by Lee French
Holding his hand out, he took a deep breath and let the rich, earthy scent of the dirt, moss, and trees wash over him. With a tiny effort of will, he flexed his fingers open in a sharp movement and watched as the expected small white spark flared into existence two feet in front of him. It grew until it filled his vision, then he stepped forward.
His rubber boot hit stone and his vision cleared to show him the Palace. This room, with a battered old armchair and thick mattress on a cot, belonged to him. No one else could ever enter it unless he allowed them to. So he’d been told, anyway, and nothing had ever proved that wrong. He checked the shelves lining the wall and found everything in order. To be on the safe side, he always kept a change of clothes, a spare pair of boots, and a stack of books here.
Not caring about leaving muddy tracks on the woven rug and stone floor, he crossed the room to the main door and strode out into the hallway. Doors lined the stone corridor, each made of something different. His happened to be sycamore wood, with the number 557 burned into it and painted with silver. The door opposite had been assembled from old car parts; Mr. 556 had found his doorway in a junkyard.
In something of a hurry, Justin jogged up the hall to the central hub of the dormitory wing and hopped down the stairs to the fourth floor. Kurt lived in number 462, behind yellow aluminum siding with cedar shingles. The lucky bastard had found his doorway for the first time inside his own house.
Justin rapped on the door and tossed it open. “I got the hat.”
“Come in, come in,” Kurt wheezed from around the corner.
All the rooms in the dormitory had the same flag shape and size, and the same stone floors and walls. The old man sat in his wide, reclining chair, covered by a blanket. When Justin, then a fresh-faced, eighteen-year-old idiot, had first met Kurt, the older man had already slowed down and couldn’t do the job anymore. Over the years, he’d shriveled and lost mobility. He lived here permanently now. His children and grandchildren could have taken him in, but he preferred not to be a burden on them while he waited to die.
Justin brought the hat to the frail old man’s side and set it on his hand. “I think they want it back.”
“They can have it when I’m gone,” Kurt sneered. He clasped the brim with gnarled fingers and closed his eyes with a sigh. “My poor Emmy.” His shaking arm lifted the hat to his nose and he inhaled deeply. “It still smells like her. She used lavender soap on her hair. Anna went and gave it away without even asking me.”
Justin crouched at Kurt’s side and patted his knee. “I’m sure she thought she was doing the right thing. Why’d you want it now, though? It’s been there for a while.”
Kurt sighed and sniffed the hat again. “I want to make an illusion of her before I go, of how she looked when I first met her. All I can remember of her is a saggy old broad that smelled like cookies. But what a gorgeous dame she was back then. That Liz Taylor tramp couldn’t even come close to my Emmy. None of those movie star hussies could.”
“She sounds like a knockout.”
“Damned straight, she’d knock you out. Leave you lying on your rump for a day with how stunning she was.”
Chuckling, Justin stood up. “I’ve got to get back. We’ve got company tonight. Keep the hat as long as you like.”
“Not as if you could take it from me, you hulking brute.”
“Nope, I sure couldn’t. You’d throw me over your knee and give me a spanking for even trying.”
“You know it, boy, and don’t you forget it.”
Chapter 5
Claire
If she stopped to think, Claire might wind up crying in the bathtub. She tossed her shirt at the door and washed her face and all the scratches and scrapes. When she checked herself in the mirror again, after using soap and hot water, her face seemed plain and ordinary. This was the Claire who woke up every morning and sat down and tried to change herself with makeup. Why did she do that? Her shrink might say she didn’t like Ordinary Claire for some reason. Exotic Claire was more interesting, more mysterious, more capable of punching stupid boys in the face for being jerks.
Someone knocked on the door. “Are you okay in there?” Marie’s muffled voice held genuine concern.
“I dunno.” The words slipped out of her mouth. She wanted to take them back. “I mean, yeah.”
