“Please, don’t call me Nora,” she says to the ground. Then she turns slowly. “I just can’t… I can’t believe how far he’ll go. Every time I think there’s no lower he could possibly sink, he sinks even lower. He’s like, like the lowest of the low. The dirt beneath your shoes. The, the…”
“The gum on the sidewalk. No, the gum under the gum on the sidewalk. Let’s be straight, there’s probably gum from the dark ages under there.”
Maybe she’ll smile. I can’t believe how invested I am in wanting her to smile. Her hand relaxes, and she crosses her arms. “Yes. The gum under the gum under the gum.” She gives me a brief flash of teeth. Like wiping fog from a window.
“But she’s safe. She’s here. It what’s you wanted, right?” She’s gift-wrapped tight. Arms like ribbons holding an amazing treasure inside. Her heart.
“Yes.” Her words are snapped and blunt, but it’s not because of me. It’s exasperation with life and the bullets we have to take, over and over.
The bus pulls up to the curb and I reach for Frankie, helping her from the wall. She’s light like a crumpled wing. Light but strong. “Where’re we going?” She squints at the bus like it’s a spaceship.
Kite and I say it at the same time. “Home.”
“I’m hungry,” she announces as we step onto the bus.
3
KITE
Did I just say home? Wedged between Frankie and Kettle, I feel like the loose page in a book. Just a rustle and my part in the story could be lost forever. I’m taking her to the Kings’ home. I can’t wait to show it to her, but at the same time I’m frightened of what she will think. She might love it. My lips quirk. She’ll probably love it. But everything feels impermanent. We’re torn wings on the wind. We’re not sure where we’ll end up.
The bus pulls away, rumbling and grumbling about the three-hour drive back to the city. I cross my legs and uncross them, staring down at the dressing Kettle wound gently and very competently over my skin. His hands supporting the weight of my calf as he brushed antiseptic over my skin, then blew on it to get it to dry faster. His touch. His touch. His touch. It’s wanted sunlight, and I’m the plant that bends to it. My heart scrunches and I put my nail in my mouth, chewing what’s left.
Kettle leans his head against the window, his tanned face cut by the light. A man across the aisle stands up suddenly, gripping the cold metal poles to come hover over us. He clears his throat, and I look up into his young freckled face. “‘Scuse me, Miss. If you like, I can trade seats with you. I mean, if you’re feeling uncomfortable.” His eyes land on Kettle, who slips down in his chair and pulls his hat so low it almost sits on his nose.
Raising an eyebrow, I frown. “Why would I be uncomfortable?”
The man shifts awkwardly, actually points right at Kettle. “Coz of that nip sitting next to you.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I glance at Kettle, who gives me a stern, sharp shake of his head. “Leave it,” he mutters between his teeth.
Frankie glances up at the man and smiles. “What’s a nip?”
I touch my chest, mortified, then address my sister. “Nip is a derogatory term that uneducated and insensitive people use to refer to Japanese people.”
“Derogg… ag… doggatory…” Frankie sounds out the word and quickly gives up, favoring poking the back of her seat repeatedly.
My eyes are fixed forward as I say to the man who’s still staring at us. “I’m perfectly comfortable right where I am, thank you.”
Next to me, Kettle tenses. He doesn’t say a word to me for over an hour. And the man glares at us until he gets off at his stop, as do the surrounding passengers. Two men, angry for very different reasons. I shrug. I’m used to angry men.
“You shouldn’t have made a scene,” Kettle whispers tersely. “Drawn attention.”
We’re passing into the city now, buildings popping up like clashing continents. The scenery becomes more familiar. Frankie plays with her hair, complaining again about being hungry. The responsibility of it—the cost of it—weighs heavily on my mind. “I didn’t make a scene. What was I supposed to do? Just allow him to talk about you in such a manner?”
He catches my eyes, shadows playing over his cheeks. “Yes. That’s exactly what you should have done.”
