When My Heart Joins the Thousand

by A. J. Steiger

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks.

  I thrash and flail blindly.

  “Jesus, what’s your problem?”

  “Hey, I’ve seen her before,” the shorter man says. “She used to work here.”

  He’s still gripping my arm. It hurts. “Let me go!”

  “Tell us what you’re doing here, then I’ll let you go.”

  But I can’t think, I can’t breathe while he’s touching me. I stomp on his foot.

  “Ow! Shit!”

  He releases me, and I bolt for the fence, but he runs after me and seizes me in a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides. I struggle, kicking and screaming.

  The shorter man stares at me and shakes his head. “How did this nutjob ever get hired in the first place?”

  “Beats me.” His arms clamp tighter around me. “Hold still,” he growls. “You’re just making this worse for yourself.”

  I scream.

  The shorter man fishes a cell phone out of his pocket and dials. “Hey, Mrs. Nell? Sorry, Ms. Nell. We’ve got a trespasser. Yeah, it’s the chick with red hair and braids. What should we do with her?”

  After kicking and struggling a while longer, I go limp with exhaustion. My vision blurs, and I seem to be sliding backward, down a long tunnel. The men are talking, but their voices sound muffled and distant, and I can’t make out the words.

  They drag me to the office building in the center of the zoo. I’m no longer fighting or trying to run, but they push me into a closet and slam the door shut.

  “Does it lock?” the taller man grunts.

  “No.”

  “Well, what are we supposed to do then?”

  “Just wedge a chair under the knob.”

  There’s a scrape of wood against tile. I ram my shoulder against the door, trying to force it open. It rattles but doesn’t budge. I try the knob, jiggling it, but it refuses to turn. No way out. I slump against the back wall. It’s dark, and the lemony smell of cleaning supplies hangs thick in the air. It makes me gag. I pound on the door.

  “Keep it down, you. Nell says you’ve gotta stay here till the police show up.”

  “Hey, when did they say they’d get here?”

  “An hour or so.”

  “An hour? Are you serious? This is an emergency!”

  “Not according to them.”

  I stop pounding and sink to the floor. A heavy numbness creeps over me.

  “Hey,” the taller man calls through the door, “what were you planning to do with that sign, anyway?”

  I don’t answer. My mouth opens, but all that comes out is a faint croak. The words won’t line up, won’t form proper sentences. “Lies,” I manage to whisper.

  “What?”

  “Don’t bother trying to talk to her,” the other says. “I don’t think anyone’s home upstairs.”

  The blood pounds in my head, making me dizzy. A thin, reedy sound fills my ears, like an animal in distress, and I realize it’s coming from my own throat. I huddle in a tiny ball on the floor and begin to rock back and forth. I can’t stop myself. I rock harder and harder until my head is banging against the back of the closet.

  “What’s she doing in there?” one man mutters.

  “Just ignore her.”

  The rocking speeds up. My head knocks against the wall again and again. Bang, bang, bang.

  I’m glad they don’t open the door, glad they can’t see me like this, because I know what I look like. I look like what I am: an autistic girl having a meltdown.

  My body won’t stop, so I let it go, rocking over and over until the pain numbs me and my movements slow, like a toy winding down. When it’s over, I am squeezed into a corner of the closet, fists bunched up and pressed against my temples, and the world is dark and still. The overpowering lemon smell still snarls inside my nostrils. A dull ache pounds in my forehead. When I touch the ache, my fingers come away wet with blood.

  I do a few algebra problems in my head to make sure I don’t have a concussion. Breathing shallowly through my mouth, I press my ear against the door, but I can’t hear any voices or movement. I don’t know if the men are still there or if they left the office. For a few minutes I just sit, listening. The shuddering little gulps of my own breathing fill the silence.

  I try the doorknob, but it won’t open. My hand falls, limp, to my side.

  Soon the police will arrive. I’ve never been arrested, so I don’t know what will happen after that. Will they handcuff me? Will I have to spend the night in jail?

