Of Stone and Sky

by Charissa Stastny

  She stuck out her tongue.

  I schooled my features. As much as I appreciated my new senior executive, she also exasperated me.

  “Now that we have the daily insults out of the way, let’s discuss the Wilder Foundation.” This funder was huge. Alexander Wilder had deep pockets, but he was a tough-as-nails recluse who hated everyone. She’d have her work cut out for her, trying to soften up the old man.

  Gemma pursed her lips. “I studied his file last night. His oldest daughter had a stroke three years ago which left her severely impaired. If I focus on the handicap line, I might hook him.”

  I cringed. “Disabled. Don’t ever use the H word with Wilder. It’s politically incorrect.”

  She nodded. “Got it.”

  “Maybe mention the motion-barrier sensor technology we’re working on.”

  She twirled a horrendous braid around her finger.

  “You know,” I said, “this type of discussion tends to go over better face-to-face. If you dressed more professionally and did your hair in a more conservative style, you could go after Wilder in person.” Which was what it’d take to secure his support.

  “You mean dress like a robot?”

  “I mean don’t dress like a circus performer.”

  She scowled. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a jackasp?”

  I counted to ten. “Just consider it. My publicist could set you up with a new wardrobe. He has an eye for these things. I’d pay, of course.”

  “Of course.” She picked up her satchel and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  I shook my head. What was up with her?

  I stepped off the elevator and scanned the garage. A habit since the vandalism had begun months ago. A first sweep showed all clear. A second search made me tense up. Someone crouched beside a car on the third row. Should I alert security?

  Muscles clenched as I pulled out my phone and crept closer. I did a double take when I saw who sat against a flat tire of an old Ford Focus.

  “Ms. Stone?” I stood and scratched my head. She’d marched out all huffy forty-five minutes ago. Why was she still here?

  She glanced up and groaned. “Ugh. Go away.”

  I wanted to. The storm last night had dropped fresh powder, and I itched to try out my new fat tire bike. But she’d seen me, and I couldn’t pretend not to have seen her.

  “Have you been sitting here all this time? Why didn’t you call security?”

  “I don’t like your security people. Besides, there’s nothing they could do. My spare’s flat, too.”

  I didn’t want to take time to find a spare and change her tire. But I couldn’t leave her stranded.

  “Come on. I’ll give you a lift home.” That would take less time than messing with her tire.

  She perked up. “Really?”

  I clicked my key fob. “Can’t leave you here to wallow.”

  She stood, and my eyes widened. Her tire wasn’t flat. It’d been slashed.

  “Damned gypsies,” I muttered, snapping a picture of the damage with my phone to send to the detective. Why were these hoodlums targeting my business?

  “Excuse me?” She placed hands on her hippie skirt. “Didn’t 2020 teach you better than to bash other races?”

  I wasn’t bashing a race. These were criminals. I had video footage of two of the punks breaking a window of an employee’s car last month. The cops had verified that they were part of a gypsy criminal ring. When I’d questioned him about gypsies in Salt Lake City, the officer had explained how an organized crime syndicate used undocumented gypsies to sell drugs, steal, and traffic people.

  I opened the door of my Jag for her. Not until we were out of the parking garage and I asked for her address did I learn she lived clear out in ghetto West Valley City.

  Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled up to a sketchy apartment complex. Mountain biking was out now, since by the time I made it back to the canyon, it’d be dark. Being a nice guy never paid off.

  A quick sweep of the area made me shiver. I tried to avoid places like this.

  “Thanks for the ride.” Gemma opened her door and stepped out.

  I locked my Jag and ran to catch up to her, though I wanted to drive away and never set foot in this neighborhood again. A dark man in the shadows watched her.

  Gemma waved me away. “You don’t need to walk me to my door, Mr. M. I’m a big girl.”

  I scoffed. “You’re barely 5’4.” I kept my eyes on the thug.

  “Will you just leave?”

