Violet Grenade

by Victoria Scott

  Cain smiles. Not a full-blown grin, but close enough. He tilts his head in my direction without really looking at me. “Her bark’s bigger than her bite,” he says, that smile still clinging to his lips. Then he stubs out his cigarette, puts it back in the pack, and jogs down the steps. There are only a few boxes left when I work up the nerve to join them.

  Angie sees me coming. “What do you think you’re doing? Too skinny to do a damn thing properly.”

  Cain chuckles under his breath. “Let her help, Angie. She’s new.”

  “You think I don’t know she’s new? She’s got it stamped on her forehead.”

  I pull in a deep breath and face Angie. “It’s not like you were doing much with these boxes before Cain came along. Huffing and puffing like a bull with emphysema.”

  Cain throws his head back and laughs long and hard. The sun shines down on his face, and the sound comes from deep in his core. In that moment, it’s like he’s stepped out of his own body and back into one from his childhood, before the thing that made him the way he is now came along. And I do know he has a thing. Anyone with a thing recognizes someone else with it, too. I like Cain this way—talking, playful.

  Cain recovers and looks at Angie to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t look pleased, but I see past her frown and spot the amusement in her eyes.

  “Here, then.” She shoves a box into my arms. “Put this on Black Betty’s hood. It’ll stay well enough.” She pats the tractor and mumbles, “A bull with emphysema.”

  I help them load what little remains until the screen door slams against the house. Mr. Hodge walks onto the front porch, his steps loud against the concrete. “What’s going on out here? Why the hell is one of our girls loading your crap, Angie?”

  Both Angie and Cain grow serious, but it’s Angie who responds. “It was my fault, Frank. Been feeling under the weather lately. I asked if she’d help.”

  I start to rebut Angie’s claim, but Cain catches my eye and shakes his head.

  Mr. Hodge sticks out his chest. “If you can’t take care of your own business, I’d be happy to find another supplier.”

  “Not necessary.” Angie pulls herself into the tractor seat and then starts the engine. “I’ll be good as new next time you see me.”

  Mr. Hodge huffs and then turns his attention on me. “Domino, meet me in Madam Karina’s room.”

  He marches inside, and I glance back at Angie.

  “Go on,” she says. “Don’t you keep that man waiting.” I rush toward the house, but Angie’s voice stops me. “Hey, wait.”

  I turn around.

  She squints in the morning blaze a long time before flicking her eyes toward Madam Karina’s mother’s empty flowerbed. It’s like Angie has suddenly decided against speaking her mind. Finally, the woman says, “Keep your head up in there.”

  I salute her, and when I do, the corner of Cain’s eyes crinkle like he’s going to smile again.

  Angie shakes her head. Even from here, I can hear her mumble a sharp, “Smart-ass.”

  I jog up the stairs, into the house, and toward the room where Mr. Hodge is waiting. As Cain and Angie grow farther away, my heart beats faster. I don’t know what Mr. Hodge wants with me, but that man makes me more nervous than a snowman in hell.

  Chapter Twenty

  Phone Call

  I stare down at the pink Carnation on my blouse. It’s been there since Mr. Hodge gave it to me, free of charge if you can imagine that. I poke at it as Poppet gets ready for another night of work. It’s been four days since I arrived at Madam Karina’s home, and I’ve missed Dizzy every minute.

  I’m getting closer to accumulating the money I need to free him. The first evening I worked, Saturday, I earned one coin. But on Monday and Tuesday, I earned two each night. Eighth place, which Madam Karina assures me is incredible. But it isn’t enough. Not when I’ve barely paid back the cost of my sheets and pillow, and have another nine dollars to repay before I start earning.

  I’ve vowed to not buy another single thing from this place. Instead, I borrow clothing and toiletries from Poppet, and in return I do as many of her chores as I can when Mercy’s back is turned.

