by Ivy Pochoda
Blake peered into the dim interior. “You sure? What about Ernie?”
“What about Ernie? You came up here to tell me I don’t know my own pets?”
“No,” Blake said.
“So?”
“Maybe there’s something you can do?”
“What exactly?” She tried to step back from the door, but Blake elbowed halfway inside.
“I don’t want the thing to die undignified,” he said.
“Death isn’t dignified,” the woman said, pushing his arm away and pulling the screen shut behind her.
HE COULD HEAR SAM—YOU AIN’T NOTHING BUT A LITTLE GIRL. CAN’T EVEN kill a cat that’s mostly dead. You’ll be too fucking chicken to avenge my own damn death when the time comes, which reminds me, motherfucker, why hasn’t the time come?
What Blake wouldn’t tell Sam, couldn’t tell him, was that the time had come and gone and come again, and he hadn’t pulled the trigger. For two days after Sam had been killed, he had watched and waited, lingering in the dark at the edge of that goddamn farm, getting cactus pricked and even spooked by things that crept through the sand, watching the remaining interns smoke and drink and praise Mother Fucking Nature as if Sam had never passed through their lives. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. And if he’d told this to Sam, the big man would have said—Like I said, too fucking shit-scared to kill a girl.
But that was early days, back when the sight of the big man’s blood all over that cabin, all over his own hands and chest, was still fresh in his mind, when it didn’t seem that adding more blood into the equation was going to help matters, before the reality of Sam gone set in. That was before he understood the mass and weight of his own loneliness—that he was going to spend the next five years talking to himself at night, drinking alone, trying to remember the big man’s smell, his stories, even his anger. Because if he’d understood that in the days immediately after Sam was killed, when he haunted the farm, there was no way his knife would have remained in its sheath. If he’d known that the Sam-shaped hole in his life would grow larger, darker, filled with all the anger, depression, and desperation the big man had helped him keep at bay, there was no way that the woman who killed him would be alive right now. That’s what Blake told himself.
HE HOPED THE CAT WOULD PASS BY THE TIME HE REACHED SANTIAGO AND Soledad. But when he got down to Alessandro, he could tell by the way they were poking and leaping back that he still had work to do.
Sam’s acts of violence that Blake had witnessed, encouraged, even participated in—stabbings in alleys, barrooms, and parking lots—he remembered all of it. Sucker punches for no reason other than he had nothing better to do. Stickups for money or amusement. The women who’d have said no if he’d given them the chance. The liquor store where they’d found one of the clerks sitting on the can. The bank teller with breasts you could fall asleep in—and didn’t they look good hanging out of her blouse right there over that name tag that said CARRIE CONNORS: ASSISTANT BRANCH MANAGER. The college kid meth heads so spun out they handed over their stash and their cash even before Sam pulled his gun.
Blake squatted down next to the cat. “All right,” he said. “It’s all right.”
Santiago and Soledad scooted back into their camper and shut the door, as if the dying animal’s soul was going to leap from its body and jump down their throats. Blake tried to think of all the roadkill he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about—the flattened raccoons and snakes and skunks Sam called God’s street meat.
“Please take it away or we get the devil’s fever,” Santiago said.
“How’s that?”
“The cat spirit becomes poison in your blood.”
“Okay,” Blake said. “Sure.”
He reached under the cat’s body. Its blood flowed hot, but beneath its fur the animal was cold. As he lifted it, it hung between his hands at all sorts of unnatural angles. A few drops of blood fell onto his sneakers.
He cradled the cat as best he could, pretending that he was transmitting some sort calming energy from his calloused palms to the dying animal. Pretending was as close to belief as Blake got and he prided himself on getting that far.
The cat was dead before Blake got to his camper. He didn’t have to look down to know. He just felt the life go out of it, a brief electric current that momentarily touched his hands before fizzling out. That’s how Sam had gone—a flicker, a spark of hope as his energy passed into Blake’s arms. Then lights out.
