I clear my throat. “Hannah? I’m Mac. I’m a friend of Joey’s.”
Well, maybe I’m a friend.
“The hunt girl,” Hannah says, her voice raspy, like an old blues singer’s.
“Yes, I guess. I was wondering if you needed a new coat. It’s not really brand-new, but I have one that I don’t wear, and if you’d like it, I’ll bring it to you.”
Hannah’s face warms, and some pink flows into her cheeks. Now I can see that she isn’t as old as I thought.
“Joey told me you had a good soul,” she says.
I blink. Joey Marino said that? About me?
“Can I bring it to you?”
“I can’t pay for it.” Her words crackle. They’re worn down, like the life she’s likely lived.
“I don’t need any money,” I tell her, even though that isn’t exactly a true statement. “It’s yours.”
Hannah’s gaze reaches inside me and touches me, like she’s doing heart surgery with her eyes, and it’s alarming how good it makes me feel . . . to give a coat away . . . to see her smile.
I return to the bench, but before I even sit down, Joey says, “Hannah saw my mom yesterday.”
“Your mom . . .”
“Isabel. My mom Isabel.”
“What do you mean? How would Hannah see your mom? Does she know her?” I ask.
Joey nods. “Remember the other day when I gave a book to the woman near the bank, and you chased her off, thinking you were rescuing me?”
I stare at him.
“That was Isabel. She’s my mom.”
What?
“That woman was your mom? I—”
I didn’t know what else I should say.
“She seemed nice.”
What a ridiculous comment. I could slap myself right now.
Joey lets out a short laugh. “Sometimes she’s nice. Sometimes not. I never really know.” He sweeps the hair from his eyes.
I absorb this all and try to sort it into the most logical programming sequence.
One of Joey’s moms is sick.
And she’s homeless.
So many questions swirl in my head, like for how long? And where does she stay? And does anyone else know? But the only question that comes out of my mouth is “Why?”
And Joey asks me in his sage-like voice, “Did you know that an estimated twenty-five percent of homeless people are mentally ill, Mac?”
I did not.
Joey sounds like a teacher, reading from a textbook.
“My mom is one of those. She’s sick. She’s not medicated, and she’s on the streets.”
I shift on the bench to face him. “What happened to her?”
Joey looks down at the dirt for a long moment. “Isabel used to be totally fine. She was even getting her law practice started. Then, when I was three, Ma told me things began changing. Isabel started thinking the landlord was listening in on her phone calls. She freaked out and would panic every time the phone rang. She wouldn’t let Ma answer it. Then she would see things, like rabid dogs and bears. She swore the government was sending them to warn her of evil. She even accused Ma of being in on it, and that’s when she left the first time.”
I listen to his story. I want it to be fiction, just a creepy story, where adults assure you this would never, ever really happen. But Joey’s eyes tell me it’s real. Very real. He’s lived it.
“Ma got her a doctor and they tried to get her to take some pills to help, and for a while she got better. This was when I was six, I think. Then one day she said she didn’t need her pills anymore because she was fine, and about a week later she left again.”
“She’s been gone since you were six?” I ask.
I saw Coral riding her bike naked when I was six. I thought it was weird. Joey watched his mom leave their home at six. That’s worse.
Way worse.
Joey slowly nods. “Ma tracked her down over and over for the first five years. She’d get Isabel home for a few weeks and try to get her to take the pills again, but Isabel refused, and she would just run off again. Ma kind of gave up. She couldn’t do it anymore. So, I’m trying now. I want Isabel to be okay. Mostly, I want her to be safe.”
I feel myself quivering so much I think I can hear my bones rattle. How does Joey keep going?
“When you see her out on the streets, does she know who you are?” I ask.
“I don’t think so, but sometimes she looks at me really deep, you know? And then I wonder if she’s remembering . . . something.”
Isabel.
I remember how she grabbed Joey downtown a few days ago, how she mumbled a lot.
“Are you ever . . .” But I can’t get the question out.
“Scared of her?” Joey finishes for me.
I nod.
“Yes.” But Joey doesn’t explain, and I don’t ask him to. He wipes at his eye.
Then something occurs to me. “That’s the reason you talk to so many homeless people, isn’t it? Because of Isabel. Do they know her?”
“Some do.”
“So, they help you track her and stuff?”
“Yes.” He swings his boots under the bench.
Joey’s story buries me. It weighs on me like concrete blocks. His mother lives on the streets, and he talks about it like it’s ordinary, a part of anyone’s world. Chickens and goats in my backyard seem so trivial. Stale, sugarless bran muffins for breakfast seem like a five-star meal. The blocks feel heavier. Hank and Coral give me a roof over my head. They live under that roof with me. I can’t complain about that.
“Joey, I’m really sorry. I had no idea.”
It’s embarrassing how much stuff I don’t know. First Brie and how much she really hates swimming. Then Willa and her dad’s girlfriend and her parents’ divorce, and now Joey and his homeless mother.
“It is what it is.” He shrugs and turns away from me.
