Nora & Kettle

by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

  I think I might be a zebra, but no one’s going to hear me.

  My hand shakes so hard that I drop the bottle.

  The nurse scoops them up and places them in my lap, speaking to me like I am a child, “Don’t worry, dear. Your father has sent a fancy car to pick you up and take you home.”

  My ears prick from the closeness of her mouth and the prospect that I won’t have to face him just yet. “You mean he’s not taking me home? He’s not here?” I ask hopefully.

  “He was called away to Washington. He does very important work, your father. He told me to tell you that Marie will stay at the house until he returns. He also told me to tell you that a police car will be parked out the front at all times, in case you need anything.”

  I roll my eyes. In case I try to run away again, more likely.

  The doors roll open to a humid night, the air wraps around me, closing in like a heap of smelly blankets. I feel suffocated, trapped in this chair, in this life. I sigh heavily when I see the sleek black car pull up. Sally rolls down the window and tries to smile at me, but it’s a sad mixture of pity and denial that crosses her face instead.

  “Do you need help, Miss?” she asks, false cheeriness to her voice.

  I shake my head and stand, opening the car door and sliding into the back. The nurse closes it, and I thank her as she does. The dark interior of the car swallows me whole, shrouds me in the blackness that reflects my mood.

  I couldn’t do it.

  I lasted about an hour. One miserable hour. The failure presses me from both sides, flattening me like I’m in a vice.

  I. Couldn’t. Get. Away.

  Me, only me.

  I am responsible for what happens next and what could happen to Frankie.

  I draw in a broken breath and try not to cry. My mind is clouded with how angry I am with him. How he’s ruined my life over and over again. How it will never stop.

  I wring my hands in my lap, wanting to throw something, break something. Sally eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, Miss,” is all she says.

  I can’t respond because all the words I have are tangled around hatred and anger, and I will sting her with what I say. I stare at my lap, rolling the bottle of pills between my fingers. My head still throbs, but it’s hard to tell if it’s the concussion or the feeling of being squeezed dry that’s doing it.

  We pull up to the house, behind a police car. Sally runs around to my door and opens it. She offers her hand, and although I don’t want to take it, I do. Her skin feels soft, squishy, as I dig my fingers in to pull myself up. I get a little dizzy as I stand. Putting my hand to my head, I check it’s all still there.

  It’s late, maybe ten o’clock. I stare up at the second story devoid of light and my heart turns icy as I start to worry what has happened to Frankie in the two days I’ve been gone.

  I linger on the bottom step. “Okay,” I whisper under my breath. I take a step up, releasing Sally’s arm. I never wanted to set foot in this house again. I climb the steps painfully slow, my whole body unwilling to come with me. It knows the horror inside, the shadows that fill every corner of every room. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper, tapping my heart, but it drops down and away from me. I’m so lost. My only companions are anger and distrust.

  The door flies open and Marie stands there, eyes wide and fearful. She beckons me inside and gives Sally a knowing look.

  “Come inside, come inside,” she says, eyes darting quickly to the police car. I slowly follow her, placing my pills on the hallstand by the door and swaying into the foyer. The stairs pulse in front of me, long, dark, winding, lit up in spots with the golden glow of the hall lamp.

  “Where’s Frankie?” I ask in a slightly robotic voice.

  Marie tries to take my coat, but I snatch it around my body, shivering suddenly.

  “Where’s Frankie?” I ask again, taking a few steps into the center of the room, standing right where she fell. Anger pounds from that one spot like a giant heart is buried under the floor.

  Marie seems dumbfounded for a moment, but she finally manages to say, “Didn’t Mister Deere tell you?”

  To this, I snort loudly, take a few more steps, and sit down on the bottom stair, my knees knocking together, my head collapsing into my hands. “Tell me what?” My heart is batting against my ribs.

  “Miss Frances has gone to stay with Mister Deere’s cousin. She’s probably sleepin’ safe’n’sound right now,” she answers, trying to placate me, or reassure me, I’m not really sure.

