Nora & Kettle (A Paper Stars Novel Book 1)
Page 23
Lie. “Um. Of what I’ll need to get before we go to the hospital to inquire about your brother,” I say very ineffectually.
“Oh right, let me see,” he says, expectantly holding out his hand. The sun has pushed a line of light right through the alley and it strikes my face. It will only last a few minutes and then all will be black.
I tip my head and think, shuffling my backside on the cardboard. “I’ll definitely require a nice blouse and a skirt. Some makeup… Oh and…” I glance down at my chest.
Kettle is staring at me, a serious expression on his face. His eyes keep going to the paper in my hand. “Yes?”
“I’m going to need some personal items,” I whisper.
“Huh, like what?” he asks.
I lean closer and whisper, “Undergarments. I only have the ones I’m wearing and…”
He jumps up suddenly, his dinner scrunched in his hand. “Oh right. Yes, of course. Um…” He rakes his fingers through his dark hair, his cheeks flushed. He looks down at his half-eaten food. “I’m just going to put this in the trash.” He takes a few steps backward, nearly trips over, and then walks away quickly, with me covering my mouth to stop from giggling. When he returns, the paper bag is still in his hand. He laughs awkwardly. “Huh, I hadn’t actually finished eating.” He stares down at his own hands, his earlier curiosity about my list forgotten.
That worked well. And guilt worms its way into my thoughts.
42. SLEEP
KETTLE
“Are you tired?” I ask to Nora’s open, yawning mouth. She pats her pink lips and nods. I am sad when the sun sets because she becomes a gray shadow and I can only just make out her features.
“I can’t believe we’re going to do it all again tomorrow,” she says through another yawn. She lifts one leg and then the other, dropping them down with a thump. “I can barely move.”
“You get used to it,” I say, squinting through the grainy light and trying to catch an expression before it becomes too dark to see her. I think a thin but satisfied smile crosses her face.
She shifts awkwardly and sighs. “How do you sleep?” she asks, her voice gravelly with exhaustion. Her clothes rake the cardboard, making small scuffing noises.
“Close my eyes and just…” I start.
She shoves me gently. “No, I mean. Where…? How do you lie down?”
I can tell by her unsure movements, her shaky voice, that she’s very uncomfortable here. I shuffle closer and our shoulders bump. She doesn’t move away, and I feel her skin shivering against mine in the cooling night air. “I don’t lie down,” I reply, very aware of how close we are.
I show her how I arrange myself so I can sleep sitting up, and she copies me.
We are hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. I close my eyes as silence settles between us.
She exhales loudly, rearranging and shifting for about half an hour. Then I hear her sniff and I think she may be crying.
“I don’t wanna do this, Kin,” I sniff, wiping my nose with my sleeve. It’s cold and my belly hurts. A man threw us some coins, which we used to buy a roll of Lifesavers. We only ate two each. Kin says we have to save the rest. I shudder and cross my arms across my chest, but I can’t stop shivering.
The shadows look like tall men in coats ready to grab us and take us back, and I’m scared to close my eyes.
“Shh! It’s gonna be okay, little brother,” Kin whispers, opening his arms and pulling me closer. “We’ll look after each other. Just close your eyes and try to get some sleep.”
The wind howls like a coyote, and I start to miss the desert. A bottle breaks and a man swears. The noise of traffic rises and then disappears as nighttime arrives. I’m scared. I feel small. Smaller than Kin. Smaller than the shadows growing around me. I miss her warm arms, blankets tucked in tight around my body.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Kin whispers again, his arms shaking with cold and hitting the back of my neck. This time, I think he’s talking to himself as well as me.
Something white, like shreds of down from a pillow, start to fall from the sky. It’s my first snow.
“Nora,” I whisper. She flinches, sniffs again. Her arm moves and I know she’s wiping her nose. “What’s wrong?”
She takes a while to find her voice. I sense she’s trying to be brave, but I do understand this is really hard. I remember.
“I just don’t think I can sleep sitting up like this,” she says. “It’s terribly uncomfortable.” I hear the words between what she actually says. She’s scared. She misses her own bed. She doesn’t want to sleep in a cold, filthy alley. No one does.
I take off my jacket, shove it in my bag, and put it next to me. “Here, lie on this.” She lays her head down, her hair fanning across my leg.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her body shuddering from the cold. The fall weather has been kind to us so far, though. Winter is always the hardest.
I carefully shift her hair from my leg with one finger and watch her legs pull into her chest. Folding the cardboard over her torso, I put a hand on her shoulder, gently stroking her arm. “It’s going to be okay. Just try to sleep.”
She yawns, covering her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
I pause. “Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry your life turned out like this. I’m sorry you have to sleep on the streets.”
I laugh sadly. “You’re sleeping on the streets with me.”
She sighs, long and airy. “That is true.”
What am I going to do?
***
It’s late. And I can’t sleep. All I can do is watch the small, curled shape of her body, folded under my arm and under cardboard. I want to rattle her awake. Hear her voice again.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of these thoughts. Because they are no good to me. No good to her either. My mind is unfocused and focused on the same thing—this star out of reach.