  It’s been six days since I’ve seen Dizzy. And every day the girls grow increasingly abusive as I slowly climb the placement ranks and nab their clients’ attention. What’s more, I’m not sure I’ll make real money unless I move up to a new flower category. And that would take time, more time than I want to spend, with Dizzy in jail.

  So it seems I have a decision to make.

  Stay at Madam Karina’s House for Burgeoning Entertainers and work my way up the ranks quickly.

  Count my losses. Find a train. And get myself back to Detroit, stat.

  The more I think about it, the more attractive option number two looks. Problem is, I don’t want to leave Poppet. And maybe I’m a bit interested in what Cain’s deal is. And yes, I like Madam Karina’s attention. I like the way she talks to me in that gentle voice. I like the way she lights a candle in her room that smells like oatmeal cookies and asks me how I’m doing.

  But even with my sketchpad, I’m not earning enough. And so my decision is clear. Besides, it’s not like I tried that hard to get a job. What if I went to five places a day and asked for an application? What about ten?

  And then there’s Wilson and his insistence that things will only get worse if I stay here. And that he knows, and I know, what awaits us in those guesthouses.

  Repeating the past, he whispers. Manipulation and violence. Is that what you want? Because if so, I’m down. It’s just I thought you wanted to forget about—

  I stand up, suffocating Wilson, determined to take action after a week of being pushed around inside this enormous farmhouse that grows smaller by the day. Poppet asks me where I’m going, but I don’t respond. Right now, I need to talk to Greg. See if maybe he would hire me even though his shop is struggling.

  I shuffle down the stairs to the basement where market is held. The same room I’ve seen girls pay to use the telephone. Until now, I didn’t want to dig myself deeper into a financial hole. But now that I hold the possibility of leaving in my head, I can’t think of anything besides hearing Greg’s voice. Even if he can’t hire me, he may know a good place to start.

  When I reach the bottom step, I spot movement behind the cage. I edge closer and narrow my eyes. There’s someone sleeping back there. I move closer still and make out a twin-sized mattress on the floor. It’s no secret who it is: expansive shoulders, shaved head, tan skin. I cough into a closed fist until he startles and turns his head over on the pillow.

  “Little late to be sleeping,” I say.

  He pops up in bed, his back turned, and breathes rapidly like I’ve caught him misbehaving. But that’s ridiculous. He’s a twenty-year-old (don’t quote me) boy who was taking a nap before a long night’s work. Where’s the harm?

  When he turns, I see bags beneath his eyes, as if he was fighting in his sleep. If that’s true, it’d be a sharp contrast to what he does during the day, which is passivity at its prime.

  “Sorry I scared you. I just need to use the phone,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  He runs a hand over his buzzed, dark-brown hair. “You’re supposed to wait for a market day to make calls.”

  I bristle. “That’s bull. I’ve heard other girls talking down here.”

  “They’re rule breakers.”

  “So am I.”

  Cain inspects me. Runs his gaze over my face, my neck. There’s amusement in his eyes. “So you are.” He leaves and comes back a moment later, opens the cage door, and motions toward a phone.

  I don’t ask how much the call will cost, because I’ve pretty much decided I’m out of here. But I need to hear Greg say the words, “Come home.” As if there is a home. As if there is a family waiting with open arms that feel good when they touch.

  I dial Greg’s number on the black rotary phone and turn away from Cain. Meg picks up on the second ring. “Hair Flair and Fun, how can I he
lp you?”

  I roll my eyes. What a God-awful name. “Yeah, I need to talk to Greg.” I keep my voice low as if that will help. As if Cain can’t hear every word I’m saying.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “You may not.”

  “Oh, oh-kay,” Meg stutters. “Let me get him. Please hold for a moment.”

  Jeez. She really is a good employee. I’m being a complete horse’s rear, and she’s still perfectly polite. I swallow my guilt and wait to hear Greg’s voice. It doesn’t take long.

  “This is Greg.”

  “Greg, it’s me.” I smile into the phone. It’s good to hear his voice. It’s been only a week, but with so many miles between us, it feels much longer.

  “Hey, Dom. How you doing? You coming in to get a new wig today?”

