Beau, Lee, The Bomb

by Mary McKinley

  The night has gotten very clear and bright. A few stars are visible, in spite of all the city lights. The air is sharp and smells like ozone. I breathe deeply and walk. Our breath is visible.

  As we hill climb, we talk about Beau and all the things we think he will have to do. Same with Leonie. Uncle Oscar is sane and helpful as I speculate.

  “They are both going to bring it when we get home. It’s gonna be crazy. I can hardly wait to see the douche bags’ faces.”

  “The douche bags being?”

  “Blip and Ratskin.”

  Oscar snickers. “That sounds like a punk band from back in the day.”

  “A super suck crap punk band!”

  “Well, remember to stay calm and not call names or do anything to merely stir the crazy pot . . . other than by just reminding everyone that what’s going on is crazy.”

  “Yeah, I just hope Beau will stay calm when the fur hits the fan. And I’ll be there to help. I’m worried about Leo too. I’m afraid she’ll be scared.”

  Uncle Oscar is slowing down, even though we aren’t walking very fast, since it’s mostly uphill. I match my pace to his. He speaks thoughtfully.

  “One thing I’ve noticed about our little Leonie is she brings it anyway, regardless if she’s scared. Remember when you told us how she rescued The Bomb? She said she was just terrified! But still, there she was. That is the truest form of bravery. Remember, courage isn’t the absence of fear but the mastery of it. Our little Leo will be—fine.” The last parts come out in a puff.

  We’re starting to get winded. I wonder where we are going, but I don’t even bother asking. I’m sure I’ll be told to possess my soul in patience or some such. Besides, Seattle is still on my mind. I can finally articulate my concerns to an adult.

  “I just wish I knew who to call to help her, you know? Like the cops, but not the cops? I wish some team, like Amnesty International or something, could help her and arrest Ratskin—and then give him the death penalty! But not immediately, just put him into a criminally insanely hard labor twenty-four-seven for at least two life terms!” I feel my thermometer rising.

  “Oh, my.”

  “And never see the face of the sun again! That tool . . .”

  We stop to get our breath. Uncle Oscar is pretty winded now. I turn around and look back. We are uphill. The city spreads below us, scintillating in the chill air, beckoning us back. It seems like we must be near the top of somewhere.

  But no. We turn and keep trudging. Uncle Oscar continues.

  “I think you are going to find Leonie has more friends in her corner than you suppose. For starters, she has you. You are situated to help her, not the least reason being because you care. Think about it. Be there for her, with your thinking cap on.”

  We now start heading downhill, or at least it’s flattening out. We breathe a bit easier as we walk on. We pause at an intersection, and Uncle Oscar holds on to the street sign to recover. A cable car approaches. The first one of the morning.

  “Hey, great! I didn’t know they were running this early! Let’s get this!” he says unexpectedly. So we hurry and do.

  We jump on. My first cable car ride. I stand as near to the doorway as I can and hang on tight. Oscar looks at me and beams. Our hair blows in the breeze. It’s just like the movies.

  “Where are we?” I look around. I can’t tell. It’s brightly lit, and the neon signs and streetlights are reflecting on the wet pavement, which shopkeepers are hosing down. The air smells like fish. There are people everywhere, mostly Asian.

  “This is Chinatown. Look, right there?” Uncle Oscar points. “That’s the cable car museum. Let’s try to see it while you’re here.”

  “Wow. It’s like it’s not even a holiday. Why is everything so busy, even on Christmas at like dawn?”

  “Well, you know, it’s Chinatown . . . Jake.” Uncle Oscar snickers.

  “Hah! I know that quote! I’ve seen that movie!”

  “Really? You’ve seen Chinatown? Rylee, I’m impressed!”

  “ ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown . . .’ ” I say, to prove it. I like movies, old and new. But only as long as they seem real. No nose singing!

  We get off the cable car and start uphill again, for gawd’s sake. I sigh and slog along behind Uncle Oscar. Maybe he’s going to show me the highest place in all of San Francisco and the West Coast.

