I crow like a rooster as the container lifts higher, wanting to crook my elbows and spread my wings, but it’s too dangerous to let go. It swings in the wind, seeming like a feather and not tons of steel. A few men glance up to find the source of the noise, shielding their eyes with their hands. Their confused faces make me grin, my lips basted with salt, my eyes fighting to stay open against the wind.
I spread my toes in my shoes, trying to act like glue as the floating metal box bears down on the ship. I’ve seen men tossed, like foam from the waves, from their container at landing. That’s why this job pays more. It’s the most hazardous.
The top of the container I’m supposed to set down on approaches fast. I plant every part of me to the roof as the crane driver angles, adjusts, and finally drops me with a loud, metallic bang. My whole body springs up at impact and I am thrown to the side, my legs swinging over the edge momentarily. I dig in, my fingernails scratching into the paint, sending up flecks of red and manage to pull myself back up. My heart jams for a second, and then beats wildly, jumping all over the place at another near death.
Kin has complained to the bosses about the lack of harnesses and safety gear, but he forgets who he’s talking to. He has this sense of entitlement that I don’t have. Maybe that comes from having a family and parents who valued you, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what that might feel like.
I’m still planted to the roof of the container, thinking about the small hole in my life that can’t be filled, when I hear the groan of the next container getting closer. I blink, jolt up, and remember we’re getting paid cash, no questions asked. They cut corners, but we’re not supposed to exist. Our welfare is a low priority as there are so many others begging to take our place. These feelings are ones I better understand. They are the patches of fabric that make up my orphan skin.
A horn sounds, which is my cue to unhook the chains and clamber down the giant steps made of metal boxes. I do it swiftly, jumping down as I see the shadow of the next container bearing down on me from above. Squeezing into the gap between two of them, I breathe one quick breath before bolting down the other levels as fast as I can. Each container set down is another coin in my pocket.
As I jump and squeeze my way down to the ship’s deck, I think about Kin. I think about whether he’s right that stealing would be easier. It would probably be safer. But even though this kind of work is on the dodgy side of legal, I’m not likely to get caught. I can’t get caught.
Images swirl in my head. Memories I keep stuffed in the back rooms under a grubby kimono and slash-black characters.
Kin and I have done our time. I remember the threats that prison would be far worse, and from the looks in their hard, hateful eyes, I believed it. Nothing is worth my freedom. I have scars inside and out that remind me every day. So does Kin.
The vibration of heavy metal slamming against itself rumbles through my body, and I hurry down the last couple of levels until I hit the deck. The counter hands me a card at the bridge, which I pocket.
I jog down the plank, smiling, as I get ready to go again.
Twenty more containers and the horn blares loudly.
“Take a half-hour break, men,” Black yells as he limps to his little glass cubicle, tucked into the side of the giant warehouse.
I glance down at his flipper-like foot. He uses it as a warning, flapping it in front of the new guys to scare them. And the way he smiles, mouth full of metal-capped teeth, I think he enjoys it quite a lot.
“Squashed flat!” he’d squawked when I first arrived here. His hand slapped down on the white trestle table, and he held his foot out for everyone to see. “Keep your arms and legs tight to yer body, don’t linger, and don’t freeze up.”
I grab two sandwiches and a can of soda off the lunch table, elbowing another man out of the way for the last one. He grabs at my neck but only manages to catch my collar. He mutters a word I’m very used to hearing as I shake off his grasp. I don’t turn around. There’s no point in engaging, no point in telling him I’m not what he says I am, because I don’t have an answer for exactly what I am. I walk away quickly and go looking for Kin.
My worn sneakers splash up muddy puddles as I wind my way through the bones of an unfinished ship. Abandoned after the war, it rises out of the shallows like the ribs of a giant sea creature. After seven years, people have forgotten about the frantic building that happened here. The shadows cut across my olive arm and I’m reminded that even after seven years, some things are still the same. Some things don’t degrade, don’t wash away like the small waves that slap at the framework, slowly eating away at the metal and feeding the barnacles that stick to it. The sea and its allies are trying to gradually pull it apart and drag it into the water. Soon, it will win.