  I stand again, the room whirling suddenly. A rush and then it stops still. “What cousin?” I take a step closer. “Where?” My eyes feel aflame; my hands are fisted at my sides. “And you know as well as I do, we’re never safe. Never.”

  I buckle as the mist clears, and I understand. He’s taken her away from me.

  She gives me a weird look like she doesn’t get what I’m saying, although I know she does, and says, “I don’t know any more than that, Miss. I’m sorry.” She backs away and mutters, “I’ve got some cleanin’ to do. Excuse me.”

  We don’t speak of these things. We never have. But I’ve lost the will to keep up the game any longer.

  “When is Mister Deere returning?” I shout across the foyer, gripping my skirt and wishing, wishing, wishing for days and maybe weeks without him.

  “Tomorrow, Miss,” Marie manages, her face wrinkled with stress.

  He took her away. My head pulses with pain and fear. He’s punishing me more than I ever thought possible.

  “At least he can’t hurt her if she’s not here,” I say, doubting it even as I say it.

  Her eyes expand at my candor and she stalls, moving uncomfortably from foot to foot while I glare at her plump, worried face for a moment too long. But then my expression softens. I don’t blame her for keeping quiet. She has a family of her own, and I’m sure my father would have threatened her and them for her silence.

  What’s worse than a violent man? A smart, violent man. He has notes filed away on everybody, money in pockets, and daggers ever poised for use. It must be exhausting for him, keeping track of it all. It makes me let out a weird little laugh. Poor Father. So many secrets to keep track of, people to pay off and threaten. Poor, poor man.

  Hysteria teases me. Invites me to let it in, to stop caring, because he’s taken the last thing that would have held me down. Now I’m a balloon floating desperately to the sky.

  I gaze around this vast space. The giant window over the landing casts eerie light over the stairs. That window has seen too many things. Too many horrible, undoable things. If only he could look through that window and see himself. If he could watch it from a distance, I wonder if he would change his behavior? Would he be ashamed? My head drops as I realize it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. My anger at him and myself forces me upright, and I storm up the stairs. The feelings twist into something else—a desperate sadness I can’t contain. Tears fly from my eyes as I reach the top, my hand gripping the banister hard as I pause on the top step. Why couldn’t you hold on? You left us. You left me.

  I creep to Frankie’s partially open door and peek in. I’m hoping Marie’s mistaken and that she’s sleeping soundly, her face to the window, her breath rattling. The room is empty. I gently close the door with a wobbly hand. It stings when I breathe out. It hurts in every part of me, my skin itchy with rage.

  He was going to hurt her. And now he’s hiding her. My sister. My small, hurricane of a sister…

  I turn and walk down the hall, my feet spurring me on independently of my brain because I am empty and adrift. I am no hope and no thought.

  The mania builds, my hands wanting to smash, burn, and tear, anything to not feel like this anymore. Because it’s too much. Losing her is too much. My body shakes with out-of-control emotion. I can’t hold it inside.

  I place my hand on my mother’s bedroom door and shove it open. My headache is forgotten. My body is in line with me now.

  Everything she owned gl
ows with what I can’t have, what I’ve lost… am going to lose. I hate her for leaving, and I hate him for staying.

  A barbed cry escapes my throat and I grab the first thing in reach, a silk scarf smelling of her perfume wrapped around a felt, brimmed hat on the end of the bed post. I rush to the window, fling it open, and throw the hat like a Frisbee out into the night air. The scarf and the hat separate, and I watch as the hat spins into the black and then sinks beyond sight and the scarf twirls down like smoke being sucked back into a pipe.

  Self-control has abandoned me and I start gathering up other possessions, whatever I can find, and hurl them out the window, making sure they clear the fire escape. But it’s not enough. It’s not satisfying the roaring beast within because I want to hurt him. I want to take something important, something close to his heart, and destroy it. Rummaging through drawers, I throw the fancy clothes she’ll never wear again on the floor. I suddenly stop, panting like a crazed animal because there’s nothing in here that means enough.

