Peach (26 page)

“Where are you heading? Perhaps I can give you a lift?”

The car was a white Chrysler with chrome trim that gleamed under the streetlights. Noel saw that the upholstery was black leather. It was beautiful. “I’m trying to get to the Chrysler plant,” he said moving towards the car.

The man whistled, “Well, you’re sure out of your way.”

Noel stood on the sidewalk beside the car, leaning forward a little as he spoke. The harsh orange-yellow streetlight lit his bony face, carving shadows beneath his cheeks, outlining his wide frost-bitten mouth and strong nose. His shadowy grey eyes burned with a gamut of emotions—fear, uncertainty, admiration—as he ran a rough-skinned hand along the car’s gleaming paintwork.

“Get in!”

Noel ran around the car as the light changed and jumped in, slamming the door shut as the man pulled away from the light. Noel examined his saviour. He was a tall man, grey-haired, confident. He looked sort of
distinguished
—like those ads about executives in magazines. Running a bit to
fat though, thought Noel, tightening his stomach muscles instinctively, though there was not an ounce of excess flesh on him.

“What’s your name?” The man’s light blue eyes took in the stained dungarees, the thin windcheater, the cheap woollen scarf knotted at his throat.

“Noel.”

“Noel what?”

Noel hesitated and the man smiled. “Okay,” he said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m Scott Harrison. Nice to meet you, Noel.”

Noel was silent because he didn’t know what to say.

“Been on the road long?”

The question came out of the blue. “A couple of weeks,” Noel mumbled. The luxurious car stopped at another red light, engine purring softly, and Scott flicked on the radio. “Seven o’clock news,” he explained.

Noel leaned back against the cushions, running a surreptitious hand across the smooth texture of the seat, breathing the luxurious smell of good leather and the light, citrusy fragrance of Scott’s cologne. Noel blushed, suddenly aware of how dirty he was. He must look terrible.

The car surged away from the light and Scott turned down the volume of the radio. “Nothing dramatic,” he said, “cars are still being produced in Detroit—that’s all that matters around here.” The news finished and was replaced by the soft sounds of a Mozart quartet. With a sigh of pleasure Scott relaxed. “That’s better,” he said, turning the big car on to a freeway. They passed a vast illuminated sign announcing the number of cars produced that year, changing every minute as more and more cars rolled off the production lines.

Noel gasped. “Is that for real?”

Scott laughed. “It sure is. This is Motor City, Noel. This
is the ‘Big Time’!” He glanced sideways at his young companion. “Are you hoping for a job at Chrysler?”

“Yeah. I’ve tried General Motors two days running and it’s no good. I can’t hang around there any longer—I’ve got to get a job.”

Scott looked thoughtful. “You hungry?” he asked finally.

“Kinda,” said Noel uncomfortably.

Scott pulled the big car off the freeway, heading for the drive-in hamburger stand whose bright yellow neon sign lit the night sky. “Double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake,” he said rolling down the window for the waitress.

Noel could feel saliva filling his mouth just smelling the hamburger. The ice cold shake hit his stomach with a jolt and he took a bite of the burger hastily.

He finished it in a couple of minutes and Scott told the waitress to bring another. The boy had a strange face, haunted-looking, but powerful. He was thin and undernourished but he stood and walked like an athlete. Scott wondered where he’d run away from—but he wasn’t going to get into
that!
“How old are you, Noel?” He lit a cigarette, waiting while Noel finished chewing.

“Sixteen,” lied Noel without hesitation. He’d practised it often enough.

Scott blew cigarette smoke through his nose, leaning back against the leather seat. “I know someone in Personnel at Chrysler,” he said. “If you like I could give him a ring, put in a good word for you.”

Noel stopped in mid-bite. “
You
can do that?” he asked awed.

“Sure,” Scott glanced at him speculatively, “but you’d better clean up your appearance before you go there.”

Noel felt his heart sink. Putting the rest of his hamburger back in the container he stared out of the car window across the street. Gaily coloured pennants decorating the used car
lot blew in the wind and the cars gleamed under the overhead lights, their prices displayed in bold letters on the windshields—sums that Noel could never imagine earning.

“It’s all right,” said Scott gently, “I can see the situation. Look kid, I have a flat here in town—I use it when I have to stay late. My wife and family are out in the country but sometimes it’s difficult for me to get home. How about if you come on back with me? You can take a shower, get yourself cleaned up a little—get some rest. I’ll get you to Chrysler in the morning.”

