by Leanna Sain
She pushed along a squeaky two-wheeled metal cart, mounded with plastic bags that probably held all her worldly possessions. She was one of Savannah’s homeless. Not a good thing to be in any situation, and especially not now, with how they kept finding them in the river. Unfortunately, they were a common sight and mostly overlooked, but no one could overlook this person…not wearing that hat.
I’d seen hats similar to this before…on a court jester in a medieval play, on clowns, in pictures of the Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans, but never those colors. Think vivid. Vibrant. Think eye-poppingly, heart-stoppingly bright! Think of the boldest pink you can imagine paired up with a neon green so blinding that it makes you squint. Add little silver bells on each dangly tail, and you’d have to agree that this woman would never blend into a crowd.
I couldn’t help it. I gawked, but I wasn’t alone. I tore my eyes away just so I could glance around for a second, and felt a grin spread across my face. There wasn’t a single person in the vicinity who wasn’t staring right along with me.
“What’s she doing, Mommy?”
The child was asking the same question the rest of us were.
The old woman shuffled up to a huge sycamore tree whose gnarled roots were trying to push through the sidewalk’s edge and leaned forward until her nose pressed against its mottled, peeling surface, eyes closed, lips moving. Was she praying? Communing with nature? Casting a spell? I was too far away to hear. I needed to get closer.
Hurrying forward a few steps, I maneuvered through the crowd of people who had paused to enjoy the spectacle. Just as I got a good position, she reached inside her overcoat and pulled out a black, sequined drawstring bag. It looked like it was attached to the belt at her waist. She slowly opened it, reached in, and then made a big production of pulling her hand out, elaborately sprinkling some of the contents at the base of the tree.
“Is that magic dust, Mommy? Is she a witch?”
“Shut up, kid,” someone other than the child’s mother urged, garnering an outraged look from Mommy, but nothing else. We were all waiting for what would come next.
When the sprinkling ceremony was done, the old lady simply drew the bag closed, dropped it back under her coat, and shuffled on down the sidewalk as if nothing unusual had happened. The squeaking wheels of her metal cart faded as she moved farther away.
The crowd dispersed with quite a bit of murmuring, going back to whatever they’d been doing before the woman’s performance. There’s one thing you can say for Savannahians…it’s easy to grab their attention, but difficult to keep it.
But this, even I was curious about. I had to see what she sprinkled around that tree.
There—glistening in the afternoon sun like a galaxy of tiny stars dusted over the tree’s mammoth roots—was glitter.
I stared at it for a long moment before glancing up, searching through the crowd for that hat. I caught a flash of pink and green just as she was exiting the park and breathed a sigh of relief.
The weight that I’d carried on my shoulder into the park was suddenly floating away. I’d found my model.
Now all I had to do was convince her.
Chapter Two
Jonas
“I’m fine, Mom.” I tried to stifle my exasperation while my hand clutched the phone receiver a little tighter. I flung my head against the back of the couch, and rolled my eyes so far back I could practically see the occipital lobe of my brain. “You’ve got to stop worrying so much.”
“I know, Jonas, but you’re the only one of my kids not living a block or so away from me and I want to make sure you’re okay. Especially today since—”
“Yes, I’m well aware of the significance of the day,” I cut her off. I didn’t need to rehash this with her. “It was three years ago, Mom. I’m over it.” I tried switching subjects. “And it’s not like I’m living on the other side of the world. Savannah isn’t that far from Charleston, you know.”
“But honey, if you’re over it, then why—”
“Mom!” She was like a dog gnawing a bone. Once she got her teeth into something, it was almost impossible to get it away from her.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I just wish you’d find someone special, someone to help you forget about Jill. It’s too bad it didn’t work out with your sister’s friend, Maggie.”
“The timing was all wrong. I was a mess, and so was she…still hung up on some guy named Thomas. Besides, I thought you said her dad was too weird.”
