Broken Circle

by J. L. Powers

  To be honest, I think I’ve done pretty well. I’ve taken up fencing—something I never thought I’d do—and started learning the piano, under Gen’s tutelage. I’ve made it through the stack of books Aileen gave me and I’ve read more history than I ever thought I’d learn in my entire life. Last, but not least, Rachel and I literally blew up half the science barn trying some genetic experiments she wanted to do. Just for everyone’s general edification, you’re supposed to add acid to water—not the other way around.

  Fortunately for us, they shrug those things off around here. Tragic accidents? No big deal. As long as we’re still alive, it’s all good. As long as we learned something . . .

  One of the cooks dongs the bell and we all wander into the dining room. Tonight’s menu: enchiladas with a spicy tomatillo sauce, chile rellenos, gorditas, cole slaw, Spanish rice, and black beans. Man, they know how to cook here! I hope the school’s next incarnation, wherever it is, has the same cooks. Or cooks as good as these.

  I pile my plate high and sit down near Sean and Tomás. Rachel sits down next to me. Sean scoots over to give her room.

  “Are you going to church tomorrow?” she asks.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I say. “I thought I’d relax.”

  “I want to explore the mainland a little.”

  It occurs to me that this is a chance to use my cell phone. Maybe I can get a signal on the mainland. Call Sarah. Call Dad.

  “Are you still planning to run away?” I ask.

  She considers the question carefully. “Noooo,” she finally answers. “I don’t think so.”

  I smile at her. “It’s better than you thought it would be?”

  She shrugs. “Well . . . at least the food’s edible.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “No, seriously,” she says. “One of my foster moms thought a bag of Doritos was a decent dinner.”

  * * *

  It is frigid cold at seven a.m. when we pile into the boat. I think we’re going to have the first snowfall soon.

  The kitchen packed a basket and everybody’s helping themselves to pastries while Zachary grabs the thermos and pours steaming milky-sweet coffee into mugs. We pass them down the line.

  I settle into the prow of the boat with my coffee and a lemon-cream pastry that is out of this world. It’s good—so very good—to be alive. Even if it is cold, the sun is shining and the air is crisp and everybody behind me is boisterous and carefree. In fact, I wouldn’t describe the atmosphere in the boat as exactly churchlike. Invisible balloons and confetti dot the sky above us, people’s shadows getting ready for the mainland. I wonder how many of the others will actually go to church. I mean, besides Sean, obviously.

  When we get to the mainland, everybody scatters in different directions. Rachel and I walk with Sean to St. Francis of Assisi’s.

  “Aw, come on, you’re really not coming to Mass?” he asks when we stop at the church gate.

  “Next time,” I say.

  He shrugs. “It’s your soul in jeopardy.”

  As we walk away, Rachel whispers, “I think Sean’s a true believer.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I just . . .” She trails off. “It’s hard to reconcile that with what he’s going to be doing for a living.”

  “You mean the fact that he’s going to escort people to the world of the dead?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you think . . . I mean, there’s nothing like that in religion.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Actually, the Angel of Death is straight out of Scripture,” I say. “And you find a similar figure in practically all the major religions.” I didn’t know any of this crap a couple of months ago. Now, call me an expert in death.

  “Yeah, I guess,” she says. “I’m so sure the pope would be glad to know one—or more—of his faithful are soul guides.”

  I’ve sort of figured out Rachel has a problem with authority. I guess I don’t blame her. After all, she’s never had parents, and she’s been shuffled from one home to the next.

  “Maybe he’d be relieved,” I say. “To know that God found a way to offer people safe passage to the other side.”

  “I assumed they would think it’s a straight shot from here to heaven or hell,” she says. I have this sudden vision of a chute, a large water slide, with dead people hurtling inexorably down toward the afterlife on the other end. “Do you believe in hell?”