  I dash out the door and sprint to his den. I should, but I don’t hesitate as I open the door and stomp inside. On his desk is a heavy, silver frame with a photograph of my mother and father, taken before I was born. Neither looks at the camera. They gaze at each other, looking happy and in love. It’s not something I can really comprehend. I stare at it for a long time, trying to identify them, but these people are strangers to me. The love captured here is dead. I grip the photo to my chest and take it back to her room, thinking I might hide it. Because infuriatingly, he still has a hold over me and I’m scared if I throw it out the window, it will be the end. But then I look around at the chaos I’ve created, torn dresses, smashed ornaments, and jewelry strewn all over the floor and laugh hysterically. There is no saving me now. I walk slowly to the window and lean out, my hand stretching past the fire escape.

  I release the frame and listen for the glass to smash. The still, night air answers with silence.

  Putting both hands on the sill, I poke my head out to see where it landed. As soon as I do, something clamps down on my arm and yanks me from the window.

  32. THANK YOU

  KETTLE

  Words clash in my head. Paralysis. Brain injury. Internal bleeding. Swelling. Those words echoed off the tunnel walls as they took Kin from his home, his almost-lifeless body bouncing up and down with their hurried movements. These words hurt me in a strangling, tighter and tighter way, like someone’s turning a crank key at my side, winding and winding until my ribs part and I explode. I lift my hand to my throat. The lump there doesn’t want to move. It’s buttoned under my skin. It grates every time I swallow. I can’t let him go. I’m stuck in a narrow place between grief and not knowing. Neither is appealing.

  I gaze up at the burned apartment in front of me. Windows are being replaced. Timber lies in promising piles in the alley. Soon, I won’t be able to come back here. It’s probably a good thing. Sitting here with my back against the cool wall, I wait to hear Kin’s steady breath. Or hear him chuckle. But there’s nothing. Just the humid air causing metal to creak and wood to crackle. The city does sleep, despite what some might say, but it sleeps like an old, arthritic man, coughing, wheezing, and creaking its way to rest.

  I left Krow with the boys, needing time on my own. When they asked me when Kin was coming back, I said, “soon,” which was a lie.

  I should visit him, make sure he’s alive, but I’m too much of a coward. What if he’s not there? What if he is there and he won’t forgive me? What if they catch me? The boys can’t be left with no one. There are too many obstacles that I easily let get in the way. So I’ve waited four days in hell.

  I curse and bang the back of my head on the wall, feeling the pain bite into my skull, almost enjoying it because it’s a distraction from the anger I feel toward this faceless woman who took Kin’s place. Miss Deere. There is hatred brewing and then boiling inside. It’s aimless yet growing too big for me to contain. Her and that goddamn cat. I hate them both.

  I stand up. It was a bad idea coming here, because I feel like I might scream, howl into the night, and get myself reported in the process. Lifting my head, I search for just one star, but all that hovers over me is murky green clouds heavy with moisture.

  I slam my hands in my pockets and step out from the wall, out of tears but not out of curse words. I’m turning to leave when something flutters in my peripheral vision, and then I’m blind.

  Sweet-smelling silk covers my face and I yank it off. Things are flying from the window. A hat sails past and hits the opposite building before landing into a dirty puddle, then other clothes and jewelry follow. It’s like some grotesque rich person’s rain, and it only fuels my anger. I see the arm. A perfect pale arm just like the one I saw hanging from the stretcher days ago, and I see red. What is it this woman wants? Does she feel sorry for us lowlife’s living in the street, or is she just lazy, throwing her garbage into the alley for others to clean up? I can’t stand the idea of pity or indifference.

  Blood rushes in my ears and I breathe hard, all my anger propelling me up the dumpster and then onto the fire escape quietly, my hands crackling and pulsing with unspent energy.

  I climb onto the railing of the escape and wait for her to come out again. I want to see her face. Frighten her. Tell her what a selfish, rich bitch she is.

