Cracked Pots

by Heather Tucker

  “Did Nat write she wanted someone like Jasper?”

  “Something like.”

  “It’s not about a boy.”

  “What then?”

  “Um, well, she asked how I could draw like I do. We were studying the Greek muses in history. I said I had a muse named Jasper. She wished she had one too.”

  “He’s not a real person?”

  “Just the name I give to my imagination.”

  I feel a kick. Just. Just?

  Shut it.

  “So, are all these J’s pretend?”

  “All?”

  His eyes slide up, then back to an entry. “I’d give anything to be Ari. With all the J’s, it’s like she’s living Little Women for real.” That anyone, for a second, would want my crap-full life leaves me mute. “Well?”

  “Um, I have five sisters: Jennah, June, Jacquie, Jory, and Jillianne. Nat just thought having sisters would be nice.”

  “And you’re . . . Harriet?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “And misspelled with just one R.”

  “Tell me, would ya, why all these crushes on boys connected with you?” He blows smoke over my head. “And why’s your name coming up with every person I question? ‘Ask Hariet.’ ‘Ari might know something.’ ‘Have you talked to that Appleton girl?’ Huh?”

  Because I’m trouble, from trouble. “Don’t know. We weren’t that close.”

  “Come on. Your name’s on every other page of her diary.”

  “She thought my life was, I don’t know, interesting.”

  “And hers was a bore?”

  “No, sir. Ordered.”

  “Would she have gone for a walk on the wild side?”

  “Can’t picture Natasha stepping outside the lines, ever.”

  “So, good girl. No drugs. No boys. Nothin’.” He paces like a penned lion. “You know anything about a guy she met in High Park?”

  “She mentioned him in a letter. Bobbie something.”

  “Story. Bobbie Story. Know where we can find him?”

  “No idea.”

  “Gimme something here.” His “gimme” has a punch.

  “Um, Nat wrote he was dreamier than Troy Donahue. She compared people to stars. So maybe sandy hair and gray eyes?”

  “Would she just talk to some strange guy?”

  “She’d talk to anyone, especially if it was about a book.”

  “Not following.”

  “He asked if she wanted to go to Arrakis. It’s from the book she was reading. She’d dig that.”

  “What book?”

  “Dune.”

  Mina knocks and opens the door. “Sandwich cart’s here. What can I get you?”

  “Corned beef.”

  Mina asks, “Ari?”

  “Where’s Mikey?”

  “Aaron took him to Sabina’s.”

  “Can you call and see how he is? And tell her I need a few dozen peanut butter sandwiches, heavy on the jam.”

  “Will do.”

  Halpern leans against the mirror. “Explain.”

  “Mikey’s best buds with Nat’s brother. He’ll be worried.”

  “No, what’s with the picnic?”

  “When we finish here, I’ll go to the Village. Kids hanging in doorways hear things. Food’s currency.”

  “We’ve combed every inch of Yorkville.”

  “No offence, sir, but cops would have better luck combing a Rastafarian’s hair than the Village.”

  “And you’ll have luck because . . . ?”

  “I wait tables at the Riverboat and my sister runs the outreach at the church. People know us.”

  Mina arrives with sandwiches and Halpern asks, “You teach art, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sketch guy’s on holiday. You think you could give me something that’d look more like she did on Friday than her school pic?”

  “Ari could, better than me.”

  “That right?”

  “I could try.”

  “Right then.” He flips his notebook closed. “Things arranged for tomorrow’s search?”

  Mina says, “Staff are at your disposal. Busses will be at the ready.”

  “I’ll have uniforms at the school by eight to brief everyone.”

  “I loaned her that book.”

  “What’s that, kid?”

  “Dune. The book she was reading.” Burnt coffee collides with the smoke-clogged air. I ask Mina, “Did you talk to Sabina?”

  “Mikey can stay as long as needed and her kitchen’s mobilized.”

  Halpern says, “Leave it ’til morning.”

  “No disrespect, sir, but only thing standing in the Village in the morning are the lamp posts.”

  Mina says, “Ellis is picking up the sandwiches. We’ll go along.”

