Nora & Kettle (14 page)

The circle widens. My eyes squint to see Kin, my feet pushed into the small holes of the fence losing their grip. I stretch my neck and look between the gaps in the bodies. I’m worried Kin really hurt Ernie. The last thing we need is to be labeled troublemakers and not be allowed back in. The men disperse slowly, and it takes me some time to find him. He’s lying on his arm, knees to his chest, blood covering his mouth and nose. He rolls over to his stomach and stays there, his face kind of pressed into the ground, just like Tiger Lily.

Ernie walks casually between the containers, shrugging his shoulders as he talks to one of the other workers, who slaps him on the back and congratulates him on winning.

I shake the fence and scream, “Kin! Get up!”

He doesn’t move.

***

I skid down the wire and go to the gate. The guard comes up to me, eyes indifferent. “Looks like a spot just opened up. You want in?” he asks, his eyes going to the other men, who have suddenly got more life in them and are hopping toward me like vultures.

I nod vigorously. “Will you let me check on my friend?” I ask.

The guard sighs. “You’ll do better than that. You need to carry him out of here. One for one.”

He unlocks the padlock and lets me inside. I squeeze through the tiny gap and sprint toward Kin, whose chest is rising and falling to my relief.

When I pull up to his knocked-around body, I’m surprised how angry I am with him. My foot is fighting against the urge to kick him in the ribs.

I kneel down and roll him over so I can see his face. “What the hell, Kin? What’s wrong with you? Why would you do that?” I say angrily.

He squints up at me, blood covering one eye. “She’s dead… isn’t she?” he asks with hope in his voice.

“She’s gone,” I answer, my eyes briefly moving over the animal that’s lying against the red container.

He pulls himself up with effort, grimacing when he has to bend his back to get to sitting. “Stupid cat,” he says. If he’s crying, I wouldn’t be able to tell, his whole face is plastered with blood and dirt. I help him to his feet. He only glances Tiger Lily’s way once, but I can tell it’s painful for him. He shudders as we walk-stumble toward the gate.

Kin’s weight is difficult to carry on my own, and he’s hardly helping me. One leg seems to be dragging woodenly behind him. “Are you all right?” I whisper into his ear, talking through my teeth.

“Fine,” he huffs. “Just sore. Shouldn’t have let him win.”

I roll my eyes.

The guard gives us a sympathetic look when we reach him. “Look, boys, I’m sorry that happened but you know, with the way you look, particularly, this one,” he points at Kin, “well, you can understand why they’d want to punch you.”

Kin’s chin juts out as he says, “I’m a Nisei. I was born here. My parents were born here. I’m an American citizen. Same as you.”

The guard turns to me like Kin didn’t even speak or maybe he’s expecting a similar declaration from me. He won’t get one. I’m not a Nisei. I don’t know what I am. I suspect I am nothing.

The guard’s brown eyes are wide, his dark skin is not from too much time in the sun, but he is different to us. “You staying on, kid? I’ll see you get a full day’s pay. You can collect your friend’s wages for the work he did this morning.” This is the guard’s concession. He’s giving us more than most.

I grip the gate with one hand, trying to support Kin’s leaning weight. “Err, I dunno,” I say, looking to Kin for answers.

“Go,” Kin says. “We need the money.”

“You sure?” I ask, very unsure myself.

Kin straightens poorly. “I’ll be fine. Just put me on that rock over there and I’ll wait for you. It’s only a few more hours.”

The need for money presses down, and I let Kin assure me. I force myself to believe him. “Okay.” I nod.

I drag him to a rock and lean him against it and the guard lets me back into the yard, despite the other men elbowing me out of the way. “Don’t go anywhere,” I warn through the fence.

Kin laughs, holding his hands up. “Where am I going to go?”

I leave him, leaning against a sand-colored, sharp-angled rock. He gives me a twisted smile through bruised lips.

He’ll be fine
, I tell myself.

26. MEN

KETTLE

It’s difficult, but I manage to avoid the men when I return to the workstation. I keep my head down and do what is asked of me. They knock shoulders at the table, ticking their boxes and accepting their next tasks. If they brag, I close my ears to it. Nothing can be gained by starting another fight. I’m not proud like Kin. I’ve learned through the bars of a cot to the bars of a prison that pride gets you killed.

I swing down from my next container and land steadily on my feet. The five-minute break bell rings and cigarette smoke instantly blooms from the open shed where everyone tends to gather. I make sure no one’s watching and sneak back to the front of the yard.

