by Marcy McKay
My legs sprint faster and that’s not easy with only one shoe, a soggy sock and a bad limp, but Mama is my target. I don’t look away from her once. It was bedtime yesterday when we were last together, but it feels like years of missing her. That’s long for some, but it’s a lifetime for me. She’s all I’ve got. I scream, excited the whole way, “Mama, Mama, Mama!”
She doesn’t turn around. I must be too far away and holler louder. Or, maybe she has amnesia. That would explain a lot. I’m so glad we can go home now. Maybe we can even sneak off to California before Diablo learns we’re gone. I hope we can find that angel book there.
When I reach her, I spin her around, happy tears slopping everywhere. “Mama!”
A stranger stares back. She’s holding a grocery bag full of clothes and slaps my hands off her. “Let go.”
She doesn’t look one bit like Mama up close—blue bug-eyes, a honkin’ nose on top of that crater face. Plus, her teeth are way worse than Mama’s. How’d I not notice all that wiry, gray hair?
Still, that’s Mama’s jacket, all right. I yank on it, catching whiffs of her cinnamony-cigarette smell. “Give me that. It’s not yours.”
She’s shorter than Mama, too. She keeps swatting my arms. “Get off me.”
“You stole my mama’s coat!”
“Did not. It’s mine.”
“Liar. Where’s it from?” She doesn’t answers, so I say, “It’s from Neiman’s. Look.”
Her guy is shorter and squattier than her with a flat face and dark, kinky curls. He tries to break up our fight, but I don’t let go of Mama’s coat. I stand on my tippy-toes and pluck back the collar.
Sure enough, it says, Neiman Marcus. It’s a very ooo-la-la store where all the Somebodies shop. Pride swells through me that I still know my mama’s jacket like, hopefully, she still knows me. But I don’t like picturing her out there naked and alone, her blue angel wings freezing in this cold. I want to bury my face into the fur ’til I’m part of her.
The coat-stealing whore jerks away. “Go to hell.”
“Where’d you get this coat?”
She whacks me again, but doesn’t drop her grocery bag. She’s a scrappy thing. This woman knows something, I drag the jacket down to her elbows to take it back. She shrieks and a small card drops from the inside pocket.
“That’s not mine.” The lady shrugs the coat back on. “Nice shoe.” She tramps bowlegged on down the road, leaving her guy behind.
“Where’d you steal it from?”
She flips me the O’Dell finger over her head and keeps going.
Her guy looks between her and me, then whispers, “We found it this morning in the Dumpsters behind Mission for Hope Shelter. Honest. We don’t know anything about your mom.” He hurries after his woman and she latches her arm back through his, then they disappear through the crowd.
I pick up the plain, white card from Mama’s jacket—nice, black letters and a phone number on it. I can only read one word on there, but it’s the worst: Police.
A whalelephant lady putters by in a wheelchair with a motor. She’s so fat that her skin blobs over the sides and from under her thick, gray sweater. She’s got blotchy, red skin.
I’m not trusting her. I’m asking her sort of a ‘what time is it?’ question. I hold up the card. “What’s this say?”
She squints at it, then starts reading. My stomach turns, even though it’s empty, as she says:
Sergeant Patrick Noblitt
Remington Police Department
No-Brains. I’m so on a pig hunt now.
I may hobble, but I move as fast as my frozen foot will let me. I’ve got three real clues now: Mama’s missing coat, this business card, and the Barrio Brothers’ secret about Mama. This card pretty much proves she was with No-Brains without me. Probably in our room last night like Turdmouth said.
That stings my insides. I wonder if he’s who Mama cried about last night. Was he the one trying to trick her and made her so mad? Or was it Diablo? They’re both looking for her. Could they be working together?
I don’t know.
I’m back on our regular route since it’s a one-way that leads to the shelter, so I make sure to hide deeper under my hoodie ’cause these red curls are like a spotlight. I barrel on through the icy wind. Good thing Mission for Hope was already next on my To Do list. I shouldn’t stop to eat since I’ve probably only got about forty-five more hours to repay Diablo, but surely Mama would understand I need food to refuel.
