by Heidi Ayarbe
The manager wrinkles his nose but takes the stub in his hands. He shakes his head. “I remember the place, though—the sign. It was a hot university hangout.”
My heart jumps. “Where is it?”
He hands it back to me. “Sorry, kid. It burned down ten years ago or so.”
I nod. “Um, thanks.” I stare down at the stub. Sarah Jones. In the U.S.A. How easy will it be to find somebody with that name? I have a sinking feeling in my stomach like I’ve failed all of us. All of this was some stupid wild-goose chase.
The manager has his snooty vibe back. People in the waiting room are feeling uncomfortable. They want to have a nice evening, get away from it all. And we’re just a reminder of the reality they want to escape. He clears his throat, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
The hostess sighs and flutters her purple lashes at the people waiting. She gives them an apologetic smile. Homelessness makes people squirmy.
Behind them I watch waiters take half-eaten plates of food into the kitchen.
“Just one more thing,” I say. I’m about to ask where the old restaurant was when Klondike lets out a huge croak. He’s torn out a picture from the perfect photo book and it bends in his filthy hands.
“Hey!” The manager pushes me aside and moves toward Klon and Nicole. “You’re going to have to pay for that, kid. That’s an expensive book.”
I push over a glass from the table and it shatters on the floor, taking his attention away from Nicole and Klon. Before I follow Nicole and Klon out the door, I slip the snotty hostess’s glasses into my pocket.
We rush out into the middle of traffic, veering around cars to cross the street, then take a side street far away from Main. We run until it feels like my lungs are going to explode. Klondike barely keeps up, clutching his side. He trembles in the wind, gripping the picture in his hand.
We collapse on a curb and sit huddled together. I turn my back to them, wiping tears off my cheeks. I wonder if it’s scientifically possible for a heart to collapse from disappointment, because the pain in my chest is crushing.
It’s probably just another cold symptom, I think.
Nicole puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s no big deal, Jeops. We’ll find her. We have a whole box of clues to follow. Think about that flower,” she says.
I sniff and wipe my nose across my coat sleeve. I nod and turn to face them, trying to pretend that everything’s okay. “A whole box,” I echo. “Can I at least see it?” My teeth chatter, and I hold out my hand for Klon to pass me the ripped page.
He shows me the picture of a desert scene. Sun shines through droplets of rain. “The Devil’s getting married,” Klondike says between wheezing breaths. He croaks. “Fuckit. It’s for us, our beginning. Genesis.”
I look from Klondike to Nicole and shake my head. What a great time to get sentimental. I sigh. “Thanks, Klon. That’s really nice.”
Nicole says, “We’ve gotta get back to our stuff at the warehouse. It’s already dark.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
We hug our coats around our bodies and walk back toward the warehouse—hope of a life in Boise all gone. The box’s corners dig into my stomach and I hug it tighter, feeling angrier. More disappointed.
The cold bites at our noses and ears, and after we finally get oriented, it takes us an hour to find our way back.
“I don’t want to sleep here again,” Klondike says. “It’s been too long. We stayed with him last night, but no more. Buddha. Asswipes.” He lags behind. “It’s bad luck they don’t find him. Death brings death.”
I grab his hand and pull him up with us, impatient and tired. “We stick together. We’ll be okay. One more night.”
We’re standing at the end of the alleyway. I see the warehouse is still boarded up. I wonder what the protocol is for something like this? Shouldn’t someone report it? “Death is near,” Klon says.
“No shit, Klon. Death is in the warehouse.” Nicole sighs. “You guys know about Machine Gun Jack McGurn?”
“No.” Klon shivers.
“And we don’t want to.” Klon looks terrified and I try to calm him down. “We have no choice,” I say. “Just one more night. I promise.” We walk to the alley. Some kids gather around a fire they built in a trash bin. Others have already found their places inside ratty cardboard boxes.
The temperature drops. “We’ll huddle together tonight. We’ll be okay,” I say. “We’ll be okay,” I repeat under my breath. We have to be. Aunt Sarah’s not here.
