Book Read Free

All of Us with Wings

Page 27

by Michelle Ruiz Keil


  57

  Lovers of Today

  Anna took off her roller skates and unlocked the door to her apartment. Pallas found her unmatched socks unaccountably endearing.

  “Shhh,” Anna said. “That’s my mom’s room.” She nodded at a door off the small entry and led the way down a long hall to the back of the narrow flat, stepping over piles of shoes and coats and backpacks. “Watch out,” Anna whispered. “We were tired last night. We just plopped everything down when we got home.”

  The word plopped applied to the placement of most things in the cluttered hall. Remnants of abandoned activity were everywhere—crayons and cardboard, teetering stacks of books. The walls were similarly haphazard, making a pleasing layered collage over faded raspberry paint. Anna’s artwork crowded around framed posters and tacked-up postcards. A pair of baby shoes hung on an ornate hook; sparkling beads hung from the ceiling. Snapshots were tucked around the frame of a chipped gilt mirror.

  The kitchen was at the back of the apartment, with orange walls and floor-to-ceiling art.

  “Do you want anything?” Anna asked.

  “Coffee?” Pallas had been drinking it more lately because of Xochi.

  Ugh. Pallas wrapped her arms around herself, blinking away the image of Xochi and her dad. There was a book she’d had when she was small, a version of Pinocchio where photographs of puppets were used in place of illustrations. There had been a picture of an old man sitting at a table in the belly of a whale. She imagined herself there, living out her days.

  “We only have tea,” Anna said. “PG Tips. It’s English. My mom calls it crack in a cup.”

  “Pad and Kiki drink that all day long,” Pallas said. “It sounds perfect.”

  “My mom won’t let me have caffeine.” Anna sighed, taking out a box of herbal tea for herself and the big square PG Tips box for Pallas. “She says it makes me crazy.”

  “I’ve always loved the taste of coffee,” Pallas said. “My dad used to make me decaf when I was little. He—” She stopped. Tears filled her eyes. She dug her nails into her palms.

  “Pallas, do you want to just hang out and watch movies all day? ’Cause I’m kinda tired,” Anna said. Pallas thought of the little English squirrels Io used to draw for her with tufty ears and mischievous faces. Anna looked just like that with her spiky hair and anything-but-tired expression. She was right, though. Pallas needed to check out. All she really wanted was her big fluffy bed, the warm comfort of a late-morning nap in the attic. But she couldn’t go home, not yet. Maybe never.

  “A movie marathon sounds perfect,” she said.

  Leviticus had a feeling Pallas wasn’t at the beach, but he walked it anyway. The waves were aggressive, judgmental. He imagined finding her. He would tell the truth, of course. But what was true?

  A forbidden vocabulary lapped his boots. Faggot. Fuckup. Junkie. Whore. He didn’t use these words to describe other people who shared his struggles. Didn’t even think them. Failure. Pussy. Sellout. Fraud. These words had become his blasphemy, their rejection a counter scripture to his father’s fire and brimstone. He walked faster. Apostate. Lazy. Not My Son. The litany hissed from the throat of the sea. Leviticus reached the end of the beach. Gulls winged overhead, crying condemnation. He faced the waves, took a step forward. Loser. Lecher. Blasphemer. Bitch. The spray was the spittle of his father’s rage, the stinging wind his palm on Leviticus’s face.

  A wave soaked his boots. Then another and another.

  He listened for the mermaid’s song, the promise of deep and peaceful sleep. He dropped to his knees. A sharp rock released a thin stream of blood in the foam that lapped at the sprung knee of his jeans. His mouth remembered the way heroin tasted, coming up from the blood instead of in from the tongue. The tracks on his arm whispered the things they remembered about rest and quiet and peace. That was the real siren song, his own blood’s memory.

  His knee seeped. He dabbed at it with the cuff of his hoodie. His wrist peeked out, the safety pin tattoo a reminder of the dark lady.

  That’s what the girl in London had called it. He was just a kid then. Xochi’s age. Io had left with Pallas. It was hard to remember he’d ever been anyone’s dad. He’d started with cutting, carving the tattoo, inking it in: “24:20,” chapter and verse from the book he was named for. He carved randomly after that, but relief was fleeting. Then the girl was there, with her blue eyes and books and shaved head and her needle and spoon—a Shakespeare scholar, before meeting her dark lady.

