by Lori Saltis
I follow slowly. Bridie isn’t well educated, school-wise, but she has plenty of street smarts. She’s obviously hoping some lesson will be learned that will turn Kai and me into happy, grateful little Bleaters.
So not going to happen.
My dance costume, while flash, is all wrong for busking. If the busk goes wrong - say, the gardaí chases you off, you have to be able to blend in with the crowd. I put on jeans and a black t-shirt. Concrete will wear down the soft soles of my gillies, so I place my hard dance shoes in the gym bag, along with the penny whistles.
Downstairs, Bridie waits with Kai. She’s wearing an orange peasant blouse over a denim miniskirt and moccasin boots. Her legs are pale from lack of sun. Kai has on his treasured Pogues t-shirt; the one Matthew gave him. He sways with impatience, knocking his guitar case against his knees.
Bridie tosses me a tambourine. It jingles as I catch it. “Bring your transit pass, but no money. I don’t have any money, either. If we want lunch, we’ll have to earn it.”
“What about Bill?”
“We’ll be home before he is, though if I had my way, we’d be gone until tomorrow. That way, we’d have to busk until we earn enough for dinner and a hotel for the night. I want you two to remember how hard that life was.”
Bridie obviously thinks her children have grown soft in confinement. She’s about to learn different. I lift my chin. “Let’s go.”
We walk a couple of blocks and catch the light rail downtown. At Powell Street station, another busker has already taken the primo spot in the atrium outside the turnstiles. He’s strumming his guitar like it’s a weapon and singing “Like a Rolling Stone” at the top of his lungs, his long dark hair swishing around his shoulders as he sways back and forth. The punters hurry past him since they don’t like being hollered at.
“Someone beat us here,” Bridie remarks. “We’ll have to play in the street.”
I nod toward ‘Bob Dylan’s’ empty guitar case. “He won’t be here long. No one’s tossing him any gelt.”
“We can’t afford to wait around. Time is money.” Bridie’s know-it-all expression makes me grit my teeth.
We go up the escalator. Tag-rags cluster around the metro entrance, begging money off the Bleaters who, for the most part, ignore them. My nose crinkles as we pass one with a strong urine stench. Sharpers look down on tag-rags – junkies, pushers, pimps and prostitutes. Substance abuse and vice aren’t tolerated on the Crossroads, but is living off of Bill much different than prostitution? Can’t Bridie see that?
This part of Market Street is one big tourist trap, packed with malls, fast food restaurants and chain stores. Biggest trap of all is the cable car turnaround. A queue of tourists snakes around the block as they wait to board the antique trolleys, which must slowly turn around on the tracks before making the journey up and down the steep hills to Ghiradelli Square. We made the trip once. It would have been fun if Bill hadn’t ruined it by complaining about the cost.
Other buskers have taken over this prime spot as well, so we head down the street toward the bay, though we don’t go too far. There’s nothing to be gained by venturing into the area known as Boomlandia. After the tech bust, businesses failed and thousands of jobs evaporated almost overnight, according to Bill. He told us, smug as you please, that tourism and the financial institutions are all that’s holding the city together. Whatever the truth is, a lot of buildings are empty or occupied by tag-rags, so there’s no point in going near them.
After walking about two blocks, Kai says, “I’m thirsty.”
Bridie shrugs. “We don’t have money to buy a bottle of water.”
I glare at her. She’s deliberately making this harder than it is. There’s a large drugstore on the corner. Without a word, I lead the way inside to the water fountain.
As Kai drinks, Bridie remarks, “Not too much, son.” She nods at a sign saying the toilets are for customer use only. Does she want him to pee in the gutter? Even in London, we never did that.
We cross the street to a small plaza next to a mall. Bridie takes out her violin and sets the open case on the sidewalk in front of us. She and Kai tune their instruments and I do some quick stretches before replacing my clogs with my hard dance shoes. They’re designed for jigs and inlaid with resin to make a tapping noise as I dance. The mid-sole is flexible and the tip reinforced so I can dance on my toes.
People hurry by, ignoring us. No one wants to be bothered, not until we prove we’re worth their time.
“Let’s start with the Beatles,” Bridie says. “Everyone loves the Beatles.” She tucks her violin under her chin and plays the melancholy opening chords of “Nowhere Man”. Some people turn their heads, but no one stops. Kai joins in on guitar and vocals while I play the tambourine and sing along.