In the shadow of a red container, Tiger Lily lies flat and bony. Her eyes are closed at least. I let out a deep sigh, glancing over to where Kin sits with his arms folded, chin on chest. He doesn’t look up when I quickly creep up to her, scoop the feathery body up, and slink through the shadows to the skeleton of the warship that never got built.

The water laps at sludgy gray sand as I tiptoe across the ribs of a rotted jetty with Tiger Lily hanging limp from one hand. I try not to be disgusted by her body. She still feels warm but is most definitely dead. There is no beat inside her chest. I jump from the jetty onto the small beach and lay her down beside me, digging a shallow grave with my hands. I know it’ll get washed away, but it’s the best I can do.

I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything. Placing her gently in the hole, I cover her with lumps of wet sand until she’s hidden. I don’t cry. I don’t really do that anymore. I don’t have the attachment Kin had to her. In all honesty, I found her to be an annoying inconvenience and thought Kin wasted his food on her. But I am sorry this happened. I shake my head as I stand, the water smoothing over her grave like it was never there. No one or thing deserves to die like that. The kind of cruelty Ernie showed today scares me, reminds me and warns me not to forget what men are capable of. And not even bad men. Just ordinary men.

The bell sounds again and I run back to the dock to finish my shift.

***

I wipe the sweat from my brow with the last clean thing I own, a small, square handkerchief. Looking down at the grease-smudged rag, I ache for a clean one. I need to go home. The men around me are similarly sledgehammered, dragging their feet over the hot asphalt, wheezing and coughing.

I pat the cash in my pocket. It was worth it to finish out the day. Shoulder to shoulder, we all drag our sorry bodies to the entrance, the dark clouds overhead keeping the heat in like a plastic bag has been shoved over the city, but it also promises a summer storm. Looking up at the blackened buildings, I think the whole damn city could use a rinse.

The gate opens, and we pour through. Most men continue up the road to the subway. I hold my breath as Ernie and his friends walk through. He sniffs and rubs his nose as he passes Kin but doesn’t try anything. When everyone’s cleared out, I crouch down to my sleeping friend and nudge him awake. He doesn’t react and I shake his arm, his head bobbing around stiffly. He snorts and suddenly, his eyes open. “Shit! You scared me,” he shouts, hands going to his face.

I let out my anxiousness with a weird laugh. “Geez. You scared me too.” I offer my shoulder and help him to stand. He grips into my skin quite strongly and heaves himself up, leaning into me with almost all his weight. I grunt with exertion.

“Sorry man, my leg’s gone to sleep or something.” He jerks the offending leg around, jiggling it to wake it up. After a few stretches, he places his weight on both feet and manages to stand. We walk toward the station slowly, dark clouds pulling together over our heads.

By the time we get to the subway stairs, fat blobs of rain have started to plop on the sidewalk. Kin leans against the handrail for a moment, letting the rain cool and cleanse his red face.

“Pool’s lucky manhole,” he says in a confused tone.

I freeze next to him. “What?” My hand curls around the handrail and squeezes until my knuckles turn yellow.

He shakes his head slowly, and his eyes roll around lazily. “Pool’s… I mean… rain’s, rain’s refreshing.” He smiles unconvincingly and then frowns.

I pat his back. “Are you okay? That was pretty weird, Kin.” My voice is shaky, and I’m not doing a very good job of hiding my fear.

His eyes clear, and he grins. “I think I’m just tired, Kettle. Stop worrying.” But there’s something in his expression that tells me he’s worried too. “Let’s just get home.”

I offer him my shoulder again but he waves me off, determined to prove he’s fine as he limps down the stairs. He grunts and groans at every step until he gets down to the platform. Thankfully, a train pulls up straight away and we’re able to walk right on.

Kin finds a seat and collapses into it, sighing loudly. I sit next him, clasp my hands together, and fumble with my fingers nervously. The air is humid, electric, like it knows something’s up.

***

It’s past seven by the time we pull up to our stop. Kin snores next to me. The only other person in the car has moved further and further away from us as Kin’s behavior became weirder. He has shouted out, “fishing pole,” “razor,” and “cheese doodles,” so far.

I rattle him when the car stops. He wakes drowsily, glances at me, and wobbles in his seat. “C’mon Kin, we have to get up or we’ll miss our stop.”

He pushes himself out of his seat, lurches toward the door, and nearly falls onto the platform. I catch his arm, and we both stumble out the doors as they try to close on us.

I drag him from the platform, each step heavier as we rise up and then back down toward
our
tunnel. People stare. He shouts, “Cave, land ho!” really loudly. The stares change to morbid fascination, and people part like the holy sea as we struggle down the last incline. It proves to be too difficult. I can’t support him any longer as he has become heavier and heavier in my arms. We skid and tumble down. Kin’s motion forces us both to one side of the tunnel where he juts his arms out, touches the stones, and then drags down to the floor. I crash down with him, quickly pulling myself up to kneeling. Kin curls into a ball on his side. He looks up at me and says, “I’m coming to dinner in five minutes.” And then his eyes roll back, his face goes slack, and he’s unconscious.