“He is weird. Both of her parents are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for being proud of your heritage, but they take it past the healthy stage. It’s more of an obsession, I think. Your sister idolizes him, though. I’m glad Samantha got the job as his grad assistant, but I’m afraid the man’s going to turn her into as much of a Civil War junkie as he is.”
“Sam loves her job, Mom, and Dr. Poinsett is lucky to have her.”
“Stop trying to change the subject.”
“What do you mean?” I hedged. I was trying to change the subject. “By the way, why don’t you interfere in Sam’s love life? She’s just as single as I am.”
“What makes you think I don’t?” she laughed. “But to answer your question…you’re a man, and every man needs a good woman to keep him in line.”
“And that wasn’t a sexist comment at all.”
She ignored me. “All your brothers have good wives and—”
“—and successful jobs,” I interrupted. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”
“Now honey, I’m not saying journalism isn’t a good job. I just wish they were paying you what you’re worth. At least enough so that you could live somewhere besides—”
“Please don’t start on my apartment again. I know it’s not great, but I’m not here that much, so it doesn’t even matter.”
“I know, but if you’d just let your father and me help you a little—”
“No, Mom. Dad understands. I think he’s proud of me for what I’m doing too; standing on my own two feet like this. My apartment’s not a mansion, but it’s something I can afford…without your help. I actually kind of like it. It’s so small, it’s a cinch to keep clean, and with only one room, I don’t have to walk far. Three steps in any direction and boom…I’m there.”
Her sigh was audible over the phone. “I just want you to be happy, and if writing for that newspaper does that, then I guess I’m happy for you. But back to Maggie—”
I was glad she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. She hated it when I did that. “Mom—”
“Hear me out. Don’t you think it’s worth trying again? Maybe you guys were just having a bad night that night.”
“Sorry to dash your hopes, Mom, but there won’t be another date. Not with her. You can officially take her off your list of “possibilities.” She got married not too long after our disastrous evening together. Didn’t Sam tell you? I know it surprised her too. It was kind of unexpected. His name’s Jake and they’re blissfully happy. In fact, when I was up there last week for Dad’s birthday party, I ran into her at Target’s. She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Looks like at least ten and a half months worth. All belly. If she doesn’t have that baby soon, she’ll burst!”
“Right. I get it,” she laughed. “But I need more grandkids!”
I snorted before replying. “I think my virile brothers and their very fertile wives have taken up every bit of my slack. The whole lot of them are worse than a bunch of rabbits. They’re doing such a good job of filling Charleston with a new generation of Holmes kids, I won’t even need to contribute. Maybe I’ll just stay single,” I teased. “Jonas Holmes…career bachelor. One of those crusty old curmudgeon journalists. What d’ya think?”
“I think I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” she laughed again. “Gotta run. Your father is giving me his “quit your meddling” look. Love you sweetheart.”
“You too, Mom. Bye.”
I shook my head and smiled in spite of my exasperation as I hung up th
e phone, and took the three steps it took to get me to my closet-sized bathroom. Mom was great. Very “mom-ish” at times, but great. She was like a mother hen, wanting all her chicks near enough so that she could gather them up underneath her wings whenever she sensed danger—which was often. I lived too far away for her to do that with me and I knew it was hard on her, so I tried to cut her some slack.
I reached into the tiny shower stall that was barely wide enough to fit my shoulders, and turned on the tap, waiting for the water to get hot before stepping in. Ahhhh…just the way I liked it. Almost blistering. Veils of steam swirled around me, smoking the glass door. Water pelted against my scalp and shoulders, thawing away the tension that always occurred whenever I heard Jill’s name. It wasn’t as bad as it used to be, but it’s taken three years to get this far.
I grabbed the soap and starting scrubbing, but my mind was far away. Why was I so different from everyone else in my family? My five older brothers had followed Dad’s footsteps and gone into the medical field. Each one had their own successful practices now, living the American dream with loving wives and quickly growing families, only blocks away from each other and my parents. My little sister had an apartment near her job at the College of Charleston. My mother had balked over that at first, but finally let it go because Sam threatened to move to England. Everyone knew she was joking, but it got Mom off her back. I was the only one who lived more than ten minutes away.