  “Not until you’re in your apartment.” With the doors locked. I peeked back at the man, wishing he’d go away. “You’re a target for guys like that,” I whispered.

  She huffed. “You’re totally profiling.”

  “Can you frickin’ blame me? This place is a crime scene waiting to happen.”

  “Then leave. You’re obviously out of your element.”

  “Where’s your apartment?”

  “Third floor.” She headed up the stairs.

  I followed, trying to prove something to her. Or me. At her door, she turned to tell me to leave again, but I put up a hand.

  “I’ll see you inside your apartment. That’s what gentlemen do.”

  She smirked. “You think you’re a gentleman?”

  “I try to be.” Hell, didn’t driving her all the way out here count for anything?

  The door opened, and a wrinkled Hispanic woman marched out, poking Gemma in the chest.

  “Lo dejo,” she said. “You pay money.”

  A small kid ran out and wrapped his arms around Gemma’s legs. “Mama.”

  Mama?

  The older woman pointed at him. “Chico malo!”

  “No.” Gemma put a protective hand on her son’s shoulder. “He’s not bad. You just don’t understand him.”

  The older woman must be his caretaker, though she didn’t look very caring. I nudged her toward the stairwell, pulling out my wallet.

  “How much do you owe her?”

  Gemma frowned. “This isn’t your concern.”

  “How much?”

  She hung her head. “One hundred seventy dollars.”

  I paid the woman and shooed her away. “You’re fired.” She started to protest, but I glared at her, and she stomped down the stairs.

  Gemma smacked my arm. “What is it with you and firing people?”

  “You want someone like her watching your son?”

  The boy buried his face in her skirt. My jaw clenched when I noticed a ring of bruises on his arm.

  “No, I—” Gemma lifted him into a hug. “There’s just no one else.”

  Ah, hell. She was right. This was none of my business. “We’ll find somewhere better for him.”

  “I can’t afford—” She choked up.

  Wanting to leave so she could fall apart without an audience, I nudged her inside her apartment. “I’ll pick you and your son up in the morning. We’ll find somewhere safe for him, okay?” I looked down the darkened stairwell. “Lock the door. I’ll be here at half past eight. Be ready. I don’t like waiting.”

  Saemira

  Age 8 - Fushë Krujë, Albania

  DUPED: to be tricked.

  They passed the fig tree, and Saemira sensed eyes watching them. Cursed eyes. Soul-stealing eyes.

  Esad’s magic stone warmed her hand as she pressed closer to Baba and peeked over her shoulder at the dirty gypsy following them.

  “What did you learn in school today?” Baba asked.

  “Teacher made me read in my primer.” Boring. She could read much more advanced texts, but Teacher had slapped her hand with a ruler when she’d asked for harder books. She kept quiet now.

  “Who did you help today?”

  He always asked that, but she couldn’t answer because the gypsy was getting dangerously close. Not wanting him to steal her soul, or Baba’s, she whipped around.

  “Go away, gypsy!” She threw the magic stone, but it didn’t go straight or true. It clattered harmlessly agai
nst a door.

  “Saemira, shame!” Baba’s sharp voice startled her almost as much as the swat on her bottom.

  Tears filled her eyes. Baba had never spanked her before.

  He turned to Bengalo, but she grabbed his arm. “Don’t look at him, Baba. Gypsies steal your souls.”

  “Hush, bijë! Eja.” Baba waved to him. “My daughter owes you an apology.”

  “No Baba. Esad said—”

  “You will not listen to the small minds of others. I’ve taught you better.”

  “But Esad’s eleven.”

  He frowned. “Age does not bring wisdom. Kindness does.”

  Bengalo approached, chewing his puffy lips. She huddled into Baba’s long coat and lowered her eyes so he couldn’t make her do another bad thing.

  “Let me get my magic stone so the gypsy won’t hurt us,” she whispered.

  Baba smacked his leg. “Don’t use that vile word again, Saemira. Your words have way more power than that rock.”

  “But Baba.”

