Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings

by Angela J. Townsend

  “'Ello?”

  “Uh, hi, is Bambi there?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Natasha.”

  “AH-HA—gotcha! Now I know your name!”

  “Whatever—is she there, or not?”

  Bambi grabbed the phone, her voice curt and annoyed. I told her how I had worked late and missed the bus. She told me it was my own fault and I could make my own way home. “It’ll teach you a lesson, Missy. A good walk won’t kill you. Jesus walked everywhere his whole life.” She slammed the phone down.

  God forbid I should interrupt her precious time with what’s his name. I should have known better than to call her in the first place. She couldn’t have cared less—no surprise there. It really didn’t matter anyhow; I could find my way around the city. My habit of walking the streets at night started when I first got out of the group home. After being so cramped, having to struggle and fight for every inch of space, I cherished the empty streets. Seattle felt like it was all mine to explore and to a girl who had nothing, suddenly a whole city belonged to me—only me.

  Tonight was somehow different; I didn’t feel the same excitement. My stomach clenched tight. Every nerve stood on edge. I picked up my pace, the soles of my boots pounded against the pavement harder than usual. I crossed the street and hurried down the dark sidewalk. I couldn’t see well; this street didn’t have lights and the waning moon gave hardly enough light to walk by.

  Fog rolled in, thick and suffocating. From my right came the high-pitched yowl of stray cats fighting in an alleyway. It sounded like they were tearing each other apart. I paused, peering into the darkness—yellow eyes glowed back at me.

  I braced my shoulders, head down, walking faster. Behind me footsteps echoed, I whipped around…nothing. An eerie silence hung in the air, yet there was no one. I started walking again. Footsteps thudded behind me—bearing down on me. My heart punched into my rib cage. The air seemed to thicken, forming a prison to capture me. I strained to see into the haze, convinced someone or something was chasing me. I froze, my legs turning to jelly. The footsteps sounded again. This time more urgent. Trembling inside, I whirled around. A light appeared down the street, approaching fast. Maybe it was a taxi and I could hitch a ride. The outline of a motorcycle broke through the mist. Chuck pulled up beside me.

  “Hop on, kid.”

  A couple emerged out of the fog, wearing track suits. They jogged past us, feet slapping against the pavement.

  I suddenly felt stupid for being so afraid.

  I crossed my arms. “Why did you come? I could have made my own way home.”

  He shrugged. “Bambi told me where you worked. It can be a dangerous place at night. Thought you might like a lift.”

  “Well you thought wrong, I can make my own way.”

  He frowned and spiked an eyebrow. “Really? You sure?”

  I looked away and nodded, wrapping my arms around myself, shivering in the moist spring evening.

  “I should leave you here for being such a brat, but I can’t do that. Not with a clear conscience.”

  “Oh really, and why is that?”

  “Because you remind me of my daughter. Bambi told me how you love to wander the streets at night. A real Moonflower.”

  “A what?”

  “A Moonflower. You bloom at night—and that’s dangerous. Lots of creeps are out this time of the evening.”

  “Yes, I see that.” I glared at him.

  He threw back his head, laughed, and then revved the bike’s motor. “Since you don’t need a ride, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

  I thought about it for a moment. I really did want to get home and I didn’t feel like walking. “Wait,” I said, stalling. “You have a daughter? Seriously? You don’t really look like the dad type.”

  The sudden hurt in his eyes surprised me. My heart sank. I shouldn’t have teased him. “How old is she?” I asked, my voice soft.

  “She’d be about your age now. Like I said, she’s strong and defiant like you.”

  My curiosity got the best of me. “Where does she live?”

  Lines deepened around his eyes. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her in a while. She was living in Europe the last I knew.” He patted the backseat of his bike. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  I climbed on and Chuck took off fast, as if trying to outrun something. Maybe he was running from the pain of losing his daughter, or maybe he was just running from himself. We weren’t wearing helmets—and I loved the freedom of it, the feel of the wind blowing through my hair. We were probably breaking some kind of law—but I didn’t care. I was free. A different being. A sparrow discovering its wings, gliding along in the cool currents of wind.