  White girl—that’s what the jazz man with the amazing mouth called the pure white heroin they had in New York. Ky dragged Leviticus home that time, cleaned him up. Took him to the beach to run. “Write her name in the sand,” he’d said. “Let the waves wash it away. Just let her go.” In those days, they thought love for Io was Leviticus’s problem.

  Leviticus stood up. He found a stick of driftwood at the edge of the dunes. In the wet sand, he wrote:

  Fracture for fracture, Eye for eye, Tooth for tooth

  Leviticus, 24:20

  He watched the waves soften and erase the hateful words till the sand was completely smooth.

  His face was wet.

  He licked a tear from his lips.

  It was sweet, just like honey.

  He raised his hand to wipe his eyes, turned his wrist over.

  A gull cried, an echo of his own amazement.

  His wrist was clean, the skin healed, all traces of the tattoo erased.

  When the kid first started going places on her own, they made a green line on a map of the neighborhood: this far, no farther. The map was Ky’s idea. He wanted Pal to have her freedom, but he would never trust the screwed-up world. Every night for a full cycle of the moon, he’d trace the line slowly with a finger, charging the boundary with protection. On the dark moon, he walked the boundary at midnight, spitting on every street corner and dropping a few crumbs of the snake root and angelica he’d pulverized in Leviticus’s coffee grinder.

  Now he had a feeling, a strong one, that an upset Pallas would naturally gravitate to this old perimeter. He rode the streets at the boundary’s edge progressing inward, reaching the bookstore just as Nora, the owner, unlocked the door.

  “Hello,” Kylen said. He’d always been shy around Nora. Her education intimidated him. She wasn’t a snob—far from it. She’d never batted an eye at the weird books he asked her to track down—sex magick, Filipino folklore, mystical cellists, world religions.

  “Kylen!” She smiled like she was actually glad to see him. Kylen liked her untidy hair and glasses and thrown-together librarian wardrobe. If she were a guy, he’d be in serious trouble. As it was, she was a crush of his, one of a select group of women he admired from afar. “It’s been a while. How did you like the Éliphas Lévi?”

  “It was dense,” Kylen said. He was dense, really. Not dumb, but a slow reader. At least he tried. Once, he’d asked Nora to give him all the books he’d missed in high school. She made him a stack and refused to charge him. “They’re mine, from the house. If you love any of them, you can buy them to keep. Otherwise, just give them back and we’ll dish. You can’t know what a treat this is for me!”

  That was how he’d ended up reading to Ron, Nora’s roommate and best friend. He’d come by the apartment to return the books. Nora was out, but Ron answered the door. X was blasting on the stereo. They could barely hear each other over Exene’s bratty wail and John Doe’s thrash-twang guitar. Ron, weak and sick, had slipped on his way inside to turn it down. Kylen helped him back into his armchair and ended up staying, talking about the books. When Ron got tired, he’d asked Kylen to read to him. Kylen came back the next day. And the next.

  “I’m actually looking for Pallas,” Kylen said. “Have you seen her?”

  “She’s at my house,” Nora said. “She and Anna asked if they could have a sleepover. Finally, they’re friends! I’ve been trying to fi
x them up for years. She said she called home already.”

  “She didn’t,” Kylen said.

  “That’s not like her.” Nora’s brow furrowed. She took the chopsticks from her hair and retwisted it into a bun. She was always doing that. Kylen found it mesmerizing. “Is something up?”

  “It’s a long story,” Kylen said.

  “I’ll get us coffee,” Nora said. “Have a seat.”

  Back at Eris Gardens, Kylen told the family the plan he’d cooked up—both stunningly minimal and utterly evil.

  Pallas was safe and sound and had lied about calling them. Nora was game to let Pallas stew until she was good and ready to confess. Kylen knew that every minute Pallas waited would be pure hell. He also knew how stubborn she was, more like him than either of her parents.

  “Shall we make bets on how long it takes her?” Pad asked.

  “Monster!” Bubbles threw a balled-up napkin. They’d ordered pizza and were on their third six-pack of beer. When Leviticus went out to the patio to smoke, everyone followed. It had been a harrowing day.

  “This is harder than I thought,” Aaron said. “The house feels empty without her.”