  I don’t know what I believe. I guess I’d like to think that if there’s a god—and I suppose I do sort of believe there’s a god, even if I’m not sure what he or she is like—then I’d like to know that He had found some sort of solution that was better than hell. Because we all make mistakes, some of us worse than others. Could He possibly figure out a way to help us change and make better choices after we die? I don’t mean reincarnation. Or maybe I do, if that’s what it takes for a particular soul to grow and change and make the right choices. Maybe some people only need one life. Maybe others need more time to figure things out. The universe is a big place.

  Ah, hell, what do I know? I’m just an agent.

  “I guess I just think I only know one part of the picture,” I reply. “I can’t pretend to know more.”

  We walk downtown, looking for a place to hang out. Seagulls circle overhead. The air is fragrant with the smells of fish and salt and seaweed drying on docks.

  Rachel stops outside a café and points out a newspaper with the headline, Rome Teen Claims He’s Human Clone. We walk inside and crouch down next to the magazine rack to read the story about a government bust of an underground science lab. They found several teenagers locked in cages—like lab rats. One of the teenagers claimed they had all been cloned approximately fifteen years earlier.

  “What are they smoking in Rome?” I say.

  “I don’t even know what to believe anymore,” Rachel says. “The truth about life is turning out to be different than anything I ever thought.”

  “So who do you think is behind all of this weird stuff in Rome?”

  “You haven’t been reading the USGNN?”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “The Underground Soul Guide News Network?” She grins at me.

  “Uh . . . no.”

  Her look is withering. Apparently, I’ve been falling down in the game. I swear, something about Rachel feels like the sister I never had, the one I’ll always fight with but who’ll be on my side no matter what.

  She leans over and whispers two words: “La Luz.”

  The sky darkens, sunlight sponged out for a few seconds. La Luz. The Light.

  My skin breaks out in goose pimples and I feel instantly cold and Rachel and I both start shivering uncontrollably.

  “What’s La Luz?” I whisper back.

  “An immortality cult.” Her voice is low. “They’ve been popping up all over the place lately. Rome. New York. Mexico City. Beijing.”

  An enormous dunce camp is stuck to my head. How could I have been so oblivious? “So what are they doing? I mean, what are they trying to accomplish?”

  The question lingers in the ocean breeze. Rachel shrugs. “I don’t know, exactly. According to ancient legend, La Luz was a city where the Angel of Death wasn’t allowed to enter so nobody could die. If La Luz really has the secret to immortality, what would happen if they learned how to go to Limbo? They could put a kink in the whole system. Everybody in the world could become the walking dead.”

  We put the newspaper back in the rack. I’d like to buy some coffee but I don’t have any money so I just inhale the delicious cinnamon coffee smell. I try not to look too conspicuous, but I notice this one huge guy at the counter staring at me as he makes espresso for a customer. A big man, curly mustache, dressed in a plaid shirt. A lumberjack making espresso. That’s Maine right there.

  Rachel heads outside where she spots a pay phone.

  I turn my back on the strange coffeehouse dude and take out my cell phone. Uh-oh. Thirty-eight text messages, dating ba
ck to the day I arrived.

  I open the first ones from Sarah with a sinking heart. They start out friendly: Hey! How’s the new school?

  And then worried: Adam, can you just let us know you arrived and that you’re okay?

  And then slightly pissed: Okay, okay, thanks so much for keeping in touch.

  And then they stop.

  My other friends have texted too and they are also in a similar vein, though most of them drop off before they get to the pissed stage.

  I call my dad first because, well, that’s what you do. To be honest, I’m sort of surprised he answers.

  “How’s school?” he asks.

  “Weird.”

  He laughs uncomfortably.

  “It’s a good weird,” I add.

  I look around the coffee shop. Most people are texting on their phones or staring intently at laptops. I glance at the guy making espresso. He glances at me. I hunch over and speak kind of low: “Who am I, Dad?”

  “You’re my son,” he responds automatically.

  “No, you know what I mean. What clan do I belong to?”

  He sighs. “That’s a difficult question to answer.”