“Nowhere Man” gets us nowhere. Not even a dime is tossed into Bridie’s case the entire song.
She shrugs. “Well, we’re only getting started. Let’s give the Beatles another try. Something more upbeat.”
“Here Comes the Sun” earns us some smiles as well as spare gelt, including a couple of dollars. Bridie looks at the money and gnaws down a smile. “We can’t play the Fab Four all day. I think it’s time for Penny to earn her keep.”
I meet the challenge in my mother’s eyes. “It’ll have to be a jig. How about ‘Penny’s Prance’?”
Bridie’s face goes blank. I wipe my palms on my thighs. Suggesting that song is risky, but she’s the one trying to relive the old days like it’s some kind of punishment. She’s forgotten the joy of playing our own music. “Penny’s Prance” was written for me and I haven’t danced it since Gerry and Matthew died.
“I… I doubt your brother remembers that one.”
“Yeah, I do.” Kai sets his guitar in its case, takes out a penny whistle and plays the opening bars.
Bridie closes her eyes and sucks in her breath. There’s no joy in her face when she looks at me again. Her bow attacks the violin strings as she strikes up the tune.
Maybe I pushed her too far, but I need Bridie to know… to understand that no matter what, I don’t want our songs to be forgotten. I miss the first beat and shake my head to clear my thoughts. I have to concentrate or I’ll trip and sprawl all over the bricks.
Arms pressed to my sides, I pick up the tempo, the tips of my shoes tapping out the rhythm. When my legs kick up, people slow down. Some stop. Some stay to the end of the song. Applause surrounds us as I bow again. Dollar bills fly into the case. Bridie’s eyes widen. My smile hurts my face. I can’t let the punters see I really want to cry.
As the crowd disperses, one man remains. He’s well over six feet tall, with an impressive girth made grander by the long, patchwork coat he wears like a robe of state. His baggy gray trousers, faded and streaked with dirt, are tucked into a pair of knee-high, fringed leather boots. His long brown hair and full, chest-length beard, both shot with gray, sprout from his round, red face like a lion’s mane. In one hand he holds a knobby staff, almost as tall as he.
He drops a dollar in the case and smiles through his beard, revealing yellow, uneven teeth. “Very nice.” His voice has a gentle rumble.
“Thank you.” Bridie’s lips remain parted, as if she wants to say more. Then she simply nods.
He nods back and continues on his way, striding down Market Street, his staff thudding the ground before him, a king on progress through his realm.
“The Beggar Chief,” I whisper.
“No…” Bridie’s voice trails off as she stares after him.
“He’s got the staff,” Kai says.
“That doesn’t mean he’s the Beggar Chief.” Bridie scratches her knee with her bow. “Though I suppose there must be a Beggar Clan in San Francisco.”
Of course there’s a Beggar Clan. How can there not be? San Francisco is a fulcrum on the Crossroads, just like London and Dublin. All kinds of Sharpers live or pass through here, including the Dragon Son. I swallow those words, not wanting to spook Bridie. I clear my throat. “Min
d if I buy a bottle of water?”
Bridie frowns. “Just one. And all three of us share.” She reaches into the case and hands me just enough change for the one bottle.
Kai gags. “Gross.”
I sigh. Bridie really wants to push her point, doesn’t she? I shove the coins in my pocket and head for a drug store across the street. I feel a little guilty when, as a paying customer, I use the loo.
When I reach the crosswalk, I hear Bridie and Kai playing Cat Stevens’ “Where Do the Children Play.” Even from across the street, I can see the light of joy in my mother’s eyes. Real joy, not that happiness she fakes to keep Bill Charmed.
“Please, please remember who you once were,” I whisper before I rejoin them.
“Ready for another dance?” she asks.
I nod.
“How about ‘The Strowler Girl’s Jig’?”
Now I go blank. That’s another Wild Sky song written for me. Is Bridie really getting into the spirit or is this payback for dropping “Penny’s Prance” on her? Does it matter? As long as Bridie is playing our music, she’s being reminded of what we’d once had and can have again.
It’s been more than a year since I last danced or even practiced this jig. It involves intricate heel/toe tap combinations and I mess up a couple of times before I get back in the rhythm. My frown of concentration turns into a smile as I relax and let my body feel the beat. A growing crowd gathers and by the time I take my final bow, Bridie’s violin case is overflowing with dollar bills.