  I pictured Chuck’s daughter, sitting near an empty window, searching endlessly for the father she once knew. I wondered what it would be like to have a dad who loved you, who missed you, who kept you safe from boys and taught you how to dance by letting you stand on the tops of his feet.

  Over the next few months, Chuck taught me how to pick seafood fresh from the market and how to make his famous stuffed peppers heaped with spicy meats and gooey cheese. He took Bambi and I to the movies and to the beach at night to teach us about the stars. After I told him that I'd been born in Russia, he read Chekhov and Tolstoy to me at night and told me stories of all the Eastern European countries he’d been to while serving in the military. I loved learning about Russia, about the culture and the people.

  Even though Russia fascinated me, it also haunted me. My father was a murderer. Was he alive and rotting away in a prison somewhere? Was he dead? Would I ever know why he killed my mother? I hated that I’d never know who she was or what her dreams were. And I hated the selfish act that took her away from me even worse. I frowned. People have reasons to commit murder. What was his motive?

  “Just because you’re through with your past doesn’t always mean your past is through with you,” Chuck had said one night, a faraway look in his eyes. He’d taken off the pair of half moon glasses he wore when he read to me, folded them, and slipped them into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Moisture glistened in the corners of his dark eyes. He clutched a leather-bound copy of Dostyevski he’d bought that afternoon at a used bookstore downtown. He pressed it against his chest like a bandage over his heart.

  Chuck never liked me asking about his past or his daughter. If I asked him too many questions, he’d grow quiet and find an excuse to leave—go for a pack of cigarettes, milk, or beer—anything to get away. To escape memories that pained him. I didn’t like it when he left. I worried he wouldn’t be back. I counted on him now, needed him, and that made me uneasy. I had never needed anyone before.

  Every day after work without fail, Chuck would be there to pick me up. I never asked him to, he just came. I learned I could count on him, and he never disappointed me. One night, we stopped for ice cream at a small café. Perched on bright red stools with big metal bottoms that looked a lot like mushrooms, Chuck told me about how he was still married, how he’d never bothered to get a divorce, how hard Bambi was to live with but that he loved us and wanted to make things work. It was the most he’d ever shared with me and it welded a solid bond between us.

  We talked about everything in that small diner. Between scoops of chocolate and hot fudge, I told him about my father being a murderer, how he had killed my mother—something I never told anyone. He shrugged as if killing was as natural as brushing your teeth. Maybe his military background had hardened him, or other things I didn’t know about in his past, but either way—I could tell him anything and it made me feel safe.

  “Natasha,” he said. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me. I know it’s hard to take advice from someone you’ve only met a short while ago, but we all have talents. You have a tremendous artistic ability. I want you to foster it, protect it like gold. It will save your life one day.”

  I frowned, swallowing a bite of vanilla ice cream. “Save my life? That sounds a bit dramatic. What d
o you mean?”

  “Not everyone is so blessed. Most people end up working in some dead-end job because they have no gifts—no special abilities.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “What you have, kiddo, is very unique. It's important that you don’t waste it, keep practicing. Hone your skills until they're perfect.” His eyes held mine, his expression dark and serious. “I want you to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  Chuck’s jaw tightened. “I want you to promise me to practice everyday without fail. I have money set aside if you need supplies or whatever. Every spare second you have, I want a paintbrush in your hand. Okay?”

  “Uh…okay.”

  Why was Chuck suddenly so concerned about my art? In fact, he looked almost worried. Maybe he figured out how unstable Bambi was and wanted to make sure I had a good career ahead of me. I hoped he knew that art wasn’t exactly a steady stream of income. I’d read enough about suffering, starving artists in history class—it didn’t look pretty. I’d have to keep my day job if I wanted to survive. I thought about all the wonderful things Chuck had said to me about my artwork and I knew he was right. If I wanted to be the best, I’d have to practice.