“People shouldn’t say things like that.” At this, he laughs bitterly. The bus bumps, and we all move with it.
“Since when do people care what they should and shouldn’t do? Everyone talks to me like that. You better start getting used to it if you want to be with me.” He stalls like an old truck. “I mean, be around me.”
I roll my eyes. “I know what you meant. You know you… Ouch!”
Kettle leans forward, anger forgotten. “What? What’s wrong?”
Frankie pokes a sharp finger into my stocking. “Frankie, that hurts.”
“What heppened to yer leg?” she asks, going for another poke.
I grab her hand, holding her wrist strongly but gently. “I fell down the stairs.” My lip threatens to quiver at the memory, but I hold myself together. For Frankie.
Frankie’s eyes widen in terror, and she covers her mouth. I want to pull it back, but it’s too late. I’ve already said it, and she’s looking at me with such devastating fear and a film reel of memories unrolling in her eyes. “I’m swell. Really. I’m fine.” I reach down, prodding the wound myself to prove it. “See.” I turn to wince, so she doesn’t see my expression.
Kettle watches us both like he’s discovered a new and fascinating version of crazy. Until Frankie says in a matter-of-fact voice, “Mama fell down the stairs. She died. She’s dead.”
God. How do we get through this? How do we carve out something even remotely normal out of all this pain and grief? It seems… It seems impossible.
Kettle bends forward, talking over my lap to Frankie. “My mom’s gone, too.”
“Did she fall down the stairs?”
His smile is like flashes of gold at the bottom of the ocean. Ripples taking the light to the surface. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
Yes. Definitely impossible.
“What about yer daddy?” Frankie asks, questions pouring like off-key music from a flute.
His tone is amber warm. No regret. No need to know. “I don’t know what happened to my dad. I never knew him.”
Then Frankie says something that breaks me into two uneven halves, a cracked marble rocking on its round sides. “I think dat would be okay. Dat would be okay with me.”
4
KETTLE
I feel nervous. Like getting this skinny, electrically charged kid’s approval is super important. She bounces around like she’s got ants in her pants. And those ants have other ants in their pants. She’s insatiable.
She also coughs and wheezes like she’s used up all the oxygen around her. And the way she moves, I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true.
We finally pull into the bus station, and I drag the suitcase down the stairs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
My body unwinds just a couple of lengths of twine. There are more people. More ways to blend in. Out there on the end thread of the long island, I felt as conspicuous as the Statue of Freedom. Just with the opposite kind of regard from the people staring at me.
Okay. Just put one foot in front of the other. I can tell Kite’s mind is whirring. There is a lot to think about, which is why I’m not thinking at all. I’m trying to reel my thoughts back. I’m not good with the future. The future was never good with me. Feed the firecracker and get home. That’s as far forward as I’m willing to go.
I have people waiting for me at home.
I tap Frankie on the shoulder. She crashes into my leg, her limbs like assorted crowbars wired together. “What do you want for dinner?” I ask.
Frankie clasps her hands as we walk toward the center of the city like she’s praying. People suck us into the flow, just like always. At least the crowd is always welcoming. It doesn’t notice skin color. With heads down, coats closed
, scarves and hats covering our faces, we all look the same. “Can I hef roast beef’n’gravy?”
Kite glances at me apologetically. I laugh half-heartedly, understanding we have more than one challenge ahead of us. She comes from privilege. Roast meat on silver-rimmed plates. “How about a famous city delicacy?” She blinks expectantly. “Roasted mystery meat with red sauce?”
Kite covers her mouth as she giggles quietly. Frankie jumps, and I understand why Kite always seems at the ready when she’s nearby. Like a boxer bracing for the next punch. Because Frankie’s head connects with the underside of my chin. “Dat sounds good.”
I stroke my sore jaw. “You’re a walking hazard, kid.”
I dodge the next angular attack and Kite smiles, elbowing me softly. “You’re learning.”