And the pain comes back to my chest.
Nicole peeks inside the building and comes out smelling like death. “Jesus, that place is ripe. I can’t see too good, but I think the packs are still next to Limp. When do you think they’ll find him?”
Klon moves away from Nicole.
“Jesus, Klon. It’s not contagious or anything. Anyway, that Jack McGurn really got the raw deal in the end. You know he was one of the shooters of the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre—a top assassin in his day. But he was killed in a bowling alley of all places. Talk about a bum deal. A bowling alley. Who wants to die in bowling shoes? Rented, smelly, athlete’s foot bowling shoes? How shitty is that? Anyway, when the feds found his body, they found a note next to the corpse: ‘You’ve lost your job; you’ve lost your dough, your jewels, and handsome houses. But things could be worse, you know. You haven’t lost your trousers.’”
The Mafia world is surreal. They even take the time to write bathroom-wall poetry after a big hit. Weird. My mind spins. Where will I find Sarah Jones from a bunch of letters and a dried flower? How is it possible?
“Hey. Snap out of it, Jeops.” Nicole tugs on my arm. “Earth to Jeopardy. Are you even here?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Nicole shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m never going to die wearing a pair of bowling shoes. That’s why I don’t bowl. What an embarrassment.”
“But bowling’s kinda fun.”
“I’m not taking my chances,” Nicole says. “I’m gonna die in style.”
“And how’s that?” I ask. I just don’t get it. The whole die in style thing.
“I’ll die when I choose to go. You know? That’s what I can control in this fucking shithole. My death.”
Nicole looks angry. Something’s off. Her eyes have that dead black look again. I shake off the feeling and figure it’s just that we’re all feeling pretty sick.
Klon’s eyes have a glassy look to them, and it’s like he slips in and out of consciousness. He finally says, “It’s bad luck—so many days. All alone. That boy.” He sighs. “And his eyes are open. He must be so tired.”
“You can’t be tired dead,” Nicole says. “That’s the whole point of the eternal rest, right?”
The wind whips up, and cold gnaws into every part of our bodies.
I shrug and shiver. It’s weird to think that Limp maybe has a family somewhere. Maybe somebody’s looking for him. Maybe not. I look at Klondike and wonder the same.
“Just one more night like this,” I say. “Tomorrow we’ll find someplace warmer. Tomorrow we’ll get away from here. Maybe get to a library. Get more clues about where to go next.”
Klon sighs.
“Really. It’s like an adventure, and we’re detectives trying to find Aunt Sarah. It’s fun,” I say. The words sound lame. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was eaten by a wolf and shit out over a cliff.” Klon croaks and squeezes his eyes shut, nodding his head back and forth.
Nicole and I both laugh. “Come lean on me,” I say. I wish I had Klon’s cool expressions. We should write them down.
“Okay,” says Klondike. He falls asleep on my shoulder, his breath a raspy whistle.
Nicole sits on the other side of Klon. “I’m feeling pretty crappy, too. All this cold.”
“Me, too,” I say. “He’s getting worse. I wonder if his ribs are okay.”
“Ribs heal themselves, don’t they?” Nicole asks.
“Yeah. It just takes time.
”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” I say. My eyelids feel like lead and my head bobs forward. I’m too tired to worry about Klon right now.
“Are you okay?” Nicole asks.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Are you, um, okay that we didn’t find Auntie Em?” Nicole says. Her voice sounds strained.
I nod. “Sure.” I try to sound convincing. At least the pain in my chest has eased up. “We’ll be fine. We’ll just find her somewhere else. And she’ll take us in.” It’s the first time I say that—“us.” And I realize it’s what I want.
“Right,” Nicole says.
“Really,” I say.
“Well, if not, we’ve always got my dad.” She half laughs.
“Plan B,” I say before I catch myself.
“Plan B,” she mumbles.
“Oh yeah!” I say. “Ta-da!” I hand her the glasses. The one accomplishment of the day. It wasn’t a total loss.