“It’s kind of a lot to live with.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think any life is perfect.” Joey draws a circle with his toe in the dirt. He adds two dots for eyes, one for a nose, and a straight line for a mouth. “Everyone’s life is a little bit broken.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mississippi Avenue
Joey rises from the bench. “Come on.”
We walk away from the school playground, and I can see Hannah trudging along the sidewalk ahead of us, pushing her grocery cart.
“Yesterday, when we were cleaning the chicken coop, you told me you wanted to go to Mississippi Avenue. It’s going to take two bus rides,” he says. “So, let’s go.”
I look at Joey closer. I don’t think he’s even combed his hair. There’re two cowlicks near his part. His gray T-shirt has a stain on the neckline. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, paying attention for a change, noticing the broken pieces of him.
We step onto the 15 bus and find a seat near the front. Joey takes the window spot.
“What did Hannah tell you about Isabel? Where did she see her?” I settle in next to him.
Joey puts his backpack on the floor between his boots. It’s bulkier than usual today. “Hannah said she was in Cathedral Park. Isabel was hallucinating, saying something about the St. Johns Bridge and how the light people would be there in two days.”
“The light people?”
“Don’t try to understand. It’s not rational,” Joey says.
But to me, it seems like Joey’s trying to understand. I can almost hear the gears in his head clicking, sorting it all out.
I don’t know if I should be discussing this with him. Does he want to talk about it? Does he want my help? Should I ask more questions? I don’t have Joey Marino figured out.
Not at all.
But I understand where his head’s at. As weird as my kale-wearing mother and chicken-loving father are to me, if either of them were living on the streets, I’d be worried about them too.
Every day.
“We have to find the last two clues, Mac. We have to.”
<
br /> For the first time, I completely realize how much this prize money means to Joey, and I refocus my thoughts on the clues and decoding once again.
I pull out my hunt folder and show him the list of carts. Two nights ago, I had highlighted all the coffee and breakfast carts. “I’m almost certain the shot-in-the-dark clue is at one of these. A shot is espresso, don’t you think?”
Joey scans the list.
I rattle on about my theories. “Large is probably the size we need, and whole must refer to something on the menu.”
“Whole bean?” Joey suggests.
“Or possibly the cart name.”
Almost thirty minutes later, we hop off the second bus at the Albina and Fremont stop, then walk a block to Mississippi.
The hipster population has pretty much taken over Mississippi Avenue. Apartment buildings have been remodeled and painted funky shades of teal and eggplant. Diners have turned into vegan cafés. Bike lanes were added, and parking spaces eliminated.
I point across the street. “Come on. There’s a taco place. I think we have to check out every cart we find to see if anything matches one of our possible clues.”
But the menu at this cart shows nothing of interest, so we move on, past a bookstore and Mississippi Pizza, where people sit outside and drink their microbrews.
Two more blocks up the street, and we arrive at a pod of food carts.
I’ll never get tired of the aroma around carts. This pod fills the air with scents of cinnamon and roasted garlic. There’s a bright yellow trailer serving egg sandwiches. Another cart serving ramen. One serves ribs and brisket with a smoker behind it that emanates a cloud of nostril-pleasing fumes. At almost every cart, there’re long lines of people waiting, even though it’s well before lunchtime.
“What do you think?” Joey asks.
I’m still checking everything out. One cart claims to have the best Southern food in town. I sniff the deep-fried grease smell and realize I’m starving.
The final cart in the pod is tucked behind a Korean place, so Joey and I move in that direction. The sign nailed to the top of the trailer says New Orleans’ Finest.
And the sign’s painted in green, gold, and purple.
I gaze at it.
Green. Gold. And purple.
I yank on Joey’s elbow and pull him toward the New Orleans cart. The line is eight people deep. One couple carefully studies the menu board, which is just a bunch of photos of the food they serve. I pull out a napkin from my folder, the one with the clue about green, gold, and purple spices and shrimpy legs. I hold it open in front of Joey. “This is the cart!”
Joey quickly presses my arm down and whispers, “What do you think we order?”
We shift around the line of people, so we have a view of the menu. The clue repeats in my head: Green, gold, and purple spices might get your arm strong. Shrimpy legs won’t let you dance, but you can sing a song.
Joey and I nearly knock our heads together because we both see it at the same time: Louis Armstrong shrimp gumbo.
Arm strong. Another sneaky clue.
I find myself thinking of Hank and Coral. They have vinyls of Louis Armstrong. They sometimes play him at night when I’m already in bed.
Joey taps my shoulder. “What about the drink?”
I glance through the list of beverages, which are the only menu items not pictured. There’s the usual soft drinks, juices, and bottled water; but at the end of the list I see it: Mardi Gras sweet tea.
That must be it.
I pump my fist. The ninth clue could be waiting for us right inside that New Orleans food cart. Maybe it will be written on a paper cup or on the gumbo bowl. I don’t care because it will be mine and Joey’s just as soon as we buy . . .
An entire dictionary of swear words rises in my throat, and it takes the strongest lock around my impulses to keep those words from bursting out of me. How are we going to pay for it? I still have just four dollars and fifteen cents.
I yank out my flipper and check the time.
10:56.