I see Kin’s dark head above the level of some old drums stacked against each other at the end of the slip. His strong, dark arm rises up, he scratches his head, and then he laughs. I lift my hand and pause. He’s talking to someone.
I move behind the wreckage of discarded metal and wood, creeping closer so I can eavesdrop.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispers. My face twists in disgust and astonishment at how he managed to find a girl out here on the docks. I cover my mouth, trying to stop the snigger that wants to come out at the thought of what kind of girl could be ‘found’ down at the docks. “What’s a gorgeous girl like you doing out here? You’re too good for this place,” Kin croons.
I lean closer, my eyes kind of scrunched shut because I don’t want to see Kin kissing some girl, but I also want to know what he’s up to.
“Here,” he urges. “Take some of my lunch. I know, I know, but look at you, I can see your ribs through your fur.”
My eyes snap open and I draw in a breath, choking on a laugh. A minute meow is followed by a swearing, truly embarrassed Kin, standing over me with a tabby kitten tucked under his arm. His cheeks flush pink, and then he glances protectively at the animal curled into his elbow.
“Oh my God, Kin,” I manage through my chuckling. “I thought you were talking to a girl.”
The sight of my large friend holding a kitten so gently and self-consciously, carefully like it’s made of china, is too much for me and I collapse backward, tears in my eyes. He reaches out with his spare hand and clips my ear.
“Stop laughing,” he growls. He sets her down on a rotted crate. Her paws touch the damp wood for a second before he picks her up again. “You scared her.” He brings the fur ball to his cheek, his eyes full of affection for the, quite possibly, disease-ridden creature.
I laugh, holding my ribs. “Kin with a pet. I never thought I’d see it. It’s so, it’s so…”
Kin strokes the creature’s head, and it purrs. “So, what?” he asks, taking a threatening step toward me.
I’m struggling to think of something that isn’t going to upset him more, so I swallow my laugh and calm myself. “So what’s her name?” I ask carefully, avoiding his crimson face and furious, dark eyes.
“Tiger Lily,” he says, placing her gently on the ground and handing her a pinch of tuna fish from his sandwich.
I didn’t think I was capable of giggling, but I do. I giggle until my stomach hurts, and Kin has stalked away from me. Watching him as I shove dry, choking-hazard-like bread into my mouth, I wash it down with sugary soda. He crouches down and holds a welcoming palm to the kitten, revealing this softer side of him I’d always kind of suspected might be in there somewhere.
The wide-mouthed siren wails, and we both turn our heads in the same direction. Kin pats the little cat and murmurs, “See you tomorrow, Tiger Lily,” and then we sprint shoulder to shoulder toward the cranes.
11
The Prize
NORA
The house is too quiet. It’s like when she left, she took the sound with her. Everyone pads along the floors like they’re afraid of waking a demon in the basement. We’re stuck in this empty space, a void carved out so deep, so final, there’s nothing left to do b
ut hug the edges and try not to fall in.
Mr. Inkham’s loud footsteps disturb the unholy peace this house has settled into, and I can’t decide whether I like it or not.
He follows me down the short, dark hallway and into the sitting room, hovering in the doorway as I fling open the curtains. Light floods the stale room, lifting the floral patterns from the sofas and highlighting the dust that flies through the air in streams.
I gesture to the dusty pink sofa, edged in ropey brown timber. “Please take a seat,” I say formally. I sit opposite him and fold my hands in my lap, then at my sides, finally scratching my nose for something to do. “Er, do you want something to eat or drink?” I offer.