Not everyone in the audience is smiling. A woman dressed like a prison guard on holiday looks us over with disapproving eyes. “Shouldn’t these two be in school?”
“Not today,” Bridie replies with a bright smile. The woman gives us a long stare as she walks away. I wonder if she’s related to Vice Principal Ikeda. Bridie mutters, “Mind your own business, you gobby cow,” before turning to Kai and me. “We better move on. Don’t want the gardaí asking what you’re doing out here. Besides, we have enough for lunch.”
A scabby tag-rag lurches toward us. He grabs hold of Bridie’s case, clutches it to his chest and skitters through the crowd. I freeze. I don’t care about the money. I care about this day, the first good day in a long time, being ruined by some cracked-out swill tub.
“Oi!” Kai takes off after him.
I’m on his heels.
Bridie grabs my arm. My shoes clack against the bricks as I flail backwards. I try tugging away, but her fingers dig into my flesh as she hollers, “Kai! Son, no. Get back here right now.”
Kai halts, probably because he’s wearing Matthew’s guitar and doesn’t want it ruined in brawl. Still, he glares at Bridie as he stomps back. “He’s getting away.”
“Let him. I swear, the two of you…” She lets go and presses her hand to her heart. There’s fear behind the anger in her eyes. “You catch up with him, he’ll hurt you.”
“Or we’ll hurt him.”
“We can’t just stand here,” I say. “We have to stop him.”
“Stop him how? You brawl with him, these Bleaters will call the gardaí, who’ll want to know who we are and what we’re doing out here, trying to earn money without green cards.” She takes a deep breath. “Well, I hate saying I told you so and I really hate losing my violin case, but I suppose it’s worth the lesson. The Crossroads are dangerous. Without the protection of the law or our clan, we’re helpless. We can’t go back to our old life; don’t you see? I’m sorry, darlings, but that’s the way it is.”
The bearded man comes striding toward us, staff in one hand and Bridie’s violin case in the other. He holds it out to her with a courtly bow. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Bridie gapes before she speaks. “Why, yes, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.” His eyes twinkle as he speaks. Then he turns away to leave.
Bridie bites her lip. If she doesn’t say something, I will. Then she bursts out, “Walk in peace, Beggar Chief.”
I smile. I can’t help myself. She nudges me. I nudge her back.
The man turns back around. His gaze becomes shrewd. “Well, now. Who do we have here?”
“We’re Strowlers,” I say.
“Ah, I see. Kingfisher’s people?”
“No,” we all say at once.
The Beggar Chief raises his bushy eyebrows.
“We’re not American Strowlers. We’re from Ireland,” Bridie explains.
“Well, that explains the accents.” He bows again. “John Walks Long, at your service.”
She gives a little bob. “Bridie Sparrow.”
“Walk in peace, Bridie Sparrow.”
“These are my children, Penny and Kai.”
“Walk in peace, Beggar Chief,” I say and Kai echoes.
He nods. “Walk in peace, children.” He turns to Bridie. “Are you out here from necessity?”
“No. Well, not exactly. I want the children to remember their roots.”
“I see.” He gives a gentle nod.
“Is there any way I can repay you?”
“I ask nothing in return. The pleasure of such song and dance is payment enough. I’ll have my people keep an eye on you when you next perform. Will you return soon?”
“Um, no.”
My heart sinks. For a moment, I want to ask John Walks Long if I can come with him. A short, stupid thought. Even if he agrees to take me, I can’t abandon Bridie and Kai, no matter what.
Kai’s head drops and he stares at his shoes. I’m pretty sure he’s having a similar thought.
“I mean, not with the children.” Bridie’s sounds hesitant. Then she picks up steam. “When I perform with them, the weekends are more likely. By myself, yes, soon.”
“Then perhaps I shall see you soon.” John Walks Long gives a sweeping bow, his long coat swooshing about his legs before he strides away.
I chew my cheek to keep from talking and ruining things. Kai plucks at his guitar strings as if tuning them.
“Well,” Bridie gives a breathy sigh. “What a fine man. One certainly feels safer on the streets with him and the Beggar Clan about.”
“Sort of like Mad Maud.” I hope I sound casual.
