Thirty-One Days and Legos Read online

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  Author’s Note

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  By S.A. Stovall

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  Thirty-One Days and Legos

  By S.A. Stovall

  A Ranger Station Haven Christmas Novella

  Park rangers Carter and Owen Williams have decided to expand their family and adopt two brothers—boys they rescued a year before when they tried to escape the foster system and flee to Canada. After completing their parenting classes, Carter, a reserved man who enjoys the simple life, swears he’ll be the best father possible. His patience is tested, however, when one brother adopts a cat out of the snowy Voyageurs National Park and the other brother refuses to talk about what’s bothering him.

  Owen wants to make sure their first Christmas together is a special one, and he decides all of December should be a celebration. He has an activity planned for each of the thirty-one days, but none of them seem to go off without a hitch. The cat has fleas, the boys need to attend a court hearing, and Carter is more than a little overwhelmed.

  But Carter is 100 percent determined to make his new family work. He just has no idea how….

  To Gail, for whom the story was written.

  Author’s Note

  THIS STORY is a sequel to the short story “Ranger Station Haven,” but it is not required in order to understand the events of “Thirty-One Days and Legos.”

  THE LOCAL community college is the last place I want to be. It’s a shabby building built in the seventies with yellowing paint, dirty windows, and cracked cement. Everything about it, right down to the flicking streetlight out front, feels sad and pathetic.

  “What’s that frown for?” Owen asks as he steps out of the truck. “Tonight is our last night. Aren’t you ecstatic?”

  “Whoopee,” I drawl, twirling a finger around in the air.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. This is exciting!”

  “As exciting as having a tooth pulled.”

  Owen walks around our 2010 Ford pickup and pats me on the shoulder. I avoid making eye contact with him as I lock the vehicle and start toward the neglected building. The Minnesota night sky is clear and filled with stars. It’s a better sight than the building, that’s for sure. Nice weather for mid-October, but chilly. Makes me wish our classes took place outside. Then again, I wish almost everything took place outside—nature has a way of soothing even the most troubled of souls.

  “Tonight’s topic is sustainable parenting,” Owen says. He shoves his hands into his jean pockets and offers me a smile.

  “Yeah, just what I need,” I reply, “someone to tell me how to parent.”

  “We’ve never been parents before. It’s a reasonable requirement for adoption.”

  “They don’t make pregnant women take parenting classes,” I say, restraining my irritation but failing to keep my volume low. “Some sixteen-year-old can get knocked up and raise her kid however she wants, but two fully grown men with careers have to pass a whole host of parenting classes before they can adopt a kid? Bullshit.”

  I slam the front door open and stomp across the tacky green tiles of the school. Owen follows close—stopping once to make sure the front door doesn’t swing back hard when it closes—and keeps his smile about him.

  “Well, that sixteen-year-old won’t have the tools we do,” he says. “We’re going to learn about the first signs of burnout, the three layers of stress, and how a parent’s stress affects the whole family. Sounds like valuable information to me.”

  He recites everything verbatim from the damn pamphlet the class offered. How many times did he read it? Too many.

  I huff as I round the hall corner, heading straight for our classroom. The dim fluorescent lights grate my eyes. “I know how to manage my stress, thank you very much. And I know how to take care of a couple of kids. You watch ’em close, you take ’em to school, you discipline ’em when they get out of line, and you feed ’em.”

  “You realize we’re adopting human children and not dogs, right?” Owen asks as he lifts an eyebrow. “I’m gonna need you to say it, Carter.”

  “I know we’re not talking about dogs,” I snap.

  But there can’t be that much difference between young kids and dogs. Right? What more could a kid need?

  As I reach the classroom door, Owen steps in front of me. He’s a big guy—thick with muscle and shaped like a barrel—and I’m no pushover, but I’m not getting past him if he makes a deal of it. I stare at him, his gray-blue eyes searching mine.

  “Carter,” he begins, his voice low and serious, “this was your idea.”

  “I—” For a moment I stop and take a breath. “I remember.”

  “Are you regretting going through with this? We still have time to back out if you are. The kids aren’t going to be with us for a couple of months.”

  “I’m not regretting anything. This is what I want.” I narrow my gaze. “It’s what you want too, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why are we talking about this again?”

  Owen closes the distance between us and wraps his arms around my body in a gentle embrace. Flustered, I glance over my shoulder. There’s no one in the halls, but that doesn’t diminish the heat I feel welling in my face.

  “What’re you doing?” I mutter. “You know I don’t like to publicly—”

  “What’s bothering you, Carter?” Owen interjects, his low voice right in my ear, the dirty-blond stubble of his chin grazing the side of my face. He tightens his grip around me, and I half return the gesture, a lump in my throat since the moment he spoke. “You’ve been tense and irritable for the last few weeks.”

  I don’t know how he does it, but the mix of his warm tone and hot breath melts my indignation. I search my thoughts for an earnest answer, unable to deny Owen anything. “I… I don’t know. I guess… I’m nervous.”

