No Place

by Todd Strasser

She’s making those muffled, snuffling “I don’t want you to see or hear me cry” sounds.

  “I’m sorry. Really.”

  “I know.” She nods without taking her hands from her face. “You didn’t mean it that way. You just . . . have no idea what it’s like.”

  “You’re right. I’m trying to imagine, and at the same time I have this feeling that I’ll never come close.”

  She lowers her hands and looks at me with reddened, teary eyes.

  I take her in my arms and hold her. The only sounds are the beeps and rasps of the machines that are keeping her brother alive.

  * * *

  It’s turning dark when we leave the hospital to ride our charity bikes back to Dignityville. The wind in our faces is supposed to be the sensation of freedom and possibilities, but at the moment the best we can hope for is not getting a bug in the eye.

  We leave the bikes outside the tent that belongs to Joel, the heavyset guy with the bushy eyebrows and beard, who’s appointed himself the Emperor of Bikes. He comes out and asks, “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, they worked fine.”

  Like Mom with her garden, he seems happy to have a purpose, fixing flats and straightening wheels. The stars are out, and as Meg and I walk down the dirt path, our swinging hands bump and I catch hers and hold it—not just because I think that she needs a boost, but because it feels good to be able to let my guard down and be close and share something . . . even if it’s a downer.

  We stop outside her tent, and the next thing I know, we’re in each other’s arms. She whispers, “Thank you, Dan.”

  “You don’t have to thank me.” We hug and share a quick impulsive kiss. Meg gives me a puzzled look that reflects the way I feel. A moment later I head slowly back to my tent, not sure why I just kissed her. Except that I felt like it.

  Mom’s inside reading her Zen gardening book by the lantern. She looks up, smiles, then must see something in my face. “What is it?”

  Here’s a strange question: Does homelessness bring families closer together? If we were still living in our house, I’d probably go up to my room and get online. But here we are in this tent. Who else is there to talk to?

  So I lay out the whole situation. It sounds so lame. So much like the plot of a dumb movie no girl could ever get her boyfriend to watch.

  See Dan, who’s gotten involved with two girls.

  See Dan have no idea what he’s doing.

  Run, Dan, run.

  31

  At school on Monday my situation with Talia and Meg is weighing on me. A guilty conscience says I’m being unfair to both of them.

  At lunch Talia gestures to the spot she’s saved at the table. As far as she’s concerned, everything’s great. We went to the movies with Noah and Tory on Saturday night. She doesn’t know about my visit to the hospital earlier that day, or that on Sunday, while she was off doing dressage, Meg and I did homework together in the dining tent.

  Talia smiles affectionately and presses close. Across from us Noah says, “Throwing today?”

  “You bet.”

  We’re just one big happy clique.

  The conversations angle off in other directions—parties, college, cars. Only, according to Mom, I’m supposed to tell Talia privately that I need “some time off” to think and sort things out.

  Yeah, right.

  There’s no situation in baseball that I’m afraid of. The more dire the scenario, the more I want to be on the mound, staring down the batter. I wouldn’t care if Willie Mays was at the plate and my whole career was on the line.

  But I can’t be honest with Talia.

  * * *

  That afternoon my pitches are popping and I’m feeling good about the upcoming Thanksgiving tournament. Later, stopping at the Starbucks to use the Wi-Fi, I spot a familiar-looking head of half-black, half-orange-red hair. It’s Detective French, sitting at a table with a venti cup. I hesitate, but as if she senses a presence, she turns and sees me.

  “Hi. I’m, uh, Meg Fine’s friend.” I approach.

  Detective French blinks. No sign of comprehension.

  “Her brother Aubrey got beat up behind Ruby’s?”

  It clicks. “Oh, yes. How is he?”

  “Still in a coma.”

  She winces. “I’m sorry.”

  A beat passes. She glances at me again, as if thinking, Is there a reason you’re still here?

  “Could I have a moment?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow slightly, then she gestures to an empty chair. I sit and speak in a low voice. “So, I know investigations have to be confidential and everything, but I was just wondering if you’d had any luck?”

  “Finding out who assaulted Aubrey?” There’s something flat and defeated in her voice.

  Obviously the news isn’t good.

  “You hear that the police department is going to lay off twenty-five percent of the force by year’s end?” she asks.

  I hadn’t. “You?”

  She shakes her head. “Thank God for seniority. But we’ll go from five detectives to three. And our overtime’s already been cut to nothing. You ask about your friend’s brother? Let me ask you a question: Should solving that crime take precedence over tracking down a murderer, or rapist, or armed robber who might strike again?”

  Welcome to Rhetorical Questions 101. Facing the obvious answer, I gaze away into space.

  The guys who beat up Aubrey are going to get away with it.

  Detective French studies me for a moment. I bet she feels bad. “Look, here’s something else. How many outstanding warrants do you think there are in Jefferson County right now? That means suspects whom the police have identified and are supposed to track down because they’ve been accused of committing a crime.”

  I shrug, not out of disrespect, but because I’ve got no basis for knowing.