43. BUILDING
KETTLE
She’s impressive. She doesn’t know it, but she is. Her bruises have faded, her skin is brushed by the sun, and she is stronger.
It’s early. The street sweepers have been by and the pavement smells less like trash and urine than usual, which is nice. After three days at the docks, Nora smelled as bad as any of the men, so I took her to the YMCA to have a shower and clean up. She ‘borrowed’ a pair of sunglasses, a scarf, and a jacket in the lost and found.
Nora links her arm in mine so I can lead her to the store. This works well for us. Me, being the servant leading the rich, blind woman around.
A man in an apron sweeps the sidewalk in front of us, the thick brushes scraping across the wet concrete. I halt Nora’s stride while he sweeps cigarette butts and gum wrappers into the gutter.
We stand there for a moment, and I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like to walk arm in arm with a girl and not be stared at. To not be stared at period. I laugh hollowly as we start walking again. It’s not an idea I should entertain.
“What are you laughing about?” Nora whispers, clinging a little closer as a cop strolls toward us.
“Nothing really. I was just thinking it would be funny if people thought we were a couple.” She doesn’t make a sound. Her lips purse in what looks like irritation. The cop walks past us, tipping his hat at Nora when he passes. When he’s gone, I say, “You know, you and me, together, people would find that funny.” What am I saying?
Finally, she speaks, “Yes. I suppose it would be pretty strange.”
There. That shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
We walk in silence after that.
When we reach the store, she stops and turns to me. “I can manage from here. I’ll meet you out front in about half an hour?” The tone of her voice is very clean, businesslike.
I scratch my cheek and pause, thinking separating might be a bad idea. “Shouldn’t I go with you?”
She lowers her glasses and stares at me with those amber eyes. “You want to come into the underwear department with me?”
“I won’t be long.” And she’s gone, blasted with warm air conditioning and into her world. She walks with purpose and comfort like she’s at home in there. It adds another brick to the wall that was already standing between us.
***
I’ve checked my watch about a hundred times. The security guard came and told me to vacate the entrance, so I’ve been strolling up and down the window displays. Each one shows a season. Mannequins in fur coats standing in front of a Christmas tree to women in shorts holding tennis racquets. They are wooden, sad, frozen in some typical scenario that’s nothing like anyone’s real life.
I snort and kick a stray pebble. Pigeons squabble and flutter around it, shooting me beady, hateful glances when they realize it’s just a rock.
I think I’m losing it.
She should be out by now.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I spin around, apologizing as I turn, “Sorry. I know… move on,” I say, expecting the security guard again.
A lithe woman, pinched in at the waist and wearing a polka dot blouse and red lipstick, faces me. She smiles and then she sniffs.
“Oh. It’s just you,” I say, scared she can hear my heart bounding about in my chest.
“It’s just me,” Nora replies. She sounds so sad, her shoulders hunched, her fingers messed together.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods and walks away from the store. “Where’s the hospital?” she asks, looking left and right.
I run to catch up with her as she wipes her eyes under her glasses. “It’s not far.” Even though she’s standing tall, she seems crumpled like someone scrunched her up and tried to straighten her out again.
I want to ask what’s wrong.
I know she won’t tell me.
NORA
I can’t believe she’s not with any of them. Any of them. Each phone call was like an icepick to the heart, turning, turning, turning. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Every time, I am. Frankie, what has he done with you? I’m going to fall apart. Someone’s pulled the pin, and I’m going to disintegrate right here in the street.
Kettle takes my hand.
KETTLE
I pat her hand. She feels cold, the freckled skin of her hand threaded with tiny veins. “We can walk there.” Her pulse beats under my fingers. Fast. Frenetic.
***
The hospital casts the large shadow of an H across the lawns in front, stretching to the sidewalk. As we start to cross the road, Nora’s feet dig into the ground and I find I’m half having to drag her to the entrance. “Are you sure you can do this?” I ask, holding onto her trembling arm.
She squeaks a trembling, “Yes. I want to,” and straightens a little.
She fumbles around in the pocket of her skirt and pulls out a lipstick. Pursing her lips, she applies it, sucks her lips into her mouth, and tries to smile.
“How does that look?” she asks, lifting her sunglasses and blinking at me innocently.
I frown. Tilt my head. “I don’t like it,” I blurt.
She looks down. “Oh,” and goes to wipe it from her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Wait.” I grab her hand and she stares at me, amber eyes melting. I lift my thumb to the corner of her mouth and rub away the red smudge. She blushes, lowers her eyes and again… My heart. “You look nicer without it, but it makes you look older. So leave it on.”
I drop my hand from her face. She almost says something, but it’s stuck behind her teeth and her waxy red lips.
I take a step back and usher her forward with my hands. “I’ll wait around the corner,” I whisper. “Leave the glasses on, so no one recognizes you.”
***
Waiting. Always waiting.
Looking through windows never walking through doors.
Nora’s shadow appears before her body, shrinking as she catches up to it. She takes off her sunglasses, her face carved from sorrow, and I brace myself for the bad news.
Kin is dead. He’s dead.