However bad I’ve got it, Mama’s got it a bazillion times worse out there, no jacket and all alone. Plus, it’s super cold. She’s probably still upset from last night.
Oh, crap. I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn’t realize it’s City Cemetery, and shuffle by faster. This used to be a courtyard beside St. Columba, a small church that always shared its space with all of Paradise. It had green grass and even a few picnic tables. Me and Mama hung out here some when it was warmer.
Then, a new priest took it over a few years ago and turned it into City Cemetery. I’ve memorized the sign out front:
THE CROSSES REPRESENT THOSE
KILLED BY HOMICIDE IN OUR CITY
Rows and rows of white, wooden crosses watch me, stuck in the frosty, brown ground:
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++
There’s over a hundred here, with last names written in black on each one: ALONZO, SMITH, PEARSON, MARTINEZ, GUERRERO, WATSON …
Every cross haunts me no matter how fast I rush by, even though I don’t really know their stories like I do back at the cemetery. Guess it doesn’t matter since these all end the same way. Some homie killed ’em, either on purpose, or they got caught in the crossfire. And not just by the Barrio Brothers, but Zhi Peng and the Asian Assassins, the Black Knights, the KKK, and a dozen other wanna-be’s out to prove themselves. The rest of us keep trying to live our lives, but the streets keep taking us out. The bodies aren’t buried here, but I still hear their screams as I pass. And why?
The Street Killer’s message reminds us all: God hates the poor
The shelter grows bigger as I head up the block. It’s a red-brick building with a gold cross hanging over the front door. A grubby couple hustles inside together. She’s wearing a backpack stuffed so full it might explode, and he carries two folded-over sleeping bags, one green and the other blue. I want my life to mean more than the clothes on my back.
A big, white sign hangs above the front door. I’ve memorized it, too:
Mission for Hope
Feed their bellies, then feed their souls.
I head around to the loading dock where the coat thief’s boyfriend said they found Mama’s jacket today. It stinks like stale water. I expect to see the four, tan Dumpsters, but not what’s parked in front of ’em.
A long, black limo.
I’ve seen these at funerals, but never in Paradise. My bruised body pulses as I hop over a few puddles to get to it. There’s not one dirty spot on the whole thing. All the windows are so dark and so shiny I can see myself.
I knock on the driver’s side. “Hey, whose ride is this?”
No answer.
I press my face up to the window and swear there’s a shadow moving around inside. “What’s your boss doing in Paradise?”
Still not a sound.
“Fine. Be that way. I’ll find out on my own.” I go back to the dinged-up Dumpsters. I’m barely tall enough to lift the lid, but hold my breath and peek inside.
Empty.
One after another, all four sit empty. The trash trucks have already picked up. I can’t remember if the coat stealer’s guy said they found the jacket in the Dumpsters, or by them. I check ’em all to be sure, slow and careful, but don’t find a single clue. I hate to admit this, but I even look for blood splatter, ’cause that’s what they do on CSI.
Nothing.
My shoulders relax a little. The sun peeks straight up behind gray clouds and more
folks hurry inside the shelter. It must be lunchtime. Food will help me think better. Besides, I wouldn’t mind hiding out from the Barrio Brothers for a while, so I follow the others into the building.
The waiting room’s off-white, with a front desk, some couches and chairs. It’s connected to a smaller room outside the chapel. There’s cubbyholes built into the walls like a mausoleum, but for backpacks and bags. Not stiffers. There’s nothing in here worth close to one grand.
About thirty clients already stand in line. That’s supposed to sound nicer than calling us Nobodies. Shelters feed you a free lunch, if you listen to their church crap, so me and Mama call it chunch. This happens all over Paradise. They do chunch three terrible times a day, before every meal, like the sign outside says: Feed their souls, then feed their bellies.
I say feed my belly, then fart on my soul, ’cause it’s never hurt so much I couldn’t sleep at night, but the other …
My gut feels Mama’s hereness again, like back at the motel. We stood in this very spot together yesterday. Pretty red-and-pink Valentine’s Day streamers hung in here and the dining hall. They even gave us the chocolate kisses that Mama saved and gave me later. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world ’cause nobody loves each other more than us.
