The Ballad of West Tenth Street

by Marjorie Kernan

  As Kristen rushed to it, Deen took the Post off the table and tossed it onto the stove burner, where it caught fire with a flump. As she moved to the door she flung the trash can behind her. The smoke alarm went off in a series of ear-destroying bursts of electronic noise.

  Deen was out the door and on the street before she even realized it. Above her the sounds of Kristen and the Blob and the smoke alarm fought for primacy. She sprinted away, taking the opposite direction from home. She ran until she could run no more.

  Gasping, she caught her breath and walked at a normal pace. She felt exhilarated. She’d finally taken action and escaped from that cow and her crazy-ass lectures. She let out a laugh—even all that caterwauling and fire alarms hadn’t gotten Paul out of his studio.

  It wasn’t until she was on Grand Street that she realized she’d run away in jeans and a T-shirt. That she didn’t have a coat, a cell phone, or two nickels to rub together. Kristen had made sure she never had any money.

  Hell, she’d manage. She walked past a firehouse where inside a fireman was washing the engine. He stopped to stare at her curiously. She smiled at him and moved away. Shit, Hames had told her that if the DHS people got their hands on her she’d be dogmeat. That they were raptors, that children with AWOL mothers and dead fathers got snapped up by them and sent into foster care.

  Goddamn Munster. Uh oh, people were looking at her, wondering why she didn’t have a coat. She straightened up, taking her arms away from her chest, tried to look like the kind of numb kid who’s impervious to the cold.

  If only she had some change to make some phone calls. She could try asking someone who looked sympathetic for some quarters, but that kind of person might easily start asking questions.

  As she walked through SoHo, her hands and feet began to freeze. The sidewalks were crowded, filled with strangers who pushed past her, making her move out of the way. A worry began to grow inside her chest. There had to be some way she could find someone to help her. The city she’d thought she knew so well suddenly felt strange to her, and the people frightening.

  Maybe Elizabeth, her old piano teacher, would help her. She lived only a few blocks away. Deen made her way there and rang the buzzer. No answer, not even that troll she lived with was home. But it gave her an idea, so she walked north, to the Fieldings’. No one was there either. She thought about sneaking into the lobby and waiting for them, but it was one place Kristen might think of looking for her.

  There was a cop on the corner, so she veered away, toward MacDougal. If only she could call Hames. Or Liall. Liall would understand, and Brenda had a key to the house. Wait—of course the colonel would take her in, would be glad to let her stay. Turning, she walked back toward Tenth Street and safety.

  Feeling warmed already by the fire in his back parlor, she set out eagerly. Ettie would make a fuss over her and cook something special for dinner—oh, it was all going to be fine. She felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her.

  But as she reached her block she saw a woman with a stroller standing before their front steps. Dammit, it was Kristen, she’d know that limp down coat anywhere. Deen hid behind a lamppost, thinking. There was no way she could get to the colonel’s door unseen. Shit.

  Despondent, she went back toward Washington Square Park. The light was getting that lemony, thin quality; it wouldn’t be long till the sun went down. Panic rose in her throat like a creature trying to crawl out of her stomach. She went over to the dog playground, lurking, watching the faces of the people watching the dogs. The dog’s antics were comical, as they sniffed at one another’s asses and played at aggression. The kind of person who’d stop to watch them and smile, maybe that was the sort of person who’d give her a couple of dollars without asking all sorts of questions.

  She was just sidling up to a woman when someone shouted, “There she is!” Without looking around, Deen moved swiftly away.

  She stepped behind a tree near the chess tables, breathing hard. She stood quite still, then looked back. Letting out a sigh, she decided that no one was following her.

  “That bishop is goin’ away for life!” she heard one of the chess players cry. “The jury listened, then they came back and said ‘Guilty, your honor’ and now that bishop’s goin’ away.”

  It was Bed-Stuy, one of the regular chess hustlers. He’d always called out hello to her when she passed, and for some reason asked her for tips on the ponies. They weren’t exactly friends, but surely he’d let her have a few bucks. She went closer to his table and waited till the game ended. She hoped he’d win, but he didn’t.

