I yank on an army coat from Forever 21 and an old pair of Adirondack boots and make my way outside. The wind is whipping about through the narrow tunnels of Kindred Street and flurries of snow feather down out of the darkening sky. The air is crisp and I breathe it in deep. I shift where I stand and allow a minute to just be. The kiss I placed upon my sister’s head is what I want to think of. I allow myself a minute to just live in that memory.
In less than five minutes I’m at the piazza, which is a small courtyard where in the summer children play in the fountain and men sit on the benches playing chess or discussing local gossip—or both. The fountain is frozen and the courtyard is empty save for two crooked cops commiserating with one of the hooker girls from Madam Scarlet’s bunny ranch. The three of them stop to look at me and then the cop nudges his head for me to get lost.
As I pass the rambling stone church, which is tucked in the back of the piazza, behind a hedge of manicured bushes, I see Father Ash eyeing me as he stands before the front doors. (The church was built by the men of the Valley in the late 1800’s. Free of charge they spent many weekday evenings and weekends chiseling and laying stone. Even the bell in the bell tower was hand crafted by our men—my father’s father was one of those men.)
My family is like many others in the Valley. We don’t always make it to church every Sunday as we sometimes like to pray the ancient ways. A succession of dissatisfied priests came before Father Ash, some of them even calling us heretics. But Father Ash finds our ways amusing and calls us Relic Christians. The Valley has been grateful for him as he’s good at holding judgment, unlike his predecessors.
“Good evening Miss Putzarella. Out for a walk, are you?”
I stop to address him respectfully. “Good evening Father Ash. I’m headed to Soda Can Alley.” I don’t know why I tell him the truth, but I figure it’s not good karma to tell lies when I’m looking for the truth myself.
His eyebrows go up and he nods his head as if he half understands why I would be going to an awful place like that. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
I’m not sure what he means. But it probably has something to do with the Word. Right now I don’t want to hear it. The Word is not going to help. “No father. I don’t have anything to ask.”
“Very well. Have a nice night.” And with that, he steps back inside the church and closes the door on me.
He’s a little strange sometimes.
About a hundred yards or so beyond the piazza are the train tracks and farther beyond is the outskirts of the Valley. Here the streets are paved and lead out to the Interstate I-95. There’s a junkyard lot called Soda Can. A dye factory was knocked down ten years ago when the plans for the casino were approved. (Even though they ended up using a different lot.) Two thousand people were laid off—many from the Valley. They live here now in Soda Can. Yes, the desire for progress is intrinsic to the human condition, but it doesn’t seem to come without a cost.
Soda Can Alley is the cost of the casino.
It’s situated under the overpass where the billboard of the model in the red dress is standing. The Canners are bottle and can gleaners. They spend their days scouring downtown Redemption for recyclable containers, stacking them into stolen shopping carts. At the end of the day they bring them here to the Alley where the city set up a line of recycling machines. The Canners live entirely off the profits from the machines. It’s not much and some days they don’t even eat. “Stay away from hungry people,” my mother always tells me. “They can get awful ugly. Keep your butt out of Soda Can.”
But the hungry Canners are just a front for what really lies under the overpass and the billboard of the beautiful girl. There’s an office building called the clubhouse that belongs to the mob boss, Tommy Tapparelli, who runs Redemption’s City Carting. He lets some of the mayor’s city officials use that building for their unofficial clandestine meetings.
I’m not so educated on politics and what it takes to run a city but I do know one thing: there’s not a city in the world that doesn’t have dirty secrets. Every politician out there is hiding something. Our mayor brags about Redemption’s clean streets and upright citizens, the promise of our rapid modernization, our booming economy. Redemption was voted one of the top ten cities in the United States: clean air, great schools, loss of jobs, nightlife and five star restaurants.
But they left out the part about the rampant drugs and prostitution and the illegal gambling. The mayor and his officials sweep all that under the rug so they can enjoy the spoils of such crimes.