Bridie smiles at the mention of the Beggar Chief of London. Her gaze becomes distant. “Dear Maud. She was a real friend. I… I…” She clears her throat. “I think we’re done for the day.”
“Are we really coming back this weekend?” Kai asks.
Bridie blinks a few times before looking at him. “What was that, darling? This weekend?” She rubs her chin. “Bill watches sport all weekend long. He won’t care if we nip out to rehearse where we won’t bother him. I’ll tell him we’re going to the park. This is sort of a park, isn’t it?”
A little squeal escapes my throat. Bridie pretends not to notice. She hands the case to Kai. “Count it up, darling. Probably enough for lunch in Chinatown.” Her gaze becomes distant again. “Same as in London. Funny, how that is.”
Funny, yeah, but no one is laughing. I suck in my breath to keep tears from my eyes. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but it’s too late. Hope soars and I fly with it, all the way back to London.
Chapter 9
Paul
It’s lonely at the top, and by ‘the top’, I mean 39,000 feet above Japan.
For the past few hours, I’ve been trying to think of a bogus emergency that will convince the pilot to turn the plane around and head back to Hong Kong. Nothing comes to mind that won’t get me arrested, and that won’t help Dad one bit.
We’re in first class, and Tony and Aaron already have their chairs stretched out into beds. I don’t get how they can sleep, even if we did leave for the airport at 3:00 a.m., and by leave, I mean snuck out with no goodbyes to family or friends. I thought Dad was going to drive us, but a guard got behind the wheel of his car. As we drove away, Mom looked back at Dad until the gate closed behind him. The tears in her eyes didn’t fall.
She looks more stoic now as she stares at her video screen, watchin
g some dumb comedy movie that doesn’t make her laugh or even smile. My chest tightens. Maybe I should confess and tell her what I overheard, but what’s the point? I’m sure she already knows whatever dark secret Head Elder is threatening Dad with. If she wanted me to know, she would have told me by now. That’s why Tony and Aaron can sleep, because they don’t know there’s something more to what’s happening besides Head Elder being power hungry. Ignorance really is bliss.
Mom turns off her screen and closes her eyes. After a few minutes, her breath becomes even. I peer at my cousins to make sure they really are asleep. Then I reach into my backpack and slide out my drawing pad and pencil. I sketch Mom’s profile. Her mouth looks tense rather than slack and her eyes are closed tight. The harder I try, the worse it looks, almost like she’s dead. A chill shivers through me. I turn to a blank page. My mind goes blank, too. What do I want to draw? I can’t think of a single thing.
I slide open the window cover, but there’s nothing to look at, not even Japan, just clouds. Is Jade Dragon anywhere nearby? No, he can’t be. He would knock the plane out of the sky in his wake. How do dragons avoid airplanes? Maybe they fly far enough above to avoid collision. I draw the curve of the earth across the bottom of the page. Then I draw a plane bursting through a cloud bank, and above that, a dragon streaking through the upper atmosphere. Maybe dragons are what cause turbulence…
The plane shakes and lurches. I look out the window, half expecting to see Jade Dragon’s scaly, coiling length flying alongside us. No sign of him. Good. I don’t want him following us. He needs to stay in Hong Kong and watch over Dad. My teeth clench. That isn’t going to happen. Our ancestor made it clear he’s not going to stick around and help his descendants. I shove the pad into my backpack. What good is Jade Dragon if all he does is show up once a year and toss around some blessings? So what? Anybody can do that. With a huff of disgust, I close my eyes. I don’t sleep.
I force a few bites of breakfast down my throat, plus two cups of coffee with plenty of sugar. It doesn’t help. I shamble alongside Mom as we go through customs at San Francisco International Airport. There’s a van waiting for us and I climb into the very back, hoping I can stretch out. Nope. Aaron ignores my glare and settles beside me. He takes out his violin and checks its polished wooden surface for damage. Then, for whatever damn reason, he starts tuning the strings, each pluck emitting a grating, monotonous tone. What the hell? Is he going to perform with an orchestra in the next ten minutes? I elbow him. He scoots over a little and continues plucking the strings and winding the pegs. I nudge him harder. He sticks out his tongue the smallest amount so it’s barely noticeable and glances at Mom. Little shit. Isn’t that racket bothering her and Tony? Nope. They’re each staring out the window, alone with their thoughts.