by Eric Wilson
Dmitri Derevenko reevaluated the white-haired woman. “You are … a guardian?”
Standing no higher than his chest, she wore an overcoat, a jewel-encrusted brooch, and a set of silver wire bifocals. Nurse’s shoes cradled small feet, while knee-high stockings appeared content huddled about her ankles. Her furry companion was on the sidewalk, lapping sauce from the bottom of Dmitri’s fish tin.
In this country Dmitri knew that the woman would be viewed with ridicule and condescension, whereas the matriarchal underpinnings of his country demanded he show respect. He felt an urge to bow.
“A guardian, oh yes. But a cranky one,” she confided. “It’s a thankless task.”
“Who has given you this …” He searched for the word. “This commission?”
She made the sign of the cross, lifted her gaze heavenward in reverence.
“You’re doing this alone? Or do you have help?”
“Don’t be silly, my boy. I’m old, tired, and impatient.” She swept opaque violet eyes across Founder’s Park and its environs. “I could not hold them off on my own.”
“Who?”
“Not so loud. You can’t see them, but they are close.”
Dmitri experienced a first tinge of skepticism, mixed with sympathy. He commiserated with her desire for significance and worried that years from now his own lost dreams might push him over the edge into decrepitude. Da. It was harsh enough when a body turned on itself, but a mind crumbling beneath the weight of dissolution …
Stop such absurd thoughts, he warned himself. His dreams were close at hand.
“If I wait, will I see them?” he asked.
With a finger to pale lips, the woman leaned forward as though to reveal a mind-altering revelation. “They are invisible.”
He decided to play along. “Do they ever go on the train?”
“Of course not. I will not permit it.”
“Because you are a guardian.”
“One of many jobs I’ve held. I’m not incapable, you know. Cranky, yes. But I already mentioned that, did I not? Pay better attention, if you will. I say things once, and once only.” She gripped her tuft of chin hair, shifted her eyes over Engine 418. “Oh, there’s something I’m forgetting. Yes, that naughty little child … Kenny Preston.”
Dmitri tucked in his shirt. A man preparing to leave.
“He’s unruly, I tell you—climbing on the fence as though it were a playground, gallivanting about the train. Such behavior is prohibited, but he’s shown a flagrant disregard for the standard proprieties. Even taken something that was not his.”
Dmitri froze. “What’s this thing he took?”
“Well, can’t say I got a good look at it. But he absconded with it, that he did.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because it’s gone, of course.”
“Of course. And he lives nearby?”
“What concern is that of yours, my boy? Your question is irrelevant, and I would not tell you if he did. Perhaps I’ve said too much already.” The woman gasped, then covered her mouth. Her Chihuahua yapped. “Oh my, now they’ve seen us.”
“They?”
She pointed a pasty, translucent finger.
As Dmitri suspected, the street was devoid of strangers, hostile or otherwise. He turned to leave, saw the old lady’s lips twitch with secretive glee. He hoped that, despite her addled state, she had guided him in the right direction.
Kenny Preston. He must find this boy.
His mother’s calm demeanor surprised Kenny. Was she not seeing, not hearing? His clothes were torn, his knees bloodied, his bike scratched up.
Sure, a route overseer had delivered the rest of his newspapers, but a Rottweiler was dead. Earlier, a stern police officer had stopped by for clarification of the events at Juniper Street. The man in the coveralls was facing questions of animal cruelty and unlawful use of a handgun within city limits.
C’mon, Mom. You’re s’posed to freak like never before. You all right?
She had both elbows on her knees, hunched forward on the sofa, warming her hands around a cup of Stash tea. Her light blue eyes blinked behind the steam. Her lips blew softly, cooling the liquid or getting rid of tension. Maybe both.
“Thank you for saving my son’s life, Mr. Ryker.” She turned her face toward Clay. “I’m glad there’re people like you left in this world. Sometimes you wonder.”
“I was there and saw the dog get loose. Didn’t even have time to think about it.”
