by Jane Bradley
She leaned back, looked him over. “Well, ain’t you a sweet one.”
“Not really,” Jesse said.
She turned toward the playroom and called, “Dee-Dee, come on out here and meet somebody. He brought us a box of books, good hardcover books for these kids.”
He didn’t want to bother meeting somebody and playing nice again. Then as soon as she came through the door and he saw that flaky bad skin and those dead eyes, he knew what she was. She nodded at him, looked at the books as if they were already a chore. All skinny arms and tight jeans and that kinky bleached-blond hair that looked like it’d break if you touched it. He stared at her until she looked back at him.
Miss Moniece nudged her. “Well, mind your manners and say hello, Dee-Dee.”
She gave a half nod. “Hey.” Their eyes stayed fixed on each other. He knew what she was, and she knew he could see it. A damned crack addict trying to set up a fake life working with kids.
Miss Moniece picked up the box, pushed it toward the girl. She took it, gave a little sigh, and walked back to the playroom with that lazy I-don’t-give-a-shit-if-I-get-across-the-room way addicts had.
He felt Moniece watching him watch the girl, but that was all right.
“You two know each other?”
“Nope,” he said. But he pulled his lips in between his teeth, reached into his pocket for his mother’s keys.
She frowned a little, looking at him. “Well, it just seemed . . .” She wasn’t stupid.
Jesse shrugged. “She’s familiar, I guess. There’s a lot of girls out on the street like that.”
“Yeah,” Moniece said with a laugh. “We got a lot of skinny bleached blonds around here. Sometimes I swear all those white girls look alike to me.” She gave him a quick look. “No offense meant.”
“None taken,” he said. “Sometimes they all look alike to me too.” He looked toward the playroom, where the girl was shoving his books onto the shelf. “How long she been working here?”
Moniece sat as if happy to be off her feet. She was rifling through some papers, letting him know it was time to go. “ ’Bout six weeks. I don’t think she’ll last. Kids work her nerves a bit.”
“That ain’t all working her nerves,” Jesse said.
She kept going through her papers. “You some kind of doctor, or a psychic?”
“Well, you know the look. Worn out at twenty-two. Hard-looking, real hard-looking. Don’t y’all do drug tests on the girls working here?”
She rolled back in her chair, gave a good God kind of sigh, looked toward the girl and back to him. “I ain’t no fool, Jesse Hollowfield. I can tell when they using on the job. Ain’t my business what anybody does on the weekend. I just make sure they do right by these kids when they here.”
Jesse watched the girl shoving the books onto the shelves, not looking at the titles. “She got her own kids?”
Moniece stood, got in between him and the door to the playroom. “I don’t think that’s your business.”
He gave her the I’m-just-a-guy-who-cares smile, a little shake of the head like he was disappointed with something sad in the world. Old ladies liked that. “It’s just my momma sent those books. I gave those books to be read. So kids could see them, learn something maybe.” He jerked his head toward the girl. “Shouldn’t she be looking at the titles, thinking which kid might like what book? Shouldn’t she be laying out a few books on the tables so when the kids came back inside from playing, they might get a little surprise?” He clenched his momma’s keys.
Moniece blocked the doorway to the playroom. He gave a little shrug, stepped back. “I’m just saying . . .”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Moniece said. Her hands were moving into something like fists at her sides, but her face, it kept smiling. “I’ll make sure I talk to Dee-Dee about that as soon as you leave. And I thank you. It’s a rare thing to see a boy your age think so much of what might be best for the children.”
She opened the front door, and he went to it, felt the heat of the day on his face. He turned to her. “I’m sure my mother has told you about me.”
She nodded.
“I always think about kids. And I’m telling you to keep an eye on that Dee-Dee.”
Then he left. Heading toward his mom’s car, he heard the squeals of the kids again, not as loud as before, but happy sounds. Then he heard the singsong rhythm of girls singing: “Pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” He hated that song.
He leaned against his mother’s car and lit a cigarette. Across the street, a couple thug types stood there, eyeing the car. “Just try it, fuckers,” he whispered. They walked on. His cell phone buzzed. Mike. He flipped the phone open. “What.”