  “Hey, kid,” he said. “What’s up? What’s surefire for the fifth at Belmont?”

  “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  “Sure, kid.” He got up and led her over to the path away from the tables. “What gives?”

  “Can you lend me some money? Only a few dollars? I lost my pocketbook, my cell phone, and everything. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Okay, okay, now keep your voice down, kid. No use in everyone knowin’ your troubles. Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s away. And I don’t have my keys, or anything.”

  “Damn. Thing is, shit, I only have a dollar. Luck wasn’t with me today, you know? But here, kid, you take it. You gonna call someone to come get you?”

  “Yes, I’ll call my brother.”

  “You gonna be okay? Hey, you want my Metrocard?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Deen pocketed the quarters and turned away, calling out, “Thanks!”

  Phone booths were becoming as rare as dinosaur eggs, but Deen found one on Sixth. She dialed Hames, only to get his voice mail. Upset, she hung up without leaving a message. Feeding another quarter into the slot, she dialed the number again.

  “Hames, I’m in front of Charlie Mom’s, on Sixth. I don’t have my cell, don’t call that number. I’ve run away. I really need help, I don’t have anywhere to go. Call Charlie Mom’s and leave a message for me, or come there. I’ll check in there every half hour, okay? I really need your help. Don’t call the Dresdens either, or tell them anything about this. If you have to, order a big take-out dinner and I’ll say I’m waiting to meet you there, okay? Put it under Hollander and I’ll know.”

  Looking at the two quarters left in her hand, she used one to get the colonel’s number, then her last to dial it.

  “Meester Harrington’s.”

  “Ettie, it’s Deen. I’m in big trouble. I’ve run away and have no place to stay. Could you help me?”

  “Hello? Hello? Is someone there?”

  Deen rattled the phone and jiggled its steel cord. “Ettie, it’s Deen! Can you hear me?”

  “I wait, is there someone there? Hello?”

  “Ettie, please.”

  “Sorry, I cannot hear anyone. Sorry. Call back, I wait.”

  Deen wanted to smash the phone into pieces and burst into tears as she heard Ettie hang up. Her last goddamn quarter was gone and who knew if Hames would ever even listen to his fucking messages.

  God, home was only a few blocks away. She wandered around the neighborhood glumly, hoping that Hames would get her message. The streets were dark now, the people on them lit by streetlights and the lights from shop windows. She hoped to see a panhandler with a coffee cup for change, so she could ask them for a handout herself, but none appeared.

  When a half hour had passed she went to Charlie Mom’s, to ask the man at the counter if there had been a message for her. No, he told her, there had been no calls for someone named Deen. He was so pale he looked as if vampires had drunk all his blood. He never looked up at her as he went on putting packets of forks and duck sauce in paper bags.

  She went back out to the street. It was six o’clock and the people getting out of work filled the pavement, buffeting her this way and that. Trying to concentrate, figure out how to get some more quarters, she saw a great lumpy figure on the other side of the avenue.

  “Cap’n! Cap’n!” she cried. The figure stopped, looking around. If onl
y the streetlight would change, and she could run across, it seemed like he’d heard her, but ages passed before she could finally dash across the wide avenue. She ran between people, toward where she’d seen him last, all the bigger, taller people blocking her view.

  He was still exactly where he’d stopped, looking around him with a worried expression. “Oh, Cap’n,” Deen gasped. “I’m so glad to have found you.”

  “My dear, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve run away. From these horrible people who were keeping me captive. I’ve been on the run all day and I’m so afraid the DHS might catch me, or a cop might call them, and I don’t have any money and Hamish doesn’t answer his cell phone.”

  “Tuck your arm under mine. All is well now.” He steered her off the busy avenue to the quiet of Eleventh Street.

