Fake: Book One of the Crossroads Series

by Lori Saltis

  “It will be our last hurrah before settling into the Bleater life,” Bridie announces as she stands.

  The hell it will. It will be the beginning of our new life. All I have to figure out is how.

  Chapter 12

  Paul

  My neck itches. I tug at the collar of the shirt Auntie Cat has just ironed. She holds out a tie. I shake my head.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter if you wear one or not.” She pauses, as if waiting for some kind of response, but I have nothing to say. “Can you change into your dress shoes?”

  I shake my head again. I’m not taking off my Vans. Mom bought them for me the last time we went shopping at the Ocean Plaza Mall in Kowloon.

  Her fingers pluck at the skirt of her plain, black dress. The she lays her hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to go.”

  “Is that bitch really going to be there?”

  “Paul, Sylvia didn’t kill your mother.”

  So, she is going to be there, crying fake tears and convincing everyone, even Auntie Cat, that she isn’t a murderer. Good. I want her there so I can look her in the eye and remind her of her guilt and eventual punishment.

  I’m the fucking Dragon Son and your day will come.

  I yank away and go downstairs to wait in the studio. If it was a normal Friday morning, Auntie Cat would be teaching Tai Chi, but she’d cancelled all her classes this week. I stare at my reflection in the mirrored wall. I didn’t brush my hair and it’s sticking up on either side of my head, making me look like a startled rabbit. Easy prey. No fucking way. I rake my fingers through my hair. Then I shut my eyes, cooling the bitter brew of rage and fear bubbling up inside by imagining I’m going to view Head Elder’s body instead of Mom’s. I stare at my reflection. Cold, sullen eyes stare back. Good.

  Through the storefront window, I can see the taxi waiting for us. I pat my pocket, making sure I’d grabbed my transit pass. If it gets too weird or crappy, I’ll bail. Come back here and go up to the loft on the top floor, where Auntie Cat let me set up a secret art studio about a year ago. It wasn’t much of a secret. I’m sure my parents knew about it and hoped I’d grow out of it. I planned to become a successful artist and prove I’m not wasting my time. Now, they’ll never know.

  I stare out the window as we drive through the foggy gloom of the Sunset District and head east, toward the sunnier side of the city. Auntie Cat takes out her rosary and starts fingering the polished black beads. I can’t tell if she’s praying or nervous, or both. I stare at the silver crucifix at the end. I want to grab it from her and demand to know why God let my parents die.

  “Do you think Mom and Dad are in hell?” That just came out. I don’t know why I asked.

  Auntie Cat puts on her ‘proceed with caution’ face. “No, of course not.”

  “Do you think they’ve been reincarnated?”

  “Catholics don’t believe in reincarnation.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a Chinese Catholic. Do you believe in Jade Dragon?”

  “Of course,” she answers without hesitation.

  “A lot of people don’t believe in dragons, especially Christians.”

  “As you pointed out, I’m a Chinese Catholic.” A small smile lifts her lips.

  If things were different, I would have smiled, too. Instead, renewed anger boils up from my stomach. “Maybe Jade Dragon isn’t real. Why didn’t he save my father?”

  She shakes her head sadly. “I don’t know.”

  The taxi heads into the Broadway tunnel. My chest tightens. We’re almost there. Auntie Cat presses her rosary into my hand. “It can help having something to hold onto.”

  I shove the beads into my pocket. I’m not religious and I’m not going to start now. Mom and Dad hadn’t been religious either. A little Buddhism here, a little Taoism there: that was it. The only thing that mattered was venerating Jade Dragon.

  God and Jade Dragon, they play on the same team. Distant. Uncaring. Basically useless. I’m done with both of them.

  My stomach shrinks into a tight, hard ball as the cab pulls up in front of the Pacific Avenue Mortuary. I want to ask the driver to take me back to Auntie Cat’s, but if I do, I won’t see Mom.

  While my aunt pays the driver, the mortuary’s double doors swing open. Tony and Aaron come out and stand under the green awning. They’re wearing identical dark blue suits and matching ties, which, at any other time, I would have found hilarious. I would have smirked before asking which one of them is taking my order. Now, I turn away and wish they’d disappear.

  The cabbie comes around to the passenger side. He opens the door and Auntie Cat climbs out. I don’t move. I can’t.

  She bends over and peers in at me. “Paul?”

  I shake my head.

  After a few moments, she steps aside.

