A Tinfoil Sky (5 page)

Mel glanced nervously at Rose and then back to the street. She continued to sing, pushing the words of her song farther into the traffic. A woman walked by and threw three quarters and a couple of dimes onto the scarf.

“Thanks!” Mel said, taking a brief break from her song. Then she dared to look in Rose’s direction.

“Standing out here isn’t going to get you anything but trouble,” Rose said. Her voice was softer now, deep.

Mel wanted to tell Rose right then and there that Cecily hadn’t come home. But an almost instinctual warning sounded within her.
Don’t do that
. It was Cecily’s
rule about not saying anything to anybody; Mel was to keep quiet and not share any information about herself or Cecily, about where they were living, what she had or didn’t have for breakfast, or why she often arrived at school in clothes that were too small or miles too big. “Involve people, and before you know it, you’ll be in foster care.” That’s what Cecily had said, and Mel knew from experience that sharing too much could cause a lot of trouble.

“Now, I’m inclined to mind my own business,” Rose said, “but I’m starting to worry that you are on your own.”

“My mom’s at work,” Mel answered, looking down at her feet. She knew Rose wasn’t the kind of woman you could look at and lie to.

“Well, then I guess it would be okay for you to come on back to the kitchen,” Rose said, “until your mom’s finished working.”

“But the kitchen is closed.”

“I bake on Saturdays.”

“Actually, I can’t. I need to go back home. I’m meeting my mom for lunch.”

“Can I give you a lift?” Rose asked.

“No. Thanks. It’s not far,” Mel said, glancing in the distance as if looking for her house in the myriad of buildings. “It’s just over there a few blocks.”

“Well, I’ll be at the kitchen most of the day,” Rose said. “Just knock on the back door and I’ll let you in.”

Mel nodded.

“I’ll give you one of my fresh cinnamon buns,” Rose said.

“Okay,” Mel said. “I will.”

“And I’ll bet Fearless will be stopping by also,” Rose added, giving yet another reason to come by.

Mel watched as Rose hiked back across the road, climbed into her van, and drove away. Everything about the way Rose spoke said one thing: she knew something was up.

Mel walked back to the overpass. Still no sign of Cecily. She crawled up into the small cave-like space where she’d spent the night before, and she stuffed a couple of dry shirts into a T-shirt, fashioning a pillow, and then wrapped herself up in the blanket. Her stomach wanted a cinnamon bun, but her body wanted sleep. It was easier to sleep in the day – especially in her little spot, her back tight against the wall, head resting on the makeshift pillow. She was warm.

It was almost dark when the strangers showed up. Their voices echoed through the pillars and woke Mel from her sleep.

“Well,” one of the voices said, shining a light in Mel’s general direction, “this must be the place, but I don’t see a Pinto wagon and I don’t see any sign of a kid.”

“If she was here earlier, she’s gone now,” another voice said.

Then a familiar voice spoke. “Mel, it’s Rose. Are you out there?”

Mel stole a peek at them from her spot. She could have tucked her head back in after she spotted Rose, but she didn’t.

“My living, loving God, girl,” Rose said as she caught sight of Mel and walked toward her. The other two followed.

Mel looked at the strangers. One was definitely a police officer. He reached out his hand; Mel kept hers
tucked in her blanket.

“I’m Constable Hill and this is Ms. Jeffery,” he said, gesturing to the woman who stood beside him. “She’s a social worker, and I gather you know Rose.”

Mel nodded.

“You’ll need to come with us, Miss Tulley,” said the officer.

“I can’t. I’m waiting for my mom.”

“Mel,” Rose said, “your mom’s in jail. She was picked up last night. She’d been drinking, and – I don’t know – they’re saying something happened with a store clerk. She may have been caught shoplifting.”

As the words found their place in the cool night air, Mel accepted that she’d known this truth all along, but that she had tried to keep from thinking about it.

“These people are going to take you to your grandmother’s.”

Mel didn’t respond. Instead, she pushed down all the sadness rising inside her.

Rose lifted her hands, palms up, and scanned the emptiness under the overpass. “You can’t stay here, child,” she said.

“This whole thing is Gladys’s fault – she wouldn’t open the door.”

