Hungry Hearts

by Elsie Chapman

  I was the other person who’d needed convincing to agree to the move.

  Both my brothers were beginning new chapters of their lives in the fall, so changing neighborhoods wasn’t a big deal for them. The older one, Bilal, was starting college nearby and the younger one, Rashad, would be a high school freshman in two months.

  But, for me, moving the summer before senior year meant that I wouldn’t be graduating with my class. It also meant I’d have to give up my job at Daily Harvest, a free meal service for those who needed it, where I’d worked for five years, first volunteering with my mom at twelve and then joining as an employee two years ago. It’s in an area called Russell, closer to my old neighborhood, and there was no way I could get to work in time after school.

  Which was absolutely the worst, because just a few months ago, they’d begun letting me help the fundraising team make videos. Which is MY thing.

  Moving to Hungry Heart Row had been excruciating, and I’d let everyone know it.

  Then, a month before the scheduled moving date, I came home to find a brand-new camera, a Sony A6500.

  I’m kind of ashamed to say it, but the bribe had worked. Especially since this year I needed top-of-the-line equipment to win gold in the teen category at the state film festival—a prize which included my dream: an internship with a production company.

  Last film festival, I’d come in second.

  This time, however, no one, especially not a person by the name of Gabrielle Rose, would stop me from first prize.

  Once I settled on a prize-winning idea, that is.

  * * *

  “What about Hungry Heart Row itself as a topic? Like those roaming videos where you get to see the people, the places, hear the sounds.” I peeled a thread off a string-cheese snack and tilted my head back to drop it into my mouth. “Like sound would be the feature of the film then.”

  “I doubt anyone would care,” Bilal said. He was opening random boxes in the dining room adjacent to the kitchen, looking for something. “Did anyone in Mulberry talk about Hungry Heart Row? Did you ever hear a single soul say a single word about it, except Dad reminiscing about his old days? So why would anyone at the film fest care?”

  “But the wow factor wouldn’t be the subject of the film. It would be the way it’s made, the form of the film. I can do awesome, shocking things with it.”

  “You already did that with last year’s film, remember?” Bilal paused running a box cutter down the taped seam of a box. He lifted up his left hand in a fist. “We Resist: An In-Your-Face Act of Film?”

  “I won second, remember? Remember?”

  “Yeah, but first place went to an unraucous film,” Bilal said smugly. “Hania, your stuff may be too intense.”

  “I hate the fact that older people judge these things!” I leaned my elbows on the edge of the kitchen island counter and slumped my face into my palms. “They liked the lingering shots of crocheted doilies, pastel walls, and flowery curtains that Gabrielle Rose did. She knew what they’d like; that’s why she went all bland. Ugh.”

  “It was nice. In a mellow, dignified way.”

  “It was old. Like old-people old.” I stopped myself from saying the next part—like boring old—as Valimma walked into the kitchen, a scarf worn loosely on her head. Her gray hair, oiled and austerely parted, could be seen peeking out the front.

  “Bilal, monu, help me clear the dining table of these boxes. It’s my turn to host Thursday Club, and we need a place to sit and eat.”

  “Sure, Valimma.” Bilal began moving boxes off the long walnut table.

  “We need to put five chairs around the table. Well, four today, because Simeona isn’t coming.” Valimma lifted up smaller boxes and set them on the floor.

  “What do you do at Thursday Club, Valimma?” I leaned on the frame of the kitchen doorway.

  “We eat and laugh and eat and tell stories and eat again.”

  “Can I come? Can I film you guys?” I avoided Bilal’s smirky look.

  “Yes, certainly. I’m sure my friends would like that. A young person to hear our stories.” Valimma motioned to Bilal. “So yes, leave five chairs here.”

  * * *

  I adjusted the focus. “Thanks so much for waiting for me to set up the camera. Okay, now, action, reach for the food.”

  Four hands in various shades of skin reached for utensils to ladle food from bowls atop a lazy Susan as I watched through the screen on my camera. Being the host, it was Valimma’s hand that spun the lazy Susan, after allowing each woman adequate time to take from the food laid in front of her. The shotgun mic picked up the clinks of cutlery, the slight rustle of clothing, and low murmurs.

