Unfortunately he’s working again today and I lay a sharp eye on him as he weighs my stuff; he would probably put his finger on the scale if he had the chance.
Honest people. There aren’t that many left in this world.
It’s been weeks since my family sat down and had a real meal together. The way we always have. As I make my way home I envision what dinner is always like: My mother moving quietly from stove to table, serving us. My father waiting with patience until we all have plates and my mother sits down. Lights off, a single candle in the center of the table, we hold hands and bow our heads to pray. My father is the one to start. “Ancient of Days, our Lord Jesus Christ. Knower of all things, maker of the lands far and wide, we thank You for this food, and we ask You to bless the land it came from. We are forever Your servants, Great Ancient of Days, Jesus Christ.”
And we all say, “Amen.”
It hurts like hell that my father won’t be with us tonight to say the prayers of gratitude. But at least we can keep the tradition alive without him. “Put ice in the bag,” I tell the little crook. “I’m not going straight home.”
I won’t be walking out of this place backward.
Madam Scarlet doesn’t want to let me in to her bunny ranch, and I personally would prefer eating dirt over being here, but I’m not going away until I see her. “I told you already, I’m not here to cause any trouble. I just want to ask some questions to the lady called Butterfly, that’s all.”
She finally relents and lets me in. We walk up two flights of stairs to the third floor. She has me wait in the front room that’s covered in red wallpaper and draped with gaudy gold curtains. The coffee table features an ESPN and Esquire magazine and a glass serving tray with empty glasses and a bottle of Southern Comfort.
I know this is gonna sound pretty pathetic, but I’m not here to give the whore a piece of my mind. I just want to see her. Like—what does she have that me and Ma and Regi don’t? What kind of beauty and magic does she possess?
That’s half the reason why I went to Desma’s house that day. Of course I wanted to talk to her aunt. But I also wanted to get up close to Des. To her lips. Her clothes. Get a whiff of her. I just wanted to see what it is that I just don’t have. Maybe to torture myself. Maybe to wallow in pain. I can be kind of morbid that way. A little bit like my mother.
It takes a while but finally a woman appears.
I stand and survey her head to toe. She wears a big smile that, to my astonishment, kind of disarms me. “Now who is this here says they need a word with me?” she asks in a voice that sings instead of speaks.
I’m utterly confused, as she’s not nearly as pretty as my mother. Her hair is brittle from too much bleaching and her roots are slightly orange. Her face is orange, too, from what I assume is tanning spray and her powder blue eye shadow is just plain wrong. This is who my father left us for? “Have a seat, honey,” she says, gesturing to the couch.
Even if I wanted to hit her, or spit on her at least, I know it’s not going to achieve anything. Up until now my strength has always been able to solve my problems. But this one is different. Hurting her won’t keep my mother’s heart from being broken. Hurting her won’t get my father back. I sit back down already feeling defeated. It makes me tired. She sits next to me and says, “Now what can I do to help you?”
“My name is Stori Putzarella. I think you know my father, Frank.”
Her smile dissipates and she looks at me regretfully. “Oh,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
I stare at the shaggy brown rug. It’s got potato chip crumbs in it and a knot of blonde hair. Have these people ever heard of a vacuum? “Sorry for what? Being a home wrecker?”
I expect her to get defensive. People always get that way when you hurt their pride, but she doesn’t. “I understand how you feel. I had a father once too and it wasn’t easy.”
She sits forward and pours herself some Southern Comfort. She rests her elbows on her knees, cupping her drink in both hands and gazes toward the only light in the room streaming through a small slit between the curtains. “I heard about your father. I’m sorry, Stori. I’m really sorry. I can see your heart is heavy. If you’d like I can listen. To whatever it is you want to say.”
If she thinks she’s gonna be my therapist she’s got another thing coming. “I don’t need you. Or my father. I’m just here because I wanted to send him a message. Tell him we’re fine without him. That Mommy’s doing great—better than ever. She got a job already. Tell him not to come home.”