“Come on down,” Rose said as she reached up toward Mel.

Mel shifted her body and hung her feet over the ledge. Getting down was much easier than getting up.

Rose tucked her hands under Mel’s arms, lifting and then lowering her. Mel felt small, but she also felt safe, and it was such a welcome feeling – like that first gasp for air when you’ve been holding your breath for too long underwater. As Rose brought Mel to the ground, she continued to hold onto her, cocooning Mel in her thick arms.

“Here now,” she whispered as she held Mel tight, “everything is going to be all right.” Mel gave a deep sigh. And then she let each breath that followed carry away all the worry and fear and sadness that had been threatening to spill out of her for days, maybe even years. It wasn’t the kind of cry you could stop and then start; it was a cry that came from a place so deep inside that for years, when Mel would look back at this moment, she would know that it changed something inside of her forever.

“Your mom called the mission, and they called Rose,” the officer said. “And we’ve already spoken with your grandmother; she’s expecting you.”

Mel nodded, her head pressed against Rose’s chest, and continued crying.

Constable Hill, Ms. Jeffery, and Rose helped Mel gather her things up and put them in the back of the
police car. The backseat was quiet; the thick glass that separated the front from the back dulled the sounds of the engine and the conversation up front. Rose pulled Mel close, and Mel offered no resistance. Her sobbing eased and she found herself listening to the sounds of their collective breathing and the quiet hum of the tires on the road. It seemed like only minutes before the car pulled up to Gladys’s.

Rose stayed in the car. Mel would have liked to stay with her.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Rose whispered as Mel started to get out of the car. She set her hand on Mel’s. “And I hope you’ll come by the kitchen on occasion. I know Fearless will be waiting for a visit.”

“I will,” Mel answered as she stood up.

Ms. Jeffery handed Mel a backpack from the trunk of the car. “Here you go,” she said.

Mel looked up at her, curious about the backpack and why it was being given to her.

“There’s a toothbrush, some toothpaste, shampoo, a couple of granola bars, and a few other things you might need in there. It’s yours to keep,” Ms. Jeffery said.

As Constable Hill, Ms. Jeffery, and Mel entered the building, Mel looked up the staircase.

This time, there was no expectation. Mel knew she would call her “Gladys.”

They climbed the twenty-four stairs and then walked the sixteen steps to Gladys’s apartment. When Constable Hill knocked, Gladys opened the door. The apartment was dark and plain.

The front door led directly into the living room. A small off-centered archway led to the kitchen. On one side of the arch there was a polished wooden end table and a lamp, and next to that a brown couch with two circular pillows. The couch was pushed up against the window ledge, which caused the floor-length curtains to bunch up. Here and there were small stacks of dust-covered boxes that had been taped shut. The place looked as though Gladys had been planning to move, and then never did.

Across from the couch there was a bookshelf. What Mel noticed immediately was that there were no books on it – not a single one. Rather, there were rows of mismatched recycled boxes that were sealed shut with black tape. Mel could see dates scrawled onto the boxes in black or red felt marker. It was difficult to read any of them in the low light. There was no art on the wall – only what appeared to be either light green or gray wallpaper with a faint pattern. Mel glanced down at her armload of damp
clothes and then remembered that her blanket was still under the overpass, but said nothing.

“Perhaps,” Ms. Jeffery said, scanning the dark living room, “we could sit at the kitchen table.”

Gladys walked into the kitchen, repositioned her chair so that it no longer faced the TV, and sat down. Constable Hill, Ms. Jeffery, and Mel followed. Gladys then got up, went back into the living room, and came back with a foldout chair.

“First time in nine years she bothers to come by,” Gladys said as though defending her position.

Ms. Jeffery and Constable Hill nodded as Gladys spoke, but neither of them interrupted.

“Tux, my husband … her grandfather,” Gladys said, tossing a glance in Mel’s direction, “looked night and day. Cecily didn’t have the decency to say where she was going; she just got up and left. And after all we’d done for her. And I can see, by what’s gone on with Cecily in the past few days, that she hasn’t learned a thing in the nine years she’s been gone.” This last statement Gladys spoke slowly, as though what she was saying was surely proving a point.

