The heels of my boots thudded across the pavement as I entered the heart of Seattle. No one could be depressed in the market. The place buzzed with tourists, a chaotic hum of sights, and sounds. The delicious scent of exotic spices mixed with the poignant aroma of raw fish and seafood. There was something healing and magical about the place. Seattle’s artistic creations of every kind were on display. Portraits offered, hand-painted tea cups for sale, jewelry, and driftwood.
It was an artist’s dream, alive and beating with waves of energy. A place where I could completely disappear, blend into the crowd and become part of the backdrop while all of humanity bustled around me. I loved those moments, wanted to capture them on canvas, keep them forever. In places like that you can be alone because you’re surrounded by people, part of the flow of life and yet only an observer.
It took about five more minutes to reach the Zippo Theater. I drifted past bouquets of pink and red tulips, roses and sunflowers sold by local vendors, past street performers strumming guitars, playing saxophones and trombones.
I ducked inside the art-deco theater and through the silver-plated lobby filled with brightly colored posters advertising upcoming plays. I entered a stage door and climbed a flight of stairs to my art table, tucked in a secluded nook. Hidden away, I penciled portraits on onionskin paper, painted miniatures on tiny scraps of canvas—each minute brushstroke, each carousel of colors, a record of my existence, my mark on the world. I mattered. I was here.
While I worked backstage with my ink pens and my palettes of acrylics, I found paradise. Invisible to others, yet near enough to hear their conversations. Their voices were calming to me, muttered words, whispers, secrets told in confidence. It was like being a painting on a wall that no one noticed. No demands. Nothing expected.
A mother and daughter in gypsy costumes hurried past for a dress rehearsal. They laughed while the mom straightened the girl’s collar. The mother whispered something about being proud and kissed the girl’s cheek. They hugged each other for luck and dashed off. A sudden rush of raw emotions cut at me, slicing layer by layer until reaching bone. I stood alone in the shadows, feeling a hint of the love and nervous energy they left behind—balancing on a blade of pain and frustration.
What would it be like to have parents? I could barely remember mine.
My stomach dropped to the floor. A dark figure flashed into my mind. My Russian father, a sinister silhouette of all I did not know, an empty shape filled with rage, murder, and bloodshed. Why did he murder my mother? What had she done to make him so angry? Was he still alive? Did I have siblings?
There were so many questions I needed answered—but there were no answers to be found. I had looked everywhere, searched every record possible. And searching for information on biological parents roughly five- thousand miles away in a foreign country isn’t exactly easy.
It was like I had dropped from the sky. As solitary as a clam. The only things I knew were that I’d been born in Russia, my father had murdered my mother, and I was sent to live in a children’s home in Seattle. But why? Weren’t there plenty of orphanages in Russia? There had to be a reason. None of my caseworkers were any help. The last one just shrugged and suggested that maybe all the orphanages were full at the time. No one seemed to know much about me, other than the basics—age, race, birth date, place of birth.
A thousand unanswered questions fought for my attention. If only I knew it would make things easier, bearable. Some say it’s better not to know. That ignorance is bliss. But not for me. For me, not knowing was way worse. I was in this weird state of constant grief over the loss of a relationship with people I didn’t even know.
Worst of all, I hated that feeling of abandonment. The feeling that no one had cared enough to take care of me, or at least to try to get in contact with me. But no one had cared. No one had wondered where I’d gone or what had happened to me. In a world full of people, I was alone.
At 6:00 p.m., the city bus rolled to a stop a few blocks from the trailer court. The door hissed as it closed behind me, sending a whoosh of frosty air at my back. I pulled my jacket collar snug to my neck and took my time walking home, eyeing the endless trees in rows of lush green, glowing under a string of street lamps. Some of the lights were broken and buzzed with fireflies as I walked beneath them. The smell of spring mixed with Seattle rain grew heavy in the air, the sweet scent of camellias, and cherry blossoms. I loved watching them bloom, but they looked mournful now, at night, against their gloomy backdrop of soggy earth. I picked up my pace.