  For a while, we lived like a real family. We were happy. Bambi started cooking to prove she could be a good wife to Chuck someday—even though he was already married. We’d have meals of honey ham with bits of cloves pushed neatly into the top, mashed potatoes, crescent rolls. She’d make endless casseroles and green bean salads. Bambi even appeared more stable and for the first time, she seemed truly happy.

  Then one day the rains came. An endless downpour that washed over the trailer park, mud sliding down from the grimy hills behind us, turning everything into sludge. Rivers crested, spilling over banks lined with sand bags. Bambi hated rain; it depressed her, frightened her, changed her somehow. She seemed distant, torn in different directions. She would sit on the front porch, smoking and staring into the mist as if in a trance. She talked constantly of how she grew up in southern California. How she missed the sunshine, the beaches, the towering palms, the Sweetgums and pepper trees.

  “My mother was a real neat freak. Prone to fits of rage.” Bambi squinted at the stormy sky. “One time, when it was raining like it is now, my little brother Sam and I made mud pies. We used these cute little bread pans, topped each one with Milk Weed pods, grass, and Willow leaves.” Bambi smiled. “We had so much fun.” The smile dropped from her face. “But then we tracked the mess into the house and my mother went nuts, beat us nearly blind.” Bambi paused, swallowed hard. “She ended up killing my brother—blunt trauma to the head is what they called it.” Bambi took a long drag of her cigarette. Her eyes crinkled against the smoke. “My mother went into my bedroom that night, tears just rolling down her face, told me how sorry she was for what she’d done. She put up a plastic sheet near my bed, stuck a gun in her mouth, and blew her brains out.” Bambi shook her head. “The blood splatter ruined my best nightgown. Guess she wasn’t as tidy as she thought she was.”

  I stood there, mouth open, my feet cemented to the floor. I suddenly felt horrible for every evil thought I'd had about her. No wonder she was unstable. Who wouldn’t be?

  Bambi stuck her hand out, letting the rain dance across her fingertips. Her voice dropped to a whisper. She turned to face me, her eyes cold and empty. “Everything worked out okay in the end. My mother is rotting in Hell for what she did. God’s justice.”

  The rain kept coming, not letting up for days on end. Bambi started drinking again, muttering to herself about mud pies and other things I couldn’t understand. Chuck and Bambi fought constantly. He would grab his jacket, storm off, tell her she was crazy, that it was over. She’d cry and chase after him, saying she was sorry, call him on his cell phone, leave hateful messages when he didn’t answer and then call again and beg him to come home. Bambi would stumble around drunk and in tears until he finally arrived, then she’d sleep for days on end. Soon as she woke up, though, it would start all over again.

  Bambi knew Chuck would never marry her unless she quit drinking and gambling—but I knew she’d never change. It was like asking a canary to never sing, or a fish to never swim again. It just wasn’t in her nature.

  I often wondered why Chuck stayed when others fled from Bambi so quickly. Why he gave up his freedom to be with her. Why he kept coming back. “Some things are worth the sacrifice,” he said. “Been a long time since I had a family of my own. I’m older now, more settled than I once was. I look forward to kicking back and watching you grow up. You’re a smart girl. I want to watch you return to Russia someday. Find your roots. Maybe you’ll even get married and become a famous artist. I’d like to be at your side when you do.” His voice dropped. “I know I’ll never have the chance with my own daughter—her mother would never allow it.”

  I looked deep into his eyes wanting every word he spoke to be true. “Are you sure you can put up with Bambi that long?”

  He put his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “No matter how bad things are, sometimes it’s worth sticking it out.”

  Summer finally arrived and with it came the last day of school. The rains had stopped, replaced by sunshine gleaming off the soupy puddles left behind. The air turned warm and moist and smelled of fresh-washed earth. I walked everywhere now. I loved to watch dragonflies buzzing like miniature helicopters in the air, skiing across drying mud puddles and the birds weaving nests out of dried grass and thistle seeds. There was so much life along the streets that took me to and from home. As much as I loved walking in the cool summer evening, I always waited for Chuck to pick me up from work. We’d make a quick trip to the library, or sometimes we’d stop at the art store where he would buy me art books and painting supplies.