Butterfly gives me a look of pity. She may be washed up but she’s not stupid. Plus I’m not good at faking. “Oh, honey. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
The in a while part stings. “So he was here.” There was a part of me that was hoping it wasn’t true. I brace myself for her answer.
She bites her lip and I think of Desma. So far my life has been a series of lip biting women stealing away all the men I love. “Damn,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
“I already know everything. What do you think we wouldn’t find out?”
She’s pensive now. She hunches her shoulders and sighs. Then she sits straight and her eyes come to mine.
I don’t want to look into hers but she’s staring so intently. I’m looking for it. The evil. I want to hate her. I do hate her. But I read people well and I can see she’s not evil at all.
“I’ll tell you everything if you want me to. But I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You can’t hurt me. Even if you tried.”
She takes another sip and winces from the burn. “Your father was here. He saw me a few times. It wasn’t right. And he always knew that.”
“I knew it. What a pig.”
“He wasn’t Stori. He really loved your mother. In fact, he told me he loved her the last time he was here. And that he would never be coming back. He just got caught up in life. Lost. And he drifted away. But he was coming back to you guys. Said he was gonna do right.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can’t take any more lies.”
“I promise you. He’s only a man, honey. Men make mistakes. But the good ones come back and make up for it.”
I return my gaze to the potato crumbs. Sadly they have been my saving anchor through this whole conversation. I’ve always thought that if someone loved another person with all their heart they would never be able to do something as horrible as cheating. But maybe my mother was right. Maybe love is more complicated than I thought. “So he didn’t leave my mother for you?”
She laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing she ever heard. “Honey, please. I’m a pastime. A placeholder. To get them through what’s rough. That’s all.”
“God. How can you live like that?” I ask her. She’s pathetic to me now. “I mean, doesn’t it make you feel bad? All those men using you?”
“Sometimes. Yes. Sometimes it makes me feel awful bad.”
I shake my head. If she were a friend of mine I would have a whole lot of things to tell her. I would make her quit this job. I would demand it.
I imagine all the smelly men who haven’t showered that just walk into her room. What would it be like? Having to touch them, having to let them touch me. In the most private of places. I get the creeps and I cover my coat tight over my front. “How young were you when you lost it?”
Butterfly lights a cigarette and takes a puff. Her eyes get bleary, out of focus. They’ve drifted somewhere far beyond this room. “Fifteen,” she answers.
“Fifteen,” I repeat, finding it hard to believe, even though lots of girls I know this age aren’t virgins anymore. I’m still a virgin, even though I don’t want to be. I would have given it to Tony. If he hadn’t broken my heart.
She’s still far out in space. “Why you asking me that?”
“My mother told me I should wait. For marriage.”
She smiles and takes a deep puff. “You’re a Valley child alright. That’s nice, Stori. That’s real nice.”<
br />
“Who was he?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t be talking to her like she’s one of my friends, but my curiosity has the best of me.
“Honey. You don’t want to know. It wasn’t one of them fairytales they tell you on TV. It was real life. Real life is hard.”
“Tell me.”
“Better that I don’t. You still got young in you. I can see it. Better keep it while it lasts. You couldn’t hold something like that in your young head. It would swim around there in circles. Get mixed up with all the pretty things. Simple things.”
“I can hold way more than you,” I dare her. She doesn’t know what I’ve already been through.
One thing I’ve noticed about Butterfly, she doesn’t get upset when I take a shot at her pride. That’s a rare quality in a person. “I bet it’s true. I forgot what you young ones are up against nowadays.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “Those missing kids, God that’s something scary. I was one of them once, Stori. I was one of them.”
“You were?”
She nods her head up and down vigorously.
“What happened?”
