Bone

by George C. Chesbro

  Again, Barry turned his head slightly. "You want a few more words of advice?"

  "Yes, I would. I'd appreciate anything you have to tell me."

  "You're hunting for something you've lost and think you may be able to find; the people you're going to be sharing living quarters with have lost everything, and they have no hope of ever getting it back. For them, all they have left to hang on to are a few scraps of dignity. On the other hand, you have a bunch of poorly trained and poorly paid guards who, if only subconsciously, realize that they could end up as residents in the shelter if they lost their jobs. That can make for a touchy situation sometimes. Things like respect and macho are very important to those people."

  Anne shook her head slightly. "What are you trying to tell him, Barry?"

  Barry looked over at the woman. "I'm talking about his attitude. Bone, you can get into some funny situations in there. You've been offered a bed in a halfway house—something most of those people in there would give just about anything for. But a halfway house wouldn't work for them because they don't have any job or living skills left—if they ever had them. My point is that some people might accuse you of playing games."

  "Because I want to recover my memory and find out who I am?"

  "Because of the way you're choosing to do it. I'm not saying you're wrong; I'm saying that some people might resent your attitude. Just watch yourself."

  "Thanks for the advice, Barry."

  "Are you going to be seeing Ali, Bone?" Anne asked quietly.

  "Every Sunday morning."

  Barry grunted. "Sunday is the only time he has to himself. He's really giving you the royal treatment."

  Bone noted the slight trace of resentment in the social worker's voice, wondered what it meant. "I think he wants to spend more time with me than he has available during the week."

  Anne said, "Do you know where his office is?"

  Bone nodded. "Lexington Avenue. I have the address and his phone number."

  "His office is a long way from the shelter."

  "I'll find it."

  "How will you get there?"

  Bone shrugged, smiled at the woman. "I suppose I'll walk. Walking seems to be about the only thing we know for sure I do well."

  "There's a bus that'll take you there. And if you don't want to spend money for bus fare, I'll pick you up and drive you."

  "It's all right, Anne; I'll manage to get there. Thank you for the offer."

  "I'll get you a bus schedule."

  "Thank you."

  Barry turned on Fourth Street, went around the block, came up Third Street and pulled over to the curb at the small side entrance to a mammoth, grayish-brown stone building. The door was dwarfed by the facade, which was soaring, bare, oppressive. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were crowded with men, blank-faced, sitting on trash cans or slumped against the sides of buildings. Some stood in groups of two or three, talking. A few feet from the entrance, four men stood facing the stone wall, urinating.

  "Home, sweet home," Barry said tersely.

  Anne reached into her purse, drew out a manila envelope and handed it back to Bone. "I've put some things in here which I think you might find useful. There's an overall map of Manhattan, and more detailed maps of different areas. I've marked the places where Barry and I sighted you during the past year, and I figured you might want to check out those neighborhoods first. The numbers next to the Xs indicate—approximately—the number of times we saw you at that particular spot. There's also a subway schedule; if you can't make sense of it, just ask the people in our office at the shelter—or give me a call. My card is in there, and I've written my home number on the back. If I'm not in my office or at home, leave a message on my machine. If you need anything in an emergency, or you're in trouble, don't hesitate to call me—day or night." She paused, flashed a broad grin. "After all, we did manage to get you out of the rain and the hospital, and we kept you from going to jail. Now we have to keep you going. Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Okay?"

  Bone's hand touched Anne's as he took the second envelope from her; he left his hand outstretched, and she did not take hers away. Their eyes met and held, and in that moment he clearly sensed the woman's openness and sincerity, her affection for him, her vulnerability—and his own.

  And he remembered what Ali Hakim had said.

  He had no right, Bone thought; he could not love until he had found the stranger.

  "Thank you," he said, averting his gaze as he took the envelope. "I owe you both"—he paused, looked hard at Anne so that she would know it was really her he was talking to—"more than I can ever repay. Goodbye."

