front doorbell rang.
    “I’ll get it,” Esme said.

    When Esme opened the door almost all the light seemed to be blocked out, as if there was an eclipse. Then she realized a gigantic man was standing on the edge of the front step. He was smoking a long white cigarette.
    “O’My?” he said. “Is this the O’My’s?”
    “Yes,” Esme replied.
    “Hi. I’m Jimbo Cunningham, for the stop smoking.”
    “Oh, great. Come on in.”
    Esme watched with awe as the six foot three, four hundred and fifty pound Jimbo shook the house upon his entry. The floor sagged.
    “I might have a few friends coming, if that’s okay,” he said.
    “You’ll have to speak to my Mom.” Esme said. “Mom-Dad--a Mr. Cunningham is here.”

* * *

    The next morning, Penny heard a banging on her back door. She made a mental note to get the doorbell fixed. It seemed like she made that mental note every time someone came to the back door. She looked at the clock. It said five of six. She put on a robe and went down to see who it was.
    She opened the door and saw Ricky Walker standing on the back porch.
    “Here to pick up Esme,” he said.
    “Esme? I didn’t hear about anything.” She glanced past Ricky and saw his mother, sitting behind the wheel of their car, idling in the street.
    “We’re playing golf. It’s a tournament, actually. She didn’t tell you?”
    “Well, why don’t you go ahead? I’ll give Esme a ride, and we’ll catch up with you.”
    “I don’t know. You want me to tell my Mom to go home? I could wait. You could drive me over there too.”
    “Hold on,” Penny said. “I’ll be back in a second.”
    She ran upstairs to Esme’s room.
    Esme was asleep. Penny shook her shoulder. Esme didn’t wake up. She was a very sound sleeper. Suddenly the clock radio alarm went off. Esme’s hand reached out to hit the snooze button. She opened an eye. “Mom, what are you doing here?”
    “Ricky’s downstairs.”
    “Oh, yeah. His Mom’s giving me a ride.”
    “Where? Where’s she giving you a ride to?”
    Esme jumped out of bed, ran down the hall and slammed the bathroom door behind her. Penny followed her down the hall, and then knocked on the door. “Where are you going?”
    Esme opened the door, toothbrush in hand.
    “You say something?”
    “He said you’re in a tournament.”
    “A what?” Esme said. She now handed her mother the toothbrush. “Here, hold onto this.”
    Esme ran down the stairs and out the back door.

* * *

    “I signed you up,” Ricky said, when they got to Widow’s Walk.
    It was a bit foggy out. They stared at a big poster tacked onto the wall inside the clubhouse. It said, “Cape Cod Junior Tournament.” Ricky and Esme looked over the pairings with a few other kids.
    Esme was a little disappointed. She was paired with Ricky. She shot him a glance, wondering if he had arranged it.
    “Who set up the pairings?” she said.
    One of Ricky’s friends, Cyril James, was standing there. “Evil Miss Nancy,” he said.
    That meant the owner’s girlfriend, The Intolerant One. Nancy was standing near the first tee. “E. O’My and Ricky Walker,” Nancy announced.
    Esme picked up her bag and stepped onto the first tee.
    “What are you doing here?” Nancy said.
    “I’m E. O’My,”
     “I don’t know if there’s supposed to be girls.”
     “Oh, come on, Miss Nancy,” Ricky said. “There are no other girls for the girls tournament. You know. Jacky said so.”
     “He did?”
     “Sure he did,” Ricky said. “Because there were no girls for the girls championship.”
    “Well, if there were no other girls, that would just mean that she won the girls’ championship, not that she could play in the boys’ championship.”
    “It’s not the boys’ championship,” Ricky said. “It’s the junior championship. It’s in the rules. It’s okay.”
    “It’s in the rules?” Nancy said.
    “Yup,” Ricky said.
    “Well, then, what are you waiting for? Tee off.”
    Esme hit a low line drive into the fog.

* * *

    “How’s it going?” Evil Miss Nancy asked, as they came across the road off the fourth green and headed to the fifth tee.
    “Not bad,” Ricky said.
    A strange statement, perhaps, for him, since he was four shots down.
    The Intolerant One watched in silence as they teed off. Esme hit a nice drive to the right side of the fairway. Ricky duck hooked under the trees on the left.
    Esme and Ricky walked in silence on opposite sides of the fairway. Ricky was away, so he hit first. He hit a ground ball with a three iron that careened off a tree trunk into the middle of the fairway. He hit his next shot over the green with a three wood.
    Esme hit a solid three iron just in front and to the right of the green.
    When she got up to her ball, she noticed Ricky in the graveyard behind the hole, looking for his ball.
    “I’ll just hit this,” she said, “then I’ll help you look.”
    She chipped on to within about eight feet.
    When Esme got to the graveyard, Ricky yelled out, “got it.” He was in a bad spot though, in some bushes that divided the green from the graveyard. His ball must have hit a gravestone and bounced back. He was lucky he wasn’t out of bounds, and didn’t have much of a shot. He was just able to chunk it on to the fringe of the green. He putted and left it about two feet short.
    “That’s good,” Esme said. Ricky had a six. Esme could two putt and win the match. It was only a nine-hole tournament. She looked at Ricky. He was staring at the sky. He wasn’t too happy. She felt bad about closing him out on the fifth hole, the quickest way possible, and thought about three putting on purpose.
    She just couldn’t. She knelt down on one knee and lined it up. Then she putted it straight in.
    “Want to finish the rest?” Ricky said.
    “Sure,” Esme replied.

* * *

    When they were in the clubhouse afterwards, they looked over the pairings again. They had to write down their score.
    “Put down 10th hole,” Ricky said. “Like it went into overtime.” Esme grinned and wrote in, 10th hole.
    “What’s next?” Esme said.
    “Chatham.”
    “Will you go with me?”
    “What do you mean--to watch?”
    “Yeah, why not?”
    “Okay, I’ll watch.”

* * *

    A week later, Esme’s father pulled up at the curb next to the Chatham Golf Course.
    “Sorry I can’t see this, Esme,” he said. “I have to get back to the house.”
    “No problem, Dad,” she said.
    Esme and Ricky got out of the car and headed over to the pro-shop. They went inside and saw a scoreboard written out on white paper on the wall. Esme was to be paired with Bobby Gantry.
    “You know him?” Esme asked Ricky.
    “Yeah,” Ricky said. “He’s not that good.”
    “You think I could beat him?”
    “It’ll be close.”

* * *

    Esme and Bobby shook hands on the first tee. He was a skinny kid, a bit smaller than Esme.
    They both hit good drives on the first hole and each had a par. Bobby had a five on the second hole, a par four. Esme had a six. The next hole was a disaster. Esme hit her ball in the trees to the right. Bobby hit into a gully just short of the green. It was a par three. Esme found her ball, and got all scratched up from brambles and rosebushes. She hit out into the fairway short of the green, and hit her next shot fat. Still, she wasn’t on the green. She took a six. Bobby had a five. Sh



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