by Megan Lynch
Jude sneered. “We don’t—”
“We don’t know if we’ll make it out tonight. We’re pretty beat. But we’ll be here for a couple of weeks, so don’t count us out.”
The man smiled. “Cheers,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
In spite of themselves, Bristol and Jude beamed at each other. They spoke at the same time.
“Showers!”
“Beds!”
They’d taken one bag for the two of them, which included a change of clothes for each of them, a few pairs of underwear and socks, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and soap. There was one shower in the warehouse for several dozen workers, but here there was a bathroom with two showers for every shared dormitory. Bristol pushed his anger and heartbreak down and let the respite of the water pressure rise to the forefront. Drying off afterward felt like being born again. He massaged the rented terry towel over his shoulders and felt the dead flakes give way to clean-feeling skin.
Jude was already asleep by the time Bristol had finished in the bathroom. He changed into clean underwear and slipped between the clean sheets. A few weeks of sleeping on the floor and washing in the sink had made him soft. He drank in the freshness of the sheets and the softness of the pillow, trying to soak the goodness of it all into his pores, trying to forget what Samara had been through. What they’d all been through.
Bristol was a creator, not a planner. Denver had told him to go back, marry Cindy, get citizenship. Then he’d be able to sponsor her as well as Jude, who’d they’d claim as a younger brother. After that, Denver and Jude would be able to take a flight to Canada and infiltrate the United States, contacting the Bird and getting his help to plant the same surveillance devices that Stephen was supposed to bring. He looked over at Jude and wondered if he was scared. Bristol was certainly scared. And the scariest thing he had to do was to marry his agent.
He wasn’t sure it’d be possible. It was clear to see that Cindy had feelings for Bristol, but now more than ever, Bristol wanted nothing but to live with Samara by themselves in a little apartment or room or goddamn cardboard box. It didn’t matter as long as people would just leave them alone.
The door to the room opened, and a couple of girls from somewhere in Asia, by the sound of their razor-cut language, came in noisily to try on some different outfits to go out in that evening. The party outside in the courtyard was just getting started with some bass and beats and low laughter. Bristol rolled onto his side. Two positive elements he would miss about the warehouse was silence at night and distance from fools. But then, if his birth hadn’t gone the way it did—say he was born in another country, to an alternate family—would his life be so different from theirs? Would he have the same urge to create, the same affinity for solitude, or would he convince himself that he didn’t have the time for it while traveling and getting drunk with friends or stoned with new acquaintances?
He would never be glad to have seen the horrors he’d seen, but he was, in a twisted way, grateful. He knew how precious time could be. He’d be damned if he’d waste it away.
The girls shrieked when someone else—another friend, by the sounds of it—walked into the room and turned on the lights. With that, he threw off the sheet. The girls stopped chatting and gave him an up-and-down appraising glance. He turned from them and pulled on his pants.
They giggled. “Nice legs,” one of them said.
Bristol turned out the lights. “My friend needs to sleep.”
“Oh, sorry, we didn’t know he was up there.” She grabbed a handful of her own hair and shook it out over the crown of her head. “I’m Lilly. What are you doing tonight? Want to go out with us?”
Bristol looked at her and, as he always did when he saw beautiful women, thought of Samara. What if her birth had also been different? He saw the young adulthood Samara deserved better than he saw an alteration of his own. She’d spend her Saturday nights dancing instead of freezing and watching for enemies in an abandoned monastery. She’d talk with girlfriends about shoes instead of legislation. She’d go on dates instead of…
“No thank you.” Bristol’s voice had softened in seconds, but Lilly didn’t even seem to notice. She struck a flirtatious pose, and Bristol could almost see her watching only herself in her mind’s eye. “You girls have fun. Don’t forget about my friend, please. He needs to rest.”
“We get it,” said Lilly. “We’ve been at the pub all day too. Then sightseeing. So much walking. Had a long day, did he?” Lilly asked.
“Yes, he did,” said Bristol, and the girls giggled again. Bristol reached for the doorknob. May you never be asked to rise to half of his challenges. “Yes. He did.”
Bristol swiped a piece of yellow sidewalk chalk—one of the many toys lingering around for these overgrown children—from the lobby and walked until he saw a posh-looking community with little coffee houses, yogurt shops, and dress boutiques. Behind a shop that sold “artisan gifts,” he drew Samara’s face on the door to the back entrance. He was getting better at her eyes. He made them relaxed, not girlish and wide, but true to how she normally looked at him—with familiarity and ongoing exhaustion. He made her lips full, with highlights to show their exquisite thickness. When he was finished, the image of her face looked back at him with one finger drawn to her lips. He hoped it would communicate what he needed it to: Shhhh.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“When is this truck scheduled to depart?” Denver asked.
Taye consulted his tablet, tapping his fingers on the screen several times before answering. “Tomorrow morning.”
Denver smiled. Her mother used to say that there was no greater contentment than working on something you were suited for. Back then, she and Bristol would glance at each other with gritted teeth, wondering if she knew about Bristol’s nightly escapades and controversial murals. Now, she remembered her mother’s words and felt the truth of them in her bones. “The customers will be happy to be getting their packages early. Tell the driver he’s ready to go.”