After a long pause, Marie said, “I can wash the blood out of everything. Just bring it to the kitchen. I’m leaving a spare shirt hanging on the doorknob.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.” She realized that a small place like this probably only had the one cramped bathroom, and she’d been tying it up for the past ten or fifteen minutes. They had a training potty in here with the toilet, and a toddler out there who might need to use it at any moment. She rubbed her face with the towel and opened the door a crack to grab the fresh shirt to throw it on. Unwilling to leave a mess, she picked up after herself, carrying the dirty shirt and towel out.
Back in the family room, she found Justin sitting on the couch with his daughters on his lap, wearing a faded green T-shirt instead of his armor. Lisa held a pink book with sparkly blue lettering up for him, and he read it to them in an animated voice, telling them about a kitten’s misadventure with a ball of yarn. Bespelled by the sight, she stopped and leaned against the wall, listening to his baritone voice rumble the words of a story he couldn’t possibly be interested in. Like her father had done for her and her little brother.
Marie took the towel and shirt, breaking the spell and causing Claire to follow the older woman into the kitchen. Marie tucked the bundle in a corner and pulled a pot out of a cabinet. “Are you allergic to any foods?” She set the pot in the sink and turned the water on to fill it.
“What? Oh. No. I can eat whatever.” Claire stood there, watching her fetch squash and broccoli and an onion. These people had taken her in, no questions asked, and now intended to feed her and give her a place to sleep. They did this without the state assigning her, without anyone paying them to, without knowing anything about her except that she needed help, without demanding—or even just asking for—anything in return. Her eyes stung again.
That first foster home had been like this. Except then, she’d been too wrapped up in grief for them to handle. Claire took a step forward. “Um, can I help or anything?”
Marie gave her a dazzling smile. “Sure. Here.” She offered Claire the cutting board and knife, asking without words for her to take over chopping vegetables. “I’m just going to make a quick stir-fry. Do you like noodles or rice better?”
“Rice, I guess.” She picked up the knife and attacked the onion.
“Justin said you’re from Portland?” As Claire cut things, Marie took them away and added more.
“Outside it, actually. Originally. I live in Portland now, though.”
“Just you? Not your family?”
“Yeah. Just me.” Claire’s eyes teared up, and she decided to blame the onion. “My parents, um, they died. A while ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You must be in the system, then.” Like Justin, she managed to sound sympathetic instead of pitying. It struck her as so odd and comforting, she couldn’t help but like Marie.
“Yeah. About six years.” Wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, she sniffled. “Were you in it?”
“No, not me.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Justin. When he fell for me, my parents took him in here. This is their farm. He was removed from his home, though. His dad is still alive.”
“Oh.” Claire had no idea which was worse and didn’t really want to know the details. “He seems like a really great dad.”
“Yes.” Marie smiled warmly. “He made an effort to learn how to be one. My dad is a pretty good role model on that front.”
Claire looked over at Justin and his two girls. He’d finished the book and now fell to tickling them both until they shrieked. He then picked Missy up, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her into the kitchen. Peering into the pot, he grinned. “This loo
ks kinda like it needs some meat.”
Missy giggled and kicked her bare feet. “I’m a moo!”
“I don’t know,” Marie said with a wink for Claire. “That one’s kind of small. Maybe we should fatten her up a bit more first.”
“You sure? I bet she’s delicious.”
“Moo! Moo!”
Claire struggled to figure out if this bothered her or inspired her, and settled on giving them all a weak grin as the antics played out. She turned away from them and focused on the vegetables. Zucchini didn’t remind her of anything in particular. Her mother had never asked her to help in the kitchen. Everything she knew about cooking came from learning to fend for herself. To her relief, the game ended before she finished chopping things. Justin kissed Marie on the cheek and said he’d be back in a few minutes, then left the house.
Marie put a hand on Claire’s arm. “Would you mind sitting with the girls while he’s out?”