  “Okay, it’s not a fair question,” Detective French admits. “But here’s the point. Take whatever number was in your head and multiply it by ten. So maybe the typical citizen thinks there are five hundred outstanding warrants? And now I’m saying that it’s five thousand.”

  She pauses. I get the point. . . . There are a lot of people out there who are wanted by the police.

  “Now suppose I tell you the actual number is closer to twenty-eight thousand,” she says. “That includes everything from failing to pay alimony or a parking ticket, all the way to rape and armed robbery. Of course, some bad guys have a lot more than one arrest warrant out on them. But think about it, Dan. Who’s got the time to track down all those suspects? We didn’t have the time to do it before they announced they were cutting the police force by twenty-five percent.”

  “So . . . all those bad guys get away?”

  Detective French gazes out the window. “Until they get pulled over for something stupid like driving with a broken taillight, and the computer IDs them. You ever wonder why they have those chases we love to watch on TV? Most of the time it’s because the perp knows there’s a warrant out for him, and as soon as the cops run his ID, he’s going to go to jail. So why not make a run for it?”

  “So no one’s even trying to figure out who beat up Aubrey?”

  The lines around Detective French’s eyes deepen and she reaches into her bag, lifts out her iPad, and fires it up. “Here’s what we’ve got. Witness states that there were three assailants, but it was dark and difficult to see. Police found gang beads at the scene.” She looks at me. “Three perps come out of the dark, attack your friend, and vanish. The victim’s in a coma so he can’t provide any information. What are the chances of finding them?”

  “So . . . that’s it?” I’m still finding this hard to believe.

  Detective French lets out a long, regretful sigh. “You want the truth? Unless something unusual happens? Yes, that’s probably it.” She finishes her venti, checks her watch, says she has to go. I thank her and stay at the table. There’s homework to do.

  But it isn’t easy.

  The police aren’t even looking.
. . .

  I stew on it for a while, but the clock’s ticking. My full ride at Rice is predicated on maintaining a certain grade average, so I force myself to study, and manage to finish a good chunk. By now it’s getting dark and I’m packing up my stuff, when I see something out of the corner of my eye. A pickup truck across the street is slowly pulling away from the curb, and there’s Dad on the sidewalk. In the dim light the pickup’s red taillights move away down the street. They’re old and narrow, not like the wraparound taillights on newer models.

  Was it Mr. Purcellen’s truck?

  Did Dad just get out?

  I can’t be sure. Meanwhile, Dad starts walking in the direction of Dignityville.

  * * *

  In our tent Dad’s sitting on one of the camping chairs, bent forward with his elbows on his knees, a deeply pensive look on his face as he stares at another small gauze bandage on his forearm. When he hears me come in, he nonchalantly rolls his sleeve down to cover it.

  My insides are a jumble. I know about the cans and bottles, but this is the second time I’ve seen a bandage over the vein where they take blood. If he were sick, I’d know because Mom would be doing her best Florence Nightingale. So that leaves one other possibility: He’s selling it to a blood bank.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Sure. Just . . . uh, thinking.”

  I can’t ask him about the blood, but I can about something else. “Did you just get out of Mr. Purcellen’s pickup over by Starbucks?”

  Dad stiffens, then shakes his head. “No.”

  “That’s weird. I thought I saw the pickup, and then you were standing there.”

  “I was just taking a walk.”

  Or coming back from selling blood.

  My stomach grumbles. “Want to get some dinner?”

  It’s a simple question, yet Dad gazes off and seems to ponder it thoughtfully.

  “Hello?”

  He looks back, a blank expression on his face. This isn’t like him.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

  He nods. “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a little while.”

  I head over to the dining tent. Mom’s sitting with Mona, Stella, Fred, and Diane. It’s like even here in Dignityville we’ve got our own little clique. I get in the food line, not really paying attention, my thoughts still on what happened back at Starbucks.

  As I get close to the servers, I check what’s for dinner. Looks like lasagna, which is good because it’s one of those meals that’s hard to mess up. I slide my tray and look up . . . into Tory’s eyes.

  She’s a volunteer server tonight.

  I feel my face go hot and red. It’s like standing here naked. But then, surprisingly, the embarrassment passes. What difference does it make? She already knows, right? She smiles sympathetically and starts to dig into the lasagna with a serving spoon.

  “Whoa!” I raise a hand to stop her. “Did Noah and Zach have anything to do with making this?”

  Her face scrunches with curiosity. “No.”

  “You positive?”

  “It was donated by Alfredo’s in town. Why?”

  “Just making sure.” I lower my hand. “Those two guys are not to be trusted in a kitchen.”

  “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” Tory smiles, then lowers her voice while she dumps a square on my plate. “It’s really good. I snuck a little when no one was watching.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Stealing from the homeless?” I tease.

  She holds up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “It only was this much.”

  “I’ll let you get away with it this time,” I jokingly warn. “But do it again and you won’t be allowed back, understand?”

  Tory pretends to shake with fear, and salutes. “Yes, sir!”

  We share a grin and a wink, and I head off. Truth is, that wasn’t nearly as bad as I might have imagined. When I return to our table, Fred has to greet me with his latest joke: “What’s a frog’s favorite soft drink?”