  I try the knob again. I jiggle it. I kick the door and then kick it a few more times, and something jars loose and clatters to the floor. The chair? For a few minutes I stand motionless, holding my breath, but I still don’t hear anything from outside. I try the knob again. This time, it turns smoothly.

  When I open the door, the office is empty, dimly lit by the faint sunlight spilling in through the window, and the chair is lying on the floor. I creep out of the closet, hunker down, and peek over the windowsill. Outside, I can see the men standing and smoking.

  “How long has it been, anyway?” one says.

  The other snorts. “Bet they don’t even show up. The cops in this city are a joke.”

  Holding my breath, I duck back into the office. If I go out through the door, they’ll see me. I open the window on the opposite wall and squeeze through, then run and run until I reach the wire fence. I scramble over it and keep running until I find my car, parked on a narrow residential street.

  I sag against the car, my body weighted with exhaustion, and close my eyes.

  Will anyone come looking for me? I don’t think hunting down some crazy girl who broke into a zoo will be a big priority for the police. I try to remember where I dropped the sign, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll probably just put it back up tomorrow.

  It’s started to snow. Fat, heavy flakes drift down from the sky and settle onto my hair and clothes. I watch them for a few minutes, then get into my car.

  When I return to my apartment, there’s a bright yellow eviction notice on the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I stare numbly.

  I thought I had a little more time. But it doesn’t matter. Either way, I don’t have the money, and Mrs. Schwartz has been looking for a chance to get rid of me. I decide to leave now and spare myself the indignity of being removed by force.

  There’s not a lot to take. The TV is ancient and the furniture is mostly junk. I stuff my clothes, toiletries, Rubik’s Cube, laptop, my last bit of cash, and as many books as I can fit into a duffel bag. I pause, looking at the single carnation, still in its glass on the coffee table, now brittle and dead. I take it from the glass and place it in my duffel bag, atop the pile of clothes.

  I sling the bag over my shoulder, then pause again, looking back at the living room where I spent so many nights watching TV on the couch, eating cereal or Cool Whip and washing it down with orange soda. Bare walls and mangy, threadbare carpeting stare back at me. Not much, but it is—was mine. The first place that was ever mine.

  I toss all my possessions into the backseat of my car.

  My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I flip it open, and my heartbeat speeds. A text from Stanley: I know what we had was real. I didn’t imagine it.

  He’s still trying. Even after all this time.

  I think about calling him back and trying to explain things to him. But I’m not that strong. I know that I’ll end up telling him everything, and then he’ll feel obligated to help me. If I don’t walk away now, it won’t ever happen. But it needs to happen. The kindest thing I can do is to break his heart.

  A cramp seizes my stomach. I double over, gasping, one hand pressed to my abdomen.

  Stanley is sitting next to me on the park bench, holding out his hand to me.

  He’s in the motel room with me, touching me, whispering that I’m beautiful.

  He’s guiding me across the ice. He steadies me when I slip and holds me close as snow drifts down around us
.

  We’re in his bed, our bodies pressed together, so warm and close that we could melt into each other like two puddles of candle wax.

  We’re lying side by side in the grass, holding hands as cold rain pounds down on us and lightning flashes, and through the roaring frenzy of the storm I hear the most unexpected sound—his laughter, high and young and beautiful.

  Slowly I straighten. I stare at the screen of my phone, and I send a text: Good-bye. I delete his name from my contact list, leaving my phone totally empty. Then I toss it into the Dumpster behind my apartment.

  And just like that, he is out of my world. There’s no number he can call, no address where he can find me. I’m on my own.

  I drive across town and park in a deserted lot where I won’t be bothered. I curl up in the backseat, head pillowed on my duffel bag, and sink into a foggy half sleep. I have a strange, chaotic dream about a Buddhist fable I once read.

  There’s a monkey, an otter, a jackal, and a rabbit. They all decide to do an act of charity, believing that great virtue will bring a great reward. So they find an old beggar man sitting next to a fire. He’s starving. The monkey gathers fruits, and the otter gathers fish, and the jackal steals a pot of milk, but the rabbit can only gather grass.