Mike was freaked. Like he was always freaked when he couldn’t get a handle on something going down. “That girl,” Mike said in a voice that sounded like a whisper, had the feeling of a scream.
“What girl?”
“The blue-truck chick.” Mike went on about how they found the girl’s truck, traced the tags, and were doing searches all around Lake Waccamaw.
“So?” Jesse said. “That means they’re looking for her, not you and me.”
“Yeah, for now,” Mike said. “But somebody’s bound to say something. I mean it was my car. Anybody could remember a rusted-out red Datsun.”
“Tell you what,” Jesse said. “Go park your car at your granny’s for a while. Let it sit, and get cool, dude.”
“But the girl—”
“You’re taking up my minutes, Mike. My mom monitors my minutes. You let me worry about the girl. When you get worried, you run your mouth off.”
Mike said, “Okay, but—”
Jesse flipped the phone shut. Then he heard the kids again. Another song. He walked toward the playground, listened to them singing: “This old man, he played two, he played knick-knack on my shoe. . . .” He stood at the fence, saw that an old lady had a bunch of kids sitting in a circle on the shaded patio. They were all smiling.
“He played knick-knack on my knee, with a knick-knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone.” His mother could never get him through that song. It scared him. He didn’t like the old man. But these kids were laughing and singing like it was “Jingle Bells.” And the other kids were all playing, a little girl in a pink shirt pumping hard to get as high as she could on that swing. A boy and a girl on the seesaw going up and down. And there was a boy standing at the top of the slide, the other kids piled up on the ladder behind him, chanting, “Go on, sissy, go on.” The boy didn’t look scared. He was just standing there, taking in the view. “That’s right, dude. You’re king of the world right now. You go when you’re ready.”
He heard the lyrics: “This old man, he played four, he played knick-knack on my door, with a knick-knack paddy whack . . .” He looked back to the girl. She was watching him, slowing down by dragging the toes of her sneakers across the ground. The sole of her shoe was flipping back, all loose. She needed shoes. He’d have to tell his momma about that. He knew he needed to get home. His momma would be calling, but he wanted to hear the rest of the song. He’d forgotten what rhymed with five and nine.
He saw the crack bitch Dee-Dee come out the back door, stand on the edge of the playground, and light a cigarette. She was just like his blood mom. It wasn’t the cigarettes that put those burns on her hands. If he could get hold of her, he’d do a good knick-knack paddy whack on her.
The song droned on: “He played knick-knack up in heaven.”
The crack bitch was staring straight at him. She knew what he was. Yeah, she’d seen some shit, he was sure of that. He pointed his finger at her, gave a nod, said, “You.” She might not have heard it, but she felt it. She threw down her cigarette, went over and said something to old Mother Goose lady, something like “There’s a pervert over there by the fence.” The old woman looked at him now, said something to Dee-Dee, who ran back inside. Yeah, she was scared. He could get her. It’d be easy to follow her home. They were coming t
oward him now. Mother Goose old lady with Moniece leading the way. “Jesse Hollowfield!”
He let go of his grip on the fence, didn’t know he’d been squeezing so hard. His fingers burned. He smiled. “Yes, ma’am?”
She was right up on him. “What are you still doing here?”
“I was just watching the kids a little before I went home. It was nice to listen to them singing.”
“I called your mother,” Moniece said.
All the kids were staring at him. They’d been warned about strangers.
He looked to them, gave a nod to the girl in the pink t-shirt with the busted sneaker. She was standing close to Mother Goose lady. A few minutes ago he’d just been a guy standing there. Now all of a sudden he was bad. “It’s all right, kids,” he said. “I’m Jesse Hollowfield, and I just brought y’all a bunch of books. They’re inside. Tell them, Miss Moniece. I’m not a bad guy.”
She leaned close. “You’ve got no more business here. Don’t you make me call the cops.”