  “I don’t know, Fred, what?” I ask.

  “Croaka-Cola.”

  I groan. Stella giggles with delight, which makes Mona, Diane, and Mom smile.

  We’re just one little happy homeless family, I think.

  Dad never shows up for dinner.

  32

  “Make it your community issues project,” Ms. Mitchell says the next day in the library when we run into each other. I’ve just brought up what Detective French told me about wanted criminals going free because the police don’t have the time or manpower to track them down.

  Oh, man, why did I have to open my big mouth?

  “Don’t roll your eyes, Mr. Halprin,” my government and politics teacher scolds good-naturedly. “Everyone has to do a project this semester. At least you’ll have one you’re interested in.”

  Guess she’s got a point.

  Later I run into Meg in the hall. According to Mom, I’m supposed to tell her I need some time off. But I know I won’t, just like I couldn’t tell Talia. Not for the same reason, though. I won’t tell Meg because I can’t stand the idea of hurting her.

  “Hey.” She smiles warmly, and we start to walk together. I’m equal parts glad to be with her and nervous about which of Talia’s friends is going to see us.

  “I just wanted to say thanks,” she says.

  “For?”

  “Caring about Aubrey.”

  “How is he?”

  Her shoulders hunch. “No change. The test scores aren’t getting worse, but he still hasn’t woken up.”

  Once again I want to put my arms around her to comfort her, but I hesitate, thinking of Talia and her spies.

  You can’t live like this, Dan.

  So I put my arm around her anyway.

  33

  A MEETING

  “You’re going to start a rumor and organize a protest at Town Hall. The idea is to get everyone out of Dignityville for a short period of time.”

  “No.”

  “Listen carefully. It’s going to happen whether you like it or not. If you truly don’t want anyone to get hurt, you’ll get them out of there.”

  “If you do anything to Dignityville, I’ll tell the police.”

  “And they’ll find out that you conspired to have Aubrey Fine beaten.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Prove it.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “I don’t think you recognize the magnitude of all this, Mr. Halprin. There are people in this town who have millions and millions invested in real estate. There are banks holding tens of millions of dollars in real estate and construction loans. It all comes down to one very simple thing: the value of property. If real estate values fall, investors can’t sell or rent their properties for enough money to pay back their loans. Do you know what happens then?”

  “The investors forfeit the properties and the banks get stuck with them.”

  “Correct. And in the process, not only do the investors lose a great deal of money, but the people who work for them lose their jobs. Architects, construction workers, cement suppliers, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, bricklayers, real estate brokers, title companies, building superintendents, doormen, janitors . . . hundreds and hundreds of people become unemployed. And it doesn’t stop there, Mr. Halprin, because eventually the banks with bad loans either go out of business or have to consolidate with other banks, and that means the layoffs of tellers and loan officers and appraisers. And do you know what that means?”

  “The unemployed have less money to spend on food and clothes, so restaurants and stores go out of business.”

  “Precisely. And when the people who worked in those restaurants and stores become unemployed, they have no money to spend, and that leads to more businesses closing, and it becomes one gigantic downward spiral. That’s why your wife lost her job as a stockbroker. It wasn’t that she performed poorly, it was just that people no longer had the money to invest in stocks. And even that’s not the end of it, because when business
es close and people become unemployed, they stop paying taxes. Do you know what the cities of Vallejo, California; Central Falls, Rhode Island; Birmingham, Alabama; and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, all have in common?”

  “They’ve gone bankrupt.”

  “Correct again, Mr. Halprin. And when a city goes bankrupt, it has to lay off police and firemen and teachers. That makes the city less attractive to people who want a safe place to live and good schools for their children. And that sends property values even lower. If you bought a house in Vallejo, California, in 2006 for a hundred thousand dollars, do you know what that house was worth four years later?”

  “Seventy thousand dollars?”

  “Try thirty-three thousand dollars. You lost sixty-seven thousand dollars on your investment. And the whole giant spiral of dropping property values leading to more unemployment leading to bankruptcy leading to ever lower property values continues.”

  “Why should I care? I’ve already lost everything.”

  “Not quite, Mr. Halprin. You have a son who needs a scholarship to go to college next year. There are several wealthy investors in this town who also went to Rice, and who make a habit of giving substantial monetary gifts to their alma mater each year. Needless to say, Daniel’s scholarship is by no means a certainty.”

  “You . . . you . . . ruthless bastard.”

  “Not if you look at it in terms of the greatest good for the largest number of people, Mr. Halprin. In the short run, perhaps a hundred already homeless people will be displaced. But in the long run, many hundreds, possibly even thousands, of jobs and families and homes will be preserved. Median will continue to be an active, thriving community of residents who are happy to live here, instead of a decaying, bankrupt dumping ground of abandoned houses and boarded-up stores.”

  Silence.

  “I need an answer, Mr. Halprin. Are you going to organize that protest or not?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Halprin?”

  “I can probably get most of them out, but what about the ones who can’t be moved?”

  “I’ll need to know exactly which tents they’re in.”