  “Anything else you can think of, Ari?” he asks.

  “She collected buttons.”

  “Buttons?”

  I sigh. “Sewing buttons. She liked them because they held things together.”

  Three

  Yorkville is worn out. Dropped-out humanity clusters on steps and doorways. They talk to us for the food, a few because they remember Mina and Ellis as teachers who gave a shit. Or maybe they warm to us because they’re a little hopeful that somebody is looking for someone.

  We run out of sandwiches without a crumb in return. Ellis asks, “Where to? Sabina’s?”

  “Let’s try the drop-in.”

  The church is crammed with tripped-out kids. My sister Jory hops, steps, and jigs over bodies when she sees me. She’s prettier than that model, Twiggy. More ink has been added over the summer, but mercifully the butterfly around her eye remains the only tattoo on her face. She snaps me into a hug. “Cheese ’n’ Christ on a cracker, look who’s back.”

  Sister number four is as substantial as a licorice rope, but here in the Village, she’s Jory of Arc, fighting the Sixties War. I hold tight and ask, “You hear anything about the girl that went missing from the Ex?”

  “Just trash.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ah . . . her dad’s a Russian spy and she’s being held ’til he gives up secrets.”

  “But Mr. Koshkin makes candy.”

  “These kids don’t know where they are let alone anyone else. Come on. Best thing we can do is get the elders praying.”

  “Um, I’ll leave you to get God in the loop. You know where Edjo might be hanging?”

  “Mynah Bird, maybe?”

  I lighten my pocket of travelling cash, knowing Jory will turn it into bread for her flock and maybe a little holy smoke for herself.

  She stuffs it in her jeans. “Rock it for Jesus, sis.”

  We descend, stepping over wasted souls on the stairs. “I love my sister, but the God stuff makes my teeth scratch.”

  Mina says, “Well then, Aaron’s new friend’s going to give you hives.”

  “What? A girlfriend?”

  “Nurse he met in Kenya. Very, um, zealous.”

  “She came back with him? Like with him, with him?” I shouldn’t care, not when I love Jake, but Aaron is . . . What is he, Jasper?

  Our ocean when we’re stuck in Toronto.

  “She’s finishing her degree at U of T.”

  Ellis says, “She’s a real Mother Teresa.”

  “You forgetting I have a mother Theresa? No prize there.”

  The street is electric. I follow the current toward a tangle of Harleys and spot the leader of the pack. Edjo reeks of weed, leather, and fried chicken as he mauls me in a hug. “Ari-mi-amigo, where you been?”

  “Paradise.”

  “You find that sister of yours?”

  “Only in my dreams. Listen, the girl that went missing from the CNE. You hear anything?”

&n
bsp; “Nada.” He pulls hard on a joint. “You know her?”

  “Yeah. From school.”

  “I’ll ask around.”

  “Appreciated.” I inhale his exhale before returning to Ellis.

  “Ari, how is it you’re cozy with a Vagabond?”

  “He and June had a thing back in the day. She’s like a melanoma. Once she’s under your skin, you can’t shake her.”

  Ellis’s hand lands soft on my shoulder. “How long’s it been?”

  “Five years. June may’ve disappeared but at least she left clues. How could someone like Natasha vanish without cosmic trumpets sounding?”

  “There were a couple of sightings on the midway, but that’s it.”

  The last night of the summer of ’69 has the Village jumping with freshmen and bikers, greasers and junk-sick runaways. Where have all the flower children gone, Jasper?

  Mina says, “There’s always chatter at the Riverboat.”

  I measure the line snaking up the stairs of the coffee house. “Let’s go around back.”

  When I open the door, Crystal has a tray on her left hand, three mugs looped in the fingers of her right, sweat soaking her blouse, and a told-you-so smile. “Ha. Knew you wouldn’t let Mikey come back alone. Now, help, please. I’m on my own here. We’re outta glasses. Get to it. Plate up the strudel and keep it coming.”

  I tie back my storm of hair. Rummage through my inventory of tie-dye in the storage room and find a clean tank.