He turned and headed back up the hill to where the ravine ended in a tangle of chicken wire. He pulled back a gap in the fence and placed the cat inside hoping to help the coyotes on their hunt. He looked at the cat. He wasn’t sure death offered it much peace.
17
JAMES, TWENTYNINE PALMS, 2006
Owen was tan—the deep, leathered hue of the desert rats and their children. His blond hair had turned darkish and yellow. His clothes were dirty. His collarbones poked out of his T-shirt and his cheekbones were high and pointed. His eyes were sunken and wide, too large for his narrow face.
As their mother sterilized a needle, James glanced at their reflection in the window over the sink. They were no longer twins. Owen been gone for nearly two weeks, but it looked as if a year had passed and James had become the younger brother.
Owen’s wound was gruesome. The white flap of exposed flesh turned James’s stomach. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off his mother’s needle and thread pulling the flesh taut, closing the gash with small crisscrosses that looked like mosquito wings. “Is it going to scar?” he asked.
“Of course, stupid,” Owen said and held up his arm to examine the ladder of thread that ran from his wrist to elbow. “A big one.” Like he was proud. Like the best thing in the world was that there would be no confusing the twins anymore.
“Where were you?” James asked, because his parents hadn’t.
“At the beach,” Owen said. Then he gave James an unfamiliar, nasty smile. “Like my tan?”
For a split second James almost believed him and for a split second he was almost jealous. Because that’s exactly what he would have done. But of course Owen hadn’t made it that far. He probably hadn’t even passed Yucca Valley.
“You don’t believe me?” Owen said.
JAMES STRUGGLED TO SLEEP WITH OWEN BACK IN THE ROOM. HIS TWIN’S breathing, his rustling, his indistinct muttering broke into his dreams, jolting him awake. But he must have slept, because he woke to Owen’s face inches above his own. Owen had one hand on James’s shoulder and was shaking him hard. In the other he clutched something small that he was jabbing in front of James’s eyes.
James tried to wiggle free, but Owen had him tight.
“Where did you get this?”
He couldn’t see what Owen was holding.
“Where did you get this?” Owen repeated.
“Get off,” James said, twisting underneath his brother’s grip.
“Get off,” Owen mimicked in a child’s falsetto. His face was rigid with anger. He smelled of stale smoke and old clothes. His hot breath flooded James’s face.
“Tell me,” Owen said.
James bucked onto his side and sat up, pitching Owen off him. He fumbled for the bedside light so he could see that his twin was holding the pawn the man from the inn had given him.
Owen got up and held out the chessman toward James. Despite their mother’s careful stitches, some blood had soaked through his bandage. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. “Where did you—?”
“A friend.” James tried to grab the pawn.
Owen pressed James back against the mattress. “Tell me where you got it.”
“I said, a friend.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m lying? You’re the one who won’t tell anyone what you’ve been doing for the last two weeks.”
“I was hiding out with a couple of criminals,” Owen said.
James managed to push him away. “Now who’s lying?”
“Whatever.”
Owen went to the window and opened it. “Now tell me where you got this.”
“I already did. A friend.”
“You don’t have friends.”
James lunged for his brother and tried to grab his arm. But Owen was too quick and chucked the pawn out into the sand. The room was silent, and when James went for Owen again, he didn’t know what he wanted to do to his brother.
This hesitation was his mistake. Owen’s punch landed on his forehead, just above his right eyebrow, splitting his skin, freeing a sticky trickle of blood. James balled his fists to strike back, but Owen ran from the room.
James sat on his bed, feeling the warm blood run down his face. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his eye blackened and swelled shut.
When he was sure that Owen had left the house, he went outside, circled to his bedroom window, and began to comb the sand for the pawn.
He shaded his eyes and scanned the property. He saw his brother hovering behind two of the male interns as they weeded the pathetic garden their mother struggled to keep alive. He was shirtless, a bandanna tied in a triangle over his dirty hair. From a distance it would be hard to distinguish him from the others plucking weeds from the sand.