My Uncle Joe, head of the Park’s Department, uses the clubhouse every Thursday night to screw his mistress, otherwise known as his “goomah.”
By the time I step to the lip of Soda Can, it’s after nightfall. It’s littered with trash and instead of parked cars are shopping carts abounding with stuffed trash bags, Canners resting wearily beside them.
I brought my bookbag, and Amanda’s inside. I thought I would bring her along for moral support. “Okay, Amanda. Here goes nothing. You keep your eyes peeled for the Dobermans.” I tune in to their sharp barking in the near distance and I pray to God they’re chained. An intruder like me would be prime meat for them.
Then I step forward and start my way in.
The air is about ten degrees colder here than in the rest of the Valley. I zip the open part of my coat up to my chin.
That’s when I spot something in the shadows. My heart jumps into my throat. Something small and fast darts out from behind a garbage container only to vanish behind another. A child’s laughter sounds. Not knowing the direction it came from, I whip around like a madwoman. The laughter comes again. I plant my feet for battle. Then a young boy steps into view. A few yards from him a little girl appears. They’re gaunt and wearing tattered clothes. “Brother,” the girl calls out. “Sister,” the boy responds. The boy digs into his jacket pocket and brings something out. He inspects it closely, holding it less than an inch from his eyeball. Then he hurls it in a high arch into the air. I catch it on instinct. It’s a gaming chip. One for placing bets. It’s black, engraved with little white hearts and spades. Etched in the center is the word STRIVE. On the flip side is the unsmiling face of Mayor Vaughn. I’ve heard of these chips but it’s the first time I’m seeing one. An advertisement went out a month ago in Redemption’s Tomorrow about how anyone who finds a black chip will get a free buffet dinner and one night’s VIP access to the Member’s Only robot lounge called Heaven.
I send it back to him. “You can keep it,” I say. I’m not interested in the mayor’s lounge and the boy needs the buffet dinner more than I do.
He laughs. The girl does too. “Do you have any toys for us? I want one.”
My mind flashes to Amanda. No way!
Shit. Now I feel guilty. She needs the doll more than I do. But Amanda is staying with me.
When I don’t respond she straightens with pride and says. “Let’s go, brother.” She scampers off to the right toward the overpass. The boy pivots, looks back, motioning me to follow. They lead me to where the reverse vending machines are. They stand next to a woman who’s feeding her cans methodically into a machine. The boy yanks on her coat and she shooes him away impatiently.
I look up to the bridge and the massive sign towering above it. The largeness of it is frightening and somehow obscene. The woman is like King Kong and I almost expect her to come alive, reach down and grab me. I wish she weren’t there. I can hear the whir of speeding cars above on the overpass and this makes me all the more dizzy.
No one else seems to mind her or the noise though. They’re too busy feeding the machines and organizing their cans. As I watch them I note a heaviness to their movements and a hunger in their eyes. Their bodies are draped in soiled rags. They don’t look like people to me. They look like rubble. The ruins of humanity.
I imagine I must stick out like a sore thumb. “Hey!” a man shouts. “Hey! What are you doing over here?”
He wears layers of red cloaks a
nd they billow out around him as he thunders over to me. He’s tall and massive but I don’t flinch. I have learned in the art of battle, that size doesn’t really matter. It’s what’s in the eyes. So I gather myself and stare him down with all my might. I don’t really want to get into a tussle with a Canner. Who knows what kinds of diseases he carries.
Luckily my fearless eyes halt him in his tracks.
“You don’t want a piece of this,” I tell him.
He’s not old but his hair is grey and he stinks so freaking bad it actually smells sweet. I give a dry heave and say. “You stink.”
“You got a lot of nerve coming in here uninvited! Who do you think you are? Didn’t you see the sign? Canners Only! No Trespassing.”
“I go where I please. Now step off.”
“Get out!” he insists. “Or I’ll set the dogs on you!” His rage edges him a little closer. “I’ll do it, I swear,” he promises.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” I say. “But you are really trying my patience old man.”