Denver and Taye ran through the checklist once more to see that everything was accounted for on the truck and then shut the door. Denver rapped the back of it twice, and the driver took off. The sun hadn’t even set, but they were done for the day.
“Should we have a meeting tonight, then?” asked Taye.
“I could use a few hours to get things ready for tomorrow…”
“I’ll set the alarm early so we can prep in the morning. We need to hear the others’ ideas about getting you and Jude back to the US.”
“I’m not sure if Samara’s ready.”
Taye raised an eyebrow. Denver could guess what he was thinking, that it was she that wasn’t ready. And that was true. Samara simply hadn’t healed, but how could she when she was stuck here? Her wounds were too raw. She’d feel better once she was in a new place, doing things she enjoyed. Deep down, Denver was afraid that if they did get back to Scotland, then back to America, then she’d be flooded with memories of Stephen and their life together. The two of them in Bristol’s apartment, reading at opposite ends of the couch with their feet resting in the other’s lap, too tired to talk but still intent on remaining connected. The two of them on the airship, holding onto each other as if trying to convince the other one that things would work out. The two of them in America, relishing in the surprises they were learning about each other. How could she face those places with him gone?
She also realized she didn’t have much of a choice. If options were what she wanted, she’d have to work for them. “Okay. Tell the others to meet in the office in an hour.”
“The office where Samara was assaulted? No. It’s a nice day. Let’s meet outside by the dumpsters.”
“Good point. But we can’t let anyone hear us. Let’s meet in our room.”
Taye groaned but turned to go inside and spread the news. Denver went straight to where she knew Samara would be after a hard day of work.
Samara had taken to hiding in a bathroom stall in the stretches of time
between work and sleep. Sure enough, her feet were visible under the door in flat brown shoes with one broken lace and both soles peeling backward. Denver made a mental note to buy her a new pair if she had any money left after their train tickets.
“Hey,” said Denver, trying to keep her voice soft. She waited a long time for an answer.
“Hey.”
Denver cleared her throat. She was hopeless at this kind of thing. She tried channeling her mother, her softness and her warmth. “If you’re feeling up to it, we’re going to meet in an hour. We’re getting out of here.”
Again, there was a long pause before Samara answered. “Did you hear from Bristol?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think he’s…gotten his green card already?”
“I don’t know. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
Denver sighed. So much for being maternal.
Samara sniffed. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to go on. How did you do it? After the baby. After Stephen. How were you able to just pick up and move on?"
“I wasn’t. I didn’t. Everything that happened is still a part of me, and it always will be. You’ll always carry your experience with you, but it doesn’t mean you have to stop living. When I think about Stephen, it makes me sad, but the thought of him also energizes me in a way, like I have to get moving or else his mission will die too. What that monster did to you, he did because he saw you as a victim to be used, not a survivor about to make history. What message does it send if you stay holed up in the bathroom?”
Samara was so quiet. Denver knocked on her door. “Samara! It doesn’t have to be meaningless. We can give it meaning!”
Samara walked out of the stall—a good sign—and went to the sink to splash water on her face. With the tips of her fingers, she made large circles around her eyes.
“I was never very talented at this kind of thing. I faked it. But the truth was that I never knew what I was doing, and that was when I was…whole. I’m sure I’ll just be a burden now.”
“Carrying burdens makes you stronger. We need you there.”
Samara stood straight and looked into the mirror. “I haven’t really looked at myself since it happened.” She dug her fingers into her scalp and teased her hair.
Denver winced. “Maybe I can do your hair before the meeting.”
“Maybe we can do each other’s. I do like it wild like this, though.”
Denver nodded. “We’ll keep the wildness and just cut off the ends. For you.”
“You want one too? I have to warn you, I’m no good at hair.”
Denver’s was bound back in a tight bun. It kept it out of her face, but she didn’t like the headache she’d learned to expect by midday. There was only one solution, and the prospect was looking better and better. “You don’t need to be good for what I have in mind.”
Samara went into the little room before Denver. Denver had cut off the ends, yes, but she kept the mass of curls around Samara’s face, letting Samara hide behind them. When Denver walked in after her, the boys gasped.
“What did you do?” asked Taye.
Denver tried to mimic her mothers’ stern face as she looked at Taye. She set a notebook down on the edge of the sink in their room. “I got some notes together about some recent news stories about the United States. What did you do?”
“You…shaved your head!”
“Wrong. Samara shaved my head.”
Samara surveyed her from the side, just above her left ear. “I think I did a pretty good job, too.”
“It…I mean I guess it’s fine while we’re here. Won’t you want hair when you’re back in Scotland, though?”
“No fuss. No literal or figurative headaches. Why would I want hair when it comes with all those things?”
“I just…” Taye glanced at his brothers. Cork stared, and Henry turned on his heel and dug in his little navy blue backpack.
“I’m not afraid of any boys not liking it, if that’s what you’re suggesting. In fact, I’m trying to minimize distractions, not add them.”