That night Owen ate with the interns and hung around the campfire waiting for the sharing session to start. James sat in bed with a book, pretending to read, but really staring out at the group around the fire. Owen could bead necklaces, drink their gnarly tea, even let them insult him for hours under their father’s direction. James wanted no part of it.
Patrick wasn’t sitting on his stump but on a bench alongside the new intern. They were waiting for Cassidy who hadn’t come out of her cabin. James could see her shadow passing back and forth on the far wall of her adobe. Eventually she emerged and walked slowly toward the group. She stopped at the edge of the circle, clearly confused by the seating arrangements. Then she plopped down next to Owen. She took off one of her necklaces and placed it around his neck. Then she ran her fingers through his hair before turning to Patrick.
James closed the curtain. He didn’t need to see any more. But even still, the sounds of the sharing seeped into his room.
Anushna was up. Cassidy was being especially vicious. James heard her voice rising above the group.
Anushna thinks if she is honest about lying to us, then she is not lying.
Anushna needs to attack the lie that is the cornerstone of her soul before she can answer with honesty.
Anushna has a liar’s heart.
Anushna isn’t here for herself but to use us.
Anushna thinks she’s learned something, but she also thinks she knows everything.
They moved on to the second question, then the third. The accusations grew louder, turning into frenzied shouts. If Owen had joined the chorus, his voice was lost among the others. James didn’t want to hear any of it. He covered his ears with his pillow, until he fell asleep.
He woke to what sounded like an animal circling the embers of the campfire, cracking and crackling the sticks that hadn’t made it into the blaze. There was a shuffling noise—muffled breath that sounded almost human. He pressed his nose to his window. Something was out by the fire circle—two large shapes barely visible in the night.
Then a match flickered in the dark. In its quick, thin flame James could see Owen and Cassidy.
He got out of bed and went to the porch. A sliver of moon showed him his brother’s shadow as he half danced from the fire toward the oasis with Cassidy at his side. James heard the water splash once, then again. Owen let out a howl, a wild wolf cry.
James left the porch and crept across the driveway. The chickens clucked and fluttered as he passed. He made a wide circle around the oasis and approached the water under the cover of the palm trees.
Owen and the intern were in the middle of the pond. The water was lit by the moon’s reflection. The intern dove under, then surfaced. She rolled onto her back. She was naked, her skin—her breasts—as white as the blank-faced moon. Now she let out a howl. Owen joined her, their voices rising and falling, carrying across the water and out over the desert.
Owen swam across the pond and began to climb onto the low, flat rock that the boys used as a dock. He too was naked. The bandage had come off his cut, showing the jagged stitches that ran across his arm. He looked feral.
James ran his fingers from his own elbow to his wrist, probing between the fine bones in his forearm, trying to figure out how this entirely new brother had emerged from such a narrow wound.
Owen looked up. His eyes were wild. He crouched down and grabbed two handfuls of water that he flung over his head. He opened his mouth as they rained down on him. Then he stared at his palms, turned them over, and held his hands up toward the sky. His cut was caught in the moonlight and, in the bald, white glow, it looked even darker and deeper.
In the pond, Cassidy was submerged to her neck. She had her arms stretched out in front of her and was staring at the ripples her fingers made in the water.
“Sshhh,” she said. “I can hear it talking. The world whispers to us underwater.”
Owen went to the water’s edge, cupped his hands in the pond, and brought the liquid to his ear.
“You can feel it too,” she said. “You can feel its words in the water. It’s telling secrets.” She clapped, sending up a spray of water. “Come back. Let’s listen.”
Owen slid on his belly into the pond. He swam to Cassidy’s side—their naked bodies hidden underwater.
James slipped away.
18
REN, LOS ANGELES, 2010
One week and Laila was still ghost. Her tent remained where she’d stashed it behind Darrell’s carts. And if Darrell wandered off for the day, he took her stuff with him, which in some foolish way gave Ren hope that she’d return.