Feeling both her hereness and her goneness so strong sort of Jell-o’s my legs. Next thing I know I’m nose-diving to the ground.
“Whoa.” Turdmouth catches me mid-fall and eases me to the ground. “What’s wrong?”
The cement floor chills me. Why’s he being so un-turdy today? Looking up, others gather around to stare.
He nudges folks back. “Come on, people. Show’s over. Give her some space.”
As he helps me up, my tongue tangles so much I can’t even talk. The front door opens and blows more cold, hungry people to the end of the line. The rest of us shiver together to make more room for everyone.
Turdmouth frowns at my frozen foot. “What happened to your shoe?”
“I lost it.”
“Why are you more banged-up now?”
“Long story. What’s up with the limo outside?”
“Nobody knows. Did you learn anything about your mom?”
“Maybe. Did she have on her coat when you saw her at the motel?”
He tilts his head to the side thinking. “I’m not sure. Probably. Why?”
“I think you were right about that detective being with her, but I’m still working on why.”
“You know why.”
“Shut up. I think there’s more to it than that.”
Turdmouth watches me, then looks away and wipes his palms on his jeans. “I, ummm, I saw Salt and Pepper. They saw your mom, too, but …”
“But, what?”
He stares at his boots and sort of shuffles side-to-side. “It’s not so great.”
“Tell me.”
He won’t even look this way. “They saw some guy chasing your mom from your room late last night.”
“Was it No-Brains?”
“Salt said no, but Pepper said yes, so I’m not sure. But, that’s not the worst part.”
My gut clenches harder, but I nod him on.
“They, um, said when they saw her, she was … she was topless and screaming, rape.” He watches me for a sec, then glances away. “Sorry.”
None of this sounds like Mama … sneaking off in the middle of the night … throwing her coat away … running around half-naked out in the cold. I want to punch Turdmouth for his stupid lies, but remind myself he was right about her with that cop. I just don’t understand. “Where’d she go? Why was she screaming?”
He shrugs. “They didn’t know.”
“Where’d you talk to ’em?”
“The Plasma Center.”
I need to find Salt and Pepper. They should be here by now to eat. Bird may be Mama’s best friend, but she’s a terrible parent. I remember ’em talking yesterday, while we waited in line for dinner chunch. Me and the boys were playing, so I was only half-listening to Mama.
Bird said to her, “You ready, girl?”
Mama laughed and gave her that crooked smile. “I’m ready to take what’s mine,” I think she said, then she definitely ran her hand over my curls and kissed my forehead. “Life’s about to get better, Copper Penny.”
I grinned and buried my face into her waist, believing every word.
But today’s not better. In fact, it’s a bazillion times worse. She cried, she puked, then I don’t know. If Mama did take what was hers, is that what Diablo wants back? Or, did she mean No-Brains? I bet Bird knows the answers to all this. Talking to her is next on my To Do list.
Turdmouth’s Hershey-Bar brown eyes watch me so worried I almost feel sorry for him feeling sorry for me. I start to tell him what really happened this morning, then remind myself I’m me and he’s him. Besides, the chapel doors swing open before I get the chance.
The crowd has grown to at least seventy-five and we all move, ready to file into chunch. Everyone wants to eat right this second, but they’ll make us listen about Jesus first. The line starts going.
The chapel’s really just a regular room, lined with folding chairs and a small stand up front for the preacher. What makes it chunch is they’ve got Jesus painted as tall as a real person, with a bunch of other people around him on all four walls. We’re supposed to feel better that he likes to party with the poor.
There’s Mama’s empty chair—that middle one on the left. Shame stirs through me I’m not out there looking for her right now, but I’m starving. My head gets woozier and Turdmouth must see it ’cause he steadies me. “Come sit with us.”
“Nah, I’ll sit in our spot.”
Before I can say no, his daddy, One-Leg Larry, limps into the chapel. He’s got a peg leg, the real one got shot off in the Gulf War. His black beard and hair, both speckled with white, hang way past his shoulders. Poor guy, only one foot for his body and a turd for his son. He’s all smiles, but not many teeth. “Hallo, Copper girl.”