Noel looked doubtful.

“Finish the hamburger,” Scott said, starting the car. “Let’s get home. We’ll have a drink and talk about your job.”

The apartment was in a tall discreet grey building and there were offices on the lower levels. The lobby was empty and stark with grey carpets and dark grey metal elevators. They stopped at the fifteenth floor and Noel followed Scott down a grey-carpeted corridor, waiting while he fitted the key into the lock of the heavy wood-panelled door. “Come on in,” Scott called over his shoulder, flinging his coat on to a chair in the hall and dropping his leather briefcase next to it. “What’ll it be, Noel, drink first or a shower?”

Noel had never had a drink in his life, so he decided it had better be the shower.

The bathroom was compact but luxurious and locking the door carefully behind him, Noel cast off his clothes and stepped under the comforting spray of pure heat. He let it drip onto his spine, thawing his raw nerves, and then his belly, glorious, relaxing heat, penetrating his being. Noel
never
wanted to be cold again. Lathering his body, he scrubbed the grime of two weeks on the road from his skin, his nails, his hair. Satisfied that he was clean, he stepped
from the shower and dried himself with a huge white towel, marvelling at its size and softness.

“Hey Noel,” Scott’s voice came from outside the door, “there’s a robe behind the door there. Why don’t you put it on for now and we’ll see what we can do about your clothes?”

Noel wrapped the grey and black striped robe around him. The material felt light and yet warm and very soft. A label on the inside read “100% pure cashmere”. What, he wondered, was “cashmere”? Whatever it was, he liked it. Smiling, he emerged from the bathroom, leaving his grimy clothes in a heap on the floor.

Scott’s blue eyes assessed him quickly. “What’ll you have, Noel?” He gestured to the table and an array of bottles. “Scotch, bourbon? Or are you a Martini man, like me?”

The drink in Scott’s hand was colourless and not too big and Noel decided a drink that size would be easiest.

He sat on a white sofa with a glass in his hand looking out at the lights of Detroit, a different Detroit from the one he’d seen the night before, huddled in a stinking doorway and pacing its streets trying to keep his blood circulating. He sipped the drink, coughing. It was aromatic, sharper than he’d expected. Noel coughed again to disguise the first one.

Scott prowled the room, drink in hand, smoking. “You look like an athlete, Noel, you’ve got a good pair of shoulders there. Too light though for football. What was it? Track? Baseball?”

“Boxing.” Noel’s eyes lit with a spark of enthusiasm. “I won a trophy—once.”

“Really? Where was that. At school?” Scott’s eyes were hooded, but his question was sharp.

“Yeah, just before I left. A year ago,” lied Noel. He took a mouthful of Martini. It tasted better now.

Scott sat beside him on the sofa, sizing him up. The kid
was wiry, his thinness had concealed a strength that was apparent now under the light robe. And he had such an
interesting
face—despite the fine bones there was a brutal quality to it that was intriguing in one so young. Was he sixteen? Scott shrugged away the question—maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.

Noel’s head had begun to ache and his eyes burned. Despite the shower and the warm apartment he felt chilled.

“Are you all right?” asked Scott sharply. The colour drained from Noel’s face and the glass dropped from his hand spilling its contents across the thick grey rug.

“I don’t know,” Noel said, “I don’t know what’s the matter. I guess I’m just tired, I haven’t slept in three nights.”

“Then you’d better get some sleep,” said Scott levelly. “The bedroom’s over there, can you make it?” He caught the hesitation in Noel’s eyes. “I’ll sleep out here,” he added quickly, “I often do when friends stay over. Go on, get yourself a good night’s sleep, we’ll talk about your job some more in the morning.”

He helped Noel across the room, supporting him easily, waiting until he rolled on to the bed and closed his eyes. Clicking off the light, Scott walked back to the drinks table and fixed himself another Martini. Noel’s glass lay on the carpet and he picked it up and put it on the tray.

Noel woke to a room filled with light. He could smell coffee and hear a radio faintly. Still wrapped in the cashmere robe he walked through the living room to a minuscule kitchen. Scott was drinking juice and watching the coffee perk. “Hi,” said Noel.

“Feeling better?” Scott smiled at him.

“I feel great,” said Noel, accepting a glass of juice.

“Tell you what, Noel,” Scott glanced at his watch, “I have to leave in a minute. Why don’t you take it easy here
today, you still look really whacked? I’ll see what I can do about getting you some new clothes so you can go for your job tomorrow. Have some coffee, help yourself to whatever’s in the refrigerator, have another shower.” He grinned. “I’ll be back around six and we can talk about your job over some steaks.”