Ren went to Central P.D., waited behind a throng of people, each clamoring about his or her own injustice—stolen car, stolen wallet, being stalked, feeling threatened. The desk sergeant asked him for Laila’s address. Sixth and Crocker, Ren replied. Can you be more specific, the sergeant said.
On the northwest corner.
The officer put down his pen, like living on the street made it okay that Laila had up and vanished.
Did you check the hospitals?
Ren hadn’t.
Check the hospitals. The sergeant looked over Ren’s head, calling forward the next person in line.
Another week passed. Then another. And without knowing it—without meaning to—Ren became a part of life outside.
HERE’S WHAT YOU NEED TO SURVIVE ON THE STREETS: A TENT OR A TARP (Ren got his tent from an outreach organization doing drop-offs in Skid Row), a sleeping bag, a backpack, travel-sized toiletries from the 99-cent store or community donation center, some kind of music device to block the noise, some kind of flashlight so you can read or startle the person kicking you awake.
Here are a few rules to live by: Keep one eye in front, the other in back. Avoid the worst of the addicts. Avoid the slingers. Avoid those out to exploit whatever remains of you. Find the right crew—people who will look out for you, who are down but not entirely out, who are trying to elevate, to get housed, to get their medical and mental needs looked after. Find the neighborhood’s activists, the men and women trying to make Skid Row a better place, who fight against the thousands of tickets given to the homeless for loitering, for the public possession of their own private property, for jaywalking, who fight for the liberties and human rights of the undomiciled.
On Saturdays, have dinner provided by Jackets for Jesus. Before it gets cold, make sure you score a coat. On Sundays, get fed by one of the charities dishing out hot lunch or dinner along Seventh or San Pedro. But don’t cycle back. Be good. Be honest. Don’t take more than your share.
Nearly a month outside and Ren got the rhythm of Skid Row. He learned how the streets got wild on the second Thursday of the month when the welfare checks came in. The party started gentle, first with booze—malt liquor and beer. But later the h
ard stuff made folks mad, and then they retreated into themselves until the whole neighborhood was tumbled down and passed out.
After that the streets cleared a little. Those smart enough to pocket some of their checks moved into a hotel until they ran out of bank. Welfare bought you two weeks. Unemployment, three. Social Security, for those lucky enough to have it, four. But by midmonth most everyone was back, surviving in the open. Even some of those who could stay inside returned, drawn to the chaos, craving the on-street action.
The other type of wild came when the streets were running dry, when the dealers were low on dope, crack, and speed. Then the place was angry, crazy with folks prowling all night long in search of a little relief.
It didn’t take Ren long to be able to categorize the different folks downtown. There were those who couldn’t help themselves, who fell down next to their wheelchairs, who slept on the streets unsheltered by a sleeping bag, tarp, or tent, who were barely lucid, barely aware of where they were, how they got there, or how to move. There were those who were just getting by, neither part of the problem nor the solution, who took minimal handouts and relied on scant services. Then there were those like Darrell who saw Skid Row as a community, who could look past the dirt, grime, and noise, past their own addictions and illnesses, who relied on religion, prayer, art, dance, or music to lift the place up, who took classes, went to college, attended meetings, lent a hand even if they were on the streets. But most visible, especially come night, were the masters of chaos, the people who thrived on the madness and the lawlessness, who sold drugs or kept the dealers in business. You either joined them or gave them room.
Ask him a few days after he started sleeping outside and Ren would have said that cash was the thing he craved most—money to get him and Laila back east. But a few weeks in, it was sleep. No matter how tired he was come evening, his mind wouldn’t shut off, alert to the disturbances on Crocker and haunted by the memories he’d once worked overtime to keep in check. Kill someone at age twelve, shit don’t really start haunting you until you understand what life is, how breakable people are. And down here there was no turning away from folks’ fragility. So Ren avoided sleep until he couldn’t. He paced the streets until his legs buckled and he had to hurry back and make his camp before he collapsed.