He backed away, palms up. “Whoa, now. I was just watching the kids. I saw that one there needs new shoes, and I’m gonna talk to my momma about getting these kids some new shoes.” The little girl crouched down, tried to hide her torn shoe.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Ain’t no shame in needing new shoes. I’m gonna see to it that you get some new shoes.”
She stared up at him, not believing, not disbelieving, just waiting to see what would happen next.
“You get on home. Now!” Moniece turned her back on him, waved her hands to gather up the children, herd them back inside. “Play time’s over,” she said softly. She wouldn’t give him another look. But Mother Goose did, a squinty-eyed sneer. He just looked right back until she turned away.
He walked to the car, thinking how he’d tell his mom he’d been polite, he’d just stopped to listen to the kids sing. He wouldn’t tell her about the crack whore. He wouldn’t tell her a lot of things he was thinking. He’d keep it all positive. His mom liked that. He grinned, thinking he’d get that Dee-Dee in time. He got in the car, singing, “With a knick-knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone, this old man is going home.”
So Much for Grace
Billy pulled the truck to the curb, braked, cut the engine, stared at his hands on the wheel. He had hardly spoken on the ride from the airport. Had just given Livy a shake of his head. Not a word yet. Nothing. That was all Livy could recall of his responses to her questions. Finally she’d given up trying to learn anything about Katy and just sat back in her seat, let him drive.
She leaned forward to see any sign of Katy. The house glowed in the darkness, blazed a warm yellow light. “The lights are on,” Livy said. “Could she be home?”
“I can’t turn the lights off,” Billy said. “Can’t stand the dark.” He got out of the truck, went to the back for her suitcase. Livy didn’t want to get out, didn’t want to walk down that sidewalk, up those steps to an empty house. The front porch was covered with Katy’s plants arranged on tables and pieces of furniture someone had thrown in the trash, junk that Katy rescued, sanded, painted, revived. “Katy likes to rescue things,” Livy said.
Billy stopped, turned toward her. “What?”
“Nothing bad could happen to her. Right, Billy?”
Billy hefted the suitcase up the sidewalk. Livy stared at the house, waiting, as if any minute Katy would rush out with her hands dirty from digging in the yard, or smeared with paint. But the house just sat there.
“Katy always wanted a brick house,” Livy said, “ever since she was a girl.”
“I know,” Billy said. “We have a joke. Our nice brick house can keep the wolf out.” Billy opened the door. “We ought to get inside. Maybe there’s a message.”
Livy followed him across the porch, lush with hanging baskets of ferns, pots of all kinds of plants that Livy should have known but couldn’t name. Billy stepped inside while Livy stood at the threshold, breathing the scent of Katy in the air. No perfume, just Katy, the scent of her life: candles, old books, stripped wood, and paint. Livy walked into the living room. The walls were painted green. Tobago Green, Katy had told her when she chose the paint. Like the Caribbean. “Artsy,” Livy had called it. Bare floors, green walls, plain white muslin over the windows, and objects most would call junk scattered around the room. A blue mason jar filled with wildflowers going limp. Rocks and odd pieces of wood on the mantel. An old tricycle in the corner.
The room felt abandoned, like a set where a drama would begin as soon as the actors arrived. Livy sank into a chair. Billy stood over the answering machine, his face blank, body frozen as if waiting for a cue. But there were no messages.
“There has to be something,” Livy said, standing, heading toward the bedroom. “She didn’t pack anything? No note?”
“Just this: ‘Be back when I can.’” Billy pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
Livy read the note, eyes moving over every curve of the letters. “So she’ll be back,” Livy said. “She just had other things do to. Wasn’t sure how long it would take.”
Billy studied the note. “Most times she writes, ‘Be back soon.’”
Livy felt a hardening in her chest, as if the breath that went in stayed there, solidified. If she exhaled, she would collapse. “Katy never lies,” Livy said.
“Sure she does.” Billy took the note, spread it out on the coffee table. He studied it as if maybe he’d overlooked something. “We all lie sometimes.” Billy glanced up at her. “I mean—” He shook his head. “Oh, hell, I don’t know. Just because you leave a note—”
She turned away. “I’m going to look through her things in her bedroom.” She paused, looked back at him. “I mean your bedroom. Do you mind?”
