“That's sad.”
“I've led a fortunate life. Other people aren't so lucky. Helping people seemed the right thing to do, for me anyway.”
His explanation made sense. She had always criticized her own home as bourgeois, but it had been a good, solid home with devoted parents. Perhaps, in some twisted way, it had been reassuring to have something solid to reject.
“I need to figure out what I'm going to do when I grow up,” Emily said. “Maybe I'll do what you do.”
“You're an artist.”
“I'm a bartender. That makes me practically a psychologist. I listen, give advice, provide a shoulder to cry on. I think I'd be good at what you do.”
“People choose it because their heart tells them they have to.”
She rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. “In some strange way that I can't explain, I feel like I understand them.”
“That's because you see them as people. They aren't just an annoyance or a burden or menace. They're real to you.”
He reached up and gently touched her face. He pulled her to him and folded her into his warmth, a perfect fit. He stroked her hair, his breath tender against her cheek. His voice was a deep, soothing vibration.
“You do seem to have a way with the kids. They trust you. Think you'd like to volunteer? We could sure use your help. That way you can see what you're up against.”
“I could do that, but that doesn't sound very hopeful.”
He kissed her hair. “As long as people like you care, there is always hope.”
Lorelei
IT HAD taken only moments for Austin to grow small and fade into the horizon line. At the train yard, a bunch of freight-hopping crusty punk kids on their way to New Orleans had told her it was an eighteen-hour ride.
The rhythm of the tracks lulled her travel companions into a stupor on the floor of the empty Union Pacific car, but Lorelei stayed awake, watching the flatlands of Texas slip away. She studied the limestone hills outside the city. Then came expansive empty plains, a prehistoric landscape with only the occasional footprint of man.
She recalled her last train ride. She'd tagged along with Road Dogg from L.A. toward Phoenix. They'd slept in the bottom of an empty coal hopper, bandanas over their faces to screen black dust. He had crawled up the sloped sides to peer out at the exact moment they were passing through a crossing. Stopped traffic saw his masked face peeking over the lip of the container. Homeland security hauled them off the train at the next stop.
Authorities hadn't been interested in Lorelei, but they had taken Road Dogg to the local jail. She had waited for him for three days. Finally, starving and lonely, Lorelei had moved on. She hitched the rest of the way to Phoenix and found the bus terminal.
So, she was extra careful. She didn't want to be found and questioned and held against her will. She didn't need counseling or therapy in some psych ward. She'd served her twenty-eight days of indignities, invasions of privacy and drugs that left her hollow and dull.
All these thoughts flowed like mercury through her mind, the past and future a seamless vision. She was thinking of the night before. How she had hidden from Leo behind a church. In the morning, she had gone to the Driskill to see if she could spange a quick twenty before she went on to the train yards. She'd been peering around a corner, on the lookout for the hotel's uniforms, when she'd spied her parents.
They were so out of place standing in front of the opulent hotel, considering the frilly arched entryway. Her mother smoothed down the front of her clothes as was her nervous habit. Her father touched the small of her mother's back reassuringly and propelled her inside. Lorelei sank to the sidewalk in a rush of disbelief.
She wanted to run to her mother, to fall into her arms and explain everything. To tell her she was sorry, so sorry. Lorelei blinked back tears. After everything she had destroyed for them, they were searching for her. For just a moment, Lorelei allowed herself to consider the possibility that they wanted her back.
But then she remembered her body art.
Lorelei fought to smother the dull pain of crushed hope. They would never accept her now. They hadn't liked the old her, so they certainly wouldn't like the new her.
She searched her heart for the right thing to do. She felt compelled to let them know she was still alive. She owed them that much. She'd write her mother a note and give it to the bellhop.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of Emily's old jacket, looking for a scrap of paper. Her search revealed an inside zippered pocket she hadn't noticed before. There she discovered the envelope and the note.
Lorelei,
Please allow me to help you. Here is enough money for a ticket back home. Please go home. Your parents must be worried sick about you. All parents want to know that their children are safe and not hungry or cold.
You're a smart girl. Do the right thing.
Safe travels,
Barbara
P.S. Please don't tell Emily. She wouldn't understand.
Inside the envelope she found five one hundred dollar bills—Barbara Bryce's way of putting distance between her daughter and the pathetic homeless girl. Emily had accused her mother of always throwing money at a problem to make it go away. Emily had no idea how right she was.
Lorelei fingered the money. Her immediate future suddenly looked much more promising.
She scribbled her own short note on the back of the envelope.
I'm okay. Don't look for me. Love, Rose.
Lorelei waited until there was only one handsome young bellhop outside of the hotel. She cautiously approached. He eyed her suspiciously, waiting for her pitch, expecting her to ask for money.
“You want something?” he asked.
She held the envelope forward. She had folded it over so he wouldn't see the note.
“Did you see that woman who just came through here with a bow in her hair? The kind of country people?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Can you give the woman this?”
“Why?”