  With the dishes revolving in turns, the scene had a rhythmic quality to it. Meditative and tranquil.

  I frowned. Meditative and tranquil meant it was too much like Gabrielle’s first-place film last year, unimaginatively called Home Is.

  Bland.

  And derivative?

  “Franklin saw him again on the security camera. The lost boy.” A white woman with glasses and wispy gray curls was talking, her hand, holding a spring roll, shaking slightly. “I told him to turn it in to the police immediately. But he doesn’t listen to me. He says it’s just someone who looks like him.”

  Valimma tsked. “The last time the police said it was not the lost boy on the security film. Maybe that is why your son doesn’t want to waste their time. The camera outside his hardware store records a lot of people, with the movie theater next door.”

  Shaking her head, a black woman paused winding her fork in noodles. “It’s time they reopened the case. How could it be that a teenager doesn’t come home, and they close it after half a year? Especially in a small community like Hungry Heart Row?”

  “But now he’s been missing for over a year, Diane. They have to close it at some point. Who made this rice? Is it yours, Maymoona? It’s fluffier than my mother’s used to be!” I knew the name of the woman who exclaimed this. It was Valimma’s closest friend, Shirley. She and my grandmother had played mahjong together for years.

  Valimma shook her head. “No, it’s Simeona’s. But you must have it with the adobo. Mix-it flavor!”

  “Oh yes, Simeona is a fantastic cook,” Diane said, reaching for some adobo.

  “Especially her Soup Number Five special, right?” Shirley said, glancing around at the other women. They burst into laughter in response.

  “Hania, come and try some shrimp,” Valimma said.

  “I’m working, Valimma.”

  “Open,” Valimma commanded, holding out a spoon of rice, tinted brown with adobo sauce, a single shrimp on top.

  Vinegar. I shook my head.

  But the spoon kept coming forward. That was Valimma’s way. She wouldn’t stop until you had at least one taste.

  I sighed and, closing my eyes to make the process less painful, opened my mouth. It was an instinctive action when Valimma was around—the first vision I had of being with my grandmother was food, unrelenting, coming toward my mouth. Like now.

  Oh wow. Bliss. The adobo was perfectly calibrated between my two favorite flavor juxtapositions: sweet and tangy. And the shrimp: practically dissolving in my mouth.

  “Thaouft’s goofd.” Mouth full, I could only grunt my appreciation.

  “Told you.” Valimma smiled, satisfied. She set aside some adobo and rice on a plate for me. “Simeona knows how to mix it.”

  * * *

  “Could you tell me about this ‘lost boy’? If you don’t mind?” I asked, lowering the tripod so I could scan their faces while they talked. “I’d like to get it on film.”

  The women looked at each other.

  Shirley raised her eyebrows at Valimma. “Why don’t you start, Maymoona? We don’t know what to say so as not to scare your granddaughter.”

  I grinned. “Auntie Li, I’m seventeen. I’ve seen a lot. Maybe more than you have, in terms of scariness.”

  All four women laughed simultaneously. I looked at the screen. Gr
eat scene! Spontaneous, natural, and, if the laugher was fully picked up by the mic, perfectly soundtracked.

  “Okay, if you’re not scared, if you’ve seen it all, then let Margaret tell you.” Shirley turned to the white woman. The other women did too. “She knows the story the most, because her granddaughter was involved.”

  I turned the camera until it centered on Margaret. The lighting was off and cast a gray pallor on her skin.

  After clamping it lower on an extra chair, I twisted up the desk lamp I’d rummaged from a box in Rashad’s bedroom. The light shone from below, to the left of Margaret, and lit the thin tendrils of her hair.

  It kind of had the effect of when someone used a flashlight to light their face from under their chin when telling a scary story at camp.

  I couldn’t decide if I should change the lighting again, but then Margaret put her spring roll down and cleared her throat.

  She stared right into the camera. After a pause, her mouth opened.

  “One year ago, a boy by the name of Barnaby Bennett, sixteen, went to watch a movie at the cinema here in the neighborhood.”