“Ran away. Wasn’t more than a week, when I got picked up. He was handsome; had the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. When he smiled it was like the sun was shining. He said ‘Hey. What’s a pretty girl like you doing on these streets all by yourself? Don’t you got a daddy?’
“‘A daddy,’ I said. ‘I ain’t never met my daddy.’
“He looked me up and down like I was a prize. Made my heart do somersaults. ‘That fruit is ripe for the pickin’, he told me. ‘You’re about to be plucked.’
“‘I can take care of myself,’ I said. But who was I fooling? I was just playing hard to get.
“‘You gonna need a man like me in your life. Teach you things. Or this street’s gonna eat you up and spit you out.’
“‘I wanted to learn from him, you know, Stori. I thought he was my boyfriend. He took me to eat at the Marriot. Bought me a satin dress. Never forget it. Then one night he took me to a party. Locked me in a room. Two men came in there and raped me. That was my first time.”
“You left that man after that?”
“No. I stayed. He made me feel like it was all my fault. Eventually I did leave him, though. And here I am.”
I think of what Ernestine told me about the mayor and I almost start to tell Butterfly.
I need my father. I can’t let him go. I can’t. “I guess that fucked you up pretty good. Made you hate men after that right?”
“Mistrust, yes. But hate, no. Hatred is a toxic thing, Stori. Once it seeps in, tears your organs all apart.”
“How did you keep from hating people?” I ask her.
She thinks on it and I wait for the answer. “Well, I heard a voice.”
I hear my name being called. Someone outside is yelling, “Stori Putz! Your mother been calling for you!”
I know I have to wrap things up but I’m curious about Butterfly now. “A voice?”
“Yes. It was a tiny thing, slight as a hummingbird. But I could hear it every now and again. It would pop up just like hummingbirds do in a backyard on a summer day. One minute it’s not there, the next it is. You never see where it comes from. Just jumps up out of thin air, all pretty and perfect and beating its wings. And it says, ‘Hey girl. Don’t you know you are somebody’s baby? Somebody out there needs you! They need you like the grass needs rain, like the earth needs sun.’ Not every girl has that voice inside her. That’s why I look out for the ones that don’t. I can’t make them stop what they’re doing. Hell, I never stopped myself. But I can be their hummingbird. Only if they want.”
“A hummingbird,” I say.
My name is being called again. “I gotta go,” I tell her. “But I have one more question.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
She laughs one of those regretful laughs that adults do when they’re holding back anger. “That takes trust. Trust I don’t have. I haven’t kissed a man in a very long time.”
On my way down Kindred street she pops her head out of the fourth floor window and calls after me. “Don’t stop looking for your father, Stori. I promise you. He loves you. Listen for the hummingbird, Stori. You’re a sweet girl. A good one too.”
I walk alone again, along the cobblestone avenue. This time I have no missing signs and masking tape, no job to do but go home and tell my mother there’s no one to blame. There is no big bad wolf preying on our family. No point of reference, no target to set our aim.
I thought the whore could be the answer in that I could assign the blame on her and place all my hatred there. But she’s suffering just as bad as I am.
I guess in life, there’s really no one to blame for our hurts. We are all under the same curse. I can see the curse now. It’s everywhere. It hangs like an unwanted coat on everything. It’s a living breathing thing. I wade through it and carry it along with me. And everyone else does too.
How sad it is to know that no one is the answer to my problems.
So if there’s no one to answer for my pain then what do I do with it?
I’m awfully lonely. I wish I had someone to walk alongside me. Hold my hand. It’s not easy being forgotten and afraid.
But there is also something else here in the Valley.
If only you would come, come closer to where I stand now. Do you see it? Do you feel it?
It’s here. Something magical. A heartbeat under the city. Buried deep inside; it beats to a song that is neverending. A wonderful promise that has yet to be fulfilled. The best that we’ve ever seen. It fills me with hope, with patience, with understanding. I am transformed.