  “I have no place to go,” Deen told him. “Oh, and everyone’s been crazy with worry about where you’ve been, I’m so glad you’re all right. Cap’n, do you think you could help me find someplace safe to stay tonight? And this is awful, but could you possibly give me a few dollars?”

  “My dear, it’ll all be fine. I’m living at the colonel’s, and I’m sure we can have this all sorted out in no time. We’ll go straight there.” He patted her arm and Deen felt lightheaded with relief.

  He felt the girl dragging on his arm, and, his street instincts kicking in, he wheeled her smartly about.

  “I forgot, she’s waiting for me,” Deen whispered.

  “Who?”

  “The woman I ran away from. She’s been waiting in front of our house, hiding by the steps. Munster left me with her, so she thinks she’s in charge.”

  The Cap’n never questioned Deen’s need to avoid this person. He led her away. He knew all about avoiding the law. But he hadn’t noticed that Deen was not dressed for winter until an involuntary shake ran up her arm.

  “My dear, you must be freezing! Here, you take this five and go into this café, order a cup of tea. No, I insist. You must get warm. Tell the waitress that your mother is coming to pick you up, play it by ear, but get her sympathy without attracting too much sympathy, you understand? I’ll have a bit of a think about how to get you to the colonel’s past that sentry, all right? I’ll make some phone calls. Here, you pretend to be looking in this shop window, while I adjust my bootlaces. I keep some money hidden in here. Look, here’s a twenty, you take it, it may take two cups of tea. Order a wedge of pie too, and make sure you eat it. You’re as cold as a block of ice. Now, go on in, I won’t be more than a few steps away.”

  The twenty the Cap’n had pressed on Deen was his only money, from a secret emergency stash he kept in his boot. But he still had a number of quarters. What he really ought to do was scare that woman patrolling the Hollander house away. But it’d be no good for Deen if he were hauled off on a charge before he could see her safely to the colonel’s. Goddamn it, he thought, but he knew how fragile life was without money, and he and Deen had so little. He’d explain everything to Ettie, she’d know what to do.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked by the window of the café, giving Deen a thumbs-up sign. Seeing that no one else was looking, he signaled that it would be a half-hour wait. The girl nodded. She would’ve made an excellent soldier.

  Mrs. D, when reached by the colonel, twigged to the delicacy of the situation immediately. As resourceful as ever, she called in a favor to an antiques dealer and had the entire campaign mapped out in minutes. In slightly less time than the Cap’n had signaled Deen to wait, a white van with a handsome gilt logo on the side pulled up in front of the café. Mrs. D stepped out of the passenger seat, as rigidly groomed as ever. She played the part of Deen’s mother beautifully, kissing her and leading her out the door. She rapped twice on the back door of the van and when it was opened, helped Deen in. She got in next, then tugged and pulled to help the Cap’n aboard.

  Kristen stood upon the frozen deck, her duty clear and her back straight. The girl had run away on her watch, and on her watch would be caught. The cold ran up from the pavement through her feet and up her legs to the crown of her head, but she was not going to fall down on the job. Any minute now, she could feel it, the miserable brat would come slinking toward her. And she, Kristen, would be waiting. She wouldn’t say a word, just march the brat home and put her to bed. There’d be time enough to deal with her punishment in the morning.

  A van pulled up, double-parking in front of the house next door. She turned to stare at it. Huh, some hoity-toity antiques shop uptown. Two burly men carried a wooden packing crate from its rear, then carefully took it up the steps, where they rang the bell.

  Rich people, she thought, turning back to scan the street. All these rich people like the Hollanders and this neighbor of theirs, they act like owning antique treasures is nothing. Oh look, here’s my new ruby centerpiece, as if the emerald one wasn’t enough. When real people did just fine with a clean table and some nice casseroles.

  She didn’t notice that only one of the burly deliverymen came back out. From her spiderhole in the shadows by the doorstep she waited, lonely, ever vigil. The muted sound of voices seeped out of the house behind her, then the lights were turned out in the front. Still she waited. Someday someone would thank her for being so selfless and true.

