This Strange and Familiar Place

by Rachel Carter

  “Early. Just past dawn.”

  My stomach makes a gurgling noise and I press my hand to it. “Is there anything to eat?”

  She shakes her head. “This isn’t a hotel, Princess. There’s no breakfast unless I can scrounge something together before the boys wake up.”

  I should have realized, after how dinner arrived last night. “Are you going out to get food, then?”

  She nods.

  I think of the story Tag told Wes. Nikki might not be Little J’s mom, but it’s been her job to feed and clothe him for the past few years. While I was worrying about what to wear to my freshman formal, she was trying to keep her family together.

  “I could come . . . help you. If you want.” My voice is soft as I brace myself for her rejection.

  She purses her lips. After a long minute, she shrugs. “I could care less.” She gets up and walks over to the door. It opens with a low creaking sound. She pauses with her back to me. “So are you coming, or what?”

  I look back down at Wes. It’s probably not dangerous to be out in the city without him and after last night I think we both need some distance. Still, what will he think when he wakes to find me gone?

  “Well?”

  I get up from the couch, carefully stepping over Wes’s prone form. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  Even though it’s early morning, the air is muggy, like a wet blanket that settles thick and heavy on our skin. Nikki and I turn onto Avenue C. The East Village is quiet and empty, with few cars passing and even fewer people on the street. I suppose even drug dealers have to sleep sometime.

  Nikki walks quickly, her short legs swallowing up the sidewalk as fast as they can. I’m taller than her by a few inches, but I struggle to keep up. We’re both quiet, and I try to think of something to say.

  “I heard Tag talking about your brother Chris last night,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry.”

  I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth, but Nikki just scowls and lifts one shoulder. “It is what it is.”

  I glance over at her. “Does that kind of thing happen a lot around here?”

  “Kids disappearing? Yeah.”

  “Have you known others?”

  She stops walking and puts one hand on her hip. “Why are you so interested in this?”

  “I—”

  “This is the ghetto, Princess. Kids disappear all the time. Most people don’t care. Just let it go.”

  But I can’t. “I care, and you do too. That counts for something.”

  “So what? It doesn’t change anything.”

  I meet her eyes. “I guess I’m just curious why no one else notices or does anything about it.”

  “Some people notice.” She starts walking again.

  “What does that mean?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I’m not the bad guy,” I tell her. “I’m just trying to help.”

  She laughs. It’s a cruel sound. “Are you going to swoop in and fix everything? The little white girl princess come to rescue the poor street kids? Spare me.”

  My mouth falls open. “No. I—forget it.”

  We walk in silence for a minute. The worst part is that she’s right—she has no reason to trust me. No reason to tell me anything.

  I can’t stop those kids from disappearing. No one can.

  “I’m sorry,” I say stiffly. “You’re right, I should mind my own business.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Calm down, Princess. No offense, but I can tell that’s not one of your strengths.”

  “Yeah, I guess not.”

  She grabs my arm and we both stop. Her voice is softer as she says, “Look, if you want to know more about this, you should talk to LJ, okay? He has a list.”

  “A list?”

  “Of the kids who disappeared. He’s been working on it for years.”

  “Why—”

  But her fingers suddenly dig into my arm, and her brown eyes light up. “He’s here. Come on.” She tugs me down the sidewalk.

  An hour later, we arrive back at the apartment carrying a bag of slightly bruised fruit.

  “You found breakfast?” Tag comes out of his room. He stretches his arm over his head, and his shirt rises a little, showing the dark skin of his stomach. I was wrong before; he is attractive, even if he wouldn’t be considered classically handsome. But his eyes are almost as dark as Wes’s, and he has a strong, square jaw. “What’d you girls find out there?”

  Nikki dumps the bag on the table and walks over to him. “Some fruit.” Her words are muffled as she buries her face against his chest.

  “Viktor again?”

  Nikki nods, and her blue ponytail bobs up and down. “Princess here helped.”

  Tag catches my eye over her head. He looks surprised. “You the decoy?”

  “I guess. Nikki just told me to go talk to some pervy guy selling fruit, and the next thing I knew she’d unloaded half his cart.”

  Tag laughs. “I would have liked to see that.” He lets go of Nikki and reaches for the bag. “You got any bananas in there?”

  LJ suddenly appears next to us, his hand closing over an orange. He moves so quietly that it takes me a minute to realize he’s there.

  Speaking of missing people. “Where’s Wes?”

  “He’s in the bathroom,” LJ replies.

  I grab an apple and turn to leave the room.

  “We had to talk him out of going after you.” Tag’s voice makes me pause near the door. “I convinced him that Nikki could take care of herself.”

  “So can I,” I snap without turning around.

  “Wes knows that. He said you were tough.” Tag’s voice becomes softer. “But he was pretty upset when he realized you weren’t here.”

  I sigh and step into Tag’s room.

  The bathroom door is open and I see Wes inside, standing near the sink. He’s bent over, his hands cupped around the chipped porcelain. He’s gripping it so hard his knuckles have turned a sickly blue color, and he’s shaking. His back, his arms, his legs. Every part of him trembles.