Mel wanted to defend Cecily. She wanted to say, “We were starting over; we were coming home – but you wouldn’t open the door.” But the words hid inside her.
She knew better than to say anything: it was obvious that Cecily was already in enough trouble.

Mel asked to use the bathroom, not because she needed to but because she wanted to get up from the table. Gladys motioned her head in the direction of the bathroom door. Mel stood and then set her clothes on her chair. It was uncomfortable being with the three adults all tiptoeing around whatever it was they needed to talk about.

When Mel opened the bathroom door, one thing was clear. Cecily was right: the bathroom was the nicest part of the apartment. The floors and walls were tiled with small white tiles. Just inside the door, a large, square, white porcelain sink sat on a rectangular pedestal. Beside it, a towel was neatly folded over a glass rod. Above the sink, clipped to the wall with silver clasps, hung a tall mirror, and Mel let her fingers run along the scalloped edges. Her eyes moved from the mirror to an ornate black radiator that was tucked into the corner, but it was nothing in comparison to the stand-alone cast iron bathtub that sat kitty-corner to it. The claw feet, which looked like bird talons grasping spheres, were definitely the most unique part of the tub. The bathtub’s only flaw was a dripping faucet that left an orangey stain all the way from the tap to the drain. It had been more than a week, Mel realized, since she’d had a shower or bath.

As she turned toward the door, Mel noticed four thin lines on the lower half of the door frame; they appeared to be nothing more than little scratches in the white paint. She looked closer. They were actually words.
Melody 12 months
. She let her fingertips slide up the frame –
18 months
, then
24 months
, and then to a last mark,
36 months
. Her first, second, and third birthdays. She had stood here to be measured. Mel let her fingers run up the door frame, stopping at just above eye level. Without any thought, she turned, pressed her back to the frame, rested her palm on the top of her head, and then turned back to face her fingertips, which marked her height today – and the distance between then and now. She turned back, facing out from the frame to the room, to the tub, to the tiles. Nothing jarred her memory.

As she opened the door from the bathroom to the kitchen, all three adults looked in her direction. She couldn’t help but feel guilty for having let herself explore the bathroom.

Ms. Jeffery and Constable Hill got up to leave. They each shook Gladys’s hand and said good-bye to Mel. Ms. Jeffery mentioned that she would pick them up in the morning, to take them to court.

Gladys followed Ms. Jeffery and Constable Hill back into the living room. After they left, she locked the door.
Mel sat back down at the table, returning the small pile of clothes to her lap.
Maybe
, she thought,
Gladys would want to talk
.

Gladys walked back into the kitchen, shuffled past the table, and went into her room. Then she returned with a folded crocheted blanket. “You can use one of the pillows on the couch and this,” she said as she handed Mel the blanket.

Gladys didn’t say “Good night,” or “Have a nice sleep,” or that she was glad Mel was here. Rather, she lifted her chair and returned it to its place in front of the television. As Gladys reached to turn the television on, Mel stood up, walked to the living room, and placed her clothes on the floor. She then cautiously sat down on the couch, in some ways not completely certain that she could trust it to support her. After turning out the lamp, Mel covered herself up with the blanket, and let her head fall to the pillow.
Cecily hadn’t just gone off. She’d sent Rose to find her. And if what Rose said was true, everything was going to be okay. She and Cecily would be together again soon
. Mel let her eyes close and she slept.

The large oak trees outside the courthouse windows cut the sun into a million little pieces. Each, Mel noticed, fell through the tall stained glass windows, landing like snowflakes on the tables, benches, and the polished plank floor. As her fingers followed the grain of the smooth wooden bench in front of her, Mel’s eyes surveyed the other occupants of the courtroom. Other than Cecily, who was with her lawyer, Gladys, Constable Hill, Ms. Jeffery, and Rose, Mel didn’t know any of the other ten to fifteen people in the courthouse. She mentally added the scene to her list of beautiful places. In fact, the room was so beautiful that, for a moment, Mel let herself forget why she was there. And without meaning to, she tuned out the judge’s opening words.

“But, Your Honor,” Cecily’s lawyer said, “in fairness to the child, my client’s daughter has never been before the court, and she may not be comfortable speaking to you directly.”