Taye looked insulted. “I’m not!”
“Then what?” Samara asked.
“It’s…it’s…” Taye seemed to know what he wanted to say, but was searching for the right words for his thought. “Cold as balls in Edinburgh! Even in the spring and summer!”
Little Henry had found what he’d been looking for—a thick knit hat. “Nurse Sue made it for me,” he said.
Denver felt the joints in her fingers soften as she took the hat from Henry. She thought about how she used to live her life, so very trusting. How did she find herself in this pattern of not trusting anyone else?
“Thank you, Henry.”
Instead of putting it on, Denver held the hat to her heart. It was good to be so close to Nurse Sue. She remembered the times she’d seen Nurse Sue make these little things for the younger kids, sitting in the chair in the corner of the common room in Olympic Village when everyone else was loafing around watching the news. The nurse had lovingly threaded the yarn between her fingers, wrapping it around her needle in a meditative motion. Denver had even been vaguely jealous of the recipients. Back when she was pregnant for those few precious weeks, everyone fussed over her, the expectant mother. When she was no longer that, she went back to the role she’d had before. Hardened. Stoic. A leader without emotional needs. For the first time since Stephen died, this little gift, given in love, made in love, stirred something inside her. Her throat tightened.
Cork shook his head at Denver in a manner that strongly reminded her of Jude. “You’re going to be so cold.”
Denver laughed a bit and wiped away the beginnings of a tear. “If all goes according to plan, I’m about to go on an unsupported spy mission to a hostile country. I can handle a little cold.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
In their new apartment in London, Jude washed Bristol’s brushes at the sink. Though it was technically the kitchen sink, it was dotted with the colorful hues that they’d made in their short stay here. Jude cleaned it with harsh chemicals every night to keep it looking nice—this wasn’t his place, and he was determined to keep it clean. If they had anything less than an exemplary idea of how refugees lived, he’d prove them wrong.
Jude wasn’t surprised when a wealthy art collector had recognized Bristol’s chalk portrait of Samara and lurked around Camden Town until he eventually ran into him. He wasn’t surprised when the wealthy man, proud to be an underground patron of one of the most elusive artists in recent memory, gave them use of one of his apartments to live and make art in. He wasn’t even surprised that, once his dealer got involved, Bristol’s paintings started selling for thousands of pounds in less than a full week in the city. What finally surprised him, in the end, was the alleged identity of the highest bidder.
“Tom Armistead.” The dealer, whose name was Albert, wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip with a checkered cloth kerchief.
Jude didn’t even bother turning the water off. He massaged the paint from the bristles. “Tom?”
Albert reached over and turned the faucet until the water stopped. “Armistead.”
The name did sound familiar, but he assumed that this was yet another well-known aspect of the art world that everyone else knew except for him. “Does Bristol know?”
“Not yet, no. You’re aware then? Of his ties?”
“Bristol probably would be.”
“We mustn’t bother Mr. Ray about this. He needs space. To create.”
Since coming here, everyone had always treated Bristol as something he wasn’t at all: purely a creator, living in isolation from the rest of humanity. Every native seemed to shield him from any news from their home country, or any unfairness in the entire world, whether or not the United States was involved. But what, Jude wondered, would he paint if he wasn’t an advocate first?
Jude put the clean brushes back in the tin coffee can. “Tell me about Tom Armistead.”
“Armis
tead is the grandson of a very famous American. In fact, his father is a government employee, and he is rumored to do occasional government work himself.”
“Either he’s employed in a Metrics agency or he isn’t. There are no contractors in the United States. People there get one job all of their lives.”
Albert smirked, the lithe lines of his body relaxing. “Things may have changed.”
“Things don’t change there.”
“If they didn’t, wouldn’t you still be there?”
Jude tapped the paintbrushes on the edge of the sink, hoping to get a few spatters on Albert’s elegant casual clothes. He hated when people tried so hard to make you think they weren’t trying hard. “Does it matter? About Armistead?”
“Well, yes, actually it does.” Albert glanced over his pressed sweatshirt. There were the miniature manufactured tears, but no water or paint spots. Oh, well. Maybe next time.
“It does,” Albert continued. “In fact, most people would say it matters quite a bit that a malicious dictatorship is buying artwork that criticizes its own policies, wouldn’t you?”
Jude froze. He scoured his memory again for the name Armistead, but no revelations came. “If that’s what happening, yes, it does matter.” Jude placed the brushes back in the can and dried his hands with a frayed tea towel. “If that’s what’s happening.”
“I don’t believe letting him know would be in Mr. Ray’s best interest. Promise you’ll not say a word.”
The floorboards creeped subtly to alert Jude that Bristol was right outside the doorway. “Okay,” he said. “I promise I won’t tell him.”
“Won’t tell me what?” Bristol asked, stepping into the kitchen.
“That the United States Government is buying your pieces. For large sums of money. For reasons unknown,” Jude said, exaggerating his doe-eyed innocence.
Albert shot a quick scowl at Jude and turned to Bristol. “It’s nothing we can’t handle. We can ban him from the auction, refuse to do business with him.”