  “It’s my fault,” Leviticus said.

  “Yes, it is,” Kiki said, kissing him on the cheek.

  Leviticus chain-smoked, his brow furrowed. “Now that Pal’s safe, I can’t stop worrying about Xochi.”

  Here it comes, Kylen thought. The goddamn million-dollar question.

  “What happened this morning, anyway?” Leviticus asked.

  “Ask her when you see her, man,” Kylen said. “I spent last night and this morning cleaning up Xochi’s mess and the rest of the day cleaning up yours. I’m going to bed now, buddy.”

  He watched Lev’s face. “Buddy” was old code between them, a nod to the lost-boy winter they’d lived in a tent on the beach at fifteen. Kylen had been in rough shape that year. Lev would read him Salinger by flashlight every night to help him sleep.

  “Okay,” Leviticus said. “But when do you think that’ll be?”

  “I don’t know—soon? Never?” Kylen said. “You know teenagers—so hard to predict.”

  58

  Blue Moon

  Pallas lay awake in Anna’s loft bed. It was late, close to morning. She’d fallen asleep during the first movie Anna had put on and slept till Nora came home at five with Chinese food, so she wasn’t really tired. The day spun in her head, gathering things like the tornado in The Wizard of Oz: Xochi and Leviticus in bed; the mist at her window; the way the green girl unfolded Xochi’s name like an origami swan in Pallas’s heart.

  Had the green girl and her brother ever found Xochi at the party? Had they saved her from whatever it was that wanted to hurt her? They must have. She’d looked perfectly fine asleep on Leviticus’s chest.

  She closed her eyes, but another paper bird unfolded in her mind: Maybe there was a different reason Xochi was in her dad’s bed. Maybe something happened and Leviticus was taking care of her? But no! Everyone had already known about them. They lied and cheated. There’s no excuse.

  She curled into a ball on her side of Anna’s bed. Where was Peas? Why hadn’t he come home? Anna said he always visited the loft at night and stayed until she went to sleep. “Unless he’s out,” Anna said. “He may be fixed, but he still tomcats around.” Nora’s and Anna’s voices filled Pallas’s head with little quirks and jokes and ways of saying things. Nora at home was just as nice as at the bookstore and funnier. Also, very kind.

  “Are you sure it’s okay with your family if you spend the night?” Nora had asked.

  “I called them,” Pallas said, the lie cold as an ice cube in her mouth. “They said it was fine.”

  She and Anna had whispered in bed for hours, talking about so many things. But finally, Anna fell asleep. Pallas missed her attic. Was Xochi there alone? Or were they all awake, the whole family drinking coffee and worrying? Or worse, out in the rainy night looking for her? Tears wet Pallas’s pillow. She climbed down from the loft and hurried out of Anna’s room, down the hall to the living room. She huddled there in the dark. The air felt like it did before an earthquake, but inside of her. Everything was waiting. Someone appeared in the doorway.

  At the store, Nora’s clothes were classic cute librarian, but the at-home-pajamaed Nora was something altogether different. Her hair was in two long, messy braids, and her sleep clothes were shabby and eclectic—pink-and-black-striped leggings under baggy cutoff sweat shorts, a T-shirt so thin it might disintegrate and a bathrobe printed with bats. She came and sat next to Pallas.

  “I didn’t call them,” Pallas said, looking up at her. “They must be so upset.” She was crying now, so hard she couldn’t breathe.

  “Put your head down, honey,” Nora said in her bookstore problem-solving voice. “Slow down, now.”

  “They must be so worried,” Pallas whispered. “What if they called the police?”

  “They didn’t,” Nora said. “Last I time I talked to them, they were eating pizza.”

  “What?” Pallas sat up.

  “Pallas, they’ve known since noon. Kylen came looking for you at the bookstore.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Pallas didn’t want to cry in front of Nora now, but tears snuck out of her eyelids anyway.

  “They asked me not to,” Nora said. “They wanted you to call in your own time.”

  “Whose idea was that?” Pallas asked. Nora handed her a tissue. She blew her nose.

  “I won’t name names,” Nora said. “Could’ve been someone whose name rhymes with . . . well, now, what does his name rhyme with?” She scrunched up her nose, a face Anna also made. It was cute on both of them. Pallas steeled herself against Nora’s cheering up, but then, suddenly, she gave in. She knew whose idea it was. Of course she did.