  They all bring their offerings to the old man and lay them next to the fire. But the old man can’t eat the grass, of course, and the rabbit feels a great sense of shame and worthlessness for the inadequacy of his gift. So he throws himself onto the fire, offering his flesh.

  In the fable, the old man turns out to be a saint with mystical powers who brings the rabbit back to life and offers him a great reward for his selflessness. But in the dream, this doesn’t happen. The rabbit just burns and burns.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Christmas lights glimmer around the windows of stores as I walk past. Wet, dirty slush piles up along the edges of the street. More slush sprays out from the wheels of cars zooming past. A cold breeze stirs the limp ribbons of wreaths hung from streetlights and store windows.

  I walk into a hot dog restaurant and push a few crumpled singles across the counter. “One chili cheese dog with everything.”

  The cashier hands me a sopping, paper-wrapped hot dog, along with a quarter and a penny, which is now—literally—my last bit of money.

  I sit in one of the hard plastic booths, soaking up the heat and brightness of the restaurant, and bite into the chili dog. It tastes incredible. When you’re homeless, it’s amazing how you learn to appreciate the simple pleasures: warmth, a full meal, a clean bathroom.

  I’ve been living and sleeping in my car for over a week, now. I’ve worn the same shirt for three days in a row, and my hair is matted and filthy. I look like any other street person—which is exactly what I am. In a way, it’s a relief.

  Oh, it’s horrible, of course. I wake up every morning with the knife of hunger in my belly and I go to sleep cold and still hungry. I’m always itchy because I hardly ever have a chance to wash. And I am aware that, statistically, I’m now at a much greater risk for being raped or murdered. Yet beneath the skin-crawling misery of it all, I feel more relaxed and free than I have in a long, long time. This is it—the bottom. There’s nowhere left to fall. I can finally stop trying so damn hard. And if I start muttering to myself or rocking back and forth, no one notices or cares, because street people are expected to be crazy.

  I eat the chili dog messily, not bothering to wipe up the meaty juice that dribbles down my chin and onto my shirt. After I finish, I lick my fingers clean and wipe them on the paper place mat. The other customers are frowning at me. A woman shakes her head and mutters something to the man next to her. At another time, their stares might have bothered me, but I find that I no longer care. Distantly I wonder what Stanley would think if he saw me now. I push the thought away.

  After a while, a manager walks up to me and quietly asks me to leave. I walk out without saying anything to him.

  There’s an old man sitting by the sidewalk, jingling a Styrofoam cup full of change and dollar bills. A pair of sunglasses perch on his long nose, and there’s a small, scruffy brown dog curled up next to him. The man is singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in a deep, resonant voice.

  The dog yawns, showing a tiny pink tongue, and licks a small wound on his paw.

  I listen for a few minutes, then toss my last twenty-six cents into the cup. The man stops singing and arches an eyebrow. “That really all you can spare?”

  I glance at the dog, who looks like some sort of terrier mix. He wags his stubby tail, wriggles, and licks his wound again. “His paw is injured. You should buy some ointment for it.”

  The man chuckles. “Pretty bossy for someone who only gave me two coins.”

  There’s nothing I can do. So I walk on.

  The man’s voice rises behind me, rich and sonorous, in a rendition of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”

  My head itches, and I scratch it, wondering if I have lice. Does that even happen to people in the winter?

  My car is parked in the lot outside a Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve been driving from place to place so I won’t get ticketed or arrested for loitering. Every once in a while I’ll fill out another job application, but I don’t know why I bother. I don’t have a phone, so there’s no way anyone could contact me, even if they wanted to. I’ve taken to being completely honest; I take a perverse pleasure in writing answers that I know will get my application chucked in the trash. When they ask me why I want the job, I write, Homeless. Need food. When they ask me why I left my last position of employment, I write, Boss tried to kill my friend. When they ask me my greatest flaw, I write, I destroy everything I care about.