  My heart sinks. “It’s the family everyone hates, isn’t it?” I don’t even want to say the word “Reaper.” But in my heart, I know. My dad’s the Grim Reaper. And I’m next in line. I imagine myself years from now, all alone in the dim kitchen of our little apartment in Brooklyn, shaky old hands slowly peeling an apple with my giant scythe, black robe hanging from my skeletal frame. Will I get a standard-issue scythe or is it custom-made with my name embossed on the handle?

  “Thanksgiving is coming up. I’ve sent money to Aileen to pay for a train ticket home. We’ll talk about it then.”

  That’s such bullshit. I’m so mad, I hang up on him. And then I’m just angry enough that I get the courage to call Sarah.

  It rings and rings and then goes to voice mail. Normally, I wouldn’t leave a message—I’d text or something, or maybe just let her see that I’d called—but I have to say something. My voice shakes a little as I begin, “Hey, Sarah . . . I’m really sorry I’ve been AWOL. I don’t have Internet access or cell phone reception at the school—it’s strange, I know, but it’s just the way it is. Listen, Sarah.” I pause. Then I pause some more. “I just wanted to let you know I’ve always liked you. I mean, like liked you.” Shit. Did I just say that? Now my voice is really shaking. “I mean, I understand if you don’t feel the same way about me. Especially since I haven’t been in touch for so long. I don’t expect you to answer. I just wanted you to know. Okay. Bye now.”

  I have to sit down as soon as I hang up. What the hell did I just do? It came from nowhere and it’s too late to undo it. God. My face burns. Who leaves a message like that on a girl’s phone? A loser, that’s who.

  The internal groans quicken, big bullfrogs voicing their displeasure. To ignore my shame, I dial Jeremy. He answers on the third ring, sounds kind of sleepy. “What up, man?”

  “Hey,” I say. “What are you doing?”

  “Sleeping in. A regular Sunday-morning thing for me, if you haven’t forgotten.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. Oops. Hadn’t realized it was only nine.

  I choose to ignore the dig about forgetting his habits. It hasn’t been that long. I’ve been at school, what, a month? “Yeah, well, sorry I haven’t been in touch,” I say. “We’re out in the boonies. No cell reception. No Internet.”

  “Oh. Sucks for you.”

  “Yeah.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. I want to ask specifically about Sarah but don’t dare. “How is everybody?”

  “Dude, it turns out Carlos is some kind of soccer star,” he says. “You should see him. He’s killing it on the field. They’ve put him up to varsity and he’s only a sophomore.”

  “Wow.”

  “You should call Sarah.”

  My heart skids down an icy trail and smashes into a wall of snow at the end. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Something happened with the two of you at Coney Island . . . She says it changed her forever. I don’t know, it’s like . . . it’s like she’s going to church now, except she’s not. Like she got religion—but it’s not any religion I’ve ever heard of. I can’t explain it. I just—you should call her, that’s all. I mean, you were with her, right? You probably know better than any of us what she’s talking about.”

  I look at the phone and wonder if or when Sarah will listen to that voice mail. If I’ve already been a loser, I might as well be a total loser, right? I send her a quick text:

  I’m sorry, Sarah. If you’re not too mad . . . Listen. I don’t have cell phone or email access during the week. But if you want to talk to me, I can talk any Sunday you want. Some kids come to the mainland for church so I can catch a ride with them. Oh, yeah, we’re in Maine. So I’ll be at this coffee shop on Main Street in Belfast. 10 a.m. Every Sunday. OK? If you can come, great. If not, I mean . . . I understand. I’m really sorry. I meant what I said in my voice mail. Adam.

  When Rachel comes in rubbing her hands, her cheeks red from the cold, the homesickness fades. I wish I could be in Brooklyn but I guess I’m also glad I’m here. This is the world I’m in. Maybe Rachel’s right. Once I become immersed in this life, I won’t be able to go back to my old life, at least not in the same way. It’s not like I can be honest with Sarah or Jeremy about who I am or what I’ll be doing with my life. I’m already regretting the text.