Two more blocks and I'd reached the entrance to the trailer court. I slipped under the rusty sign and between the steel gates. In the shadow of a wooden shed, two guard dogs strained at their chains, growling and barking non-stop, their warning of trespass echoing into the night. The dogs’ teeth glowed in the evening light as hair rose on their muscled, brindled backs. For an instant I felt a crazy, suicidal urge to unchain them, set them free from their burdens, happy for their escape. I couldn’t stand to see animals trapped that way. I had spent enough years in Bellingham that when I looked into the eyes of caged animals, I understood their pain, their fear, their desire to be free. It was worse when animals were trapped together. It brought back memories of having to fight for just an inch of personal space. That’s why I liked to roam around at night, because the darkness felt like vast, endless space. Plus staying up was better than being terrorized by dreams, even though I'd always be beyond tired the next day, it was worth it. Anything for an escape from the nightmares.
A half moon slipped from behind a wisp of gray clouds. In the fading light, I hurried past a row of dumpy mobile homes, leaving the barking dogs behind, hung a right between two overflowing trash cans, and paused. Some guy was crouched outside of Bambi’s trailer, working on a motorcycle under the glow of a weak porch light with his hands coated in grease. As I drew closer, I saw it wasn’t just any bike—but one wicked-awesome bike. Not that I was an expert on motorcycles, but it certainly looked cool with a sleek black body and flaming skulls. Gravel crunched under my feet as I tried to rush past him and up the front steps.
“Hey, hand me that wrench.” He pointed to the ground just out of his reach. Tattoos of skulls and crossbones circled his arm like the sleeve of a grim reaper. Probably prison tats. Our eyes locked.
His gaze dark. Smoldering. Dangerous.
“Please?” He brushed back a strand of black hair that had escaped from a long ponytail. I took a step closer, picked up the tool, and handed it to him.
“Cool, thanks.”
“No problem,” I mumbled and turned to leave.
“If you stay and help, I’ll take you for a ride on my bike later. If you want.”
“No thanks.” I hurried up the rickety steps and ducked inside. I didn’t need a ride from a sketchy looking creep who might be a criminal, and I didn’t want to get stuck helping the greaser all night either.
I tossed my army bag on the kitchen floor and grabbed a soda out of the fridge. My stomach was killing me. I hadn’t eaten all day, except a candy bar at lunch that I’d bought with the last of my change. I foraged through the cupboards for something to eat, even though it was a total waste of time. Bambi spent all her money on booze and Blackjack.
With just the tips of my fingers, I pulled back the curtains and watched the guy as he continued to work. He suddenly looked up at me, eyes narrowed as if he was used to watching his back. I tried to look away but there was something about him that drew me. He was lean, rugged, and road-worn. It was hard to guess his age, but I figured he was at least forty. He had a jet-black beard and wore a leather motorcycle vest covered in badges over a thin t-shirt. I tore my eyes away and quickly headed to my room. Hopefully he wouldn’t be hanging around long. Most of Bambi’s boyfriends didn’t.
I grabbed my bag and collapsed on my bed, unzipped the pack and took out a set of Matryoskas—Russian nesting dolls. I had found them a week earlier in the trash at the market. Someone had thrown them away because they
were beat up and missing paint. I examined each one carefully, figuring out how I would repair them. I took out my acrylics and the finest tipped brush I could find and set to work on their intricate swirls and patterns. Mr. Henderson, my art teacher at school, marveled at my talents. “You have an unusual artistic ability,” he exclaimed one day in class—totally embarrassing me in front of the other kids. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Everyone snickered and I wanted to melt into the floor, and yet I felt proud. I knew he was right. There was no denying I was good at art. It was something that came naturally to me.
Lost in my work, I emerged from my room to scrounge for food again, my stomach practically clawing its way out of me. Shadows played along the dark hallway from the television set, dancing like flickering flames. Bambi was probably camped out on the couch with her biker boyfriend. I clenched my teeth, seething with irritation. I hated sharing my space with some gross guy. He’d probably be like the last one who left the seat up, cigarette butts swimming in the toilet, dirty underwear and t-shirts yellowed with arm-pit stains dangling from the towel rack.