  When I look up, suddenly I know where we are going. I’m not even worried when we leave the well-lit street and head up the stairs into the park.

  Coit Tower is open and lit up especially for Christmas. I was hoping I’d get to climb it while I was in town. There are several people, couples and small groups, jogging and standing around in the early morning grayness.

  We cross the threshold and start the stairs. A million stairs. Oh well, if my lungs explode and I croak at the top, at least there will be a beautiful view as I lay dying.

  We climb.

  “Oh, dear lordy . . . why did I think . . . this was . . . a good . . . idea?” Uncle Oscar is panting again. He stops.

  I hold up too, and we hang on the rail and puff. We start to laugh again because we are so pathetic, which doesn’t help the recovery. We climb once more. I lead. I consider the possibility that we have entered the stratosphere.

  Behind me I hear Uncle Oscar moaning.

  “Oh, help me, tiny baby Jesus . . . of the tiny holy newborn-size Pampers . . . ohhh . . . angels, haul me up . . . oh, lawdy, lawdy . . . oh, I’m dying back here . . . I’m wheezing . . . girl, oh, guuuuurl . . . you just . . . run ahead and throw me . . . down a rope.”

  When we get to the top, finally, gasping, we stagger over to the closest window to the view of the sparkling city and just gaze as we catch our breath. It is breathtaking.

  It is totally worth it.

  After a minute or twenty, when we can inhale quietly again, we slowly amble to the next window in the tower. Uncle Oscar resumes our earlier conversation as though no time has passed. As we stare out at the dawn’s early light, he muses.

  “You know, Rylee, there is something to be said for just being in the right place at the right time. Look to see what it is out there that you can do.”

  “Yeah, I plan to stay very close. I don’t know doing what, but I have their backs.”

  “There will be some way for you to help, never fear. It will become clear, dearie, whether it’s a big thing or just something small. But it’s important for you to do it. When it comes down to it, child, we’re all just cogs in the machine, but it won’t run without each and every one of us.”

  I absorb that for a moment as we saunter clockwise from one tall stone-framed window to the next. We ponder and meander. From this elevation, the city looks like jewelry, spilled out on a huge navy-blue velvet tray. The east is faintly pink. I answer Uncle Oscar.

  “That’s my problem, I think. I question everything now. It’s exhausting. And actually, that’s what I’m freaking out about. . . . I’m scared I’m nothing but a pointless little cog in a pointless big machine—all of us are! I used to believe everything my mom said, but now I’m all wigged out, and every time I say anything doubtful about God and stuff I piss her off and panic my little brother. I don’t mean to, but I just can’t stop thinking . . . and it makes me really desperate. I feel like the bad guy. I’m so angry. I’m scared everything is a lie!”

  I stop, unsteady and overheated and sad.

  Uncle Oscar raises an idea.

  “Darling, what if we all give poor, dear, face-palming God—and each other—a break?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we all took a deep breath and allowed that though none of us has God’s private e-mail, that’s okay because sooner or later we certainly will! Or won’t! Until then, maybe we could all be a little more relaxed?” Uncle Oscar crinkles his nose at me and faces the city. He still has traces of smudged eyeliner around his eyes. It looks cool. His cheeks are flushed. He shines so bright.

  He speaks into the dawn. “
Time without end? Yikes! Makes my head hurt.” He shrugs cheerfully as we saunter on. “It’s so big! Who cares? We don’t need instructions to be kind! Do unto others, right? We are made in God’s image, as I hear? Isn’t that what the ardent followers are always claiming? And God is love, right?! So we already have the moral authority in our own hearts! Why not just reach down and let the joy out, maybe take a little time-out from everyone being so judgy and spiteful and wasting, wasting, wasting this time we have?”

  We pause at what appears to be a wishing window, and he places a penny among some others. It’s shiny and new.

  I feel in my pocket, and the pebble from La Push is there. I wish on it hard and set it down among the coins.