Had I always been different? Pretty much. At least as far back as I could remember. My brothers even jokingly referred to me as the “black sheep” of the family, not because I’d chosen an evil path, but because I’d chosen differently. While they’d all been active members of the debate team and chess club, I’d opted for sports: football, basketball, baseball, and track. As long as it pushed me, made me sweat, that’s what I wanted to do.
Being in a family with seven kids wasn’t the norm when I was growing up, and though it had its good points, there was a negative side too. I’d always felt like a number—the sixth Holmes boy—which was probably why I tried to be different, why I chose “arts” instead of “sciences,” writing over being a doctor, and also why I jumped at the chance to work at the Savannah Tribune in an entry level position when the opportunity presented itself. Yes, my mother’s friend was the editor, and yes, I shamelessly used that connection when I found out about it, but I wanted to get out of Charleston—away from being asked, “Now, which one are you?” And of course, away from the Jill debacle. It’d been a chance I couldn’t pass up.
I did anything they asked at the Tribune, from fetching coffee to sorting mail. Eventually, I got a chance to show them I could write, but so far it’d been the boring stuff: car accident reports, house fires, new business openings, obituaries, or an article about the rash of bicycle thefts at SCAD; what I’d been working on today. What I really wanted—what I dreamt about—was a regular feature position, something that might even be syndicated. Due to recent events, I had an idea for a series, but I needed to get it okayed by my boss. Until then, I had to live on a pretty tight budget; something I’d become a pro at doing. Something Jill had been unwilling—
Uh-oh. The hot water was cooling. My cue to hurry. Pretty sure my water heater was about the size of a goldfish bowl. I only had seconds to finish up. I grabbed the shampoo, squirted some in my palm and quickly lathered my hair. I’d learned the hard way with this shower. When I felt that temp change, I needed to get rinsed, and out as quickly as possible. The water would go from hot to freezing in an instant.
Hah! Made it! I turned off the water, and grabbed a towel, briskly drying, before wrapping it around my waist and stepping out onto the rug. I used the hand towel to dry off the steamy mirror, and stared at my reflection. The man in the mirror gave me a wry smile, then sternly ordered, “Count your blessings, man, and don’t even think about going into a funk if anyone else mentions Jill’s name today. You’re over it. It could have been worse, you know…you could’ve married her, had kids…then found out all she was after was the money.”
I pulled my electric razor from the drawer, plugged it in and switched it on, buzzing my face smooth while continuing the conversation with my reflection, which took some weird mouth maneuvers and some garbled speech. “This is where you’re supposed to be, buddy. Right here in Savannah. Away from Charleston. Away from your family. You need to make it on your own merit, not just the Holmes name. It’s the best way.”
I turned on the tap, grimacing when it coughed out rusty water. Once it ran clear, I rinsed out my razor, splashed on some aftershave, brushed my teeth. After rinsing my mouth, I made a face before gulping a big swig of the brackish liquid, then gazed at my reflection once more. “Your wisecrack to your mom about staying a bachelor was just that. You know you want to find someone. Maybe even someone like that girl who ran into you today…or not, but the only way you can be sure she loves you and not your family’s money is by not letting her know you have it. If it takes living in this dump to pull that off, it’s a good trade-off. Now, get dressed. You’ve got an idea to pitch to your boss.”
****
My hand was poised to the right of the engraved nameplate on my boss’ closed door—Joel McMillan—Managing Editor. I took a deep breath and rapped a knuckle against the wood. It sounded loud in the hallway.
“Come in,” the gruff voice answered.
I stuck my head in. “Do you have a minute, sir?”
“Oh…sure, Holmes. Have a seat.” He waved vaguely toward the only other chair in the room. “Be with you in a sec.”