  Tony’s hands curl around the roof as he leans inside. His cold expression has softened with concern. I stiffen and look straight ahead. Tony is concerned because I’ve accused his mother of murder.

  “Little Brother,” Tony speaks gently.

  I gnaw my lip and blink back tears. I don’t want to miss Tony or long for his company. If only we could talk, but what good would it do?

  “Hey, Paul?” That voice belongs to Aaron.

  I sigh and turn. Aaron stands beside his brother, his eyes bewildered and face forlorn. It’s not his or Tony’s fault their parents are murderers. I don’t want to punish them.

  “You guys look like waiters in those suits,” I mutter as I slide out of the cab.

  “Yeah, well, you look like a monkey in your suit,” Aaron replies.

  “Hush,” Tony says.

  For a single moment, everything feels normal. Then I have to make my legs move forward, into the mortuary. My cousins walk on either side of me while Auntie Cat goes ahead. Inside the lobby, the hum of chatter mutes to silence as we enter. Everyone stares at me. Who are these people? I mean I recognize them. It’s the usual crowd of distant relatives and clan members who show up at the banquets. I’ve gone to their weddings and red egg parties, and hung out with their kids, but I don’t know any of them. I can’t tell who would’ve sided with Dad and who with Head Elder. It makes me suspicious of them all. A sad face can mask an evil heart. Speaking of which, I don’t see Auntie Sylvia. Maybe she made some lame excuse to stay home. I hope not. I want to see her. I want to throw the rosary in her face and call her a murderer in front of everyone.

  Auntie Cat leads the way up a wide, marble stairway to a chapel on the second floor. Huge wreathes surround the altar, their pedestals overflowing with cascades of flowers and ribbons. If this was the actual funeral instead of a viewing, I’d already be at the front, dressed in white rags and bowing as each visitor comes forward to pay respect.

  The altar has been set up with candles and more flowers, and offerings of fruit and incense. In the center sits a large, framed photograph. That picture… I recognize it from my parents’ wedding album. It’s a headshot of Mom with flowers wound through her hair. Her smile is so girlish and her eyes full of hope. As we get closer, I see the coffin behind the altar. My mother – she’s inside that box. My feet falter. I stop. A tremor rattles through my body. My hand covers my eyes as I choke back a sob.

  Tony’s arm slides across my shoulders. “It’s all right, Little Brother. I’ll go with you.”

  Leaning against Big Brother, I stumble forward. When we reach the casket, my knees shake. It takes several deep breaths before I can look down.

  Mom lays nestled in a blue velvet cocoon. I almost don’t recognize her with all that makeup and her hair styled in puffy curls. Her eyes are closed tight and her mouth pulled down, as if she’s trapped in an uneasy dream. Someone has dressed her in a white silk blouse with a Mandarin collar, something she wouldn’t have worn in a million years.

  I pull away from Tony and reach into the casket. Her hair feels sticky from too much hair spray. With trembling fingers, I gently tug out those stupid curls into natural-looking waves, until she looks more like my m
other.

  My throat aches, making it harder to swallow back tears. I whisper the last words that I should have said, that had been robbed from me. “I love you. Goodbye.”

  My hands clutch the edge of the coffin, my fingers digging into the plush lining. Tomorrow, Mom will be flown to Hong Kong. I’m supposed to follow the next day, supposed to be the chief mourner at my parents’ funeral on Chisel Knife Mountain. Everyone will expect me to play nice and not point the finger at the real murderer, Head Elder, a man who killed his own daughter.

  The rustling noises behind me grow louder as people enter the chapel and slide into the pews. I turn around. A sea of face stares at me, sympathy in their eyes, but do any of them really care how my parents died? None of them will listen to me. All they care about is keeping the status quo. Anger burns through my chest. I should shout the truth and make them listen.

  “Little Brother?” Tony stares at me with cautious eyes. Do I look weird? My face feels too hot.

  “I… I need to use the bathroom. By myself, okay?” I hurry down the aisle, dodging concerned glances and sympathetic murmurs. Out in the foyer, I shoulder past the people making their way into the chapel and head downstairs.

  When I reach the bottom step, I look back. No one followed me. Good. I’m shaking so bad I don’t know how my legs are holding me up. I look around. There are folding screens in almost every corner. I almost duck behind one until I spot the bathroom sign. I push open the men’s room door so hard it hits the wall and head straight to the faucet. Cold water takes the flush from my cheeks, but does nothing to cool the rage in my heart, the anger I feel toward the murderers and myself.