And I am neverending. And you. And he. And she is also. The woman coming upon me weighed down by her grocery bags—she is neverending. “Let me help you!” I tell her with a big smile.
“Move out of my way,” she hisses.
I let her go. I’m looking at her small back and a bone crushing love for her takes over. I want to run to her and gather her into me and tell her just how I feel. “Well you have a wonderful day!” I call to her.
She doesn’t respond.
Watching her go, I get this strange notion that she and I are not even two separate people—that we’re actually the same damn person. The mere thought blows my mind and I can’t help myself from calling out to her. “You are mine! You are mine!”
Now I’m at Nardo Nuckles’ gym. There’s a small frosted window at the entrance and I glance inside to see Tony in a white wife-beater wrapping a hand with great concentration. I wish to be with him, be him, and never to have met him all at once.
Seeing Tony makes my mood take a nosedive. Nothing is yours, a mean old voice insists. Nothing.
Tony spots me and I duck from the window and rush away. But now I hear his voice calling me.
I turn to find him standing on the sidewalk with a big smile. Tony’s very forgiving. Maybe the most forgiving I know. “You came.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I tell him across the space between us.
He comes over and takes one of my bags. “I know. Come on. Just come inside and stay a while. I want to show you what I’ve been learning. You won’t believe how quick I’m getting, Stor.” He starts to shadow box with his free arm, making little pfft, pfft sounds with his lips shriveled up tight.
Some kids are drawing a wooden wagon over the cobblestone street. They’re delivering wood for some of the houses that have wood burning stoves and those on the side streets that have chimneys. The two smallest, maybe six or seven-year-olds, carry bundles up a front stoop and bang on an unsuspecting door. Pregnant Marie answers and promptly shouts back into her house, “Wood’s here. Boom Babies!”
I study the group waiting in the street by the wagon. None of them look familiar, so I suspect, as Marie has, they are the children of Forest Boom. “You ever seen them before?” I ask Tony.
“Nah. You?”
“Uh uh. You think they’re Boom Babies
?”
He sucks his teeth. “You mean the Peter Pan kids from the forest?”
“Yeah.”
Legend has it in Forest Boom there’s a secret place where time and death do not wield their powers. Some little ones chose this secret place over their own parents and left the Valley to be young forever. It’s not an easy place to find for Ernestine and I looked several times. (Not that I would ever leave my parents. I was just curious.) But the only thing we ever came across was poison ivy and a near death experience with a falling tree. The forest is said to be cursed and not many people go in there.
“Don’t believe it,” Tony says. “They’re probably from Soda Can.”
I’m sure he’s right. But one of them, the oldest, notices me watching them and we lock eyes. He’s tall, onyx eyed and shining. His skin is the color of my mother’s morning coffee. A gust of wind tunnels into the street from the North. It picks up his long, blue-black hair and sends it twirling above his head. Blades of black silk whip across his face and his slanty eyes narrow in on me. I gasp, despite myself. “Beautiful,” I whisper like a bedtime prayer.
Tony’s saying something; but it’s muffled like he’s behind a wall or locked in a closet somewhere. I think he’s saying, “Hey, Hey. Hey Stor.” But I’m too transfixed by the dark beauty who stares straight at me.
Tony’s voice starts to come in louder and finally I hear, “Stori. Are you listening to me?” He sounds pissed.
I’m kind of like stupid from the trance I’m in. “Huh?”
“I said. What are you looking at?”
The sharpness in his voice is like a knife and it cuts me loose from my trance. I look at Tony. I try not to smile because I know he’s pissed about me looking at another boy in front of him. “Oh. Nothing.”
The two young ones kick down the steps joyfully. Free of their wood, the boy has cash in his hand. He gives it to the dark beauty who, in turn, jams it without counting into his pocket. He hitches the wagon and starts off down the street, turning to give me that spooky look one last time.
The Book, the Key and the Crown (Secrets of the Emerald Tablet Book 1) Page 12