  “I forbid you from using that word. Remember what I taught you? Words can lift or destroy. Gypsy is a very destructive word.”

  “But, Baba.”

  “No buts.” He knelt in front of her. “I gather one of the older boys at school taught you misinformation. That’s a fancy word for lies.” He spoke in English so Bengalo wouldn’t understand. “He’s Roma, as is your mama. Small-minded people call them gypsies. Do you think Mama steals souls?”

  “No!” How could he ask such a thing?

  He stroked her hair. “Roma are no different from you or me. They can’t steal souls. But they do have feelings. There are no such things as magic stones. Your classmate duped you.”

  She sniffled. “I gave him three of Mama’s bracelets and my lunch for a week.”

  “Oh, princess.” He hugged her. “By their fruits you shall know them. This Esad sounds like a rotten apple full of worms.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Tell him you’re sorry, not me.” He pulled Bengalo closer. The boy’s lips pulled up on one side. Was he smiling?

  “Sorry,” she said in Albanian.

  He smirked. “You throw like a girl.”

  Baba chuckled as she pouted. “Join us for dinner, son. My wife will feed you. Saemira will teach you English words.” He raised an eyebrow. “Good ones.”

  She froze. The gods would curse her if they brought Bengalo home. Their house might explode, or he might make her steal again. But she could tell by the way Baba had his arm around the boy’s shoulders that he wouldn’t change his mind.

  Gemma

  Mr. McConnell’s car was fancy with a capital F. It stood out in my crummy neighborhood like a neon sign when it pulled up to the curb where Altin and I waited. I climbed into the back and buckled Altin into a toddler seat which appeared brand-spanking new. Had he bought this for Altin?

  “You don’t need to sit back there with your son,” Mr. M said when I shut my door.

  Ugh. Judgmental much? “I want to.”

  “So, I’m the damned chauffeur?”

  “I didn’t ask you to fire my sitter.”

  He grunted.

  I moved my butt around in the heated seat and played with all the buttons on the door to see what they did. Mr. M rolled his eyes as my window went up and down, but he didn’t tell me to stop. Dang. I’d hoped to elicit a reaction to discern his fruits. Speaking of fruit, I’d forgotten to grab a banana on my way out the door. My stomach grumbled.

  This would be a long day.

  “How can you live in that slum with your son?”

  I sighed. “I wondered when you’d start interrogating me. Is your tongue bleeding from biting it?”

  His jaw clenched. “Your car should be fixed by the end of the day. My mechanic said your tires were balder than Captain Picard, so he replaced them. He also fixed your transmission.”

  What? Who was Captain Pickart? “I don’t have money for that.”

  “No charge. Call it a work perk. I’d prefer to never drive out to your ghetto apartment again.”

  Ugh. Jerk. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I think it is.” I didn’t like owing people. “Now tell me what you named your Jeep in high school.”

  “I don’t name my cars,” he said with a growl.

  “Joe said—“

  “Joe’s an idiot.”

  I huffed. “He is not!”

  “What’s wrong with your son?” he said, changing the subject.

  I tensed. “Nothing’s wrong with Altin.”

  “Gemma,” Altin said.

  I tapped his nose. “Good job, sweetie.” I’d been trying to get him to use my name for months.

  “You let him call you by your first name?”

  Grrr. I fiddled with the window controls.

  “I can’t find the right caregiver if you’re not forthcoming about his issues. How old is he? He seems big to not be talking much.”

  “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”

  “By living in the hood? Your son deserves better.” He tossed a notebook back. “I made a list of schools. I wasn’t sure about Altin’s setbacks, but I had Lionel make appointments to visit these places.”

  “I can’t let you do that.” No way could I afford a ritzy childcare center.

  “It’s not all about you. Don’t you want better for your son?”

  The veins in my hands popped out. “Stop judging me! You have no idea about my life so don’t act like you do. We aren’t all swimming in money like you. I have a ton of medical debt and don’t have the best options available.” A lump clogged my throat.