“Hey, One-Leg.”
“Where’s your Mama?”
Turdmouth gives his head a furious shake. Now I know where he gets saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
One-Leg nods at him, then winks my way. “You just come sit your pretty self with us. We need some sprucing up around here.”
“All right.” I sigh and follow him to the back row.
I know Turdmouth notices my limp, but he doesn’t comment. He sits between his daddy and me. My knee touches his and I remember the time Bird upset me when she said there was no Santa Claus. Turdmouth let me beat him in thumb wrestling, which he’d never done before. Today’s backwards day.
My insides sort of butterfly so close to Turdmouth, a twisty, tumbling feeling. That’s never happened before, so I jerk my knee away and sort of scoot over in my seat to make it stop.
Turdmouth pulls out a small, silver pocketknife that’s definitely seen better days. It’s all scratched and scuffed. He just fiddles with it, opening and closing it like a toy. Diablo’s regular switchblade is way more swanky than that with its pearl handle. A weapon says a lot about a person.
The guy in the row ahead us is already snoring, so one of the Dopes pokes him awake. Looking in that direction, I almost fall out of my chair at who’s here.
Corn Dog sits across the room, staring at me.
CHAPTER 9
Corn Dog’s sobered up since this morning. Getting robbed will do that to you. His blue eyes aren’t pickled anymore, but they’re still watching me and my guilt.
He’s not drunk, but at chunch. Mama isn’t here. Turdmouth isn’t acting turdy. I woke up to a whole different world today.
Preacher Bill walks in, all lean and lanky. He’s got patches of gray hair on the sides, but a bald landing strip on top. He’s nice enough, but stutters, “H-h-hello. I’ve got a s-s-surprise for you t-t-today.”
“Amen!” The whole front row shouts back even though he didn’t say anything special. They’ll holler that a bazillion more
times before it’s over, ’cause they believe God actually gives a rat’s ass that they’re junkies. That somehow he’ll just magically poof! Take ’em off drugs and the streets.
Preacher Bill says, “We’re honored to have B-B-Brother and S-S-Sister Sanborne from The L-L-Lord’s P-P-Power Hour here today.” He points to the side door.
Those are the preachers plastered on the coat stealer’s bus. Their pictures are all over the city. Mr. and Miz Jesus strut in now, shining like brand new pennies. A guy playing an electric guitar follows behind ’em, playing their theme song.
Some folks sing along, “What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear …”
The Amens clap like they’ve been beamed straight to Burger Heaven. Usually, I don’t listen too much about G-G-God, or J-J-Jesus, but I pop to the edge of my seat, too. I’ve never seen these two in person. That must be their limo outside. My chests pounds. They’re the closest thing I’ve ever seen to real-life movie stars.
Both preachers are dressed way too ooo-la-la for Paradise, the fancy suits like they wear on TV. His is gray and hers is pink and frilly. They’ve got matching red hair, too. His is fierier and cut super short. Her color looks like it came from a bottle with soft waves that hit her shoulders. She’s every bit as tall as him and Miz America pretty. They build orphanages and stuff in poor countries, though there’s plenty for ’em to do right here in Paradise. I’ve always pictured ’em with three perfect kids at home, who all make straight As.
Mama won’t let me watch their show. She hates it, which makes me want to do it more. I have to sneak peeks while she’s in the john, napping, or partying. I clap to the music a few times myself ’til I see Turdmouth, with his arms folded in disgust. I turn away from him and tap my foot. One-Leg already dozed off, so he’s not impressed. I’m all tingly about what’ll happen next.
The music ends, but not the Amens. They clap, they cry, they wave their arms in the air like they’re on a rollercoaster.
Mr. Jesus hollers, “Hallelujah!”
“Hallelujah,” the Amens shout back.
It takes Mr. Jesus a minute to shush ’em. When the applause stops, he steps forward. “Thank you so much. It’s wonderful to be back home again. I got my start here over a decade ago, just a few miles down the road. Since then, the Lord has led our ministry to many heathen countries. We’re spreading God’s word all over the world. We just returned from Thailand and will go to Honduras next.”
