“Hope we didn’t wake ya, dear.” The old man beams with a friendly familiarity.

I smile politely. “How much do I owe you?”

“Not a cent, love!” he laughs.

“Here, let me just get some —”

“No, no, no.” The old man raises his work-gloved hands in protest. “It’s the least me and the boys could do for you, Crow.”

I look over at the three strapping guys finishing the pushing and plowing.

“They growed up, wha?” the old man says.

“Sorry.” I offer a sheepish smile. “I don’t recognize . . .”

“They sure remember you.” He gives me a wrinkled wink and a half-toothed grin. “You and Effie, God rest her soul, yous two saved their lives.”

The Alward boys. I didn’t save their lives. I ruined them.

I was the one who told Children’s Aid.

I was sixteen. Philly, Lukas, and Grubby Alward were two, three, and six years old when they moved from Town into the dilapidated old schoolhouse at the foot of Church Road, just a few clicks off the main road down past The Wharf. Their mother put up a barely legible sign in the gas station looking for a summer babysitter, and Mama made me call. Tishy Alward hired me over the phone. She paid me a flat thirty bucks per week — if she paid me at all — but she’d always leave me some hash and some liquor every Friday. Tishy Alward was, by my teenage estimation, a terrible boss and a worse mother, but her little Friday gifts were a good time, so I kept my mouth shut about what I saw and what I suspected.

I’d ride my bike down there for seven o’clock every morning. I was supposed to start at nine, but after about a week, I realized that Philly didn’t get a diaper change and nobody got breakfast until I got there because Tishy slept late, and she was liable to backhand the first little face that woke her. So I’d feed them some toast and wash their filthy faces, maybe take a swipe at the table full of empty bottles and dump the overflowing ashtrays while they watched a bit of Romper Room, and then take them outside to play. By noon, Tishy would be gone. I didn’t know where. She never said where she worked. She never left a number where she could be reached.

“If ya needa foind ’er, jus’ call da cops,” Grubby would sigh.

Poor little Grubby didn’t even know that his name was Andrew. He only found that out when his grade primary teacher got after him for not responding during attendance. Grubby also almost got suspended that year for bringing beer to school instead of lunch. He tried to hide it in his desk, so his mother couldn’t get at it.

Every day, I’d pack the boys up and walk them to The Wharf, then to our place for the afternoon. When Mama got home from work, she’d feed them supper, and drive them back home once Peggy reported seeing Tishy’s taxi turn down the road. Tishy never asked where we were or what we did. She’d just smile and slur, “They’re in good hands with you, baby doll.”