Billy sighed, sat on the floor, his back resting against the couch. “Have at it, Livy. I’ve gone through everything. Even looked in the trash. She dyed her hair before she left. There was a box of dye in the bathroom, those plastic gloves. But she left all her lotions and creams. She wouldn’t go anywhere without those lotions and creams. You know how she is.”
“I know my daughter.” She couldn’t control the fury in her voice. “I’m sorry, Billy,” she said softly as she headed for the hallway.
Livy stood in the doorway and looked over the bedroom. She saw no signs of a fight. This was Katy’s room. Books, candles, perfumes, and creams. Jeans and t-shirts piled up on a chair. The bedroom reflected the private Katy. The messy Katy, the one who shoved coupons in books as bookmarks, the one who kicked socks and shoes under the bed, tossed her clothes into drawers, mashed them down to get the drawer shut. There were two Katys at least. The smiling Katy who won homecoming queen. And the other Katy, the troubled Katy who Livy tried to pretend she didn’t see. The Katy whose habit of thoughts always turned to sorrow, the Katy who was always wishing for her daddy’s love, for everyone’s love. The Katy who craved a strong brick house to keep her safe from the wolf.
Livy’s gaze moved over the crystals hung in the windows, the guardian-angel print over the bed, a silly thing Katy had kept from her childhood, the shamrock plant growing by the window, the little gold cross hanging on a chain over the vanity mirror. Katy collected good-luck charms: a cross, a shamrock, a crystal, even an eye of Fatima—something she’d gotten from a Muslim friend. It was meant to be a necklace, but Katy kept it on a piece of fishing twine and hung it on the wall. The eye of Fatima was supposed to ward off evil. Livy looked at the eye staring out from a setting of blue stone and silver filigree. The eye just looked back. It seemed to her they should at least put some kind of expression of love in the thing. Livy fingered the cross hanging on her neck; she’d slipped it on just before she’d left for the airport. For luck, she had thought at the time. She told herself that before the night was over, she should at least try to pray.
Livy walked past the clothes, the shoes, the books scattered on the floor. Livy sat on the bed and saw the journal on the bedside table. Katy had kept journals since she was a
teenager. Livy had sneaked a peek once, regretted it. She had read about her daughter having sex with her boyfriend, saw that her daughter didn’t really like the sex but liked the smell and strength of the guy. She could see the soft, curving letters in that diary, the kind of writing used on valentines. Her daughter had wanted a man like a woman and written like a little girl. Livy clutched the journal to her chest. She closed her eyes, sank into the loss she felt coming, then fought it with the words almost shouting inside: Don’t think the worst things. Katy will come home! She straightened, opened her eyes, and saw her own reflection in the mirror across the room. She could see Katy there. Livy opened the journal, flipped through pages, saw Katy’s scrawl, still the handwriting of a girl.
She wasn’t ready to take in words yet. She let her gaze slide over the letters, fragments, doodles of hearts, questions marks, flowers and vines curling between patches of words. Some pages were filled solid, as if Katy couldn’t keep up with the flow of thoughts spilling faster that her hands could catch.
Billy stood in the doorway. “That’s not her journal, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“I’m sorry,” Livy said. “I was just seeing if there was a clue.”
“She called that one her scrapbook. It’s a collection of words, lines, stuff she liked and wanted to remember.” He sat beside her, took the book, flipped to a page, read, “‘Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.’ That’s Shakespeare. It sounds prettier when she reads it.”
Livy reached to open the bedside drawer. “Well, there must be a journal around here somewhere. She’s always kept one.”
Billy took a firm but gentle hold on her wrist. “That’s private.”
“I’m sorry.” She sat with her hands folded in her lap. She probably didn’t want to see what was in the drawer of the bedside table. She stood. “So you didn’t find a journal.” He shook his head. She could tell by the way he dropped his head that he was lying. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