“I'm her daughter. She's looking for me. I want her to know that I'm okay.”
He hesitated and then took the note.
“Can you give me a while to get out of here? I don't want them to catch me.”
He glanced around to see if he was being watched. “Okay.”
“Think you can find her?”
“I'll try.”
“Great. I appreciate it.”
She turned to go when he said, “Hey, will they know who it's from?”
This amused her, and she flung her arms wide as she walked backwards down the sidewalk.
“Yeah, dude. They'll know who it's from. Believe me, there's only one me.”
She would never know if the note had found its mark, but by the time the train's destination drew near, Lorelei had convinced herself that things were as they should be. She couldn't go home. She was out of options in Austin. That's the way things worked. There was no use in crying over it or wondering if things could be another way.
That wasn't to say that she didn't have regrets. Her illness had robbed people she loved of money and energy and time. Most of all, it had robbed them of peace of mind. Life's ordinary concerns got replaced with tension and worry over her. What would she do next? How could they control her?
After a while, everyone became exhausted, and that was when they tried to drug her into the right perspective with meds that smoothed out the rough edges of her baseless grief like cool water over river rock. The problem was that the meds also extinguished the times her mind ran like liquid fire. She needed that stimulation. How could she explain that music turned to beautiful colors in her head? That random words plastered themselves to the inside of her skull like graffiti she could read with her mind?
It was frustrating that others couldn't experience her reality. If they could live inside her head they would understand that there was poetry to her disorderly thoughts. There was a balance, a payoff for the bad times.
She touched her traveler tracks. They had been stinging for days. They knew she was in trouble and it was time for another journey.
The train whistle slashed the night, announcing their arrival, confirming distance from the past.
She was filled with anticipation; her whole body buzzed. She couldn't wait to get to New Orleans—all those people, parades and parties, all that vivid happiness and weirdness. Nobody would pay attention to a girl with a few tattoos in a place like New Orleans. She was going to blend right in.
Epilogue
WHEN DAVID asked Emily to do an exhibition for the fundraiser, he had acted as if she would be doing him a favor. When she found out where the event was booked, Emily realized things were the other way around.
ArtHive curated their own exhibitions of emerging Texas artists. Their website billed the gallery as the center of activity for contemporary art in Austin. Emily's work would be merely a backdrop for a fundraiser for one night, not an exhibition selected by ArtHive, but she was still determined to make a statement.
Barbara rented one of ArtHive's studio spaces for her. Emily rearranged her Group work schedule so that she only bartended at night. Her days were spent in the studio. She grew accustomed to the thrum of the gallery's massive air system and the low echo of murmuring visitors. Her ears always recognized the clickety-click echo of the curator's spiked heels on the polished floors.
Lisa, ArtHive's head curator, often dropped by Emily's studio space to check on her progress. Lisa had been skeptical that a novice could pull off such an ambitious show as Emily had planned, but once she saw the photographs, Lisa quickly proclaimed Emily's work perfect for their experimental art venue.
Over the many months Emily had worked on the project, the gutter punks had let down their guard and allowed her into their culture. When she began culling images for the show, she had thousands of shots to consider. Lisa encouraged her to find what she called the through-line, the soul of the work that meshed all the images into a cohesive story. Lisa wasn't getting paid for doling out advice on a facility rental, but she seemed to have a connection with the Tumbleweed Center's event as so many people in Austin did.
Physically producing the show had been challenging. Her experience creating sets for her high school photography projects came in handy. She lifted images of dozens of kids from various photos and made life-sized reproductions. They were black-and-white, some were high-contrast, others grainy and pixilated. Emily left the back supporting structure of the standees exposed. She arranged them around the gallery in a series of vignettes. She hung background shots on walls.
She finished her installation just as the caterers arrived with their foil-covered trays and white tablecloths. The sound of rattling silverware ricocheted off the glassed atrium as Emily walked around for one last fine-tune. In the end, she touched nothing.
That night, ArtHive throbbed with energy. Emily was nervous, nearly sick with anticipation. She wanted other people to see what she saw in the kids—the moment laughter erupts, a much-needed hug, eyes filled with hunger, an intimate kiss. Some of the wooden gutter punks were crouched around the fire of a squat. She had captured a kid passed out beside a dumpster, and others in a park, their dog anticipating a Frisbee that Emily dangled yards away over the crowd. She created a queue of street kids in the food line outside the drop-in. These she hung individually from the ceiling by mobile cables, allowing them to move with the pulse of the party.
People asked questions that made Emily look at her work in a new way. They saw narratives she had never even considered. The range of reactions surprised and delighted her. The words most often used to describe the show were compelling and strong.
Emily was shocked to see Beth there. She was with her friend Kelly and they brought their husbands. They were sipping drinks and assessing the show. It seemed her mother had invited half of Juniper.
“Emily, I'm just so impressed,” Beth cooed as she bounced her infant in her arms. “I had no idea you were so talented.”