  “Nervous? You?” He chuckles. “Together we’re going to parent the hell out of those kids.”

  I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Is that so?” Owen’s optimism knows no bounds.

  He kisses my neck. “Of course. We’re at the top of our classes. No one compares.”

  “These classes aren’t graded,” I drawl, growing redder by the minute.

  “That’s only to prevent us from embarrassing everyone else with our high scores.”

  I chuckle. “How can you let loose with lines like that?”

  And does he have to be so blatant with his affection? I’ve never been comfortable outright displaying everything I feel, and this is taking it to a whole new level. We’re in the middle of a school, for Christ’s sake. I know it’s a school for adults, but still.

  The door to the classroom opens, and I jump away from Owen, coughing to cover up the sudden movement. Owen smiles wide and turns around, unfazed by the presence of another.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ginger,” he says. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  The older woman returns the smile, the age lines on her face matching the gesture. “Oh, if it isn’t Owen and Carter Williams. I’m so glad you two are here tonight. This is an important class—sustainable parenting is crucial to successful adoptions.”

  “That’s exactly what I was telling Carter! We’re ready for anything. Bring on the parenting strategies!” Owen straightens himself and walks into the classroom with his head held high.

  Mrs. Ginger laughs into her palm and then turns to me. “He brings good energy to the class.”

  He brings good energy to everything he does. Hell, I can’t even stay mad at the situation. Despite
our being forced to take these classes, I think Owen might be right. I should just try to embrace every aspect of being a parent.

  “Yeah, Owen is a good guy,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheery. “Thank you for having us in class.”

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  I walk into the classroom, keeping in mind that I need to stay positive and stress-free. I’m taking these classes to prove I’m a capable father. I know I am—these classes aren’t hard—and I need to remember that children will follow my example. I can’t set a bad one.

  With Owen by my side, what could go wrong?

  “HOW LATE are they going to be?” I ask, glancing at the clock every few seconds. I swear we’re caught in a time void. A watched pot never boils, or so my mother said, but anxious nerves get the better of me.

  Owen runs a hand along his dark blond stubble. “I don’t know. The caseworker said she’d be here an hour ago.”

  I pace the kitchen, my gaze fixating on every little detail.

  The place is the cleanest it’s ever been—maybe even cleaner than when it was first built. The tile floor has a mirrorlike shine, I installed the new countertops two days ago, and Owen purchased a brand-new fridge and stove a week before that.

  The man has been buying all sorts of new appliances. It’s been driving me mad, but perhaps he’s just anticipating the additional stress of two kids.

  Every wall in our house is adorned with pictures of friends and family. Owen has a way of making everything feel comfortable and nostalgic. Even our ranger station out in Voyageurs National Park has a quaint aura unbefitting a professional office, but all the visitors seem to love it.

  What’s taking so long?

  I glance at the clock again.

  Already 8:00 p.m.

  That’s outrageously late for dropping off a pair of kids, one of whom is six. I guess it doesn’t matter much for his brother, who is thirteen, but when I was six my curfew was 9:00 p.m. And that’s not even mentioning the weather. I’m sure it’s negative twenty-two degrees, what with the wind and snow.

  Lights shine through the front window in the living room, and I know a car must have pulled up to our house. Owen jogs to the front door, a spring in his step, and has his hand on the handle before the caseworker even rings the doorbell. The moment the chime echoes throughout the house, Owen swings open the door.

  “Hello,” he says. “I’m so glad you could make it! Come in, come in!”

  Three people walk into our living room, a waft of snow flurries acting as their herald. The middle-aged caseworker guides the two boys in with a hand on each back. Their clothing, coated in rime, has a worn fade. Both boys carry black trash bags that represent their sole belongings in this world. It’s no wonder they squeeze them tight to their bodies.

  Owen shuts the door, his smile unmitigated by the chill. “Wow. Nothing like a Minnesota winter, am I right? How about we get you guys out of those wet clothes and then we have some hot chocolate?”

  “Hot chocolate?” the six-year-old says. “Really?”

  “You bet. I always keep the house stocked, especially for Christmas. C’mon. We’ve got dry clothes for you both.”

  “I need to go over some paperwork,” the caseworker says as she unfurls her dark hair out of a beanie.

  “I’ll look over it,” I say, stepping out of the kitchen.

  Both the kids flinch, like they didn’t even realize I was here, but it only takes them a moment to relax. Owen motions them toward the hall, and they head off, the younger one a little more enthusiastic than the teen.

  “My name is Patricia,” the caseworker says as we shake hands. “And I wanted to thank you for taking a sibling set. It’s rare to find couples that will take two, and these brothers haven’t been in the same home for ten months.”

  The revelation bothers me, but I suppose we’re making it right now. I asked for these two boys specifically.

  “What paperwork did you want me to look at?”

  Patricia pulls out a small stack of papers, barely eight pages. She hands them over, and I glance down at the information.