  He doesn’t even know I’m gone. He’d have no reason to, but it still hurts for whatever reason. I’m about to respond when Greg continues.

  “Saw Dizzy pawning some stuff across the street yesterday. I’m guessing that means you’ve got heavy pockets and a hankering for new locks, am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

  The floor falls out from beneath me.

  One second I’m cool as a mother freaking cucumber, and then Greg tells me he’s seen Dizzy.

  “It must have been someone else you saw. Dizzy is—”

  “No, it was him,” Greg interrupts. “He waved to Meg. Him and some other kid.”

  I close my eyes against the pain of what he’s telling me, but at the same time, I refuse to believe it. I left a note for Dizzy to call Greg if he got out early. Surely he would have looked for me immediately.

  I clear my throat and force myself to speak again. “Can you give me the number to that pawn shop?”

  “What? Why?” Greg pauses. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Greg, please.”

  He must hear the wobble in my voice, because a second later I hear him whispering something to Meg. He gets back on the phone. “You ready?”

  I ask Cain for a pen and he grabs one without hesitation. “Ready.”

  Greg reads the number, and I thank him. He starts to ask more questions, but I tell him I have to go and hang up. I phone the pawn store Greg said he saw Dizzy at. Cain doesn’t stop me from making another call.

  The guy Dizzy and I deal with at American Picker Pawn confirms Greg’s story. Dizzy is out of jail. He’s seen him twice in the last couple of days. Running with a new kid, he says. Got out of jail because of inmate overflow, he says. Slapped with a ton of community service time instead, he says. Dizzy mentioned you left a note and were off somewhere. That true?

  I want him to stop saying things.

  I hang up and struggle to catch my breath. My brain tilt-a-whirls inside my head and my eyes sting. I was alone for two months after I left my parents’ house. Two long, lonely months. But then I found Dizzy. I clung to him like he was both father and mother and everything else I needed to survive. But he doesn’t care. If he did, he would have run straight from our broken-down Victorian house to Hair Flair & Fun and demanded answers.

  He wouldn’t be visiting pawn shops.

  He wouldn’t be making new friends who aren’t me.

  He wouldn’t be waving to Meg and not bothering to cross the street.

  I can’t help what happens next. A sob breaks in my chest. Just once, but once is enough. Cain rounds my body and stands in front of me. I keep my eyes down and stand still. Won’t move no matter what he says. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, a pillar when I need so badly to lean on something sturdy and unyielding.

  For almost a year, I lived with a boy from Iran with black curls and long lashes. I slept on his blue mattress with the busted spring in the corner. I learned how to steal, and he learned what paint works best on concrete. He was my person.

  But now I wonder if I was ever his.

  Cain doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t fast talk like Dizzy or try to make me laugh or say let’s nip a pint of Jack Daniels and forget this sadness. He only stands there. Breathing in, breathing out.

  Reminding me how it works.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Taken

  Before the phone call, I was determined to leave. Surprisingly, I still am. There’re only thirty minutes until guests arrive, and already Mercy is barking orders up and down the hallway. I should be getting ready like Poppet, Candy, and the rest of the girls, but right now I need to think.

  Here, at the house, I have a girl who thinks she’s my friend, and a woman who speaks gently, but I have to get out of here before I self-combust. These people can’t care about me. No one can. I’m alone in this world, and that’s the way it should be.

  I’ll never leave you alone, Wilson says gently.

  For once, I don’t push him from my head.

  Instead, I check the hallway to ensure no one’s coming and rush toward my bottom drawer. Tonight, as the other girls are entertaining guests, I’ll skedaddle. My father taught me to always repay my debts. But the biggest favor I can do for Madam Karina and Poppet is to leave.

  I pull the drawer out and reach into the back. My fingers spider across the empty space as a clap of thunder sounds through me.

  The money is gone.

  I lean forward and check again. But it isn’t there. I tear the clothes and wigs and makeup from the drawer and sift through them. Nothing. I jump to my feet and yank the drawer off the rollers, toss it onto my bed. Then I check again, again.

