The Lost

by Cole McCade

  “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

  “Hello again,” a mellifluous voice said, and Leigh jumped with a little scream that Elijah echoed. She curled around him protectively, looking up as the skirts parted over her.

  Wally looked down at them, his wide, benign smile bunching his cheeks up into knots. “My, your boy’s quite a mess. Let’s clean that up, shall we? And then you can have a nice cup of tea.”

  * * *

  Wally ushered them into a surprisingly spacious upstairs apartment, a place of warm glossy hardwood finishes with the kitschy clutter and dusty coziness of an antique shop. Faded black and white circus posters plastered nearly every wall, curling at the corners and peeling along the edges, but still legible enough to read. Gallifrey’s Glories splashed above so many pictures: an elephant balancing on a ball, a beautiful woman twined with lazily lounging lions, a massive man who appeared to be detaching his arm like a doll’s, a young, trim, dashing man in a fine suit with his long, long fingers extended in a grand flourish. Sniffling, Elijah clung to Leigh’s leg, until she gently peeled him away and lifted him onto the kitchen counter to pry him out of his jeans.

  “You can put those in the wash,” Wally said cheerily, as he puttered over the stove and a floral-patterned tea kettle. The entire kitchen was a granny’s wet dream, lace and doilies everywhere, pale green linoleum from the seventies. “Maytag. Quite efficient.”

  “Thank you,” Leigh said numbly. She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up here, but she wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. She wiped Elijah clean and put him in fresh Thor Underoos and his Osh-Kosh overalls, then gently brushed the tears from his face and smiled. “You all right, little man?”

  He nodded miserably. “I’m sorry I went pee.”

  “It’s okay, baby. C’mere. Give me a hug.”

  “He’s a beautiful boy,” Wally said. “Yours?”

  Leigh couldn’t help laughing as she lifted Elijah into her arms. “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be with me.”

  Wally studied her curiously. “Do you watch the news, young lady?”

  “Not lately.”

  Wally said nothing, as the tea kettle began to whistle and he pulled it from the stove. An old eleven-inch CRT television perched on the counter next to the dish rack, its antennae sprouting fronds of tin foil. He flicked the power, then turned the dial until the crackling snow cleared and the picture came clear. Leigh’s mug shot from the night she’d been picked up was plastered across the screen, next to a school portait of Elijah. The banner below read:

  AMBER ALERT

  Elijah Michael van Zandt, 4, missing since this afternoon. Last seen at approximately 4:30pm on the 3000 block of Blackfeather Ave. Believed to be in the company of a white female, blonde, 5’3”. Suspect may be under the influence and potentially dangerous.

  “Familiar faces,” Wally said mildly, and Leigh went cold, hugging Elijah closer.

  “Please don’t turn us in.”

  Wally blinked, then laughed and set two cups of tea on the kitchen table, the saucers rattling gently. “You worry too much. Sit. Drink. I’ll pour some milk for the little one.”

  Leigh glanced at the door. She thought of running, but the flash of police lights arcing through the street below promised that would only end badly. She eyed Wally, gauging him, then sank slowly into one of the creaking wooden chairs with Elijah gathered close in her lap.

  “It’s not like the news says.” She stroked Elijah’s hair back; he murmured sleepily and nosed into her throat. “I’m not a danger to him. He’s my son.”

  “It’s never like the news says, dear.” Wally set a cup of milk in front of her, then settled into a chair opposite. “What happened?”

  She smiled faintly. “I decided to make things simple.”

  “Ah.” He inclined his head and laced his fingers together. “Do you know what you want now?”

  “I do.”

  Wally’s smile lit up his face. “Then that’s all that matters.”

  “I…” Leigh bit her lip and coaxed Elijah into lifting his head so she could hold the cup to his lips. “I don’t want to get you in trouble with the cops.”

  “Whoever notices the mild-mannered shopkeeper?” Wally sipped his tea with a chuckle. “You can have my bed for the night, dear. These old bones are tough enough for the sofa.”

  She nodded quickly. “We’ll be on our way in the morning. I promise. First thing.”