  After a second of looking thoughtfully at the pebble and the pennies, Uncle Oscar glances at me bashfully and his own voice catches, as he quotes a great man: “ ‘A catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory of falling from a great height.’ It’s Carl Sagan, about appreciating this fleeting moment of ours, which we have—against all odds. Have you experienced that yet, Rylee? The awe? That realization? The funny feeling we get sometimes, of goose-bumpy recognition of something never glimpsed before—that makes us turn our happy eyes to each other, our little hearts beating in syncopated harmony, and say, ‘Are you getting this? We are here and our time is now.’ The odds of us existing are astronomical! It is the marvel of us, every one of us. We are here! Of that alone we can be certain. That is the marvel of life: This little conscious time we share. Make the most of it. For me, it’s the truth.”

  We look out at the Golden Gate Bridge stretching over the bay, shimmering like copper filigree. The light continues to grow. I nod slowly.

  “Yeah, I get it . . . I think. I guess I’ve felt so empty and alone I started pretending to be a robot just to cope, to hang on and not be hurt, just keep going like a steam engine, but now I really want to count for more than just some stupid little cog in some pointless machine.”

  Uncle Oscar regards me in such a loving way.

  “But you know what a cog is, don’t you, child?” His voice is the barest whisper. Even so it echoes in the tower. Or maybe just in my head.

  I shrug. He twinkles like the city as he gazes at me. Like he’s filled with a wonderful secret. Over the bay the sun begins to rise.

  “Why, it stands for ‘child of God,’ child! You didn’t know that? Yes, it does! And we are! All of us! Every little cog is a child of God! Isn’t that lucky? Each and every one!”

  The next morning we all slept in till Sylvester barked at us to walk him and The Bomb. So we did.

  Today is called Boxing Day, Uncle Frankie said, the day after Christmas in the UK and Canada. I’ve heard that. No one seems to know why, except that it doesn’t have anything to do with boxers or ESPN.

  We took it easy all day. Beau took pics on his smartphone so we could print them and put them into my heart locket: one of Beau, one of Leo and The Bomb and one of the uncles. In spite of my issues, that phone is awesome. Totally great pictures! It gives me an idea.

  I go on Facebook and send one of Bommy to my friend Shazzie.

  I love your doggy! But where have you been? she messages me back instantly. I’ve been worried!!!!!! I messaged you about two days ago!

  Omg! I never thought about the fact that my Facebook friends might notice my absence! I send her a long message about what we have been up to.

  Then I send her a pic . . . of me. After a minute, I hear a ping on Beau’s phone.

  Girllllll!! Yer lovely! Why did you take so long?!!!!!!! I read on my page.

  I beam, my eyes filled with happy tears. . . .

  Later when I walk into the room where we’re staying, Leo is sitting on the sofa bed, which we usually fold up during the day.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Nothing.” She looks preoccupied. I can see her worried mind. Mine is too.

  “Should I go away?”

  “No. Stay. I’m just thinking.” She has her phone out, looking at it. I can see she’s been texting. Or maybe just got one.

  “Is he at it again?” I get icy with anger. For gawd’s sake, just leave her alone!

  “Oh, that? Yeah, he texted like twenty million times. Rylee, don’t worry! It’s cool. I’m through with him! I’m deleting him!”

  I look relieved as she continues.

  “I’m more like thinking about when I get back. How should I do this? I’m afraid if I call CPS I might have to be a foster kid again and I will just take off again if they make me do that, and that was a mess last time. . . .” She fades out and sighs, then rubs her forehead distractedly.

  I give her a second.

  “Leo, how old were you when you ran away that time?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about it and listen—now you’re old enough to be emancipated. I looked it up. Check it out.” I grab Beau’s smartphone from the coffee table and navigate to where I was researching earlier. “Look, read this. There are some things we’ll have to figure out for it to work, but no way do I think they are going to stick you back in foster care.”

  Leo snatches the phone and starts reading intently. Beau wanders in.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “We are figuring out Leonie’s future. It’s looking so bright we gotta wear shades!”

  “Cool. This phone rules.”

  Leonie looks up at him and over at me.