  “If it was in a song you could get by rhyming it with island,” Pallas said.

  “I suppose if Joni Mitchell can rhyme guitar and alarm . . .” Nora’s dark eyes sparkled.

  “It’s also synonymous with rat fink and liar,” Pallas said.

  Nora nodded. “Kylen’s always been sweet with me, but I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. It was a diabolical plan. It nearly broke me. Why do you think I’m not asleep right now?”

  “Did they tell you why I ran away?” Tears rose again. The neck of Pallas’s borrowed sleep shirt was wet.

  “Yes,” Nora said.

  Pallas exhaled in a loud, short huff. “What should I do?”

  “Do you want to go home?”

  “I don’t know.” Part of her longed for home. She’d never liked sleepovers and tired quickly of hotels. But also, she couldn’t imagine sleeping in her bed in the empty attic while Xochi was—where? Above the studio with her dad?

  “How about this,” Nora said. “Anna has Monday and Tuesday off school, so I was going to surprise her and take her to Capitola tomorrow. We stay at this cute bungalow right on the beach. What if you came with us?”

  “I’d like that!” Pallas said. She’d already forgiven Nora for colluding with Ky. He’d always been genius at devising horrible but just punishments. The worst part was how well he knew her. He was good, all right.

  “Okay,” Nora said, “but first, I want you to check in with your folks. I have a feeling they’ll be fine with you coming, but I think it’s best for you to ask them in person. I can drop you off tomorrow morning. I have a million errands, but we’ll go right after that. All right?”

  Pallas considered. Capitola was so pretty, a beach town with great pizza and a fascinating colony of pelicans. She yawned. “Sounds good,” Pallas said. “Thank you. So much.”

  “Let’s both get a few hours of sleep,” Nora said, yawning, too. “I only wish Peas would come home. I hate leaving town without saying goodbye.”

  59

  I Go to Sleep

  Peasblo
ssom woke with a start. It was dark, but morning was coming. He and Xochi had worked into the night to no avail—dressing Gina in pajamas, singing her favorite songs, massaging her. They’d stopped only to eat a hasty meal of bacon and eggs with coffee for Xochi and cream for Peas. Near dawn, they closed their eyes, laying side by side on Gina’s thin rug.

  Xochi’s hand rested on Peasblossom’s shoulder. He extricated himself carefully so as not to wake her. So much of his life was spent helping humans pass from sleep to waking, waking to sleep. With Nora and Anna, he was both lullaby and alarm clock. It was the same with Pallas when he visited her at night.

  Peasblossom yawned and scratched his ear. He’d go to Eris Gardens, he decided, to see if the creatures had returned to the place of their summoning. Perhaps there was some way he could convince them to undo what they had done. Xochi had managed to give Gina sugar water with a medicine dropper, but the woman had been unconscious for over twenty-four hours now.

  The cat groaned as he squeezed out the partially open window and squared his shoulders against the cold. Time was running out.

  60

  Tiny Dancer

  How many mornings had Xochi sat like this, wondering which mother would wake up and greet her? The resentful, exacting mother who demanded chores and complained of ingratitude? The ethereal in-love mother who checked the mirror every hour and jumped when the phone rang? Or the fun young mother who wanted to play, who swore she didn’t need a man?

  For the first time since Gina had left, Xochi let herself remember the good things—trips to the pool and the beach, the way Gina would save stale bread to feed the geese at the park, weekend visits to the pet store to moon over animals their apartments never allowed. Xochi remembered freeways and identical suburban streets, driving around listening to the radio, killing time in the late afternoon before Gina had to work.

  Looking at Gina’s sleeping face, Xochi allowed herself the tiniest bit of her mother’s beauty, but a sip might as well be a bottle. Memories rebelled, crowding for attention. Gina getting ready for work, the ritual always the same: a spritz of perfume, the matching bra and panty set in white or nude, then back to the bathroom, steam cleared, to put on her makeup. For this she shut the door, insisting on privacy. Xochi would press her cheek to the thin plywood, wishing for a keyhole so she could witness the mysterious process that transformed the pretty girl-mom who went into the bathroom into the sharp, shiny woman who came out.

 

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