I know what we need to do, but the thought of several hours of work makes me cringe. Inside, I’m still swearing. I curse my four measly bucks, my lack of allowance, the hours Joey and I spent yesterday remodeling the chicken coop with no monetary compensation.
“How long do you think we’ll have to work to earn the gumbo?” I ask.
Joey’s looking around the pod in every direction. “It’s really crowded here.” He shakes his head at me. “We’re not working.”
“We’re not? Do you have money?”
He shakes his head.
“What are we going to do, make a sign and beg for the money?”
I regret my words instantly.
Joey snarls at me. “I don’t beg, Mac, but I also don’t judge people who do.”
His stone-gray glare shrinks me to a millimeter.
I do judge. All the time. Something else I’m not proud of.
Joey turns and walks away from me, and I don’t blame him.
I watch him as he leaves the pod and returns to the sidewalk on Mississippi Avenue. He sits right on the curb and crosses his legs with his back to the street. He slides off his backpack and pulls out a case. It’s a . . .
Ukulele?
Gently, he takes out the tiny instrument but keeps the case open in front of his legs. Then without tuning his strings, he starts playing. His right hand strums up and down; his left hand holds down the chords. And then he starts humming softly, but it’s nice. It’s mellow and folksy, like Hank, Coral, and Coho would love.
I stare at him and try to lift my jaw off the sidewalk.
He’s a boy chameleon, changing with the environment to meet whatever need is right in front of him.
I glance around to see if anyone else notices him, seeing him the way I do, for the first time without any judgment.
A woman with about four scarves around her neck drops a dollar bill into Joey’s open ukulele case.
Joey gives me a small wink. He keeps strumming and humming.
I continue to stand there, staring at him.
Joey’s playing his instrument for spare change, and he doesn’t even look . . . uncomfortable.
Another dollar drops in the case, followed by some loose change.
I move a little closer to him. More coins are tossed in the case.
I decide it’s time to get over myself, so I sit on the cement next to Joey, crossing my legs like him. Our knees touch.
It’s a real “Kumbaya” moment.
Joey Marino is brilliant.
Two more dollars are added into the case.
Joey Marino’s spectacularly brilliant.
I find myself tapping my legs, pretending I have one of Hank’s drums.
We keep going like that, strumming, humming, and tapping for about twenty minutes more, until the money total in Joey’s ukulele case is over twelve dollars.
Enough for gumbo and tea.
I give Joey a firm nod and he clearly understands. He strums three more chords, hanging on to the last one to signal the end of our performance to the passing-by audience. A little girl in a stroller claps for us.
I scoop out all the money so Joey can put his instrument away. “Hungry?” he asks.
And I am.
I’m starving, in fact.
And I’m ready to get that clue.
I cross my fingers as we wait in line, desperately hoping that this will be a new clue, and not a duplicate of one we already have.
The shrimp gumbo is trickling over the sides of the bowl when it arrives. I discover the clue printed on the bottom of the bowl, and I carefully lift it up and peek underneath to read the words:
Burgers, sausages, chickens no way!
The sun shines bright, not just in the day.
Chapter Thirty
Details
“Mac! We don’t have this clue. This is number nine!” Joey beams.
I’ve never seen him emit such enthusiasm. Joey Marino is one calm
customer.
“Okay, Clue Genius, what do you think this means?” he asks.
The compliment shoots renewed energy through every blood vessel in my system.
I pull my hunt folder out of my shoulder bag and take out a blank piece of paper and a pen. “I think of this hunt like a computer program. I’ll make a flowchart for you.” At the top of the paper I write Food Cart Clue Hunt. “There are ten clues and ten carts, so each clue and cart are like one step of the code, right? But each clue leads specifically to another cart and clue, and it doesn’t matter where you start, so it’s not linear—it’s really a big loop.”
I draw a large circle and add ten dots, evenly spaced, around the rim. Then I label the dots on the path in sequence, beginning with Lorenzo’s cart where I started, the double-decker bus, Oasis, the smoothie cart, and the New Orleans cart. Then I put a star by the first four carts indicating we’d solved those clues.
“Our problem is that we have five additional clues, and they all fall in this path somewhere.” I point to the blank dots on my circle. “We just don’t know what order they go in, which makes it hard to know which one to focus on to find the final cart and clue.”
“Right,” says Joey, “except we know that the shot-in-the-dark clue came from the grilled cheese cart.”
“True. We can focus on just these four clues.” I lay out the creamy-spicy-and-sweet clue, the one-meat-one-fruit clue, the shot-in-the-dark clue, and then our new burger-sausage-chicken clue.
Next, I draw an arrow by the dot right before Lorenzo’s cart in the big loop. “This is the clue we need to find, the one that leads to his pizza cart. I ordered a meat combo pizza and a Coke to get that clue. None of these four clues seem like they would take us to Lorenzo’s.”
“So, what do we do?” Joey asks.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Willa: Call me.
My heart flips in a good way. I’ve been waiting for this text.
I push the circle diagram and the shrimp gumbo toward Joey. “Give me a minute. I’ve got to call Willa.”
She picks up after only one ring. “Mac.”
“You okay?”
Worse Than Weird Page 12