“No, you’re selling yourself short. You didn’t have to do what you did.”
“Yes,” Clay said, “I did.”
“Well, it was very brave of you, Mr. Ryker. Really it was.”
“Just Clay. Please.”
“I’m Kate Preston.” Her eyes dropped to his ring, to the bandages that wrapped his forearm and his thigh, then shifted back to the tea. “Kenny tells me you’d like to stick around for the afternoon, keep an eye out for him.”
“Uh, well. I’m concerned about him, I guess.”
“Might be nice, actually. That officer seemed to think you were an okay guy, and as a mother, I tend to worry myself silly over my son.”
“I have a son too. Couple of years younger than yours.”
“Well then, you understand. But you’ve done more than enough already. Look at you. Are you going to survive?”
“What? These tiny scratches? They look worse than they are. I mean, those EMTs acted like they’d been insulted by showing up for such minor injuries.”
“Eight stitches.” Kenny whistled in admiration. “You’re a hero.”
When Clay lifted his face, his chiseled cheeks glowed as if he’d turned toward a spotlight. The corners of his mouth stretched into a smile of relief, and he took a deep breath. Chuckled. Kenny reached forward, and they knocked fists together. Clay laughed out loud in the sitting room, a healthy, rippling sound that splashed over Kenny’s darkest fears and disappointments.
He liked having Clay in the house. He understood now why his mother hadn’t gone ballistic. It was this guy. Here. Within arm’s reach.
There was one way to keep this going.
“Anybody for a game of Scrabble?” Kenny submitted.
“Scrabble? With my injuries? You’ll have an unfair advantage.”
“Yeah right, dude. So whaddya say, Mom? We already missed church anyway. Can he stay, just for a while?”
“For a while?” Kate’s eyes glimmered above her smile. “Is that any way to treat a hero? I think he deserves to stay for pot roast and garlic potatoes. But don’t say a word about the blackberry cobbler. That should be a surprise.”
When Kenny opened the back door and watched Gussy bound back inside to join the party, he thought life couldn’t get much better. From one extreme to the other? Within a few short hours?
He poured the Scrabble tiles on the table and wished he could use more than seven letters in a turn. He had a perfect word for the day: unpredictable.
Too bad the word was a full thirteen letters long.
What a pest this kid had turned out to be. Kids were always a challenge.
Asgoth smiled at Monde’s perturbation over the failed dog attack. Hadn’t he suggested a simple poisoning? As a killing machine, how predictable was a dog? Plus, you could never guess a human’s response to such an assault.
Clay Ryker. He was the obstacle, as well as the goal of this charade.
With him gone, I’ll get the key from the train and the funds to go on. I’ll buy back my honor.
Asgoth sent Monde on his way, then hurried along the street to the uneven stairs leading up to his place. He had a few props to collect; the day was not yet over.
In his apartment Henna was waiting with candles lit and incense burning. Her tank top was tie-dyed, her skirt thin and cerulean, swishing along the rug as her bare feet danced to Tibetan rhythms and chants. He watched with pleasure the way her hair caressed her shoulders and neck. Although her eyes were half-closed in apparent revelry, he s
ensed a striving in her demeanor. She was reaching for, but not grasping, something beyond herself.
This was the moment he loved most—her straining, her desire.
“Henna.”
“Oh, at last. How long’ve you been here? I should’ve felt you in the room.”
“We have a few minutes together,” he said. “Then I’ll need your help.”
“My help?” She sounded eager.
“Over at the Preston place.”
“If that’s what you wish, A.G.” She spun once with arms extended, eased into position on the gold shag carpet. “If it means striking back at Clay, I’m open to whatever you have in mind.”
Through the front window, Kenny could see evening creeping into town. He hoped his mom would let Clay stay longer. She was in the dining room talking with the man, giggling about something, while dishes remained on the tablecloth.
That was a good sign. Very unlike his mother.
Kenny squelched any long-term hopes, though; Clay wore a wedding ring. Would his mom ever remarry? She knew her husband was gone for good. The few reports from Alaska had him involved with loose women and barroom brawls.