Reaching for her face, I almost tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She gazes at me hopefully and leans into my touch, taking my reluctance away. “Always,” I chirp. “We Kings have to adapt.”
Paying for a hot dog in pennies and dimes is embarrassing. Being two pennies short and having the hot dog stand guy take pity on us was completely humiliating. We’re skinny. I just hope the Kings haven’t eaten everything we had stored away.
Without Kin and Keeps, there’s been a little more to go around. My shoulders sag. Now there are more mouths to feed. My fingers scrape the insides of my pockets, searching for a coin that maybe got snagged in the seams. If I turn them inside out, I really will look like a street urchin. I’m the pirate who opens the treasure chest, finds he’s been beat, and opens it again just to rub it in. I snort.
We wait for a large crowd to head for the subway and melt in. Frankie’s eyes are as wide as a sliced moon as we weave and duck. Eyes on each other, hands gripped tightly.
Kite pushes Frankie’s head under the turnstile as I pay with our last coin. She presses her back into me. The smell of faint perfume, the last of her old life, and salt, the new, coming from her hair. As I reach around her to push the stile, a two for one, her breath catches. I let my hand rest on her waist for a second. Let myself imagine we’re a couple on our way home from a shopping trip, and then it falls like so many un-granted wishes into a fountain.
Leaning close to her ear so she can hear me, I hold my breath, thinking inhaling any more of her sweetness may actually kill me. “Ready?”
She nods. Her cheek brushing my lips.
We take our route to the secret door. To the home we now share like kids playing house, only far too real.
Frankie, to her credit, rolls with the punches. Punch one: Hot dogs instead of roast beef and gravy for dinner. Punch Two: Cheating our way through the subway. Punch Three… I knock on the King’s door, and Krow answers. He looks us up and down, slick and distrustful for a moment, then breaks into a grin. “Kettle! Kite!” he shouts. “Kettle and Kite are home.” He stares at my hands. When he sees there’s no food—only a suitcase—he quickly looks away. But there’s no hiding his disappointment.
Frankie squeezes her way through the doorway into the vast, abandoned subway tunnel. My home. My refuge. And now hers. Blinking, she stands on her tiptoes. Lip in teeth. “Holy hell!” she shouts, and several Kings look her way.
Kite flushes pink, then taps her sister’s shoulder. “Frankie!” she chastises. “Language.”
We step inside, and Frankie swings her head from side to side. “I mean tank you, holy hell.”
We both chuckle, eyes connecting over the top of her head.
Punch three: “This is where we’re going to be staying for a while,” Kite’s voice chases after a galloping Frankie as she jumps from bed to bed. She is the spokes of a traveling star. She is the light you can’t catch.
Frankie doesn’t hear her, and Kite runs to catch her sister. I drag the case inside, plonk it on Kin’s bed. Now Kite’s to share with her sister.
Finally, Frankie stops running and presses a palm to her chest as she wheezes. Kite rushes to her, and she puts both hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Punch four is for me, and I feel it sock me right in the guts. As I watch them, I know. Like really know that I would do anything to help them. They are instantly and permanently part of this family. And it scares me.
5
KITE
I watch my sister for signs of distress. But at the moment, the excitement is overriding any other feelings. She’s asked every member their name, and she’s given her opinion on whether she liked them or not. She does. Frankie glances at the arched stone ceiling every now and then, marveling at its scale and pointing at the cast-iron chandelier. She’s taken by its beauty. Its potential to collapse.
She coughs, and I wrap her in a cardigan. She’s just excited, is all. Once she calms down, her breathing will do the same.
The suitcase sits on the bed like a tomb of the old life. I don’t really want to open it, but we need to unpack her things. I unclick the buckles and fling back the lid. “Frankie, will you help me?” She’s eyeing the others as they play cards. Kettle sits on his bed sorting through foodstuffs, shaking his head.
We need money.