She slips them on her nose and squints. “Hey. That’s kinda cool. Everything looks like I’m staring into a fish bowl.”
“Most likely they’re the wrong prescription, but maybe they’ll help. You should try them in the light. Tomorrow.”
She puts the glasses in her coat pocket. “Thank you,” she says. “Really.”
“You’re welcome. Though technically you can’t consider that shoplifting,” I say.
“Nah. That’s just outright stealing.” Nicole laughs. “Maybe we’re going wrong with you and should focus on pickpocketing instead of shoplifting.”
“Ha. Ha.”
“Really, though. Thanks.” Nicole smiles. “So what’s the theme of the day?” she asks. “We should stay awake.” We listen to the wind and the rustle of papers in the alleyway. “This place creeps me out.”
“Night creeps me out.”
“Yeah.”
Talking would help keep me awake, even if it means my throat hurting more. “Theme of the longest day on the planet,” I say. “What’s the first thing you’re gonna read when you get good at reading?”
Nicole pats her chest. “My postcards. The glasses should help.”
“I hope so. Do you, um, want me to read one to you? Just because.” Nicole, except for that first day, has never even let me hold them. “Just to pass the time, anyway.” For some reason I want a connection to somebody real. And postcards from a real dad seem like the best thing we’ve got. “I can read a couple of these stupid letters out loud, too. We can share family secrets or something lame like that. Just to kill time.”
She nods. “Okay. Maybe if you read letters, we’ll find more clues.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Unless you want to practice reading.”
“Nah. I don’t really feel like concentrating so much tonight. My head’s killing me. Read a few postcards.” She hands me Chicago and two others behind it.
“Okay,” I say. “Here goes. ‘You’d love it here. The city has the biggest skyscrapers I’ve ever seen. And great pizza. I hope to see you soon.’”
“And the postmark?”
“Why the postmark?”
“Maybe it’ll be a clue. You know, for Plan B. Besides, it’s kind of cool to think that these pieces of paper began somewhere and ended up in Reno. And are now in Boise. All for”—she looks at the stamp—“twenty-eight cents. Way cheap travel.”
“Not as cheap as hitchhiking sand from Chad.”
Nicole smiles.
I read the postmark. Yerington. My stomach hurts, and that familiar burning churns up my esophagus. “Chicago,” I say. I flip over the other two postcards she handed me. All of them have Yerington on the postmark. Was it her mom? It must’ve been. I guess she wasn’t all bad. I read the postcards aloud. They all say basically the same thing.
“Pretty generic,” she says.
“Yeah. But that’s the point of a postcard. You don’t write anything really important on one.”
“How many have you sent?”
I think about it. “None. Not that I remember.”
“If you take the time to buy someone a postcard and send it, you should write something better than ‘You’d love it here. Great pizza.’”
“Okay. Will do.”
“Okay,” she says, “now read one of Auntie Em’s letters. The flower one. I like it the best.”
“You haven’t heard the others.”
Nicole shrugs. “I don’t need to.”
So I read the one with the dried flower. The alley is so dark, it’s hard to make out the tiny handwriting on the crisp paper even though I’ve practically got it memorized by now.
“Now that’s a real letter. Sure beats the hell outa ‘great pizza,’ ‘great food,’ ‘Hollywood walk of fame.’”
I shake my head. “Nah. Your dad is just more to the point,” I lie.
Nicole smiles and takes back the postcards. “You know,” she says, “I’m not really sure what I’ll say to him when I finally find him. You know what you’ll say to your aunt?”
I shake my head. “Not a clue.” And at this point, I’m not even sure if I’ll ever find her. My one solid clue was a dead end.
We’re quiet for a while. Somebody in the alley is snoring. Somebody else moans in his sleep. Night is a sad time. It makes us more invisible than we already are. It makes everything more real. I think about all those stupid survivor man shows on Discovery. Who needs to know how to survive in a swamp or desert when the real world is hard enough? I’d like to see those guys set loose in downtown Boise. Survive this, asshole, I think. It feels good. I mouth the word: asshole. Yeah. It feels real good to say that.