My neck feels like it will snap from the weight of my thoughts. I bow my head, wanting to cover my ears to block out what she’s going to say, but I don’t have the strength.
That voice—stars and dark blue sky. “He’s alive and I know where he’s staying,” she says.
I link my hands behind my head and sink down the cool, brick wall I’m leaning against until I’m crouching close to the ground.
He’s alive.
***
“Where…? How is…?” My hand runs down my face, an imitation of tears. I stop. Turn up to where she sways in her red leather shoes. “Did you get away with it? I mean, they didn’t recognize you?”
She softly shakes her head, the angles of her face softening too. “I’m fine,” she says, hitching her skirt up so she can crouch on the ground at my level. “How are you?” She reaches for my cheek, hovers halfway, caressing the air instead of my skin, and then her hand plants on the sidewalk for balance.
“I don’t know.” I’m scared. “Nora,” I say, staring at the grooves in the slabs of concrete, neatly lined up, dropped into place. I want to follow them home. I tell her the truth of what’s inside me right now. I don’t know why, but it isn’t hard. “I’m scared.”
She laughs and stands up, extending a hand. “He’s your brother. You don’t need to be scared. You need to go see him.”
I take her hand and she pulls me up, releasing me quickly.
“Shit. You’re right,” I say, watching her eyes widen at my cursing. A smile gathers in the corner of my mouth. “So where is he?”
She smiles and taps her finger on her jaw. “Out of the city. Where there are lawns and picket fences…”
A house that used to be white sits gray on the end of a noodling driveway. Rusty tricycles sprout from the ground, their wheels frozen in place. A blur of dirty clothing streaks across the shoulder-height grass.
Three steps from the top. ‘Creak’
Quick! Everyone hide.
She stares at my clenched fists, and I try to relax them. “Ever caught a bus?” I ask her. Though I know the answer.
44. KIN
NORA
Kettle is quiet, something playing behind his eyes that I can’t see. His fists are clenched, each finger, each muscle wound up tighter than a jack in the box ready to pop open. I don’t understand his mood. I thought he’d be happy. But then there are a lot of things I don’t understand about Kettle. Though I’d like to.
We sit side by side on the silver bus, a crevice in the seats separating us. I stare out the window, lean my head on the glass and let the vibrations chase my thoughts out of my ears as the land lowers gradually. Easing down like giant steps until the spaces between buildings become larger and their height lessens.
Front lawns shimmer with moisture, green carpets leading to the white-boarded homes and bright red doors with large brass knockers.
I roll my face toward Kettle. He seems to tense more and more as we leave the city behind. So much for the relaxing ‘country life’. I snort quietly and he snaps out of his trance, showing me the deep, dark blue of his eyes that seem rimmed with fear. “Thanks for coming with me. I don’t…” he starts, looking at his lap.
“You’re welcome. Besides, I want to meet the boy whose bed I’m sleeping in,” I say with a smirk.
Kettle’s eyes stay on his hands, his lip curling slightly. “I wouldn’t tell him about that.”
My eyes fall to the floor, which looks like a tin roof about to lift off. “Oh. Will he be upset?”
The bus shrieks to a stop and we stand and wobble. “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s just… he’ll tease you.” He wraps his hand around the metal bar just above my own. We are so di
fferent. I look away. “That’s just Kin,” he says with a more relaxed smile on his face. “He teases everyone.”
He steps behind me as we exit, and I hear him unevenly exhale. This is the street. We cross over and check the numbers. It can only be a couple of blocks down the road.
***
Kettle walks painfully slow. Stopping every now and then, glancing down the empty driveways. Scaling the walls of every home with his eyes. He’s acting like a wary, wild animal, like there’s a man with a net tiptoeing toward him and he’s counting the exit routes.
We reach number two hundred and two and he stops, his feet lining up neatly against the crack in the footpath, an invisible wall preventing him from walking further. Orange and brown leaves scuttle over his scuffed sneakers and a sign hung from metal chains on a messily painted, white post swings reluctantly in the breeze. It reads in neat, black writing: Craftman House, Rehabilitation for Returned Serviceman! I arch an eyebrow at the exclamation point.
Kettle shoves his hands in his pockets. “You said it was a Home.”
I don’t know why it matters. “That’s what the nurse told me.”
“How the hell did you swing this one, Kin?” he mutters to himself, nudging the signpost lightly with his foot.
He stalks up the garden path, ducking under hanging planters, which seem to be dripping from every horizontal beam or branch.
Wind chimes and pinwheels are planted in every garden bed of the overgrown yard. They clatter together, making an ungodly noise with every breeze. Kettle gives me a sideways glance as if to say be careful as he starts climbing the stairs, pausing on the last step, which creaks under his feet. He mutters something I can’t quite make out and steps up to the porch.
I join him on the welcome mat that just reads we… me, the middle letters scrubbed away from so many polite boots. He lifts his fist to knock and I grab his hand, startled at how hard it is. Shakily, I let go.
“It says ring the bell,” I murmur, my eyes going to the large brass bell screwed to the doorframe on our left. He rings the bell. It makes an odd, dull clunking sound, which I doubt anyone would hear, and we step back and wait.