Mr. Inkham shakes his head, a flop of dark brown hair curling over his eyebrow. “No thank you, Miss Deere.” He peers out the window, watching the featherbone clouds sift through the sky. He seems uneasy and is doing the same awkward movements with his hands that I am. “I need to keep this brief,” he says, his eyes tracking a couple walking down the street arm in arm. Leaves fall in the woman’s hair, and the man lovingly picks them out of her bun.
I rub my tired eyes and sigh. “Keep what brief? Mr. Inkham, why are you here?” I lean forward, sunlight hitting my face. I blink, still gazing up and out the window. I want to fall into the sky, lay my bones against the clouds, and rest. Just for a moment, I’d like to rest. I lean back and press a hand to my heart. An ache pushes between my fingers.
He bends down and fumbles through his briefcase, pulling out a small stack of papers. “As you well know, your mother came from a very wealthy family.”
I nod my head, though I didn’t know. This is the first I’ve heard of it, but then I never put any thought into how my parents supported themselves. Thinking about the fact that my father is a public defender and how we live, I guess it makes sense that the money came from her. Mr. Inkham raises an eyebrow at my stilted reaction. “Your mother had a large amount of family money that upon her death was to go to her husband, er, your father…” I realize my shoulders have sagged, my head is hanging by a thread, and I try to force myself to sit up straight. “Your mother came to me at the beginning of the year and asked me to change her will. She requested that most of her inheritance, save a sufficient living allowance, be put into yours and your sister’s name for you to claim either when you marry or turn twenty-one, whichever comes first.” He delicately hands a piece of paper to me. I take it like it may disintegrate in my grasp. He points with his index finger to an amount of money so large my jaw actually drops.
“All this will be mine?” I stammer, underlining the number again and again with my eyes. It glows red, a prize… a price.
He leans back in the chair and smiles sadly. “Yes, it will be yours and your sister’s. Half to you when you turn twenty-one, and the other half to her when she does the same.”
My feet curl under as I form the question, “Does my father know about this?” The paper feels poisonous, slicing my fingertips. A reward I can’t claim may as well be punishment.
Mr. Inkham shakes his head slowly as he contemplates his answer. “No, not yet, but his lawyers have contacted me. I won’t be able to delay them finding out for very long. I’m sorry.” He acts like he knows.
It’s struggling to sink in. The information is looking for a hiding place in my head and failing. “So my father will get none of her fortune save a living allowance?”
He crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and pats his hair down. “That is correct, Miss Deere.”
It makes me smile although it shouldn’t. His anger is going to shake the walls of this house when he finds out. My voice quivers a little when I ask, “What do you need from me, a signature?”
Mr. Inkham leans forward and places a soft hand over my jittery fingers. I withdraw sharply. His eyes warm when they regard me, and he gives a small nod. “I don’t need anything from you, dear. I just came here to prepare you for what’s ahead, to war…” He averts his eyes and doesn’t finish. His mouth is suddenly hard and sucked in, a bitter taste on his tongue.
Warn me. You came here to warn me.
He packs the papers away and clasps his case.
“Is there anything else?” I lean forward in my chair, my starved eyes ready to swallow the room. I’m hoping for a letter, a note, anything that might explain her reasons. Honestly, I’m looking for an apology.
“I’m sorry, Miss Deere. I truly am. Your mother, she was…” Again, he doesn’t finish. He’s holding secrets in his mouth, words that keep pummeling his lips to get out.
A tear is working its way out of my eye. I’m battered with the truth. I don’t understand what’s happening, and there is no way to get any answers. I lift my face to the ceiling in an attempt to stop the overwhelmed feelings from pouring out of my eyes. The plaster roses on the ceiling seem to crawl out from the middle of the room like spiders, and I want to grab at a leg and pull it from the plaster. I want to find a hole and pull myself through. Climb up, up, up, into the dust and spider webs.
“So what do I do?” I ask, still looking at the bumps and buds of a hundred tiny, plaster roses instead of his horribly sympathetic face.
A hand goes to my shoulder. “Just take care of yourself. Survive, endure, for three more years…”
“What about my sister?” I think of Frankie alone in this house with him, and my dress suddenly feels like it’s strangling me. I tug at the collar. “She’s still so young.”