  He quickly opened the back door of the van, got out and slammed the door shut. Barry immediately put the van into gear, and as it pulled away Bone could see Anne looking back at him with open affection—and worry.

  He held her eyes, answering in the only way he could—in silence—until the van turned right on the Bowery and disappeared from view. He sighed, placed the femur under his right arm, where he hoped it would be as inconspicuous as possible. Then he headed for the door to the converted armory, nodding to a knot of curious-eyed men as he passed through the doorway into a world of strange smells and dank semidarkness.

  (iii)

  Barry drove three blocks up the Bowery, then abruptly pulled over to the curb behind an appliance truck that was unloading and turned off the engine.

  "What are you doing?" Anne asked. "We have a staff meeting in half an hour, and we're probably going to be late as it is."

  Barry turned to her. He looked pale, the ashen color of his face accentuated by his dark widow's peak. "I need to talk to you, Anne."

  "Won't it wait?"

  Barry shook his head almost angrily, and his large hands tightened on the wheel. "I wish you hadn't done that; you shouldn't have given him your home telephone number."

  "Why not?"

  "The man could be a killer."

  "He's not."

  "You don't know that; even Bone doesn't know whether or not he's a killer."

  "I know he's not, even if he doesn't. I don't believe a man's character could change so much just because he lost his memory."

  "It was the blow to his head that could have caused the change in character; that's what Ali says."

  "Well, Bone can't kill me over the telephone, can he?"

  "It was unprofessional of you to do that."

  Anne stiffened. "I don't need lectures from you on professionalism, Barry; I've been at this business just a bit longer than you have. Bone is a special case. You have to give him credit for voluntarily going right back into the bowels of this city, because he thinks he has to, even when we offered him an easy way out."

  Barry looked away. "You talk like you're in love with him," he said, a strong note of petulance in his voice. "Or at least sexually attracted."

  "Oh, come on, Barry. If I were, it wouldn't be any of your business. But I still think you're missing the point. We spend our days, our careers, applying Band-Aids to the gaping wounds of this city, and we both know it doesn't really do too much good in the long term; most of the people we try to reach out to were destroyed long before we ever got to them. But Bone can be helped, both short and long term; he already has been. It's true that I now think of him as a friend as much as a client, but I don't understand why that should bother you. You've had a kind of nasty thing about him ever since he came around in the Sheep Meadow. Now, I think we'd better get going, or—"

  "Anne," Barry interrupted in a thick voice that was slightly muffled by the window. "I know you've requested that you be assigned a new assistant. I'm asking you . . . please . . . not to do that."

  Anne sighed, glanced at her watch; they were going to be very late for the staff meeting. "Barry, I just think it would be best for both of us, kind of a change of pace. You'll learn new things from a different partner, and it will be good for you." She paused, met his gaze, continued in a firm voice, "Besides, you've really been acting k
ind of weird for the past week or so; frankly, you make me uncomfortable."

  "It's because I love you, Anne!" Barry said quickly, his green eyes shining brightly. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, and on his upper lip. "I knew I loved you, but I never realized how much until I . . . saw the way you looked at that man!"

  "Barry, I seem to recall having a similar conversation with you once before," Anne said in the same soft but firm voice. "It's why I—"

  "I took you for granted, Anne! Now God is threatening to take you away from me unless I make things right!"

  Anne slowly blinked, instinctively shied away from the man beside her until her forearm was pressed painfully against the door handle. "What?!"

  "I know I've been acting badly, Anne, but it's because I'm afraid of losing you!"

  "Barry," Anne said in measured tones, enunciating each word clearly. "I was never yours to lose. Do you hear me? I never had any idea that you felt this strongly, and if I had—"

  "I believe God wants us to be together, Anne! I know it was God's will for me to leave the seminary and work with the homeless, and I believe God meant for us to meet and—"

  "I'm going to take a cab, Barry," Anne said as she shoved open the door of the van and quickly stepped out on the sidewalk.