  Luke Weppler

  Age: 13

  Birth Date: 1/18/04

  Sex: Male

  The rest of his paperwork details his two years in foster care, but not in a meaningful way. Under known allergies it says unknown but under potential risks it lists him as antisocial and prone to outbursts. But what teen isn’t a little awkward during that time in their life?

  And his brother’s paperwork isn’t much better.

  Edmund Weppler

  Age: 6

  Birth Date: 2/04/11

  Sex: Male

  Is he on medications? Unknown. Has he met first grade reading and writing requirements? Unknown. Potential risks? Unknown.

  “Why is this woefully incomplete?” I ask.

  Patricia frowns. “Both the boys have been moved around frequently these last few months. You need to be aware that they have a tendency to run away from their foster families.”

  “I know,” I reply, curt. “I was one of the park rangers who found them last Christmas.”

  Not only had Luke and Edmund run away, but so had four others. Owen and I tracked them down and got to know them during the storm that trapped us at the ranger station. It’s the whole reason Owen and I even got our license to foster and adopt in the first place. I knew I wanted to give Luke and Edmund a stable home.

  “Well,” Patricia continues, “that makes it hard to get information on them. What little medical records we have should be coming within the next few weeks or so.”

  “All right.”

  “And there’s one last thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Both the boys are classified as a legal risk when it comes to adoption.”

  I grit my teeth and wait for her to explain.

  “It means that one of their parents could still, in theory, claim custody of them. It means this might not be permanent.”

  “Hm.”

  “The court hearings are marked on the last page of the paperwork,” Patricia says. “The first is on December nineteenth.”

  I know about all this. Patricia isn’t the caseworker I spoke to on the phone about Luke and Edmund four or five months ago, but I was filled in on their situation. Their mother died in a car accident, and their father found his solace at the bottom of a bottle. After a DUI and several arrests, the state took his kids.

  Last I heard he hadn’t made any effort to get them back or even see them. One court transcript had him saying Luke and Edmund reminded him too much of his wife, and he couldn’t stand looking them in the face.

  How do you explain that to a six-year-old? I’d say the man needs to shoulder his responsibilities, but I’m not the type to judge from afar, never getting involved. If he doesn’t want to be a father to his children, I’m more than willing to step up to the plate.

  Then again, I’ve never had kids, never particularly liked kids, and I’m fond of silence. Still, I’ve made up my mind. Come hell or high water, I’ll see this through to the end. I don’t want the kids to suffer. If their father takes them back, great. If their father gives up his rights forever, Owen and I will make sure the kids don’t fall into the cracks of the system.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” Patricia asks, breaking my chain of thought.

  “No,” I say. “We can take it from here.”

  “Thank you again for taking them. My contact information is on every page, if you have any questions in the future. Oh, and keep in mind we’ll be conducting a welfare check at some point.”

  “Heh. Thank you for making this happen.”

  Patricia and I shake hands a second time, and then she heads off into the cold, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Court cases? Welfare checks? We already had a guy inspect our home to make sure it was “safe for children.” Why does everyone want up in my privacy all of a sudden?

  “—and here we are, back in the living room!” Owen says as he leads
the two boys around with a showman’s flair. “That’s the complete tour. A standard two-bedroom, two-bath house. Very exciting.”

  “How old is this place?” Luke asks as he examines the walls and faded rugs.

  “I think it was built in 1970-something. It had way more of a ’70s vibe when we moved in, trust me. Shag carpets. Puke green everywhere. Carter fixed the place up, though. Didn’t you, Carter?”

  I throw the paperwork onto our wooden kitchen table and nod. “Yeah. But you’re pretty handy yourself.”

  Owen gives me a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t listen to Carter. He loves fixing things as much as he loves hiking. I swear he aspires to be the next model for the Brawny Man paper towel guy.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Edmund says with an out-the-top excitement in his voice. “But I think the place looks great!”

  “Well, let’s get to that hot chocolate, shall we?” Owen asks.

  He leads the kids into the kitchen, which is semicramped with four people, and heads straight for the pantry. On the way, he stops by my side and leans close.

  “Remember the first few steps of arrival?”

  I nod.

  Despite my assurance, Owen recites the damn steps anyway. “Step one. Wash their clothes. Step two. Subtly check for lice. Step three. Settle in and give them structure.”

  “I got it,” I growl.

  “Good.”

  Owen walks over to the pantry, swings open the door, and gathers up his fancy chocolates and marshmallows. I don’t want any of the sweets and sugar, but now probably isn’t the time to bicker over the benefits of straight black coffee.

  Luke pulls out a seat for his little brother, and they both get comfortable around the table. I sit down and give them both the once-over.

  Owen gave them new clothes. Luke, at that awkward time in his life, looks like he’s half-lamppost with how thin and gangling his whole body appears, even with a sweater and jeans. Edmund has a round face stuck in a permanent smile. It looks painful to maintain it that long. The T-shirt and jeans fit him nicely, though, which is good.