Tiny socks. Little skirts and shirts. Her stuffed toys and of course, at the bottom, her bunny plate. I pull it out, the faded pattern no longer catching any light. The bunny family looks happy, picnicking in the English countryside. I trace the mother, thinking of Mrs. Beauchamp. I have questions I need answers to, but it’s too much of a risk to go back there for scraps of the past. With a sigh like the last of an autumn breeze, stripping the leaves from the tree and letting them dance down the sidewalk, I know I have to let some things go.
Frankie crawls onto the bed as I carefully organize her things, leaving them in the suitcase but untangling the twirl of mixed-up items. “When’re we goin’ home?” she asks, pulling her knees up to her chest.
After I pull out a picture book, I hand it to her. I can’t answer. “Don’t you like it here?”
I find her hearing aid. The wires knotted, only a handful of batteries left. “Yes,” she replies, tapping her chin. “I like it here.”
Kettle casts a warm shadow over our bed. His expression a mixture of pride and wistfulness. This is Kin’s room. I know it hurts him to see another taking up the space. “I haven’t even given you the official tour.” His voice is all serious and mocking. He offers a hand, and Frankie takes it. To me, he says, “You can pack away some of Kin’s things if you want. Make it your own.”
His eyes land on small things. Tiny cups. A comic book with the pages turned down. “I… I couldn’t possibly.”
“Please,” he says, a small plea in his voice. “I insist.” And I understand. He’s asking me to do it because he can’t stand to do it himself. I nod.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He shrugs hard. “Don’t mention it.”
He leads Frankie away, and I run my eyes over the neatly stacked shelves. I treat each item like it’s precious. They are precious. I lift the comic book and shake the dust from it, placing it carefully in a box. The corner of a bookmark pokes its way out from between the pages. I pull out an old photograph. Stern lines of Japanese women looking like they’re in a school picture sit across bleachers with their hands on their knees. Young children sit in a row in the dirt at the women’s feet. I handle it with care, though I ache to touch the face I know is Kettle, or Hiro as he would have been called here. His expression is lighter, but only by a shade. The weight balanced on his little shoulders must have been less heavy back then. But not by much. Kin grins beside him. The woman behind him has her hand on his shoulder. Her hair is curled precisely. Her clothes neat. She looks like a soldier. They all do.
I pat the photo I took a week ago in my pocket. My father poised to punch one of the people he had vowed to help. I don’t want that on display. But I do want it close. I take it out, my eyes wandering to Frankie and Kettle, hand in hand. Their shadows grow as they near the back of the tunnel. Her trust in him swells my heart. His intent care of her threatens to burst it.
> Placing the incriminating photo inside the comic book, I cover it with Kin’s things. It will be safe there, and I need good things over the top of it. I need a small amount of distance from that horrible, horrible day.
I stand as they return from the ‘tour’. Frankie’s nose remains scrunched from her introduction to the very basic bathroom facilities.
I tuck the photo of Kettle and Kin away. It feels like now is not the time. And selfishly, I want to hold onto it a while longer.
“Why do people call you Kettle?” she asks, still gripping his hand tightly.
I watch him mull over answers in his head. Most are too complicated to give to an eight-year-old. He leans down and speaks into her good ear, already learning her quirks. Her needs. “Kettle is my street name.”
Frankie nods seriously. “Then what’s Hiro for?” she asks.
He makes a show of looking around, making out like it’s a big secret. Making her feel special. “Hiro is my secret name. I only give it to very, very special people.”
She puffs up proudly. “Like me?”
He pats the top of her head. “Like you.”
And me.
“Do I get a street name?” The idea both horrifies me and fulfils me at the same time.
“Sure.” He cocks his head at me to check that it’s okay, and I nod. “What would you like to be called?”
She bends her legs, jumping as high as she can, and snatches at a moth that flutters past our eyes. “You can choose.”
He taps his smooth chin. He is made of dark sweet things. He is damaged as I am, yet he can find joy. He can find the smile in the sky. The light hiding behind the gray. “How about Kricket?”
Hiro Loves Kite Page 2