The man was a grizzly bear; tall and beefy, barrel chest, salt and pepper crew cut, growly voice. He made me nervous, but I’ve heard some of my female workmates talk about how “hot” he is. Go figure.
Seeking something to distract myself, I eyed what I could see of the chair he’d indicated. It was buried under a small mountain of files and papers. The towering stack looked in danger of toppling with the slightest breeze or bump. I’d have to move it or else remain standing since there was nowhere else to sit. Praying the stack wouldn’t collapse in a heap, I eased my fingers under the bottom, lifted it as if it were a landmine ready to detonate, and carefully placed it on the floor, making sure it was leaning slightly against one of the chair’s legs for support before taking my seat.
He sat opposite me, his desk cluttered, his attention focused on whatever it was he was reading. Haphazard piles of old newspapers, binders, and post-it notes joined a half-eaten bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit from McDonalds and a nearly empty salad container from Wendy’s. A couple of leaves of lettuce and a soggy crouton foundered in a puddle of dressing. Nearly every inch of the desktop was covered. Certainly no Zen-theme here. McMillan grunted, slashing a red line through a large section of copy on the paper he was reading. He was old school; clinging to the days of pen and ink while the industry rushed into cyber-space.
Finally he peered at me over the top of a pair of bifocals. “What can I do for you, Holmes?” he growled.
Here goes nothing… “Well, sir…I’ve been following the news lately.”
One bushy eyebrow cocked up at the same time his mouth turned down on one side. “Glad to hear it, son.”
I mentally knocked my head against the desk. Gah! You’re an idiot. Next time, try engaging your brain before opening your mouth. Nervously clearing my throat, I tried again. “Yes sir. Anyway, I noticed that they just found another body in the river yesterday. Another homeless man,” I emphasized the word, hoping to see a spark of interest in the man’s eyes, but he just glanced at his watch. Get to the point. You’re losing him. “Well, I think the paper should do an article about it…some investigative reporting on that situation, sir. This is the third body. I think there might be a connection between the deaths.”
His eyes narrowed and he studied me carefully. “A connection?”
My heartbeat sped up. He was interested. “Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“And you think this is something our readers wo
uld want to know about? Homeless men ending up in the river?”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated. “Something’s not…well, something’s just not right. I can’t really explain it. Just a feeling, I guess, but I think we should pursue it…see what comes up. What do you say?”
“Gut feeling, huh?”
“Yeah…I mean, yes, sir.”
McMillan rubbed his bristly chin, reached for a coffee mug that said, “Neat people are just too lazy to look for stuff” on its side, took a sip, and made a face as he thunked it back down on the desk, sloshing some of the liquid on a “while you were out” memo, which he ignored. “Okay, Holmes. I had a teacher in college who told me to never ignore gut feelings. Thanks. I’ll get Davidson right on it.”
My heart plummeted. “D-davidson, sir?”
“Yes.” His eyebrows lowered. “Something wrong?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Good,” he gave me a perfunctory smile, his eyes dropping back to the papers on his desk. “I need your piece on the fatal accident out on I-16—the one with the five nursing students—on my desk by noon.”
I remained fidgeting in my seat. What just happened? He was giving my idea to Davidson? Taylor Davidson? The guy who’d been making my life hell ever since I’d started working here? No! I was not letting that creep have my story! Time to stand up and fight.
“Uh, sir?”
He seemed surprised I was still there. “Something else on your mind, Holmes?”
“Yeah…yes, sir.” Sweat beaded on my forehead. I gripped the arms of the chair so I wouldn’t wipe it off. “I was sort of hoping I could do it…the story, I mean. I could even do it on spec on my own time if I had to. That way you wouldn’t have to pay me for it unless you like it.”
He studied me for a long moment while I slowly stewed in my sweat. I’d hate to play poker with this guy. His expression gave nothing away.
Finally, his lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. “Okay. You got the green light, son. On the clock. Show me what you can do.”