  When there’s no avoiding the truth, I crumble to the floor and cover my face. Rock back and forth and moan into my hands. I needed that money to get out of here. To pay for a train ticket and food to keep my belly full on my return trip to Detroit. But I’m upset over more than that. After all, I can hitchhike. I can steal food and drink from fountains along the way.

  The real reason I’m pissed is because someone in this house stole from me.

  They’ve picked on me. Called me names. Poured toilet water down my throat and laughed at me more times than I can count. And now what little I came here with has been taken. First, in the form of my dignity. Second, when they dug through my belongings. Oh, and let’s not forget the time they threw dirtied water on Dizzy’s shirt.

  Of course, what does that matter?

  Why would Dizzy’s shirt be precious to me when he couldn’t take the time to cross the damn street and ask where I went?

  Mercy pops her head inside the room. “What are you doing, freak? The guests will be here soon. Get your ugly butt dressed.”

  I close my eyes. I close my ears. She can’t get inside me now.

  “Um, did you hear me, retard? Get off the floor and take a shower. You smell like the toilet.” She laughs. It’s an old joke now, but she hasn’t tired of it. “No surprise there, though, huh?”

  I shake my head. Back and forth. Keep her out and keep me sane. Don’t listen to her words. Nothing can touch me.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mercy growls. “Get off that floor or I’ll get you up myself.”

  Poppet walks into the room. Sees me rocking, hands over my ears, though I can still hear everything. Too much.

  “Leave her alone,” Poppet says.

  Mercy turns, bares her teeth. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”

  Poppet raises her hands. “I’m just asking you to give her some space. You guys pick on her nonstop.”

  Mercy walks away from me, gets close to Poppet. Her chest bumps into Poppet’s chest. Poppet pulls back and Mercy leans forward, fogging her glasses. “I’m not in the mood for this tonight. So I’ll do you a favor. I’ll turn my head if you will leave this room right now. If you don’t, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

  Mercy holds up a finger like she intends to back up the threat.

  I uncover my ears, because something sinister is crawling over my mind. It’s different when Mercy is talking down to me. I can block her out if I try. But when she’s spewing her poison on Poppet, I’m alert. All my senses: ON. Sight, smell,
sound, taste: ON.

  Wilson: ON.

  “Come on, Mercy,” Poppet whispers.

  Mercy jerks her finger in Poppet’s face, pushes it directly against the center of her forehead. “Say one more word. One. More.”

  Poppet looks down, and tears fill her eyes. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Poppet truly upset. I should never see someone like Poppet cry, yet here come the waterworks.

  And it’s. All. Mercy’s. Fault.

  I stand slowly, rising behind Mercy like a demon shadowing the sun.

  Poppet’s bottom lip falls open. She says one word though Mercy explicitly told her not to. “Please.”

  Mercy slaps her.

  It isn’t hard.

  It’s hard enough.

  I’m on her in a heartbeat. Take her to the floor like an animal and shove my fists into her face.

  Wilson springs to his feet. Oh, damn! It’s on! Want my help?

  Yes, I respond. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Wilson takes my hand, and I am him and he is me. Mercy’s screams slip down my throat, thick and foul like cough syrup. Blood covers my hands. The girl beneath me knows how to earn bronze coins. Fine. She can intimidate the other Carnations into following her. Fine.

  But she doesn’t know what I know, what Wilson knows.

  She doesn’t know how to inflict fear like this.

  I stop hitting her because now I have her attention. This isn’t all about pain, after all. My lips graze her ear, and she freezes.

  “Listen to me, you sweet, naïve girl. You’ve had your turn. Now it’s my time to reign. And don’t think for one second that it’s your throne I want. I don’t want that. I don’t want your status either. I want you. And I’ll have you, too. Your mind is mine to hold. Your body belongs to me. Even your soul, Mercy, is gone. I’ve eaten it. I’VE EATEN IT!”