“Kin,” I whisper, shaking his shoulder really gently because it feels like his head’s not attached to them right. “Kin. Kin. Kin.”

I run a frustrated hand through my hair and look around for help. A crowd has gathered, but their backs are to me and they’re circling around something else.

Kin is breathing, but there’s something wrong, I just know there’s something seriously wrong. “Help me!” I say hoarsely. When no one turns, I shout, “I need help over here!”

Muttered concern, a woman gasping, a comforting hand goes to someone’s shoulder. Sounds and actions that are aimed somewhere else, about someone else. Kin and I lie in the shadows as footsteps thunder down the tunnel and a stretcher carried by two paramedics, flanked by another two policemen, enters the scene.

I lift Kin’s head into my lap, a thin trail of blood dripping from one of his nostrils. “I need help!” I scream. “Please!” I beg. But no one is listening. Someone more important is hurting on the other side of that wall of people. We are the street kids, Kings of Nothing, Nowhereland. If we died right here in the subway, no one would notice.

27. THE WAVE

NORA

Frankie gives me a distrustful look when I say it. So I say it again, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, “We’re going on a trip!” I say, straightening my neck and opening my eyes wide, which makes my head hurt worse. There are two doubtful-looking Frankie’s dancing in front of me at the moment, and I’m scared I’m going to vomit again.

The toast in front of me shines with a slick of sickening butter. I pick it up and nibble on the corner, the fat making my saliva glands force a bloody taste into my mouth. I clutch my stomach and threaten it to calm.

Frankie places her delicate hand on my arm and says, “Don’t need ta lie to me. I’m eight years old now.” She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her chin up to the ceiling. The love I have for this girl wraps around me like a bandage. “I’ll run away weth you.”

I grasp her neck and pull her to me. She squeezes my middle, and I gasp in pain. “Not so tight, Frankie.”

She releases me suddenly. “I’m sawry, Nora. It’s my fault Deddy got mad.”

Her pink lip quivers a little and her tangled, red hair falls in her eyes as she looks at the floor in shame. I place my finger under her chin and make her look at me. “Daddy may have had a right to be cross at you for wearing Mommy’s clothes without asking, but the way he shows his anger is never,
ever
okay. Do you understand, Frankie? He did something wrong, not you.”

She nods, but I suspect she doesn’t believe me. “He wasn’t all—ways like dis. Deddy changed.”

I try to think of a time in Frankie’s life when he wasn’t like this. But I can’t. And if I start looking for answers, picking things apart, I’m scared about where it ends, where the finger points the blame. So I agree with her and run a hand through her hair, getting stuck halfway because it’s crusted with her breakfast.

“Frankie, can you go pack a small bag? Just clothes, socks, and underwear.” She screws up her nose at the mention of underwear, which makes me let out a labored chuckle. “Get your hearing aid and its special bag. I’ll get the spare batteries from downstairs.”

Frankie grins and bounces around on the rug. Her sudden, jerky movements make me nauseous again, and I clutch my stomach. As she’s leaving to pack, I grab her arm and pull her back to me so she can hear me. It sends a wave of pain through my body, followed by hatred, hot and acidic.

“Get your hearing aid and its special bag. I’ll… I’ll…”

She shakes out of my grip and crosses her arms. “You’ll get the batteries. You alreddy said that, Nora.”

I close my eyes for a few seconds and open them again. The room shifts, and I find I can focus. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I swallow. “I did? Oh right. Sorry.”

She lingers in the doorway, looking at me like my mother used to when I didn’t eat enough. “You need a docter,” she says sternly.

I can’t argue with her. She is as stubborn as me, so I lie. “You’re right. I’ll go see the doctor after we find a place to stay.” This seems to satisfy her and she skips off to pack. I sigh when I think about the bag she’ll pack. It will probably contain stuffed toys, hair clips, and no underwear.

I ease myself from the bed and quickly pack the rest of my things. Everything seems to take much longer than I want it to. I have to think really hard about even the smallest movements. It’s frustrating and slows me down.

Marie is busy cleaning downstairs. I hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner in the front room, the noise conveniently covering what we’re doing. It’s after eleven by the time I’ve managed to dress, wash, and pack. Clipping my belt, I stand on the round rug at the foot of my bed, the swirling circles dragging down through the floor like a porthole.
It’s time to go
. I drag the bag into the hall and move toward my mother’s bedroom, stalling a little when I reach the door.