  One evening we came home later than usual and I found Bambi waiting for me on the front porch, pacing, smoking one cigarette after another. She grabbed me by the arm. “We need to talk, Missy!” She pushed me inside and into her bedroom. She shut the door behind us and planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “You know what I mean. I’ve seen the way you and him carry on. Chuck this and Chuck that…makes me sick. I’ve decided I’m taking you back to the group home so whatever you two have been scheming—it’s over now.”

  I stared at her, the pupils of her eyes like tiny pinpricks, her long, fake lashes clotted with mascara. How could she do this? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d only wanted a father and suddenly, for the first time in my life, I’d gotten one. She’d never been a mother to me. She’d never even tried. I was a paycheck to her. Nothing more. How could she?

  I started to speak, but she held up her hand.

  “Save it, Missy. I don’t want to hear anything you got to say.” Her eyes clawed at me like talons. “You think I’m dumb—don’t you?”

  I shook my head, tears blurring my vision.

  “You think I didn’t see what you two were doing behind my back?”

  I sat, feeling like I’d been punched in the gut, lungs struggling to expand in the airless room. She was kicking me out for nothing. My mind raced, I tried to think of an explanation, an excuse—any reason to change her mind.

  “He’s been like a father to me. Something I’ve never had,” I said, my voice breaking.

  Bambi turned her back on me and shrugged. “I had a father once—take it from me, they’re overrated.”

  I was spiraling down a dark ravine. I had never given her an ounce of trouble since I came to live with her five years ago. I did what I wanted and so did she. We had an understanding. Every month I’d report to my caseworker that everything was great and Bambi would get a check. It wasn’t fair. I’d done nothing wrong with Chuck.

  “What about Jesus?” I said, cutting her with my words. “What would he think of your jealousy? Your evil thoughts?” I scrambled for a foothold. “You’re acting crazy. I don’t know what you’ve dream
ed up in your head—but you’re wrong.”

  Bambi’s shoulders stiffened like I’d shot in her in the back.

  She whirled around. “That’s enough!” Bambi snubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and slipped another into her mouth. Her lips pressed hard around it as she lit it, hands shaking.

  I had to think of something, and fast. I couldn’t let her send me away. Then it came to me, like a serpent coiled in the grass—I struck. “He’s going to be mad at you.” I glanced at my fingernails and struck again. “I hope you know that. He already lost his real daughter, now he’ll lose me, too, and you know I’m the only reason he sticks around.”

  Bambi flinched, clenching her teeth. She glared at me, holding her cigarette and biting her lower lip. She knew it was the truth. Without me, Chuck would be gone like all the others. She needed me. For the first time in my life, I felt powerful. The kid at the top of the snow hill, the bully on the playground, the one who made the rules.

  Bambi took a long drag from her cigarette, pulled it from her mouth, exhaling slowly as her eyes snipped into mine. She leaned in close, pointed at me with her blazing cigarette. “You swear you’re not interested in him?”

  I nodded and held up my hand. “Scouts honor.”

  Power. Funny what it does to you. How it makes you feel invincible, like you could conquer anything. Do anything. But for me, the feeling didn’t last. Even though I’d made Bambi change her mind, I didn’t feel safe. She was barely hanging on. Her highs and lows came and went with the Seattle weather. Expected, but unpredictable. Every noise bothered her and the smallest of events seemed to loom large in her mind. I hated the way she kept her eyes on me. Tracking my every move like I was the enemy. Sometimes I’d hear her mumbling and laughing. When I would ask her questions, she’d frown, looking confused as if she had trouble bonding thoughts together.

  I recalled all the events that led to Bambi’s downward spiral. It all started because she thought I was trying to steal her boyfriend. Didn’t she know better? Why did she have to be so suspicious? So mean and jealous? I wasn’t any threat to her. She was sure that Chuck and I were fooling around. How could she even think that?