  I rock back and forth on the railing, finding my balance, and then perching like a bird of prey. A few minutes later, the curtains flutter and the arm stretches out, a framed photograph in its hand. It lingers in the air, shaking, and I cock my head to the side, wondering what this is all about. When she releases the frame, I catch it, tucking it into my waistband. The hand withdraws and I look at the picture by the light of the window, hiding in the shadows like a peeping Tom. I trace the image. A perfect couple gazing at each other with love, and I want to smash their faces in. I want to ask them, demand from them, Why? Why did my life work out like this? Why have I lost everyone? It feels like it’s their fault, them and everyone else who looks down on people like me. Like Kin.

  Kin. I wipe the last tear I have in me from my eye with a dirty hand. Damn it.

  Pale fingers grip the windowsill, and then the shadow of a head pokes out into the night.

  I’ll make her pay. I’ll teach this rich woman a lesson.

  I grab her hand and pull her from the window, her small body coming at me with my own force. She lands on my chest and knocks the air from my lungs, simultaneously knocking the anger from my heart when she looks down at me with a face bruised, cut, and vulnerable. Her eyes are lit up in gold and honey from the light of the room within. They widen with surprise… and then droop with sadness.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  33. RUNNING

  KETTLE

  Thank you? The words make no sense, yet the relief in her eyes is so solid, it’s as if I could reach in and take it, squeeze it out in my hands. My emotions slide around, bouncing off each other, anger to confusion and very quickly to panic as I realize I’ve made a huge mistake.

  My hand is clamped around her cool wrist and her breath is easing into my chest as it goes from short, sharp bursts to a steadier yet still fast rhythm. She’s still lying on top of me and makes no effort to move, her neck pulled back so she can see my face clear as day under the light of the window. This is more than a mistake. She’s seen my face, my very distinct, blue-eyed, Japanese face. Damn it!

  I grunt and push her back from my chest by her shoulder, holding onto one of her arms. In a dark tone that scares me, I say, “Get up.”

  She shuffles back onto her knees, her arm hanging limply from mine like she’s not connected to it. Her honey eyes look up at me with something of a plea in them, but she doesn’t say another word so ‘thank you’ just floats between us with no explanation.

  Between us sits the framed photo, glass smashed, two faces staring past us and into nothing. We both look down at it for one small moment and then back up.

  A red light streaks across he
r face, its source a police car that’s reversing, closing the gap between the buildings. One escape route blocked.

  I run a shaky hand through my hair and swear. She makes a strange, shocked sound at my curse words, and I remember she’s a society girl unused to uncouth youths such as myself. I pull her to her feet more gently and mutter, “You’re coming with me, princess,” and tug her toward the edge. She sniffs but doesn’t argue with me.

  With more precision than I would have expected, she jumps onto the dumpster, landing well. Spreading her bodyweight so evenly, she barely makes a sound.

  Above, I can hear someone shuffling across floorboards and panic rising as the person, perhaps her mother, realizes she’s gone. A loud woman’s voice sails over our heads, and the girl looks up at the window, her face twisted with regret. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking like she might climb back up. I jump down to stop her. I’m not going to jail for this girl. And I know I’m too easily recognizable. No, I need to get her somewhere quiet and convince her not to report me. I nod to myself, thinking it’s a dumb plan but it’s the only one my sleep-deprived brain can come up with.

  This silent dance we’re doing is strange. She seems too willing, and yet tied to the lid of the dumpster. Crouched facing each other, I get ready to grab her and pull her down to the other end of alley. I stare directly into her shadowed face and say, “Look lady, I don’t want to hurt you, I didn’t mean to…” I sigh, exasperated by her gaping silence. “I just want to talk to you somewhere safe, okay?”

  Her head falls and she gazes at her fingers, spread wide over the dimply blue metal. “Okay,” she says

  I’m hopping from foot to foot in a frog squat, the surprising permission, the okay, taking a second to register. But voices are louder now, and I can hear car doors opening and closing, boots sloshing through puddles. I’ve got to move.

  “Okay?” I say like a question as I jump from the dumpster and pull her down, mud splattering her clean clothes and shoes. And even though she said okay, I don’t let go of her hand. I clutch it tightly and press close to the wall, moving as fast as I can to reach the other end.