  Barnaby Bennett.

  The name was odd, old-fashioned, but rung a bell.

  Who and where?

  “He left home at seven p.m. The movie he wanted to see was playing at seven thirty.

  “Before the theater, he went to visit the food carts on Ginkgo Street. He bought a hot dog and fries.

  “Many witnesses say they saw him walk to the movie theater. The surveillance cameras say the same thing.

  “The ticket vendor that night was my granddaughter. She says she sold Barnaby a pass.

  “But Barnaby never came back home after the movie. He’s never been seen since.

  “Except that every once in a while, he shows up on one of the security cameras around the neighborhood.

  “The police closed the case soon after, because Barnaby was the age at which he is allowed to leave home if he wishes. And because he’d told his friends that he wanted to leave.

  “But some of us don’t think he left home.

  “Some of us think he’s still in Hungry Heart Row.

  “We think he just doesn’t want to be seen.”

  * * *

  “Boo!” Rashad had snuck up behind as I watched Margaret’s story again on my laptop the Sunday after Thursday Club. I paused shoveling in the rice and shrimp Valimma had saved for me.

  “You’re not funny. Unload the dishwasher. I need to load it before Dad gets home from the mosque.”

  “It’s Sunday. We get to do chores later on Sunday.”

  “That’s old-house rules.” Rewinding the video, I began the “lost boy” story again. “Dad doesn’t want Valimma to start doing extra stuff around here. Get to it.”

  “These tiles are the best for socks skating.” Rashad slid toward the dishwasher. “If I don’t put things in the right cupboards, it’s not my fault. It’s all new to me.”

  “I’ll just make you redo it.”

  Margaret’s story started again, filling the kitchen with her slightly raspy voice. “One year ago, a boy by the name of Barnaby Bennett, sixteen . . .”

  * * *

  Barnaby Bennett.

  That name. I knew where I’d seen it.

  It was on film footage I’d edited for the Daily Harvest meal service. A few months ago, they’d asked me to pore over all the video the film crew had captured and cut anything identifying people, and I’d removed a clip showing a short list of names on one of the desks.

  Barnaby Bennett was such an odd name on the list, it had so stood out. I’d said it out loud at the time, thinking of the people I greeted each day when I worked evening reception at Daily Harvest.

  Barnaby Bennett.

  I saw the list clearer in my mind now. It was of young people who’d stopped using the meal service all of a sudden, who’d been earmarked for follow-up by one of the social workers at Daily Harvest but who hadn’t been traced.

  How likely was it that a Barnaby Bennett would go missing from Hungry Heart Row and Daily Harvest?

  * * *

  I felt a sudden twist in my gut at remembering my old job.

  It was just empathy—the feeling, I told myself. Must be SO hard having to rely on a free meal service for food.

  But then there was this: Somewhere deep behind that gut twist there was homesickness, too.

  I missed my old life.

  Maybe I’d never get used to Hungry Heart Row.

  * * *

  “. . . Barnaby never came back home after the movie. He’s never been seen since. . . .”

  Rashad left the dishwasher’s top tray pulled out and slid to the kitchen island. “What is that? YouTube?”

  “No, listen to it. It’s about a Hungry Heart Row boy who didn’t do his chores and was never seen again.” I rewound the video for the third time.

  When it was done, Rashad let out a long breath. “Is it true? That he’s seen on surveillance films?”

  “That’s what Valimma’s Thursday Club says. I’m thinking of doing a film on it.”

  “On the missing boy? You’re going solve a mystery?” Rashad walked back to the dishwasher. “I thought you said the film is due in three weeks. There’s no way you can solve a missing person case in under a month.”

  “I’m not solving it. Just finding out information on it, like why some people think Barnaby’s on security tapes, stuff like that. An anatomy-of-a-local-legend film.” I took another spoonful of rice. “Also, it’s sad. I looked up Barnaby’s story online, and some reports make it out like his family didn’t really care about what happened to him. He had a hard home life, parents who didn’t care.”

  Rashad raised his eyebrows. “That’s weird. And, yeah, sad too.”