  28

  Munster?”

  “Deen, darling! I’ve been worried about you, Hames kept telling me you were all right, but I was beginning to think he was lying.”

  “I’ve run away from the Dresdens.”

  “Have you, darling? How resourceful.”

  “I’m staying at the colonel’s. And you mustn’t tell Kristen, it’s a secret.”

  “Really? What a good idea. I’ll worry about you far less there. I did worry, you know, did realize that leaving you with Kristen was a pretty terrible idea.”

  “Yes, Munster. It was. How’s Uncle Brian doing?”

  “Well, you know, a bit off really. He doesn’t seem to be making much progress. The doctor seems quite puzzled, in fact. It’s as if he doesn’t want to wake up. I’m doing what I can.”

  “Well, don’t worry about us, we’re all fine. Hamish is moving in here too, we’re going to arrange things to suit ourselves from now on. I need your Amex number—I want to order a car service so we can go up and see Gretchen. And I need some money, I ran away without a dime and I don’t ever want to be in that situation again.”

  “Of course, darling. Got a pen?”

  Kristen sat holding the phone, staring at it and chewing a ragged spot on her lip. Her eyes were circled by olive stains. She’d had a terrible night, the poor girl. The police had chased her away from her vigil by the Hollanders’ front steps, after which she’d lain awake all night, fretting about that rotten, ungrateful child.

  She looked again at the phone, knowing she ought to report Deen missing, but unwilling to admit her own part in the matter. She’d been sitting like that for hours, only getting up once in a while to tend to Rinaldo.

  Paul had not said a word about Deen’s absence that morning, but now he came into the kitchen and stood, staring down at her.

  “It’s half past two,” he said. “Where’s Ondine? Why isn’t she here for her lesson? What have you done with her, you evil cunt? Have you let your foul urges get the better of you, done something you shouldn’t have, woman? Out with it, where is she?”

  “Oh, Paul,” Kristen sobbed. “I’ve tried calling, but no one answers the phone. I’ll go, I’ll walk over there myself and leave a note if no one answers the door.”

  Paul stared at her as she jumped up and began putting on her coat. She avoided his eyes as he continued to stare. Then he turned and went back to his studio.

  The tears froze on Kristen’s cheeks as she practically ran toward Tenth Street, shoving the stroller before her. Oh please, oh please, let the little wretch be hiding behind a curtain, let her be in that house, rather than murdered in some alley, oh please, oh please, she’d be in such a shitload of trouble if Deen wasn’t safe.


  As she neared the house she slowed down, dreading her fate. She was jibbering, saying “Help me, help me, help me” in a whisper. She stood, looking up at the blank house. It stared back down at her, uncaring.

  A last instinct for self-preservation rose in Kristen’s mind—she turned to throw herself into the street, fall on her face, and have a tantrum. She didn’t think it all through, simply wished to end her responsibility in life, let someone else pick up the pieces. She was adjusting her mittens, for she didn’t want to hurt her hands, when a sound stopped her cold. The sound of a piano being played nearby. Her eyes squeezed shut in her fit of madness, she felt for the handle of the stroller, and inched toward it. It was coming from the house next door. And it was Deen in there, she knew it, playing some ringing sounds, ringing out behind those heavy curtains she saw, as her eyes flew open in fury. Sitting there like some fairy princess in some goddamn fairy tale, eating cakes and wearing a bow in her hair, playing the piano as if nothing were wrong, the miserable, ungrateful little brat!

  Now the consequences of what she’d nearly done came home to her, how if she’d thrown herself screaming into the street, her darling, her angel, would have been taken away from her, while she was hauled off to Bellevue. How the cops would go and knock on the door, take one look at Paul, and haul him off to Bellevue too.

  She had to think hard. No, she wouldn’t run up those steps and beat on that door. She wouldn’t take any more chances. She’d wait for her revenge, would exact it in the fullest way, but only when it was safe. She’d get that girl and good, for nearly making her lose her precious one. It was all that miserable brat’s fault.