I’ll kill him if he ever comes back and hurts her again. What’d she ever do to him?
“Going outside,” Kenny muttered as he passed through the kitchen. “Gonna see how Gussy’s doin’.”
“She can come back in,” his mom said. “So long as she’s settled down.”
“I’ll throw the ball with her, help her get out some energy.”
“Stay in the backyard. Don’t be out too long.”
Kenny slipped through the door. A storm was gathering, and a breeze rustled the tips of the bougainvillea along the fence. Birds shuffled between trees; moving as one, they dipped and gyrated across the gray black screen of cloud, like a computer cursor in the hand of a preschooler.
“Gussy? Where are you?”
The back fence creaked in the evening wind.
“Gussy, girl?”
The gaps in the fence revealed movement and shadows, and he trembled as he recalled the Rottweiler’s attack. He almost turned back inside.
But where was his puppy? With his saved money, Kenny had finished building a doghouse near the garage, and now all it needed was paint. Gussy was nowhere near, though. Had she dug a hole? Found a gap in the boards?
He trotted around to the side gate. This is where he’d packed the newspapers only hours ago. The ground was still soggy. He searched for claw marks in the dirt along the bottom of the wood. Zippo.
Tacked to the inside of the gate, a lavender sheet of notepaper nabbed his attention. He tore it free. What was that smell? Like Cherry 7-Up.
His heart jumped as he read a threat against his missing puppy. There was only one way to get her back, the note said, and that was to shut up, get on his bike, and go to Engine 418.
What was it about that train? Was someone after his discovery?
Kenny crumpled and tossed the note against the house. Somebody has Gussy!
He debated going inside for Clay’s assistance but decided against it. The note said to tell no one. Kenny had already seen one dog die today; he couldn’t risk letting his little girl get hurt—or worse.
Anyway, Clay Ryker had done his good deed, keeping Kenny out of danger. Now it was Kenny’s turn to be a hero. For Gussy.
His bike was in working condition, a little scraped, in need of adjustment, but ridable. He eased it from the garage into the street and strapped on his helmet. He looked back once at the front window, at the serene light that glowed from within, then rode into the gathering night.
21
On the Wrong Track
“For real, baby. A girl can’t find no better sister.”
“What time do you plan on getting back, Shanique?” Mylisha cleared glassware from the counter, put a can of Pringles on an upper pantry shelf. “I have classes tomorrow, and I’m behind on homework as it is.”
“Be back when I be back.”
“I’m not joking. What time?”
“Why you hafta be like dat? You know I can’t give you no answer.”
“Sure you can.” Mylisha turned to scold Tyrone. “Honey, you can’t be fiddlin’ with my stereo. Tell Auntie what you want to hear, and I’ll play it for you.”
“Mylisha,” Shanique said, “what’s wrong wit you? Why you be stankin’?”
She raised a hand. “It’ll be all right. Just go.”
“I was plannin’ on chillin’ here for a few, wit you. My big sister.”
“I’ve got my own stuff to think about. Go. Do what you gotta do.”
“Well. Tell you right now, I ain’t gonna worry my black butt over you, that is for sure. I ask if you’s gonna watch the kids, and you says yes. Now I’m s’posta be all up and feelin’ sorry for you. No, girl, that ain’t how this gonna work.”
“Go! All right? Shake that ghetto bootay, do your thang. We’ll be fine.”
Shanique looked ready to explode. She cocked her head, then waved off her own emotion. “You know, baby, I ain’t gonna let your frustration ruin my night. This girl’s goin’ dancin’. You wanna stay wound tight, you do dat. I be krunkin’ while you sit ’n pout.” She gathered her kids in her arms, planted wet kisses on their cheeks and eyelids. “You listen to yo auntie and be good, you hear? Mama’ll be right here when you wake up. Sure ’nuff, do love my babies.”
Going down the stairs, Shanique’s heels clicked with staccato precision.
“Why’s my mama leavin’?” Tyrone demanded.