  “There is some stuff I don’t get. What does this mean ‘an officer of the court, a member of law enforcement, a physician, or mental health care provider’? I know law enforcement is a cop. What I want to know is like Rylee said—who’s the most not a cop? That’s who I want to tell.”

  “Like your doctor,” Beau suggests.

  “Yeah, no . . . I don’t have a doctor. I just go to whoever at the freebie clinic.”

  Figures. But thank God there are free clinics!

  I put my hand out. By Jove, I think I might have it . . . or at least something.

  “Give me back the phone. Let me try an idea.”

  I take the phone, go into the bathroom for privacy, and dial. When I come back out fifteen minutes later, I hand her the phone.

  “My mom’s name is Teresa, in case you don’t know,” I say as I hand her the phone. “Tell her.”

  My mom is a nurse again. She is a health care professional. She will know what to do.

  “Hello?” I hear my mom’s wee voice coming out of the phone. “Ry? Are you still there?”

  Leo takes ahold of it.

  She draws a deep breath.

  “Hello? Teresa? Hey. It’s not Rylee. It’s Leonie Cait—um—DuBois, and I would like to, um, report some abuse.” She looks at me and shrugs. What to say about your whole life?

  I smile encouragingly and put my hand on her shoulder. I nod my head exaggeratedly and give her a thumbs-up. Then I point for her to go in the bathroom for privacy if she wants.

  Beau and I leave the vicinity. She still shuts the door behind her.

  I think that worked out well.

  My mom is on it! She is also determined to get Leonie’s mom’s attention, though Leo says good luck with that. Mom and Leo have talked twice since then, and that was the day before yesterday. And apparently there are other options besides going to the police.

  “Something to be said for being in the right place at the right time,” as my awesome Uncle Oscar observed.

  And then last night . . .

  We were sitting around after dinner. Beau said we would be going back to Seattle soon, in a day or so. We’d talked about it, and we wanted to get back and face the music before school was in session again, so as to be prepared.

  The uncles looked sad. Seriously. Like they would miss us! Who’d a thunk?

  They were so cute. They looked at each other and then Oscar shared a thought.

  “You know, my dears, I’ve been pondering, and I think I’ve come up with a great solution for our quandary! You didn’t know we had a
quandary? A different quandary, but yes. Here’s my thought: In March, during spring break, you three come back, and we will all go ballooning! I hereby give up my place on the terribly scary balloon you must jump from to Beau, and I will rent us, that is, Leonie, Rylee, and myself, unless you girls want to jump. I didn’t think of that—no? Neither of you? Good! Anyway, I will rent us another nice, trustworthy balloon, from which we will float by and watch you two madmen, all the whilst taking disturbing pictures! How does that sound, chickadees? I’ve already made the reservations.”

  “Yeah! Awesome!” We think it sounds great. We think it sounds amazing!

  We sit and babble about this great idea when suddenly Leonie jumps up and runs into our room. We hear her throwing stuff around and crackling paper, and then she comes out like two minutes later, with a present wrapped in the Guardian.

  “Merry Christmas!” She hands it to Oscar and kisses his cheek.

  He looks down at it and then unwraps. It’s her Edward

  T-shirt from Forks.

  “Merry Christmas, Uncle Oscar! Otherwise you wouldn’t have anything from us! It will fit too, I’m pretty sure. I always have to get a large because of my boobs and then shrink it! Do you like it? Want to try it on? I only wore it once. Say yes!”

  Leo is so pleased to have this gift for him.

  Oscar looks over at Frankie with this look in his eyes I can’t read. They telecommunicate.

  Frankie micro-nods.

  Oscar turns to her. His eyes are bright.

  “Oh, sweetheart! That is so lovable of you and so generous! But I can’t take your Edward T-shirt! Then you wouldn’t have anything from Twilight!”

  “It’s cool! I want to. Besides I can always stare when Beau wears his! Please? Try it on!”

  Oscar goes and puts it on. He comes back. It’s tight, but he’s slender so it fits just fine. Leo jumps up and down and claps her hands.

  “Oh! You look so cute! Beau, take a picture of him with your phone!”