  “Sorry. That came out wrong.” He frowned. “I just want to help. Don’t worry about tuition. We’ll work something out with a bonus. Get Wilder on board, and I promise you can afford the best. And I’m adding a new place to your contract. I have a small rental sitting empty in the Avenues. You can move in ASAP. I’ll have Lionel send movers to get your stuff out of that dive.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Your commute wastes precious time which could be spent winning Wilder to our side.”

  Was this a subtle form of control, taking over my life by pretending to be kind?

  “What’s your favorite food?” he asked.

  What the fudge? One minute he offended me, the next he threw out a question as if we were friends?

  “Mine’s Asian.”

  “Albanian,” I said, to shut him up. “Shish Kabab House.”

  “Albanian?”

  I cracked my knuckles. “I’m into weird ethnic dishes. El Salvadoran, French pastries, Japanese sushi, African wildebeest. If it’s weird food from a weird country, I’m all over it.”

  “That’s not surprising. You seem the type to prefer weird.”

  I glared at the back of his head. Had he meant that as an insult?

  The sound of children playing sliced into me like a dagger as I sat with Mr. M on a bench in the shade of a playground. I recalled my school days, before I’d been shunned because of my heritage. Altin clung to my penguin pants, watching the other children with fear and longing.

  “Play with them.” I nudged him. “Don’t those toys look fun?” They appeared like paradise to me. A paradise I couldn’t afford, no matter what Mr. M said.

  This was the third school we’d visited. The way the directors at each had fawned over us made me wonder if another force had been in play behind the scenes. A force of green bills. Or maybe all white people got fawned over like that. I wouldn’t know.

  I propped a foot on my knee as Altin took hesitant steps toward the sandbox. Had I done right in taking him away from his foster family? Seeing the perks at these schools, I realized he’d missed out on a ton. Maybe I should’ve left him with that family in Michigan, far from the gods who seemed to hate me.

  Mr. M walked over and took Altin’s hand. “Want to build a sand castle, bud?” My mouth fell open when my boss knelt in the sand—in
his suit!—to show my brother how to fill a bucket with a toy shovel.

  No man who acted so sweet with kids could’ve beaten his wife, could he? He’d spent the last three hours driving me and Altin around to different centers and asking thoughtful questions I never would’ve considered. He definitely wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t a monster.

  “Wow. That’s…busy.”

  I flinched as he joined me again, staring at the cutwork design on the bottom of my sandal.

  I twisted my foot. “Took me forever to carve this.”

  “You did it?”

  “Well, duh. Have you seen store-bought shoes with such awesome detail on the bottoms?”

  “I’ve never looked.”

  “Most people don’t, but they should. Your shoes are your signature to the world. Most people’s footprints are boring and not worth a second glance, but these”—I wiggled them—“say ‘Follow me. I’m someone you want to know.’”

  He smiled. “You’re definitely one of a kind.” His gaze turned thoughtful. “What do you think about this place?”

  “It’s great, but I can’t afford it.”

  “What facility would you choose if cost wasn’t an issue?”

  “The second.” Altin had warmed up fast to a Miss Tina there.

  “He did come out of his shell there.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll tell Lionel to get Altin enrolled with Miss Tina as his teacher. The woman seemed open to extra nanny opportunities when I pulled her aside.”

  I laughed. Was he serious?

  “What?” he said.

  “I’m not the nanny-hiring type, in case you haven’t noticed. There’s no way in Helsinki I can afford that place.”

  He rested a hand on mine. “You can, Gemma. I just doubled your salary.”

  I squirmed, uncomfortable under his intense gaze. Sure, on paper I might seem to have scads of cash now, but looks could be deceiving. “I’ve been paying extra on Altin’s hospital bills.”

  “Please don’t fight me on this. I want your son in an optimal environment. As for nannying, there may be occasions when I need you to work an evening, especially if Casey fixes you up and gives you new clothes to meet with funders in person.”