“She has to work, honey. Gotta make money so she can buy you two some new clothes when school starts.”
Tawnique’s six-year-old smile spread from pigtail to pigtail. Tyrone scowled.
On the street below, the angry sound of their mother’s new Mustang faded.
Mylisha set her niece and nephew at the kitchen table with a margarine tub of crayons and a pad of construction paper. She perched on a barstool with a college syllabus in her lap. Hidden between the pages, an astrology chart awaited.
This, she knew, was the reason behind her petulance. So she’d driven off Shanique a few minutes early. What did that matter? She didn’t need her sister’s happy-go-lucky attitude shoved in her face, and she didn’t want Shanique telling her “it’s about time you came around” or “I told you so.”
Life’s a mystery. Least mine is. Just looking for a little direction, that’s all.
Clay found the wadded note in the grass along the fence.
“His bike’s gone,” Kate Preston exclaimed from the side door of the garage.
“I’m going after him.”
Clay clutched the note in his fist and hopped into his Duster before she had a chance to stop him. There was no time. The earlier attempt on Kenny’s life had been diverted, but this was an obvious setup. Why else would it be happening today?
He revved the engine and skidded forward on a layer of burning rubber.
7.1.1.0.4 …
He angled toward the park. The numerals sloshed over his nerve endings. Eight days ago he’d chased the kid from his parents’ front porch, grabbed his arm, sensed the dates on his skin.
Wax … hot and dripping, sluicing over his palm in precise patterns.
No! I’m coming for you, Kenny!
Clay had been wrong to doubt Henna. This seemed obvious now. On the Greyhound she had imparted to him a gift, an ability to discern the parameters of mortal life. So the lady was eccentric, but that was no crime; here, near Eugene, it was commonplace. At the Dixon house he had suspected her, yet even his mother vouched for her innocence. Henna had shrugged him off so he’d accept the gift on his own.
I accept, I accept! I can’t just sit by and watch a kid bite it.
As the Duster barreled down Sixth Street, Clay thought of Kate Preston. She was playfully shy and pretty in a natural, no-frills way. Her eyes were pale and blue, marked with the clarity of a person nourished by organic foods and vegetables. She seemed dedicated to her son and
dismissive of her husband’s philandering, a church-bred woman struggling between godly intentions and human desire.
Back at the dining table, Clay had felt Kate’s yearning. He’d soaked up her giving and nurturing gestures, aware of his own similar struggles.
“What’s Kenny up to?” he had said. Finding refuge in this concern. An escape.
“Good question,” she’d replied. Also using the diversion.
Together they’d searched the backyard, then realized he was missing.
Dmitri bemoaned the time wasted on that old woman’s guidance. He had tried the phone book, the Internet, the local hangouts …
He still had not found this Kenny Preston.
Did the boy understand the significance of his discovery in the engine cab? Where had he taken the object?
Wandering now, driving the streets of Junction City, Dmitri found himself back on Greenwood. He turned past the Viking Sal, aimed back toward the acclaimed train. For years this town’s citizens had functioned without knowledge of the secrets in their midst. How could history remain so quiet in the face of the future’s barrage?
Indeed, the Brotherhood of Tobolsk had nearly become a relic of the past; without a burst of fresh wind, their coals might have burned out completely.
We have risen again. Da. A new Tsar shall ascend.
Dmitri liked to imagine he could feel such wind—whispering over his face, assuring him of his place and purpose, nudging him along the correct course.
The flapping of angel’s wings.
Straight ahead in Founder’s Park, he saw Kenny Preston. Of course he had no guarantee this was the same boy, but he knew it in his bones.
The angel had guided him.
Dmitri watched the child dismount a bike and face a woman with a squirming puppy in her arms. In the darkness they exchanged words. The woman lifted a hand at an awkward angle, and the boy’s eyes bulged in horror. Behind the iron fence, Engine 418 stood in silent witness, a ghost eavesdropping over the small boy’s shoulders.
“Please don’t hurt her.”