There’s hope in his expression. His cheeks raise and he talks to me like an equal, like someone who might matter or at least, matter one day. “When you’re financially independent, you can petition for custody. And if you choose to do that, I will help you file the necessary motions.”
Oh, I’ll do it…
“Three years,” I whisper to my lap. My fingers count, one, two, three, tapping a silent prayer against an empty window. It’s so long.
He stands, reaching into his pocket and handing me a black card embossed with white writing. “Three years. Then you call me.”
I hold the card in my fingers, folding it over once so it looks like a tiny tent I want to shelter under. “Or marry…” I whisper to my hand.
Mr. Inkham stops midstride, light cutting across his tailored pants so they look faded and old. He turns toward me, his eyes full of warning. “It is an option but, please, don’t rush into anything. You don’t want to end up in a more… er…” he searches for words that don’t exist and comes up with, “compromising situation than you already are.”
Got it. All men are dangerous.
I stand, straighten like a rod, and almost stamp my foot as I say, “My priority is my sister’s welfare. I’m no fool, and I will not make any decision lightly. What happens to me affects her too. I will do whatever necessary to keep her safe.”
“Fair words,” he concedes and then he pauses, rapping his fingers lightly on the surface of his worn leather case. “There is one thing you should try to remember, something you can hold onto, look forward to.”
I eye him warily, leaning back on my heels. “What’s that, Mr. Inkham?”
“Happiness,” he states with neither a smile nor a frown on his face. He is neutral, flat, like he’s offered me a cup of tea.
The word is a slap in the face. It’s too much to hope for. Too far-fetched.
I laugh sourly. “Any chance of happiness tumbled down the stairs and shattered to pieces with my mother.”
His eyes widen in shock, but he quickly composes himself, allowing me to pass through and walk him to the exit in silence.
“Good luck, Miss Deere,” he says grimly as he waits at the front door. He places his hat loosely on his head and steps outside, leaving me with a promise, a future three years forward, and a thousand days out of my reach.
Survive…
Happiness…
The two words are oceans apart.
An impossible couple.
12
Ordinary Life
KETTLE
I sigh
dramatically, and Kin jabs at me with his spare hand. “Do we have to eat here every day?” I complain as I throw my sandwich in the air and catch it. Down by the water, the sad shadows of a ghost ship hovering over us. I would have thought this kind of reminder was enough to put him off hanging around here.
Kin rolls his eyes. “You should be thankful we’ve managed to get in this many days in a row. Not that I like working this hard, but the money makes it almost worth it.” He shoves some food in his mouth, chewing carefully and swallowing before he continues. “I am starting to miss home though. How long has it been this time?” He flicks crumbs from his mouth.
I press my toe into the sludgy, tiger-striped sand, and flick a piece at one of the steel uprights still fighting gravity and the sea. It lands with a plop, slipping down and back into the water. “Four days…” I say, turning and pointing at him accusingly with my rust-colored finger. “Hey! You said home.”
Kin shrugs and mutters, “Shut up.”
I smirk and wade to the other side of the ship and up onto the dock, sitting down with my back against a stack of sleepers. Kin gallops over, slapping water toward me on purpose as he jumps up to join me. I shield my face but end up drenched in briny water anyway. He collapses at my side and opens another sandwich, fishy smells releasing from their packaging. I screw up my nose and make a gagging noise.
“Enough with the tuna!” I say, waving my hand in front of my face. “You’re starting to smell like a can of week-old cat food.”
“Our people do love seafood,” he says proudly, his high cheekbones seeming to stick out even prouder.
I roll my eyes. “What people? Cat people?” I say sarcastically.
Kin ignores me but I can see his nostrils flare as he looks left and right, holding a piece of his sandwich out in front of him and shaking it.
[Paper Stars 01.0] Nora & Kettle Page 6