  I stop in the middle of the bedroom. Wes doesn’t even seem to notice me, which is alarming enough; he always seems to know when I’m in a room.

  But not this time.

  The shaking gets more violent, enough to rattle the sink against the wall. I start to wonder if he’s having a seizure. I take a step closer.

  His eyes cut to the side as he finally notices me. He stands up and his body stills. But the movement costs him—his face is pale white, and I can see the sweat gathering on the back of his neck.

  “Wes.” I move forward. “Are you okay? What was that?”

  “Nothing.” His voice is cracked and low. He clears his throat. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? It looked—”

  “I’m fine, Lydia.” He shouts the words, and I freeze, a few feet away from him. Just yesterday, I was thinking how natural he seemed to be in this squat, but now it is as though he is made of glass and any touch will shatter him.

  There’s a pause. Wes ignores me, staring down at his hands.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I finally say.

  “Nothing. I was worried about you, that’s all.”

  “I’m not the one shaking in a bathroom.”

  “It was nothing. Forget about it.” He takes a deep breath, in and out, and then his shoulders fall and he steps forward. “We should go see McGregor before it gets too late.”

  I nod, still watching him carefully. Something is very, very wrong, but I know Wes well enough to know that he won’t tell me. At least not until he’s ready.

  I press the red apple into his palms, where it looks smaller than it is, dwarfed by his large hands. “Eat this,” I tell him, instead of what I’m really thinking. “You have to keep your strength up.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turns and walks from the room. I follow him, wishing I knew how to solve all of the problems we’re facing. Even if I don’t fully understand what they are.

&
nbsp; CHAPTER 12

  John McGregor? Hi, this is Sarah Bernstein from the East Hampton Star. We’re interested in interviewing you about the upcoming election.” I hold the pay phone as far away from my ear as I can. I thought the subway smelled like urine, but it has nothing on this phone booth. “I know this is unorthodox, to approach you directly, but since you’re from Montauk I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a last-minute favor for a local paper?”

  “Um . . . sure. That shouldn’t be a problem.” His voice sounds muffled in my ear. “When were you thinking?”

  I look up at his building across the street. The glass walls of this booth are smudged, but I think I can still pinpoint the window to McGregor’s apartment. “Would now be okay? I’m in the city with a colleague, and we’re not far from your neighborhood.”

  “I . . . I guess that’s fine. There’s a diner near Battery Park called Timmy’s Luncheonette. I could meet you there in half an hour.”

  “Great. See you soon.” I hang up and step out of the booth. Wes is leaning against the glass, watching me closely.

  “It worked?”

  “I told you it would.”

  I adjust my dress and stare at my reflection in the window of a nearby deli. The lipstick Nikki let me borrow is starting to melt in the heat and I wipe away a smudge under my bottom lip.

  Wes straightens. His hair is gelled again, and he’s wearing the pinstriped shirt, though it is now wrinkled and a little stained. Hopefully McGregor won’t examine us too carefully.

  We’re not carrying anything except for the newspaper clipping of Dean, tucked into Wes’s pocket. He convinced me to leave the rest of my grandfather’s files at the squat, telling me we wouldn’t need the information and that Tag would keep it safe. It’s a testament to how much Wes obviously trusts him.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  The clipped word makes Wes pause. “Lydia. About last night.”

  I refuse to look at him, instead walking down the sidewalk toward the neon green Luncheonette sign. “I don’t care about last night.” I stop and smooth my hands over my dress. “Okay, that’s not true. I do. But I’m not going to fight you on it, Wes. I’ll save my grandfather and go back to my own time.” A passing businessman gives me a look, but I ignore him. “But . . . I just . . . want to know that you’re okay. It’s not only the shaking. You seem different. Something isn’t right.”

  He runs his hand over his hair in a nervous gesture. “It was nothing. I’m the same.”

  I stare at him for a moment, but he won’t meet my eyes. “Okay, Wes. Have it your way.” I step forward, so that I’m no longer in his shadow. “Let’s go meet McGregor.”

  The lighting in the diner is harsh, making the bags under John McGregor’s eyes look deep and sallow. “I was surprised that the Star would have heard about this election.” He turns a pink packet of Sweet’N Low over and over in his hands.

  Only a counter separates the diner from the kitchen, and I can hear pans clanging and the sound of grease popping in the fryer. “We’re always interested in locals who are doing amazing things,” I say over the noise.

  He shrugs. That defeated look has not left his eyes and he sits with his elbows slumped over the table. “I’m not sure how amazing this is.”

  “To be close to winning a city council election? That’s quite an accomplishment!” I keep my voice light.

  McGregor—or John, as he insisted we call him—doesn’t answer.

  “John?” I prod.

  “What?” He jerks his head up. “I’m sorry. I’ve been out of it the past few days.”

  If John ever had a politician’s charisma it is gone now, replaced with a melancholy sullenness. I glance over at Wes, but he is staring at the wall, seemingly lost in thought. It’s like I’m the only person at the table who’s even here.

  “You seem a little distracted,” I say to both of them pointedly.