  Wally tilted his head, studying her discerningly. Leigh shifted uncomfortably, wincing as the hard chair pressed up on the soreness between her thighs, and lowered her eyes, watching Elijah take little drowsy sips of his milk.

  “You’re in pain,” Wally said.

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  He smiled slightly, looking down into his teacup. “Traveling on the road so much, we often dealt with injuries while well out of reach of a hospital. And we couldn’t always keep a trained medic on staff. I’m no doctor, dear, but I do know what I’m doing. Let me look.”

  Leigh winced; heat steamed over her face. “It’s…not the kind of thing you’d let a man look at,” she said, only to be answered by Wally’s jovial, ringing laughter.

  “I’m not the kind of man you have to worry about.” His eyes twinkled sweetly. “Trust me on that one, my dear.” He reached across the table to pat her hand. “You won’t get far if you’re wounded. Finish your tea and let’s put your boy down to sleep, so we can have a look at you.”

  * * *

  They drank their tea quietly. By the time they had finished Elijah was asleep on Leigh’s shoulder, his soft breaths curling against her neck. Wally led her into his bedroom, burgeoning with almost as many frills as the shop front, his four-poster bed draped in a canopy of tattered crocheted lace. Little odds and ends scattered around the room spoke of years past: a faded top hat on the dresser; a comically large black false moustache with waxed, curling ends; and a fine suit as perfectly pressed as if he’d worn it just yesterday, hanging from the wardrobe with a shining, coiled ringmaster’s whip at its side. Leigh reached up to touch it tentatively, stroking the braided handle.

  “Legacies of a past life,” Wally murmured, brushing her shoulder. “Sometimes who we were is just a memory, and there’s nothing left but who we are now.”

  She looked up at him. “Is it really that easy to just start over?”

  “Life is just a series of new beginnings, my dear. Sometimes to move on, we have to be willing to let go.”

  They settled Elijah against the pillows and tugged his shoes off; Leigh stacked their backpacks against the edge of the bed, then waited while Wally put a towel down for her to sit on. She’d spread her legs for dozens of men, but never felt more exposed than when she kicked her jeans off and lay on her back and wondered what she was doing, letting this near-stranger poke at her. But she didn’t have many options. Go to the hospital, and she’d be IDed and arrested. Keep going like this, and she’d pass out from blood loss.

  Still. She’d picked a hell of a time to start trusting people.

  The pad had started to soak through to her panties, by the time she lifted her hips and peeled out of them. Wally clucked his tongue and set them aside delicately. “We’ll just wash those with your son’s clothing.”

  “Elijah,” Leigh said, fixing her gaze on the tatty lace canopy and trying to think of something else. “His name is Elijah.”

  “A perfect name, dear. Brace yourself, now. I’m sorry if my fingers are a tad bit cold. Circulation starts to go after sixty, you know.”

  Leigh managed a brittle laugh—then hissed when cool, almost waxy fingers touched her, prying her open gently. But there was nothing gentle enough to ease the sting of a touch on raw flesh that had been abraded by the pad all afternoon, while she’d been running. Breathing hard through her nostrils, she curled her fingers in the sheets and tried not to whimper.

  Wally explored her clinically, murmuring soft apologies every time she hissed with a new stab of pain. By the time
he was done she could barely see the lace overhead past her wavering vision, her head reeling, her eyes filling as much from the humiliation of this as the stinging burn of torn flesh.

  “Now then,” Wally murmured, an unexpected kindness in his voice, and Leigh’s eyes spilled over. This was what she was reduced to. Raped by her husband with no one to care but an old man who’d once sold her a dress. His touch drew away. “Go on and make yourself decent, dear. I shan’t look.”

  She scrubbed her fists against her face, sat up quickly, and dragged her backpack over. Between her legs, fresh blood dotted the towel. She looked away and wiggled into a clean pair of panties with a fresh pad, then dragged her jeans back on. She couldn’t stand to look at Wally, only dimly aware in her peripheral vision that he was wiping his fingers off with his back dutifully turned. Once she was done, she scooted back to curl up next to Elijah, gathering his limp, sleeping body close for comfort and pressing her lips to his shoulder.