My brilliant plan was to dodge them, grab a soda, and head back to my room. But Bambi wasn’t in the living room—only the biker dude camped on the couch, drinking beer.
He spotted me and smiled. “Hey, you’re just in time!”
“Excuse me?”
“For the match,” He motioned to a chair across from the TV and next to a wooden stand sagging from the weight of a bazillion lighthouses. He juggled two bags of cheese puffs and tossed me one. “I know it’s fake, but I really dig wrestling.”
My stomach rumbled. I loved cheese puffs. I hardly ever got them as Bambi only stocked her shelves with booze and whatever she could get at the food bank. Her impulsive gambling had really put a damper on things. Most days, it was usually a choice between a slice of imitation cheese that tasted like paste or onion soup mix.
The wrestling match started and he stared at the television screen, sitting on the edge of his seat, as if he was holding a lottery ticket and someone was reading the winning numbers.
I sat there, taking advantage of the free food, shoveling in handfuls.
He swiveled around, staring at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I paused, dumbfounded, my mouth full.
“You don’t eat cheese puffs that way. Don’t you know anything? You’re gonna have that orange stuff all over your fingers.” He waved one in the air. “Watch and learn, kid.” He dropped it into his mouth careful not to touch his lips. “One bit of moisture on your fingertips and you’re screwed.”
I studied my fingers, caked in orange, feeling his eyes burning into me. I got a Kleenex from a box on the end table and wiped my hands and mouth, avoiding eye contact—cheeks flaming. He plopped his big biker boots on the end table between a matching set of pink plastic lighthouses.
“Well, I better get going,” I said.
He turned down the sound on the television and stared at me as if I'd just said I was an axe murderer. “What’s the hurry?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Just can’t imagine you want to miss the end of the match. Gravekeeper against Gravedigger. This is historic.”
I rolled my eyes and scoffed. Historic? God, who was he kidding?
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
Crap, he caught me. “No, I didn’t. I…”
His eyes blazed. “Yes, you did—I saw you. And let me tell you something, kid—nobody rolls their eyes at me.”
Great. I just ticked off a maniac.
A smile crawled into the corners of his mouth. He threw his head back and laughed. “I’m just teasing you, kid. What’s your name?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
He stuck out a calloused hand. “Name’s Chuck. Bambi’s letting me crash here for a couple of days. You must be her daughter?” He sat back down, eyes darting to the TV screen.
“I’m nobody’s daughter.” I got to my feet. As I passed him, I saw the top of a giant scar sticking out of his shirt. It looked like a knife wound except wider, deeper. More like the blade of a humongous machete.
“Got a name, nobody?”
“Nope.” I shut the door to my room a little harder than necessary. A stack of books and papers slid off my dresser. I stood there leaning against the door, gazing at the heaping pile of clothes covering the floor, makeup and hairspray crowding the top of my night stand, shelves spilling over with clutter. I took a deep breath, even though my room was stuffed full—there was something missing—a gaping abyss that swirled inside of me. A bottomless, black void in my soul that was my mother, someone I’d never know. Never turn to for support in times of trouble. A life cut short.
Somewhere in the night, police sirens wailed, sawing along my nerves. Maybe they were coming for the guy on the couch. Funny how none of Bambi’s other boyfriends ever cared enough to ask me my name.
Maybe I should have told him.
I climbed into bed and stared at stars stuck to the ceiling. Decorations from some other kid Bambi had before me. I traced the little dipper with my eyes, wondering what it would be like to be in space—far away from everything. Where even gravity couldn’t reach me.
Morning brought spots of sunshine and chilly gusts of wind pressing against the battered trailer. Cold bursts of air invaded every open seam, crack, or warped windowsill. They ghosted along the floor, freezing my feet as I climbed out of bed. I dressed quickly, grabbed my books, and headed into the bathroom on my way out. The toilet seat was up…great. Chuckles or Scar or whoever was still here. Not sure what I'd expected. It wasn’t like he had just vanished as I’d hoped. Most of Bambi’s boyfriends stayed at least a week—until they couldn’t take it anymore.