  “So who’d you call?” I ask.

  “None of your beeswax,” she says with a grin.

  “You have a boyfriend—or a girlfriend—I don’t know about?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  We both laugh.

  “So who’d you call?” she asks.

  “My dad. Some friends from home.”

  “And where is home, Adam?”

  I shrug, then give her a sheepish look. “I promised my dad I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  “You mean because then everybody would know what clan you belong to?”

  “Yeah. I don’t even know my clan but I have my suspicions. What about you? Do you ever think you’ll find out what family you belong to?”

  Her eyes are large in her delicate face. “I hope so. It’s the only thing I want. To have a family. I mean, why haven’t they claimed me?”

  “The Finders haven’t told you,” I point out. “Maybe they haven’t told the clan either.”

  “Maybe. But why not?”

  She has such a lonely, longing look on her face that I just sling my arm around her shoulder and say, spontaneously, “Hey, Rach, it’s okay. We’ll create a new clan. You and me. The Smith-Jones Clan. With, I don’t know, a legless grasshopper for our mythic figure. The legless grasshopper that prefigures death. It’ll scare the hell out of people.”

  “Ha.” She puts her arm around my waist and squeezes so I know she appreciates the gesture.

  * * *

  On the boat ride home, just before we reach the spot where cell phone service cuts out, I get a text from Sarah:

  Me too. I’ve always like liked you too, Adam. I’m sorry I got mad. I’ll try to come some Sunday really soon. OK? I’ll text to let you know when. Hope you get this.

  xo

  My face burns. She likes me too. xo. xo! My face breaks out in a grin and I look at Rachel and I just want to hug her, hug her hard, but of course I don’t. I peer out over the ocean water instead. I’d text Sarah back but my cell phone signal cuts out at exactly that moment.

  That’s okay. Let’s leave it as it is. She likes me! xo!

  Maybe I can convince Tomás and Sean to steal a boat again, row out just far enough to get a cell phone signal, so I can text Sarah back. Something sweet. She likes me!

  Sean catches my eye from the other side of the boat. Two seconds later, a football is sailing over the heads of everybody on board. I catch it with a flourish and throw it back. It feels like I’m the one sailing over everybody’s hea
ds. It feels like I could sail around the world.

  CHAPTER 18

  A few weeks later, Sofia and Gabe La Muerte invite everybody to join them in the barn after dinner to celebrate Día de los Muertos. We’re supposed to bring pictures of loved ones who’ve crossed to the other side, along with their favorite food or drink or things that remind us of them.

  I don’t even remember my mother, of course, but she’s the only person I know who’s died.

  I think about my dream with the woman in the yellow dress riding on the train. I ask Aileen for help locating a toy train and a piece of yellow fabric. I might be mourning my mother or I might be mourning an imaginary woman who haunts my dreams, but it’s all I’ve got.

  It’s still better than what Rachel has.

  “Are you going to come?” I ask her.

  “I won’t make an altar—I don’t have anybody to remember—but I’ll help you make yours.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then: “It’s for my mother. I don’t really remember her. She died when I was four or five. But—I miss her. At least, I miss the idea of her. I think about her all the time.”

  “I think about mine all the time too. And I never knew her.” Rachel is not the sort of person to invite pity. But still, I feel for her.

  We stack wooden benches and tables around the circumference of the room to clear a space in the middle, leaving two tables in the center. Sophia drapes each table in bright pink–and-green Mexican blankets. In the corner of one table, she places a large candy skull, a bouquet of orange flowers, and a plate with a tamale and Spanish rice on it. She arranges pictures around it—an icon of the Virgin of Guadalupe and a framed photo of an elderly woman. She hangs a rosary off the picture frame and lights a candle in front of it. Then she carefully pours a shot of amber-colored tequila and places it next to the candle.

  “This is my little grandmother,” she says. “Abuelita. She died five years ago. I miss her.”