  “Better?” Wally asked over his shoulder.

  “I’m dressed.”

  “All’s well, then.” He turned back to the bed and settled on the edge, reaching across to pat her hand. “The good news is that you won’t bleed out. Within a day or two you’ll start to clot and you’ll have less mess, though I’d suggest finding clothing looser than those jeans. The damage isn’t permanent, but I wouldn’t engage in any…ah…‘activity’ for at least a month. You should fortify yourself with solid food. Protein, things high in sugars. I’d recommend washing deeply at least three times a day to prevent infection. Water only, no abrasive soaps or chemicals.”

  Leigh closed her eyes; the tension bled out of her limbs, and she tentatively gripped that long, cool hand. “I…” She laughed weakly. “I can’t believe I let you stare at my vagina.”

  “I’ve been elbow-deep in an elephant’s anus, child. This is nothing.”

  She groaned. “I’m not sure that’s a flattering comparison.”

  Thin fingers tightened around hers. Wally leaned in, trying to catch her eye. “Will you be all right, my dear?”

  “Thirty days, right?” She shrugged, looking down.

  “It’s not your body that concerns me.” He drew his hand from hers and picked up the bloodied towel, folding it neatly in his lap. “Who did this to you?”

  She parted her lips, then looked down at her son, covering the tiny hand curled against the pillow. “The man we’re running away from,” she said softly. “But I’m a survivor. I’ll be okay. I have to be, for him.”

  “Hm.” Wally smiled, then rose to his feet. “You most certainly do know what you want, then.” He turned away. “Get some rest, dear. Bathroom is adjacent if you need it. There’s a first aid kit, if you’d like to take care of your feet.”

  “Thank you,” she called after him, but he was already disappearing through the door, his gentle laughter trailing in his wake.

  She lingered with Elijah for a few moments longer, loath to leave him alone, then eased carefully out of the bed and slipped into the bathroom. Of all the times she’d used a stranger’s shower to clean up, this one felt the most bizarre—but she washed herself out carefully, following Wally’s advice, then dressed again, slipping into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She peeled the gauze off her feet, wiped them clean with a wince for the stinging cuts, then coated them with ointment, bandages, and fresh socks before padding down the hall with her phone in hand. Wally had settled on his floral-patterned couch with his legs crossed and a heavy book in his lap, one she recognized by the nymph-like image of a blonde girl on the cover with a tiger lily in her hair. Leigh fidgeted in the doorway.

  “Do you have internet?”

  Wally glanced up, then stood with a smile. “This way.”

  He led her to a small side office with a dusty laptop that looked like a massive black brick, hooked up to a phone cord. “It’s dial-up, but it works. Password is ‘Gallifrey’s Glories,’ no apostrophe, all one word, title case.”

  “Thank you.”

  He left her alone to boot up the laptop and sign on, the shrill buzz of dial-up connecting making her wince; it was like Gary’s all over again, and she wondered if old men just had something against DSL and laptops made after the turn of the century. Google took forever to load, longer still the search results with the phone number for Blackbird Pond. If he hadn’t been there this afternoon he likely wasn’t there now, but there was no phone on the boat and the stupid old-fashioned idiot wouldn’t even get a cell—

  The business listing finally came up, and she jabbed the numbers into her cellphone and held it to her ear, listening. Nothing. It rang six times and then cut off without even going to voicemail. Her stomach sank. She tried again; still nothing. Fuck. Muttering to herself, she Googled the phone number for The Track. On a Friday night the bar would be busy, but she closed her eyes and prayed while the phone rang over and over.

  Then went straight to voicemail.

  Cursing, she dialed it again. “No—pick up. Pick up, please…come on!” But the phone only rang again, then clicked over to that canned recording of Gary’s voice that she didn’t dare talk to when it might leave a trail for the police. She felt like crying. Morning. She would go in the morning, once she was rested enough to walk the distance to the docks. Gabriel would be there. She could accept no other option.