“Oh. Uh.” The request caught her off guard. “Aren’t you worried I’m… I dunno, mean? Or an idiot. Crazy. An axe murderer or something.”
“I trust Justin’s judgment.” Her mouth fell into a lop-sided grin as Claire lifted an eyebrow. “Most of the time.”
“Uh-huh. This is the same guy who rides a horse on the freeway.”
Marie laughed. “Yes, well. He’s got a good heart. You don’t have to really do anything, just keep them over there with their toys.”
“I guess. I’ll give it a shot.” She surrendered the knife and took a deep breath. Facing two little girls obsessed with pink and princesses seemed scary for some reason. Maybe it was only because she hadn’t been that girl for a long time. “Hi,” she said as she picked her way to the couch, taking care to avoid stepping on any of their things.
Both girls gave her wary smiles as she sat down. After a few moments of awkward silence, Lisa leaned over and touched a red stripe with one small fingertip. “Where did you get these socks?”
The simple question surprised her. In Lisa’s place, Claire thought she’d ask prying questions to figure out why her dad brought a stranger home. “There’s this store in Portland that only sells socks. They have all kinds of colors and patterns. You can even get two socks that don’t match as a pair.”
Lisa’s big blue eyes went wide. “Why would you do that?”
Claire shrugged, not sure about the answer. “To be weird, I guess. Different. Fitting in is great and all, but you gotta be yourself.”
Nodding with utter solemnity, Lisa withdrew her finger and offered Claire a plush doll made from scraps of cloth sewn together and stuffed, with an equally patchy dress. “You don’t have a doll, so you can have this one.”
Surprised by the gesture, Claire took it and remembered a doll she’d had at Lisa’s age. Her mother had gotten it for her from a catalog, with brown eyes and silky black hair like her own. For whatever reason, they couldn’t get the tanned skin tone right. She’d set it on a shelf and not played with it much.
“This is a really cool doll. Does she have a name?”
“Yes, but she’s yours now, so you can name her whatever you want.”
A lump formed in Claire’s throat. She didn’t deserve a gift, especially not one made by hand for someone else. “No, that’s not how stuff works. Everybody keeps their first name even though they might get a new mom. And really, I’m just borrowing her anyway, since…I guess I need one while I’m here?”
“Do you have a doll at your house?”
“Um, no.”
“Then you can keep her and take her home so you have one all the time.”
Claire stared at the girl, uncomprehending. “Wait. You’re giving me your doll? For real? Why?”
Missy grabbed her skirt and used it to climb onto the couch and sit beside her. “Claire sad.”
Lisa shrugged and picked up a stuffed white horse with patchy, worn fur. She clicked her tongue for clopping noises as she bounced it along the edge of the couch.
“I’m not sad. I mean, not really. I just—g” She frowned at the doll. “Your dad is pretty awesome and he makes me miss mine.”
“Where’s your daddy?”
Claire sighed and sat back on the couch, choosing not to push the memory away. “Once upon a time, there was a princess.” English was her worst subject, so she had no idea how to carry this story along in a way they wouldn’t find disturbing. The girls, though, gave her their rapt attention, so she felt compelled to try. “She lived in a house kind of like this one. It was bigger, though, with a second floor above. She liked to do stuff with her little brother. They would build with blocks and race toy cars, and dig in the mud for worms.”
“Missy likes mud!” The toddler clapped her approval.
“Mommy doesn’t like mud on the floor, though.”
“Yeah.” Claire grinned. She heard the front door open and close, and Justin returned. Since she’d started the story, she figured it would be best to finish it, even though had Marie had only asked her to entertain them until Justin could take over again. “The queen didn’t really like mud on the floor, either. She would make the princess and the prince mop the floor when they tracked too much inside. They didn’t really like doing it. They did their chores anyway.