He fumes. “Old man? Old man? You think you’re better than me don’t you? Don’t you? You sinner! You sinner, you!”
“That’s no way to welcome a guest.” I’m cool as ice on the outside but inside I’m sizzling.
But then a hand falls on my shoulder. I don’t know who it belongs to. For all I know it could be another Canner ready to crack my skull in. But for some odd reason, I feel relief from this touch.
It’s Soldier Sonny. He’s frowning. “Don’t be like that, Stori. Please.”
Sonny wasn’t too sane to start with, before he went into the Army. And after he served three years in Iraq he’s been pretty touched. You would think with all the combat he endured (he even has a purple heart) he would come back and nothing in the Valley would faze him. But it’s just the opposite. Sonny is scared of everyone and everything. He’s like a little girl now. “Please,” he says again.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Fine, Sonny.” It’s strange to see such a big guy, with a bandana tied around his forehead and hands as big as oven mitts acting like a whining little girl.
Sonny never smiles but I know when he’s happy. His eyebrows go up like he’s just discovered something. “That’s better. Fighting ain’t the answer. Trust me, Stori. You’ve got to trust me.”
I don’t want to stay long in his presence. For starters, I think he might like me. And what’s more, he’s super depressed. I think he might kill himself one day, to be quite honest. Whatever happened to him over there in Iraq, he carried it back with him, and he can’t handle it. Now he’s homeless, and some of the nicer Canners take care of him. “Stori,” says Sonny. “You shouldn’t be here. A place like this isn’t safe for a lady like yourself.”
One thing about Soldier Sonny. He’s real respectful with girls. I like him for that.
“Sonny. My dad’s missing. Have you seen him?”
“Frankie Putz?”
“Yes.”
“Last I seen him he was over at Rita’s having a Heineken. I wasn’t drinking, you know. I was just beating the cold. Drinking makes people do ugly things. Horrible, disgusting things.”
“When was that?”
“Couple weeks ago.”
“Before Friday, the 3rd?”
“I guess.”
“Well did he look okay? Did he say anything?”
“He was talking about his job, I think. About some pretty tigers in a cage and how they asked him for a cookie.”
Oh God. Why did I even ask him?
“You know, Stori. I had a brother once. And he was my friend. But he’s far away now.” He shakes his head desperately. “Sometimes in life you have to take different paths. To get where you’re going Stori.”
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
His face brightens and it almost looks like he’s gonna smile. “Thank you beautiful lady. And I don’t mean that in a nasty way. I mean you’re beautiful in a spiritual way. These other guys, I know why they say it. They’re disgusting.”
He makes a face like someone just stole his chocolate pudding. “I just wanna go, home, Stori. I’m scared and I just wanna go home.” Sonny is way worse off than me. He has no one.
I grunt like someone punched me in my belly.
I fear for him. Someone that vulnerable isn’t safe. Not in the Valley, not beyond the Valley. Not anywhere. The world seems to do very bad things to vulnerable people. I wish there were a number I could call. There should be places for people like him. Where he could get gentle care and help with all his mental issues. But I don’t know of anything other than the shelters, and they’re just holding cells. I don’t want to think about Sonny’s bleak future anymore. It’s only going to depress me. “Well I better get going.”
As I go he calls behind me, “One day I’m going to have a beautiful woman just like you! That’s my dream.”
Don’t dream, I want to yell back. Sonny, this world is not made for dreaming.
As I knock on the front door of the building I can hear a woman’s laughter inside. It halts and there’s silence.
I knock again, louder this time.
“Get the fuck out of here!” It’s my Uncle Joe.
I lean into the door and holler, “It’s your niece. Stori. I need to talk to you Uncle Joe.”
A discussion ensues, between my uncle and his mystery gumad. Then I hear a chair scrape against the floor and a door slam.
Quiet again. Is he going to answer me?
Finally the door cracks open an inch and I see my uncle scowling through the opening. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“No time.”
“Uncle Joe…” It sounds weird just saying it, seeing I haven’t had contact with this man for over three years.