“I've got to say,” Kelly said. “This will wreck your heart. I mean, those are somebody's children.”
“It makes me want to do something,” Beth said.
“I know,” Kelly said. “We have to find a way to get involved.”
Travis had extended an olive branch by making sure that the Be Here Now art reporter got in good images with the fundraising story. The reviewer was haughty and didn't ask a lot of questions, but she noted that, “Absorbing subjects, stark photography, metal cables and raw wood lent the show an industrial feel, hard, like the streets.” She also wrote, “The unfinished backs of each standee gave an empty effect, as if the subjects were half-human.” For all her snotty attitude, she got it.
Emily was astounded by the turnout, but David wasn't surprised. He said Austin always supported the homeless in its midst. There were people from every walk of life—the wealthy and the middle-class, the political and the bohemian, the artistic and the business-minded—a hundred passionate discussions pressing against the gallery walls, all concerned with her show.
Only the gutter punks were missing. She'd tried to sell them on coming, had given them tickets. She explained that they'd be the stars of the show, but they had been immune to her spiel. She'd spent the night checking the entrance, hoping they would come.
The only homeless person she had spotted was Leslie. He was dressed for the party in a leopard print dress, high heels and a glistening tiara. He was flamboyant as usual, although he seemed to realize the occasion called for modesty.
“Congratulations.” Emily turned to see Travis's wickedly smooth smile aimed her direction. “Still sore at me?”
“I haven't thought a thing about you, you egomaniacal jerk.”
“I deserve that.” He smiled again. “Your show is terrific. Really on point.”
“Thank you, but it's about the kids, and I'm disappointed that none of them came.”
“Some of them did,” Travis said. “I just passed Mook on my way in.”
On the other side of the front glass windows, washed in ambient light from the gallery, Mook and Elda peered in. Elda wore a baggy dress cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt and ballet flats. She had flowers in her hair, no doubt stolen from someone's garden along the way. Mook had shaved, but his unruly hair still twisted out from his head in all directions. He wore a dress shirt and a pair of pants a size too small for his lanky body.
Emily walked out of the sliding glass doors to greet them.
“Hey guys. About time you showed up.”
“See,” Elda said to Mook. “It's cool.”
“Is anybody else coming?”
“I doubt it,” Elda said.
“I'm glad y'all came. I really want you to see the show. Come on.”
Mook pushed his cracked black frames up on his nose. “We'll weird everybody out.”
“You're wrong. Now come on or you're going to hurt my feelings.”
Elda took Emily's hand.
“I'm game,” she said. “I'm ready to celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?” Emily somehow knew they weren't celebrating the Tumbleweed Center's event.
“She got her GED,” Mook blurted.
“And the best part is,” Elda said. “Me and Mook are going to move into transitional housing next week. After we get our apartment, I'm going to get a job.”
“What about you, Mook? You going to work for the Man?”
“I haven't decided yet. I don't want her going off and leaving me, so…maybe.”
Elda adjusted the collar of his shirt. She nodded her head toward the door. “Come on. Let's go in.”
The doors swished apart, and the rumble of the gallery washed over them. Barbara was coming toward them. She suddenly stopped and relieved a surprised server of an entire tray of fluted glasses.
“Hello,” her mother sang. “You must be friends
of Emily's. I recognize you from her work. I'm so glad you could make it tonight. I'm Barbara. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
The evening was a success. The Tumbleweed Center made money. Mook and Elda had a good time. The most amazing part was that her exhibition was, as they say in the art world, well-received. As the party was shutting down, Lisa approached Emily about extending the exhibition.
“I think,” Lisa said, “this show has had such an impact that we need to keep it up for a couple of weeks. More people need to see it.”
Emily was elated, and even more so when Lisa said, “Next Saturday, admission to the gallery is free. You know, in case any of your street friends want to come see the show.”
When Emily shared the good news with her parents, they offered to take her and David for drinks to celebrate. They walked across the street to a small restaurant for one last glass of wine while they waited for David to wrap up the event.
They found a banquette in a corner and slid in. Her mother ordered a bottle of sparkling wine and when their flutes were filled, her father held his up and said, “A toast.”
Emily and Barbara raised their glasses.
He cleared his throat. “Okay. Here goes. First off, here's to our daughter, the lovely and most talented Miss Emily Bryce. Congratulations on a very successful show at the famous ArtHive. Way to go.”
“Here, here,” her mother said. They clinked and drank.
“And…” Gerald continued, “here's to our new venture. Your mother and I have decided that we are going to start our own public relations firm. Together.”
“What?” Emily said. “Really?”
“Lord knows, he's been exposed to enough of it over the past thirty years that he should know what to do by now,” Barbara said.
“Pray for me. Look who's my new boss,” Gerald said, and winked.
“That's exciting. I'm so happy for you guys. What's the name of your company?”
“We're calling it City Public Relations,” Barbara said. “You know, CPR. Breathing life into your business or something like that. We haven't fine-tuned the slogan just yet, but you get the idea.”
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