The phone rang, shattering the small silence as Noel weighed Scott’s suggestion. Scott hurried to answer it, speaking in low tones into the bright red receiver. He glanced at his watch again and Noel heard him say, “Oh all right. I’ll be there in fifteen. Right. ‘Bye.’ ”

He put down the phone and walked back to the kitchen. “I’ve got to go, Noel, I’m late.” He let his hand rest lightly on Noel’s shoulder for a moment, smiling as Noel’s shadowy eyes met his. “You know what,” said Scott, “you should keep that robe—it looks better on you than it did on me. See you this evening, Noel.” A slight pressure of his hand on Noel’s shoulder and he was gone.

Noel took in his surroundings. Wrap-around windows framed views of a Detroit that bore no resemblance to the inner-city decay he knew, and a high sun shone in a clear, winter-blue sky. He prowled the luxurious apartment, opening doors, peering into cupboards and inspecting the rows of immaculate suits and polished shoes in the closet. There was an envelope on the dresser addressed to “Mr Scott Harrison, Vice-President, ARA Advertising Co.” at an address in Detroit. Next to it lay some loose change. Noel counted it without touching. There was almost six dollars. Then he walked to the bathroom, found his clothes lying where he had left them and got dressed. He went back into the kitchen and poured himself some coffee, peeking into the refrigerator. There was some cheese—a sort he’d never seen before, runny with a white crust, a jar with some olives, and a carton of milk. In a cupboard he found cereal and some
crackers. He ate four bowls of cereal and drank two cups of coffee. Then he spread the cheese on the crackers and placed them in the empty cereal box. Walking back into the bedroom he placed the change in his pocket. After a search he found a pen next to the phone and wrote on the back of the envelope on the dresser, “Scott. Thank you. I will repay this money. It is $5.43. Noel.”

The apartment looked warm and sunfilled as he glanced back from the doorway. Noel had observed what went on between some of the boys at the Maddox and he knew what Scott expected from him if he stayed. Scott was nice. He was generous and kind. And the apartment was warm and luxurious. It would be dangerously easy to stay. Closing the door quickly Noel hurried down the corridor to the elevator. It stopped at his floor and he got in avoiding looking at the woman already in there. He clutched the cereal packet with his cheese “sandwiches” close to him, realising suddenly that the cheese smelled very strongly. Wrinkling her nose the woman moved a step away from him. Noel stared down at his feet. He was glad when the elevator bounced to a gentle stop and without waiting for her, he was out of the elevator, out of the building and on the streets of Detroit once more.

At the US Auto plant four weeks later, Noel put down his power wrench with relief as the buzzer went, signalling the lunch break. Wiping his hands on a piece of rag, he watched the men climbing down from the bright skeletons of cars on the assembly line, downing tools, and heading as fast as they could for the canteen areas. Noel followed them slowly. Working on the line was beginning to drive him crazy. In the cheap hostel where he had a bed, he would dream of the nine-mile-long assembly line. Brightly coloured embryo automobiles moved steadily forward and, armed with his
power wrench, Noel would try desperately to fit a bolt or tighten a screw—always too late. It was always the same job, always the same dilemma—the line moved too quickly. In his dreams it would get faster and faster and he’d be left, helplessly watching the cars flash by. The sense of urgency as he raced alongside the line, desperate to keep up, made him break out in a sweat and he would awake, shivering and afraid. Afraid he’d lose the job he hated. The job he’d been so lucky to get. Because every Friday he got a paycheck. And today was Friday.

Noel stood in line, piling his tray with food when his turn came around. He carried it to the far corner of the room and ate, eyes on his plate, looking at no one. The food was all right, better than at Maddox, and he ate enough to last him the day so that he wouldn’t have to spend money at night.

When his shift was over he would walk back to the hostel. The sharp cold air cleared his head of the sounds and smells of the plant. At the hostel he would take a shower, change into his other clean dungarees and shirt and head for the library where he would stay until closing time, reading books on cars and about the founders of the automobile industry. Then he would walk back through the cold streets, strip to his underwear and climb into the narrow bed, ignoring the other residents who sat smoking or talking to each other in the still brightly lit room. Noel would pull the thin blanket over his head and sleep, dreaming his terrifying dream until it was time to get up for the day shift and repeat the whole process again.