  Barry shoved open his door—narrowly avoiding having it torn off by a cab that swerved away at the last moment and continued up the street, its driver shaking his fist. Barry rushed around the van, caught up to Anne on the sidewalk. He started to reach out for her arm, then dropped his hand when she again shied away from him.

  "Anne," he murmured, distressed by the shock and alarm he saw in the woman's hazel eyes. "Anne, I'm sorry. That's all I really wanted to say, and . . . I just don't want to lose you as a partner. Please."

  "I spend all day talking to people who talk to God, Barry," Anne said coldly as she stepped to the curb and raised her hand to signal for a cab. "I sure as hell don't need another one sitting next to me in the van."

  "Please get back in, Anne. I said I was sorry. I'll never mention the subject again."

  He waited, but Anne did not reply.

  "Anne . . . ?"

  "I'll see you at the meeting, Barry. Give yourself a break; buy yourself a cup of coffee and calm down. We'll talk later."

  A few moments later a cab pulled up to the curb, and Anne got in. The cab immediately pulled away with a screech of spinning tires, leaving Barry Prindle standing on the sidewalk looking after it with eyes that had misted with tears.

  Chapter Seven

  (i)

  Inside the massive converted armory that was the New York City Men's Shelter, Bone waited patiently in line in a large, stone vestibule with two dozen or more shuffling, disheveled men. There were three metal detectors set up at the front of the line, near the opposite end of the vestibule, but none of them appeared to be working. Instead, frisk-searches were being conducted by two uniformed, surly-looking HRA security guards who wore gauze masks over their noses and mouths, and rubber gloves. Beyond the metal detectors, at the foot of a stairway leading deeper into the interior of the armory, a bored-looking, middle-aged woman with dyed red hair sat at a desk, taking down the names of the men as they passed through the security check and handing out slips of paper of various colors.

  When it was Bone's turn to be searched, he stepped forward and raised his arms over his head as he had seen the others do. The guard on his left, a man with cold, suspicious black eyes showing above his gauze mask, squinted as he looked up at the femur Bone held in his left hand.

  "What the hell is that?" Even muffled by the mask, the voice was harsh, rasping.

  Bone met the man's hard gaze, shrugged. "It's just something I carry around with me."

  "You've got to be kidding me, blue-eyes. You can't bring a weapon in here."

  "It's not a weapon."

  Without warning, the guard on his right, a young, prematurely balding man who smelled strongly of body odor, reached up and snatched the femur from his hand. "Jesus Christ," he said to his partner in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, "this fucking thing is hard as a rock." He paused, thrust his pinched face close to Bone's. "You could bash somebody's brains out with this thing."

  "It's just something I carry around with me," Bone repeated quietly, looking back and forth between the two guards. "I've never . . . I don't use it as a weapon."

  "Well, you're sure as hell not bringing it in here," the pinch-faced man with the body odor said.

  "Fine," Bone said, lowering his arms and holding out his hand. "Then I won't come in. Give it back to me, please."

  The two men exchanged glances, then pulled down their gauze masks and turned their eyes back to Bone.

  "Frank didn't say he was taking it away from you, or that you wouldn't get it back," the raspy-voiced guard with the cold black eyes said in what seemed to Bone a guarded tone. He pointed to his left. Bone looked in that direction, and saw beyond the metal detectors a large, glassed-in room; two walls of the room were lined from floor to ceiling with metal storage baskets labeled with strips of paper tape. Inside the room, three more uniformed guards stood next to a huge coffee urn, smoking and talking. "We'll keep it in there for you, and you can have it back when you leave."

  "All right," Bone said evenly, and lowered his hand.

  "What's your name, blue-eyes?"

  "Bone."

  "What's your real name?"

  "I don't know. Bone is what people call me."

  The young bald man named Frank took a step closer to Bone, thrust out his chest. "Hey, you son-of-a-bitch," he said with quiet menace, "are you trying to jerk us around?"