  Wes shoots me a look, but John just sighs. “I really am sorry. I had some distressing family news in the past few days. Maybe this isn’t the best time to do this.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, are you all right?”

  “I . . . yes.” He looks up and attempts to smile. Even as I watch, it crumbles, falling away from his face. “No. I’m not.” He drops his hands down onto the table, tossing the sugar packet aside. “I found out a relative of mine is . . . going through a rough time. It hasn’t been easy.”

  “I’m really sorry.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand briefly. “That must be difficult. If you want to talk about it . . .”

  He huffs and shakes his head. “You’re a reporter. The last person I should be talking about my personal life with.” But he is clearly itching to tell someone, because he leans forward slightly and drops his voice. “This is off the record, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “A cousin of mine is in the psychiatric ward at Bellevue. It’s hitting me harder than it should.”

  I make a sympathetic noise. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He sits back in the booth. He hasn’t touched the coffee in front of him, but it’s still hot and the steam curls up into the air between us. “We haven’t spoken in years. A mutual acquaintance told me what happened to him. Apparently he went crazy. His family has stopped visiting him. It’s a goddamn mess.”

  “I’m sorry.” More than he knows; I hate the idea of my grandfather being alone with his own thoughts. My father must be so angry to abandon him in that place.

  Wes shifts in his seat, and rests his hand next to mine on the table. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring down at our almost-touching hands, but at least he seems to be listening now.

  “It’s awful. I should have found out about it sooner. I should have done something. We grew up together. He always had these crazy ideas, but it was just part of who Peter was. To see him like this . . .” John rubs a hand over his mouth. He has two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin.

  “No one in your family told you about him before now?” I ask.

  “I had a falling out with my father, and my mom died when I was a kid. I haven’t even been back to Montauk since I left six years ago. God.” He shakes his head. “Poor Peter.”

  “What was he like, when you saw him?”

  “Delusional. Rambling. He gave me this computer disk, told me to give it to his family. I guess I should mail it, I don’t know . . .”

  I sit up a little. “A disk?”

  “Yeah.” John reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a black floppy disk. He slaps it down onto the linoleum table. “I’ve just been carrying it around with me.”

  I stop myself from reaching out to touch the square piece of plastic. “I could bring it back to Montauk for you, if you want. I’m headed there later.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You’re a reporter. A stranger. I don’t even know what’s on here. I haven’t had the chance to open it yet.”

  “I am a reporter, that’s true,” I say slowly. “But I’m also from Montauk, and that makes me a neighbor. You know what it’s like to be a local out there. I’m not some cutthroat journalist. Please let me help.” I give him my best trustworthy look. “I promise to keep this safe, and make sure it ends up in the hands of Peter’s family.”

  He stares at me for a moment, then pushes the disk across the table toward me. “He’s a Bentley. You can find his son at the local hardware store.”

  I close my fingers around the floppy disk. “I know where that is.”

  “Thank you.” He smiles, and it’s the first real one since he arrived. “I was dreading dealing with this. I’m not . . . ready to go back there yet.”

  “I understand.”

  He gets up from the table. “If you’ll excuse me. I . . . I need to go. Feel free to contact my campaign manager about rescheduling that interview. And thanks again.” He touches his forehead, then leaves the small diner.

  “I think it’s safe to say tha
t your grandfather is responsible for McGregor losing focus,” Wes says as soon as the door closes behind John.

  “That’s probably a safe bet.” I hold up the disk. “What do you think is on this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something about ‘the mark of the traveler?’” He turns to face me, none of that former detachment in his face. I frown. It’s not like Wes to just drop out of a moment like that.

  “You did a good job of convincing him to give it to you,” Wes says.

  “My journalistic powers at work. How are we going to open this? Do libraries in the eighties even have computers?” I shake the floppy disk. It’s oddly flexible, which is apt, given its name. I’ve heard about these before, but I’ve never actually seen one in person.

  “I don’t think so. But there’s one back at the squat.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “It’s in LJ’s room,” Wes continues. “Tag told me he built it out of spare parts and stuff. Apparently he was really into computers before his parents were killed.”

  “Hopefully he’ll let us use it. He seemed so shy yesterday.” I slide out of the booth. “But first we need to stick to the plan and go find Dean. You’re right; I can’t put it off forever. We can deal with whatever’s on this disk later tonight.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Wes stares up at a large brick building that I immediately recognize from the newspaper clipping. “This is it. Seventy-ninth Street. You were right, it is a hotel.”

  “The Richardson,” I read off the sign over the door. There’s a red awning out front, but no sign of a doorman, and no sign of Dean.

  “Are you ready?” Wes asks.

  I watch the glass doors of the hotel closely, waiting for Dean to walk outside at any moment. The anticipation is a wild thing inside of me, clawing and pacing in my stomach.

  “I think so.”

  It wasn’t hard to find the building Dean was standing in front of in the photo. We took the subway up to the neighborhood mentioned in the article, the Upper West Side, near Riverside Park. The first deli owner we talked to recognized the hotel, and sent us here, to Seventy-ninth Street and West End Avenue.