  Wobbly legged, tray loaded with water, I enter the packed house, thick with smoke, music—and life. The tray empties before making it down a single row. A regular says, “Hey, Ari. Nice headlights.”

  My boobs are a B-minus at best, but they always plump a little after a summer of hearty East Coast fare. “Charming as ever, Lewis.” I drape my cleavage with a red-checked towel before bending over. “You hear anything about the girl who went missing?”

  “Zilch. She’s from your school, eh?”

  “Yeah. Same grade as me.”

  “Put them boots up as a reward and I’ll find something to deliver.”

  I’m wearing Len’s steel-toed work boots, now painted with the finesse of a Dutch master and the funk of Kandinsky. They fit in a relative way, my feet are proportionate to my length, which is to say, significant. And Len’s feet were small in proportion to his goodness. It’s astonishing really that his feet were able to support his kindness. “Lewis, you find some intel and I’ll paint anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yep. Just know I use a hot needle to etch in the design.”

  A preppy guy in the adjoining booth says. “Excuse me. Ari, is it?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  “Pardon?”

  Lewis says, “The name Ari. She’s growing into it. She’s a bit . . .” Finger circles temple, indicating my lunacy. “Dad’s a pig.”

  The preppy asks, “He’s a cop?”

  Lewis oinks as the guy reads my face, line by undefined line, zeroing in on my fat cheek. “Do I know you from somewhere, Almost-Ari?”

  “I’m unthinkable, therefore unknowable.”

  “Intriguing. Could I trouble you for another coffee?”

  When I return to the kitchen, Mina says, “You’re looking a little chartreuse. Sit. I’ll water the herd.”

  I nab a stool and take over slapping sandwiches together. Crystal flies in, barking, “Three ham, two salami, six cheese.”

  “The guy behind Lewis ordered a coffee.”

  Crystal hoists up a loaded tray. “Good luck to him.”

  Hours pass. The crowd ebbs and swells. I’m up to my elbows in soapy water, asleep on my feet, dreaming about the nest, my attic escape, just a hop, skip, and climb down the alley. There, I’ll find silence, a featherbed, the plush dog Aaron gave me . . . I sense a shadow in the doorway. I blink, trying to place the man in a fedora. “Detective Halpern?”

  “Just checking in. Anything?”

  “Just crap like her dad’s a spy.”

  “Heard that one. Your teachers go?”

  “Yeah. They needed sleep.”

  “Let’s go. I’m seeing you home.”

  “No. I’ll just crash here.”

  “I’m not losing another kid. Not on my watch.”

  “But there’re hours ’til closing.”

  “You weren’t scheduled to work in the first place and that sketch is priority one. Move it.”

  As I’m escorted out, music and conversations hush, draft dodgers turn to the walls, ragers against the establishment raise a glass.

  Halpern drives me to crapdom and pulls in behind the Dick’s sedan, waiting as I walk the plank.

  What kind of shit detective delivers a kid to the most perilous place on Earth?

  Who could imagine life behind these walls, Jasper?

  A hip thrust opens the peeling door. Smoke and rotting lives hit like a beached tuna nine days dead. To my left, TV light fluoresces off two months of unfolded laundry mounded on the sofa. Odds are O’Toole is snoring under the pile. Rod Serling says, “A frightening tale for the more imaginative among us, next week on The Twilight Zone.” The tinny do-do-do-do–do-do-do-do of the closing credits creeps through the dark house.

  Let’s just split.

  The Missus says to march straight at the hardest thing to be done and box it square on d’ears.

  Christ, you’re annoying. I can’t face locating Mum in this cesspit, so I head to the second hardest, a kitchen left in the hands of grievously inept humans. My boots fight against the sticky linoleum. Light averse creatures dive for cover when I flip the switch. Hoooly shit. The counter is a heaped jumble of crusted dishes, bottles, wrappers, half-empty tins. I poke at a plaid slipper atop a plate. What the . . . ?

  That skat is from a—

  Mouse. A really big mouse. I hear a creak on the steps. Waking the Dick is as risky as stepping on a grizzly’s ingrown toenail. I turn, praying he’ll have on underwear, boxers, not tighties. “Todd?”