I finally say, “That’s a good choice. Reading the postcards. Tomorrow you can try. With the glasses and better light.” Even if she can read the words on the card, I doubt she’ll be able to read the postmarks. At least I hope not.
“Yep,” she says. “Tomorrow. And you? Now that you’re a professional shoplifter, what would you like to steal? For real.”
I think for a while. “Maybe a phone card.”
“Who do you have to call?”
I pause. “Maybe my dad. Just to hear his voice or something dumb like that.”
Klon shifts positions and opens his eyes. “I’d call Ma. I’d tell her it’s not the demons,” he says. “Tourette’s.”
“I’ll call her with my phone card, then,” I say. “We can call her first.”
Klon half smiles, then drifts off to sleep.
“Let’s practice vowels.” Nicole takes out the notebook. “Write bigger, okay?”
“You could’ve told me that before.”
She shrugs. “Never let on to your weaknesses. Mob rule.”
“Are there any others, besides the whole code thing?” I ask.
“Never lie,” she says.
Figures there’d be some “thou shalt not lie” mob rule. I think of the stupid Yerington postmarks and pray those glasses won’t work for her. We’ve got to find Aunt Sarah before Nicole figures it out.
“Hey, are you listening or not?” Nicole says.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just daydreaming a bit.” I wonder if I can find a way to break those glasses tonight, just in case the prescription is close. Just in case she can read those tiny letters. “But isn’t the mob, um, kind of over?” I finally ask.
Nicole laughs. She sounds sad. “Well, they’re still around. But it’s not the same.”
I look around the alley and see black forms trying to keep warm. Home seems a million miles away. An impossible dream. I pull out a pencil stub and start to write in her notebook.
We practice letters, words, phonics. Nicole scribbles in her notebook writing sentences. It’s almost dawn. We haven’t slept all night, and the fire in my throat has spread all over my body again. Even my hair hurts.
“Do you think we can sleep a few minutes—just a few?” The night sky has turned lavender. We have another hour before sunrise.
“Good idea. I’m so tired,” Nicole says. We lean against each other.
<
br /> When I close my eyes, my lids burn against the pupils.
“Hearing your dad’s voice isn’t dumb, you know. He’s family,” Nicole says just as I’m about asleep. “That counts for something,” she says.
Klondike half opens his eyes. “You and Cappy—you’re a good family.” He smiles, croaks, and drifts back to sleep.
Tears itch my eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Clear out!” The voice booms in the alleyway.
Startled, I try to jump up but can’t move. It feels like my entire body has turned into a Popsicle. My teeth chatter.
“This isn’t a hotel. You need to clear out before we haul all of you off to the shelter!” The man speaks into a megaphone. The alley comes to life with people shuffling out of their boxes.
Klondike yawns and leans on me. “I’m too tired. Tits. Asswipe.”
Nicole stands. “I feel like shit.”
Three police officers walk up and down the alley, hitting wooden batons on their gloved palms. A woman officer comes up to us. She taps me on the shoulder. “You’re new around here,” she says.
I nod.
She looks at the three of us. “Your friend doesn’t look so good there.” She motions to Klondike. “He sick?”
Klondike’s body tenses up. He twitches and lets out a massive croak.
The officer stares at the three of us for a while. “He looks awfully young. I think we should—” she’s saying when the guy with the megaphone shouts, “It’s in here. Jesus Christ, Lord Almighty.”
She hands me a flyer for the Path of Light Home for Women and Children. “It’s a shelter near the university. Much better than the streets, kid. Bring your friends.” Then she follows the policemen into the warehouse.
“Looks like—” I can see the light of the officers’ flashlight beams in the building. “Oh, man. It’s Limp,” somebody shouts, his voice muffled by the boarded-up windows.
“How many days?”
“From the smell of it, a while,” he says.
With the cops distracted by Limp’s dead body, the alleyway clears out. “What about our stuff?” I ask Nicole. She hid our backpacks next to Limp yesterday.