He doesn’t like the sound of it either. “Just call me Joe.”
“Fine. Joe. You know my father is missing, don’t you?”
He casts a paranoid eye into the room with a look on his face like he’s constipated or has to pee real bad. Then he turns back to me and says, “Yeah, look kid. I’m real sorry about your dad and all. But I’ve got things to do here.”
He slams the door in my face.
I won’t let him get off that easy. I lean into the door again and holler, “The man back there said he’s gonna sic the Dobermans on me. It’d be a shame for the cops and the press to have to show up here tonight and find a dead girl’s body, and whatever else might be going on behind these closed doors.”
“Ahhhh!” he bellows and then the door flings wide open. “Like anyone would call the press for you! You got two minutes.”
There’s a desk in the middle of the room and it’s covered in a disarray of papers. A refrigerator is next to a file cabinet by the windows and there’s a table with a hot plate and a bare bones sink connected to a rusty pipe. The light bulb in the ceiling is pale orange and the dark wainscoting doesn’t help to brighten the gloom.
The linoleum floors haven’t been mopped in what looks like months and dust rises from a stack of papers as he pushes them aside to take a seat at the desk. The room tells me women don’t visit often and the ones that do aren’t the domestic type. Which reminds me of his gumad. There’s another room in the back and the door is closed.
“Is someone else here?” I ask.
“What’s it to you, Nosy? Now get it over with.”
Uncle Joe’s not a bad looking guy but today he must be tired because his eyes are all red-rimmed. I don’t want to think it’s because he does drugs. Even though I hate him and everything he’s still my uncle.
“My dad’s been missing. Cops came by, took a statement, but I don’t think they’re really looking.”
“Give them time.”
“I don’t have time. A social worker wants to take me and Regina out of the house. Mom would die.”
“And how does any of this involve me?” He’s all jittery, leaning forward, then back, running his fingers through his straight black hair.
&
nbsp; “Uncle…I mean Joe. Don’t you care at all? Don’t you remember how close you and daddy used to be?”
“That was a long time ago. People grow up, Stori. People change.”
“Not family. Family doesn’t change.”
“I haven’t seen your father in over a month. Okay? So can you let me get back to my business?”
“Cosimo!” I shout, surprising even myself.
His eyes bulge wide open.
“People are saying Cosimo has been in the Valley. That he’s the reason why people are disappearing. You could be next.”
Uncle Joe suddenly looks sad. “Cosimo. I’m sick of everyone talking about Cosimo. There’s no such thing.”
“Listen. You’re the only person we’ve got now. You know people. People will listen to you. I think—no, I KNOW—he’s still alive. Deep in my heart, Joe. I can feel him, his heartbeat, right up against mine at night. In my dreams I hear him calling out to me. Calling out to my mother. Wherever he is, he’s very lonely and he’s very sad and he doesn’t wanna be there.”
Joe gets up and paces the room. He speaks to the sticky floor, “I told your father to do a lot of things. But he never listened. If he would have listened he could have gotten out of the Valley. He would have made a better life for himself.”
“We like the Valley. We don’t want to leave.”
He stops pacing and faces me. “I’m sorry about your father. But there’s nothing I can do.”
There’s no hope here. Uncle Joe has been gone from the Valley for too long. It is said once a person leaves they lose the part of their heart that feels loyalty. Somewhere deep beneath that jittery mess I can see he’s searching for it, trying to locate it inside himself. Or maybe he’s fine living the way he does. A part of me is disappointed, knowing he will be no help, but another part of me is relieved. Now I can finally tell him how I really feel. “You were one of us, once,” I tell him. “And my father loved you. He would have cut off his right arm for you if you asked him. Good luck finding a friend like that again. That’s the kind of man my father is. He risked his life for me once. I wonder if you would do the same for your own daughter. But looking at you now and smelling your whore in the other room I don’t think you could even do that for yourself. ‘Merigan.”
The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1) Page 8