Frankie slams into my back as I take the handle in my broken fingers. “Don’t go in there,” she warns, pulling my waist, and the way I feel right now, she could probably overpower me. The hearing aid is in one of her hands. “You’ll get in trouble again.”

I turn around and carefully fit it to her ear, tucking the other part in her sash. “It’s okay, Frankie. I won’t get in trouble because I won’t be here when Daddy gets back.” I push open the door and walk inside.

My whole body shudders when I see the blood spray over the pretty lace bedspread. The room stinks of the vomit I refused to clean up. I don’t dawdle. I rifle through her drawers and pull out the things of most value—watches, pearls, and rings. I stuff them in the bag and move too fast out the room, swaying when I reach the balustrade.

Frankie follows me, patting my back gently as I hang over the rail, staring down at the black-and-white tiles that seem to swirl like a whirlpool beneath me. I take a deep breath to calm myself. It doesn’t really work. I’m too angry, too hurt. I don’t think about what I’m doing. I don’t want to. I just need to get out of here.

Marie calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “Lunch is ready.”

Frankie gives me a look, searching for what to do, and I nod. Might as well have one last meal before we leave.

We carefully tread down the stairs. Each decline sends splitting pain through my neck and head. I ignore it.

I should feel fear, shouldn’t I? I should be worried about what I’m going to do, how I will manage, but all I can think about is being free of this place.

Frankie tears down the stairs, so fast they barely have time to creak, and waits for me at the bottom. I wave her off. “Just go in, I’ll be there in a minute.” I reach the bottom and try to pull myself together. This is harder than I would like. My body feels like it’s been run over by a tank and my head is fighting with me. I stare down at the tiles, the pattern seeming to jump up in my face and then fall down flat, over and over again. I hold the stair rail and count to three.

One, two, three.
Don’t think about what’s next, just put one foot in front of the other and move.

Frankie pokes her head out the kitchen doorway and says, “Hurry up, Nora Snora.”

I walk straight through where Mother landed, without looking down. I feel cold air skewer my chest through, but then it’s over. I collapse at the hallstand, holding onto it like it’s a life raft, and pull out the drawer full of batteries. Picking them up in slippery fingers, I shove them in the bag and kick it under the hallstand. Then I titter to the kitchen, feeling puppet-like and full of determination.

***

Marie sets a plate before me at the kitchen table, avoiding my eyes. It’s a look I’ve seen before. It’s the look in the policeman’s eyes, the doctor’s eyes. It’s the ‘I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you’ look. I try to catch her gaze. She should look. She should take in every bruise and scratch and admit to herself that it’s not ‘I can’t,’ it’s ‘I won’t,’ and there’s a difference.

She turns her back to me and starts cleaning the bench tops with extra vigor. “Marie, what are your plans today?” I ask, poking the food with a fork. Gravy glistens with grease under the dull kitchen light, the muggy day adding no light from the window.

“I’ve got to go to the market today. Do you need anything?” she asks, spinning around and wiping crumbs from around Frankie’s plate as quickly as she’s dropping them.

I try to swallow a piece of roast beef. It sticks in my throat, and I grab the glass of orange juice in front of me. Marie’s shape stretches in my vision, her big eyes blinking as big as headlights as she waits for me to answer.

“Um sure. Can you pick up some shampoo, a pair of black stockings, and some, some, some…?” I hold out my palm like the answer is hidden in there. The word I’m trying to find doesn’t want to come. It’s like pulling an anchor from a muddy swamp. I tap the side of my glass, the liquid vibrating from my touch. “Some…”

Marie does make eye contact, her large chest heaving up and down at the sight of my battered face. “Some more orange juice?”

I nod slowly. The words seem alien to me. I scrunch my eyes together and wait for the wave of nausea and confusion to subside. “Yes. Orange juice,” I say slowly.

Marie moves to the counter just as Frankie jumps down from it, putting her rough hand over mine. “Miss, are you all right?”

My eyes snap open, anger pushing at me. “What do you care?” I spit. “Don’t you dare pretend that you care about us now!” Marie quickly withdraws her hand, and I feel bad for a moment.

Frankie stomps her foot and copies my actions, though it’s unconvincing. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, Miss Nora,” she says, righting herself. She continues to clean as we eat. When she leaves, she announces, “I’m leaving for the market at five o’clock. I won’t be back until six. If there’s anything else you need, please let me know, Miss.”

I don’t respond. I don’t have the energy.

My fork clatters to my plate as I rest my head in my hands, little splatters of gravy decorating my face.