  “Yeah. Maybe if I do this film, it will get people interested again.”

  I watched the rest of the Thursday Club footage, wondering why something was bothering me about the “lost” Barnaby.

  I mean, besides the fact that it was a strange case altogether.

  * * *

  I met Delilah and Ranvir as they exited the crosstown bus at the corner of Nettle and Caraway.

  “Not too bad to get here. If you call an hour not too bad. The traffic, man!” Ranvir said, looking around at the bustling atmosphere he’d stepped into. There were people squeezing fruits at a produce stall, people walking their dogs, people listening to a busker playing guitar, people sitting on benches eating sticky, drippy things happily.

  “So when I’m down and need to see you guys, I’ll have to give myself an hour to reach happiness across town.” I led the way toward Margaret’s son’s hardware store, the first of my potential on-camera interviews.

  “No, according to Google, on traffic-less days, you can do it in thirty minutes.” Ranvir slid his headphones off, as if he wanted all of his senses to take in the sights and sounds of Hungry Heart Row. “Whoa, this place isn’t like Mulberry, that’s for sure. This popping on a Monday?”

  “It’s not that great. Just a lot of little shops.” I looked around, not impressed, remembering the neatness of the plazas near my old house.

  “So I did the dirty work and poked around with Gabrielle’s friend,” Delilah said, pulling out her phone to read a message. “GR’s doing something ‘meta,’ like a film about form, whatever that means.”

  “Great.” I closed my eyes. Of course.

  Of course Gabrielle Rose would think up something that fancy. She was always one beat, at least one beat, ahead of me. And had been for years, since we’d started entering film competitions in freshmen year—and come across each other. Our names always in the top ten spots, but hers always higher than mine.

  “A meta film,” Ranvir said. “I like.”

  “Meta, which old people, i.e., the judges, will also like.” I tried hard not to sound sullen.

  “I love what you’re doing, Hania! It’s going to win. People love legends,” Delilah announced. “The Legend of Hungry Heart Row’s Lost Boy.”r />
  “I’m not even sure that’s what I’m doing the film on. And I don’t know if we can call it a legend. It’s only a year old. Plus it’s sad. There’s someone missing.” I paused in front of Franklin’s Hardware. “Barnaby Bennett.”

  I pushed the door, and a bell jangled in response.

  The store was crammed full of things but empty of customers. And empty of a proprietor, it seemed, as the counter, immediately to the right of the entrance, was unmanned. A radio was on so low you couldn’t even make out the genre of music.

  Ranvir set his backpack down and unzipped it to pull out a portable lighting kit. I shook my head, so he packed it away.

  “He still hasn’t fully agreed to be filmed. I don’t want to scare him,” I whispered.

  Delilah nodded. “I’m going to shop hardware so it doesn’t look like we’re ganging up on the dude.”

  She went down an aisle stocked with boxes of screws and nails.

  I checked the time on my phone. I’ll be over at two p.m. so we can talk had been my e-mail.

  I’m always in the store so sounds fine to me, Franklin had responded.

  It was exactly 2:02 p.m.

  Sliding his headphones back on, Ranvir said, “Let me check the back of the store.”

  Alone at the counter, I took it all in. The cash register was facing the door, so whoever was manning it could see out into the store. Directly above the register was a small split-screen television. One side showed the inside of the store, and the other showed the area outside the front of the building, even the road and the sidewalk across the street.

  The door behind me burst open, the bell jangling wildly.

  A tall, thin man wearing a brown T-shirt tucked into belted jeans stood there, a coffee in one hand, a plastic bag in the other.

  “You Hania?” he asked in a deep voice. “Wanting to talk to me about my security camera?”

  I nodded. “Thanks for agreeing, sir.”

  “I went to grab some lunch. Got some cookies for you, too.” Franklin unlocked the swing door attached to the counter and let himself in. He set his coffee down and pulled out a sandwich and a white box stamped with PANADERÍA PASTELERÍA from the plastic bag. “Now I’m glad I got a lot of them Manzano cookies. It looks like you’ve got friends, huh?”