  Cutting the phone, she shut down the laptop, then straggled back into the living room. “Does no one answer their phones anymore?”

  Wally looked up from his book, slim eyebrows peaking. “My dear, do you believe that everything happens for a reason?”

  “Right now, I am not in the mood for mumbo-jumbo.”

  “Nonetheless…” The book closed with a soft thock. “Waiting is best. I know you’re looking for the people who care for you. But the police have put your name and face all over the news. They will follow any lead to anyone who knows you. They may be watching their activities.” He patted the couch at his side. “By morning they will think you have moved on, and will broaden their search. You can slip through the gaps in the net then. Wait.”

  She sank down on the couch next to him and tucked her legs up against her side. “What if I wait too long and he’s gone?”

  Wally reached up to gently brush her hair back. “If this ‘he’ is someone who cares for you, he will never leave you.”

  “That’s the problem,” she murmured, and leaned over shoulder to shoulder. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that narrow, sharp shoulder belonged to Gary, whom she missed with a startlingly fierce ache. “I’m the one who left him.”

  She stayed up with Wally for another few hours; he turned the living room television on, and she watched Ricky and Lucy bicker in stuttering black and white, then flipped past too many instances of her face on the news to find old episodes of TNG. When her eyes started to droop, though, she murmured a “Goodnight” and headed back into the bedroom to curl around Elijah, and slept with the sound of his breaths overriding the distant, constant wail of police sirens.

  Dawn was just a faint stain on the horizon when she woke, roused by the scents of frying bacon, eggs, and coffee. Elijah clung to her arm with a sleepy murmur; she extricated herself carefully, kissed his forehead, then slipped into the bathroom to clean herself and change. The blood flow had slowed. Good. She still felt weak and dizzy, but she’d hold up for a walk across the city.

  She washed her hands and followed her nose down the hall into the kitchen. Wally stood over the stove in a pair of deep purple silk pajamas, their creases perfectly ironed, his bare feet poking out from beneath the cuffs. Two skillets crackled on the stove, one piled with bacon, the other filled with a yellow scrambled heap of eggs with cheese stretching in gooey orange threads every time Wally pushed the spatula around, humming the entire time and tapping to the steady drip-drip-drip of the coffee machine.

  Leigh leaned against the doorway. “That’s a lot of food.”

  Wally started, then tilted his head back over his shoulder with
a broad, benevolent smile. “Good morning. I’m used to cooking for an entire circus, dear.” He turned the heat down on the stove. “And I told you that you need protein.”

  “Smells good.”

  “You are too kind.” He opened an overhead cabinet and took down two delicate china coffee cups. “The sirens have died down. More distant. Less frequent. They’ll be on again as soon as the morning shift clocks in, though.”

  Leigh settled at the kitchen table. “So we need to be moving soon.”

  “Unless you want to stay longer. Lay low for a few more days.”

  She shook her head. “I need to go. The longer we stay here, the more chance we have of being spotted.”

  “This is true.” Three plates and a plastic cup joined the coffee cups. “Where will you go?”

  Leigh studied him, measuring how much she could trust him. How safe she and Elijah would be if she told him. “The Upper Nests.”

  He frowned. “What could possibly be waiting for you there?”

  She shrugged with a little smile. “Everything I’ve ever wanted, without knowing what I really needed.”

  Breakfast that morning felt like her last real goodbye to Crow City. Her last goodbye to everything she’d ever known—and though time was short, she savored it. She let Elijah feed her little bites of bacon, and laughed as she wiped the milk moustache from his upper lip; she teased Wally about his bedheaded cowlick, and savored every bite of hearty food that made her feel more human than she had since the moment she’d walked back into Jacob’s house.

  When they were done she helped with the dishes, then changed and helped Elijah into his clothes before packing up their things. Wally waited for them in the living room, watching out the window as the occasional car sped down the mostly empty dawn streets.

  “I haven’t seen a squad car yet.” He turned and folded his hands together. “You should be safe as long as you stay out of public areas.”