  I sit in my car for a few minutes, staring into space. All my cash is gone, including the emergency twenty I kept hidden in the glove compartment. Pretty soon I’ll be like that man, asking for change on the sidewalk. I hate the idea of begging, but the knifelike hunger pains in my stomach are getting worse all the time. I could sell my car, but then I’d have nowhere to sleep. I already pawned off my laptop.

  A glance at my fuel gauge tells me I have less than a quarter tank left, and after this, I won’t be able to fill it up again unless I somehow, miraculously acquire more money.

  I climb into the backseat and unzip the duffel bag. The dried-out carnation still rests atop a rumpled pile of shirts.

  It’s the only thing I have left of Stanley’s. Even now, I can’t let go of it.

  He won’t be in the park, of course. But I drive there anyway and park in the lot across the street. Snow floats down from the sky as I walk across the expanse of grass, toward the bench where I first saw him. With one gloved hand, I brush snow from the wood and sit.

  A heavy exhaustion steals over me. I sink to the bench and curl up, tucking my knees against my chest. The cold seeps into my bones, numbing me, but there’s something comforting about the numbness. I feel like I could float away, and it wouldn’t matter. Is this peace? Is this freedom?

  My eyelids slip shut as I drift into the murky space between sleep and waking.

  After Mama’s death, I spent some time in an institution. I don’t recall much of it. For a while, I just drifted, surrounded by a gray haze. Words like catatonic and unresponsive floated at the periphery of my awareness.

  Little by little, I realize that I’m in a room with pale lime-green tiles on the floor. I start to notice things like the pattern on my sheets, the grain of the fake wood paneling on my wall, the taste of the stringy green beans the white-coated woman pushes into my mouth with a spoon, and the number of pills in the little paper cup they give me every morning and every night. There are nine.

  One evening, the white-coated woman comes into my room wheeling the tray of green beans and chicken, with the paper cup full of pills next to it. She picks up the cup. “Time for dinner and medication, Alvie. Can you say ‘ahhh?’”

  Slowly I sit up and run a dry tongue over drier lips. In my head, it makes a sound like sandpaper. With
a sweep of my arm, I knock the cup and plate of mushy food off the tray, and it scatters across the floor. The nurse lets out a little shriek.

  Later, I learn that this is the first time I’ve moved on my own in four weeks.

  Over the next few months, I improve, which is to say I start to walk around, go to the bathroom without help, and eat on my own. But I’m hard and empty inside, like a nutshell. I can’t even cry. Every morning I stare into the mirror and wait for the tears to come, but it never happens. I don’t say a word to the nurses or doctors. They think that I’ve “regressed,” that I’ve lost whatever verbal abilities I possessed due to trauma. But it’s not that I can’t speak; I just don’t particularly want to.

  Because there’s not much else to do in the institution, I read a lot, mostly books about science and animal behavior. The doctors don’t seem to realize that I can understand the books; they think I’m just looking at the pictures, or counting the words. I don’t care, as long as they don’t try to stop me.

  One day, I find a big book of European folklore on the shelf of the rec room. It has a thick leather cover with a border of shiny, raised gold leaves and detailed pictures of dragons and knights and forests. I’m not usually interested in fairy tales or history, but there’s something hypnotic about the images.

  Inside, there’s a chapter called “The Changeling,” with an illustration of a horned troll—its wrinkly face creased in a smile—lifting a baby out of its crib.

  Hundreds of years ago (the book says), some people believed that trolls and elves were real, that they lived in the forest, and that once in a while, these supernatural beings would sneak into a village to steal a human baby and replace it with one of their own offspring—a creature that looks human but isn’t. This child is called a changeling.

  If a child started acting strangely, parents would get scared and think he was a changeling. The legend held that tormenting the imposter—by beating it or putting it in a hot oven—would make the kidnappers return the real child to its human parents.

  I wonder how many children were burned in ovens or beaten to death by their parents because of this quaint little myth.