“They had a big yard, but the king didn’t like grass very much, so they had lots of flowers and trees and bushes. Even though it was in the suburbs, they had a horse in the backyard. The king would ride it around when he surveyed his subjects and land and stuff. The queen rode in a chariot instead, and she went every day to do the business stuff because the king wasn’t very good at any of that. While they were out on the weekdays, a…” She struggled for a few moments to find a good word to use for Stewy, their nanny. Funny how she couldn’t remember his last name, just that it started like her own and sounded Italian. “A jester watched the prince and princess. Like a babysitter, kinda.
“Anyway, the princess. She had a bunch of friends at school, and sometimes she would go to a sleepover at one of their houses. It was fun to do something different and weird. Sometimes, they would all come to her house too. So everybody shared, and it was all fair. One day, the prince got sick, really bad, so he had to go to the doctor. Since it would be early in the morning on a Saturday, and the jester had the day off, the queen decided to send the princess on a sleepover with one of her friends. She thought that was awesome, because hospitals are icky, and Alicia was her best friend ever.
“So the princess went to Alicia’s house and they had a really good time. They stayed up late and slept in, and Alicia’s mom let them have ice cream on their waffles for breakfast. With strawberries.” If she closed her eyes, sometimes she could still taste the berries. They’d come from the farmer’s market downtown, and she’d never had better, juicier, sweeter, or fresher ones. “It was the best sleepover ever. The princess had to go home, though.
“Alicia’s mom didn’t think to call first to see if they’d come home from the hospital yet. They all got into the car and drove over to find—” Claire took a deep breath. “The king’s house had burned down to the ground overnight. It happened before the king and queen and prince left.” In that moment, she realized Lisa and Missy were just little kids who didn’t need to hear this sort of story. They probably couldn’t even understand it. She needed to find a way to make it fit a standard princess narrative.
“So the princess was all alone then. But the queen had given her a special present when she was very young, so young she couldn’t remember it, a locket just like this one.” She pulled the necklace out of her shirt and let them see it. The heart-shaped pendant held nothing, though it was large enough to encase a pocketwatch. Silver streaks marred the golden filigree of the front, caused by her thumb and fingers rubbing it over and over since the fire. “When she got it, she promised to take care of it and never lose it. Now she had to learn to keep that promise on her own.”
“Girls, dinner is ready.”
Claire heaved a sigh of relief, thankful for Marie’s timing, because
she wasn’t sure where to take it from there. After helping Missy to the floor, she stood up and saw both Marie and Justin looking at her. They’d been listening. She tucked the locket safely under her shirt and dropped her gaze the floor, not wanting to see what they thought of her now.
She shuffled to the table and sat down in the chair Marie gestured for her to take. Missy sat on Justin’s lap. They only had four chairs, and she’d taken one, forcing them to accommodate her. “I’m sorry,” she told Marie. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s alright.” Justin let Missy feed herself from a small bowl while spearing his own food with a fork. “When you’ve got a story inside you, sometimes it needs to come out, no matter what you intended. I’m glad to know, at least, that I didn’t aid and abet a runaway. Not a real one, anyway. I’m guessing you’re in a group home right now?”
Looking back down at her hands in her lap, Claire nodded.
“I can take you to school in the morning.”
“I got suspended for tomorrow,” she murmured, “so that’s not necessary. I can walk to the nearest bus stop. I’ve got a pass.”
“Don’t be silly.” Marie patted her shoulder. “He can take you on Friday instead.”
“What’d you get suspended for?”
“I beat up a guy who said some stuff.”
“Huh.”
She couldn’t tell what that meant, so she raised her eyes to find him not watching her at all. “Are you going to call the cops?”
“No.” Justin cracked a smile. “You asked me about a name earlier, Mark Terdan. How did you know him?”
Claire gulped. “That was my dad.”
“So he died six years ago, in that fire.”
She held her breath and thought her heart stopped beating. “Yes.”
“Then I apologize for not being more forthcoming earlier. I’ve got the same job he did, and I even met him a few times.”