Bambi had a bad habit of sleeping with guys and feeling guilty about it later. Before they were out of bed, she’d start preaching about sinning. None of them ever stayed long. Some would even leave while she was in the shower or asleep. But trying to sneak away from Bambi was like running from a blood hound. She had a knack for finding people who didn’t want to be found. Still, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convince them to come back.
A heavy fog of perfume and cigarette smoke polluted the air in the hallway. I plugged my nose and made my escape into the kitchen. Hopefully, the love birds would still be in bed. I opened the refrigerator, leaned in, and dug around the back and pulled out a can of cola hidden behind a box of baking soda. The refrigerator sighed as I closed it.
“You’re up early.”
I spun around. Chuck stood behind me, shirtless and barefoot in jeans.
“So are you,” I snapped, a bit more snide than I'd planned.
“Grab me a beer, if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself.”
“Please?”
I pulled open the refrigerator again, reached inside, and handed him an icy bottle of Miller Lite. The frosty cold bit into my skin, numbing my hand. I rubbed my palm against my jeans until feeling returned.
Chuck popped off the lid using the side of the table and poured the beer down his throat. He wiped his mouth with a forearm and then slouched into a chair across from me.
My stomach churned. Beer for breakfast—gross. He winked at me and grabbed a cigarette from a pack on the kitchen table, one of Bambi’s generic smokes, and lit it with a diamond-studded lighter.
Circling his neck was a strange-looking cross made with three heavy bars across it. I’d seen that cross before, but where? My gaze trailed the gigantic scar that ran from his neck across his toned chest. Under the pale kitchen light his tanned skin looked almost mahogany. He smiled when he saw me looking at his scar. “What’s the matter, kid, haven’t you ever seen Frankenstein? Gotta put us back together somehow. At least I don’t have bolts on my neck—not yet anyway.” He took a long drag of his cigarette and let the smoke roll out of his nose while holding his arms out zombie-like. “Got a pin in my knee, though. Does that count?”
>
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. For some weird reason I kinda liked him. He seemed so friendly even though he looked scary. I was invisible to Bambi’s other boyfriends. They treated me like something in their way, like a coffee table that skinned your shin or a rolled up rug that tripped you. But this guy seemed different somehow. More accepting. Tolerant. Not that it mattered. He’d be gone in a day or two and I’d have the house all to myself again. Bambi never stayed home in the evenings, always on the prowl. Which made perfect sense—a lot of cold-blooded creatures hunt at night.
I slid my books into my backpack and headed out. “Gotta run.”
“See ya around, kid. Take care of yourself and have a good day.”
Somehow those words stopped me. No one had ever wished me a good day. It was like something a father would say. For a moment I allowed myself to wish I had a father to care about me having a good day. I shook the thought off. No point in wishing. My backpack felt extra heavy as I reached for the doorknob.
“Wait,” he said. “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”
“Look, I don’t even know you and…”
“Why not? Everyone’s got one, right? Hmm…let me guess. Is it Hilda? Roz? Gertrude? Twinkle Toes?”
Like a total idiot, I burst out laughing.
“Come on, kid, tell me!”
Before I could answer, I caught a glimpse of Bambi watching me from the hallway, hands on shapely hips. She swaggered into the kitchen, her fuzzy bathrobe barely covering her enormous breasts, her spray-tanned legs gleaming. She glared at me, then at Chuck.
“What’s so funny?”
I didn’t know what to say.
Bambi cut her eyes at me. “Better get going or you’re gonna be late.” She waltzed over to Chuck and wrapped her arms around his neck, glaring at me as I left.
The day dragged on forever and after work at the theater I missed the bus. I pulled out my cell phone and called home. No one answered. I tried again and on the last ring I heard Chuck’s voice.
Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings Page 20