  Up close, the smell of the man's body was almost unbearable. Bone resisted the impulse to step back. "No," he said in a flat voice. "You asked me my name, and I told you what I'm called. I don't know my real name." He paused, stared back into the pinch-faced man's light brown eyes, smiled thinly. "If you want to call me by some other name—even son-of-a-bitch, if it makes you happy—be my guest. And if you want me to turn around and walk out of here because you don't like my name, that's all right too. Just give me back my property."

  "Now, whoa, hoss—!"

  "Just a minute, Frank," the raspy-voiced guard said as he put a hand on the other man's shoulder and pulled him back. "Take it easy."

  "Look, Burt," the bald man snapped as his face flushed a deep red, "I'm not about to let some prick come in here off the streets and try to make a fool of me!"

  "Shut up, Frank," the other man said evenly, without taking his eyes off Bone's face. "Are you righteous, blue-eyes?"

  Bone replied, "I don't know what you mean."

  "I'm asking if you're righteous—if you really have any business here."

  "I still don't understand what you mean."

  "You wouldn't be a reporter, would you? Maybe a spy sent here to check up on us to see if we're doing our jobs right?"

  The bald man named Frank glanced sharply at his partner; when he looked back at Bone, his small eyes were clouded with anxiety and open hostility.

  "I'm just somebody with no place to stay," Bone said quietly.

  The man with the cold eyes shook his head. "You don't exactly look like the kind of guy we usually get down here, blue-eyes."

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Shut the fuck up!" Frank shouted over Bone's shoulder in response to grumbling among the men behind him. Bone glanced around, saw that the steadily building line now snaked back into the street. "If you don't like waiting around for free food, shelter and clothing, get your filthy asses back out on the fucking streets! I don't want to hear any more fucking bellyaching!"

  "You look to me like a man with things on his mind, blue-eyes," the guard named Burt said quietly, his black eyes continuing to search Bone's face. "Men who come in here usually don't have anything on their minds, except what's to eat, which cot they sleep on and where they're going to get their next drink when they walk back out onto the street in the morning. You don't look to me like
a man who's been missing too many meals; what you do look like is a snoop of some kind. We've been taking a lot of shit in the newspapers lately about the way we run things down here, and I'd hate to think that you're here to spy on us and make more problems."

  "I am exactly what I told you—somebody with no place to stay."

  "Look at your clothes; they're brand-new."

  "They were given to me by HRA people—the same people who told me I could come here. They said I was expected."

  "Not by us, blue-eyes."

  "Check upstairs."

  "Fuck upstairs. What's in the envelope?"

  Bone handed the man the large manila envelope. The guard looked inside, examined the maps, pushed them to one side. "What's with the maps?"

  "They're just things I carry around with me. Like the bone."

  "What are you, a fucking eccentric?"

  Bone choked back laughter. "You could say so."

  "What's in the smaller envelope?"

  "A hundred dollars."

  "Where the hell did you get a hundred dollars?"

  "It was given to me. It's all the money I have; these are the only clothes I have."

  "Most of the men in here haven't seen a hundred dollars in cash in years; some of them would kill you for this. You want us to keep it for you?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Empty your pockets."

  "I don't have anything in my pockets."

  "Frank and I are the naturally curious types; show us."

  Bone pulled out the pockets of his pants to show that there was nothing in them.

  The cold-eyed man continued, "No identification?"

  "No. The bone, my clothes, the maps and the money are the only things I have."

  "What the fuck? Were you born yesterday?"

  Just about, Bone thought. But he said nothing. Once again the two guards exchanged glances, then Burt handed him back the envelope with the maps and money.

  The man with the body odor mumbled, "Well, if you are snooping for some newspaper or the HRA, make sure you report that we're doing our jobs as best we can. You can see that we're searching for weapons, and we won't let you carry that club. Burt and I aren't the ones who let that guy with a gun slip in here."