  “Alls I can say is thanks bejesus it’s you and not a rat.”

  A summer in the company of socialized humans has Mikey’s brother Todd in PJ pants and a T-shirt. He’s still a mountain of an eighteen-year-old, but it’s solid heft. “Thought you were in Rockton.”

  “Job’s done for now.” His face forever holds the expectation of a hopeful infant. “Figured Mikey might need me. Where’d you stash him?”

  “Sabina’s.”

  “Good plan. Ease him back into this shit hole.”

  Dick Irwin has four offspring. From his first wife: Ricky, the soldier boy. I once loved him like any fourteen-year-old would fall for the knight who takes a punch for her. And Ronnie, aka Devil Girl. Then there’s Todd, from another mother and same age as Ronnie (let it be said again, the Dick is a big dick). And eight-year-old Mikey, son of flighty, drug-stuck Laura.

  When I first arrived in crapdom, Todd was set to become the fabric that covered the chair in front of the TV. Now he’s a veterinary assistant and what he lacks in appearance he makes up for in chivalry.

  He says, “You believe this mess? Don’t know where to start.”

  “Bleach. Barrels of bleach.”

  “Not gonna help this.” He opens the door to the back porch and flicks on the light. Two months of putrefying garbage surpasses the windowsills.

  “Oh . . . help me, Rhonda.”

  “Gotta clean this out ASAP.” He tilts a box with a broomstick, uncovering a rat the size of the Dick’s boot, belly up, legs stiff, whiskers singed. “Likely electrocuted itself.”

  “Good news is it’s dead?”

  “You can be damn sure it has family.”

  “We can’t bring Mikey back here.”

  “Ah, he’s an Irwin. He’s tougher than he looks.”

  “
I’m not worried about his mettle. He’ll just drive us squirrelly insisting on a funeral for every creature we execute.”

  It’s two a.m. before the Everest of dishes is down to several molehills and five crusted pots. Todd says, “Let’s leave these to soak.”

  “You working tomorrow?”

  “No. I was gonna help with the search.” He steps on a bag, detonating the reek of rotten banana. “But this needs sorting before the place goes up in flames.”

  We nimble-foot over junk piled in the hallway and crap littering the stairs. “Why didn’t you stay in Rockton, really?”

  “Honestly? Couldn’t see Mikey here on his own and never in a million years did I think you’d be stupid enough to come back.” A whiff of summer sneakers escapes as he opens the door to the boys’ room.

  “Can you get your room ready for him?” I ask.

  “Washer’s broken.”

  “Figures.”

  “I could haul a load to the laundromat in the wagon.”

  “That’d take a month of Sundays. I’ll ask Aaron for loan of his jeep.”

  I head to the bathroom and there is Mum, duchess of crapdom, slumped against the throne. When I left eight weeks ago, she was puking in the toilet. Now she has the frayed pink bathmat bunched under her head, an oozy cold sore on the corner of her mouth, and—alas, a pulse in her neck.

  I wipe the seat and pee. Usually I can pinpoint what magic carpet has her flying. When stoned, she’s easy. Angry when piss-drunk. Jittery on uppers. Messy on downers, and sick, sick, sick when she mixes the shit. It’s hard to reconcile the once fierce, razor-witted woman with this deflated pile of skin.

  Her eyes roll open. “Jilli?”

  “No. It’s Ari.”

  “Oh, Elsie, I have the fuel. The few. Th-th-the flu.”

  She’s paper-light to hoist up. “Come get to bed.”

  Their room smells like farts and looks like a Goodwill dumpster. The Dick graces the bed, gape-mouthed, stained undershirt, tighty-whities splayed. As I load Mum in, the Dick rolls over and sort of loves her up. The treasure here? Knowing what I could become if I don’t pay attention.

  When trapped in crapdom, I’m forced to sleep in a corner of Devil Girl’s satanic cave. Ronnie is starkers, leg hanging over the edge of her bed like an albino python. Some pimply faced boy is passed out on my cot.