  I raise my head and stare at my dripping reflection. “The truth,” I whisper. “You have to face the truth.”

  Jade Dragon had warned us. He had ordered Dad and me to kill Head Elder or face the consequences. We made it worse by touching the spirit wall.

  My hand slams down on the sink. I grip the edge to keep from throwing punches at the mirror. After a few moments and a few deep breaths, I grab a handful of paper towels and wipe my face. Dad and I failed. He and Mom paid the price. What should I do now? Return to Chisel Knife Mountain and finish the job?

  How will I do that? I’m supposed to be the almighty Dragon Son, but the Dragon Shout is a wobbly toy in my hands. I’d need to somehow get hold of the Yang Pearl. Let’s say I do. Then what? Wait until all three murderers are standing in one place and blast them? Not going to happen. The best I can hope for is killing Head Elder before I’m taken down.

  Wait. If I die, Uncle George becomes the Dragon Son. Is that why he and Auntie Sylvia murdered my parents, so they could seize power? I know Auntie Sylvia would love to see Tony become the heir. I rub my chin. Okay, that works for them, but Head Elder won’t be on board with that. Is there some kind of power play going on between the three of them?

  Maybe Head Elder didn’t order them to murder my parents. But if they did it on their own, Head Elder would have walloped them by now, unless things had happened as they said, which I don’t believe for one second.

  Shit. I can’t kill them all in a rage of vengeance. I need to know the truth and I don’t have a damn clue how to get it. The damp towels have wadded into a ball in my fist. I hurl it at the trashcan and leave the bathroom.

  As I head down the corridor, I hear a familiar voice coming from the stairway. Auntie Sylvia. So, she dared show up after all. Should I confront her now or wait until she’s standing in front of Mom, acting like there isn’t blood on her hands? I duck behind a folding screen.

  Heels click across the marble floor. Auntie Sylvia’s voice rises above the sound. “I’d love to go out for lunch afterward. Let me send my sons home first.” She heaves a dramatic sigh. “They’re so young. They don’t understand the need to eat and relax after such a trying experience.”

  “Trying?” repeats another woman.

  “Well, sad. Tragic. You know what I mean.”

  The sound of their heels comes closer. They’re heading toward the bathroom. Through a gap between the panels, I see her walk by, all dressed up as if she’s going to a dinner party, as if she’s not guilty of murder. The reek of roses curls around the screen.

  “Will you take custody of him, Sylvia?” asks the other woman.

  “I suppose so.” Her voice sounds evasive. “Head Elder has ordered that I take custody. Of course, I’ll comply.”

  The hell you will! The words almost burst from me. It’ll be a cold day in hell when she gets custody of me and I’m going to fucking tell her to her fucking face.

  I open the bathroom door silently, hoping to startle her. Then I step inside with a frown. The women’s bathroom is different. It has an extra room with couches and mirrors, and boxes of tissues.

  Auntie Sylvia’s voice echoes from the stalls in the next room. “Can I tell you something? You have to promise not to tell anyone else.”

  “Of course,” says her friend.

  “Paul won’t be returning from Chisel Knife Mountain. I mean, I’ll take legal custody, but he’ll be staying with his grandfather from now on.”

  I freeze. What?

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “No. I’ve been so upset. He’ll throw a fit and I don’t want to deal with that.”

  “What about Catherine? You know she won’t care about Head Elder’s orders.”

  “That’s not my problem. The clan can deal with her and him, not me. I’m not up to it.”

  There’s a pause. Then the friend speaks in a hesitant tone. “Have you told your sons about your doctor’s appointment?”

  “No… I… not yet. Not after all that’s happened.”

  “You should tell them soon.”

  “I will.” Auntie Sylvia heaves another dramatic sighs. “I can’t think about that right now. The Dragon Son’s death has affected me… all of us so deeply. I’ll tell them when I’m ready.”

  “Of course.”

  My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear. What are they talking about? What appointment? Does it matter? No. Head Elder is planning to kidnap me. I have to get out. I have to get away.

  I spin around and see two purses on the counter. I hesitate. An honorable man, a Xia on the Glory Road, doesn’t steal.

  Fuck that. I need cash. And who better to take it from?

  I reach into the first purse and open the wallet. The driver’s license shows the photo of a vaguely familiar woman. I shove it back in and reach for the other purse. I don’t bother looking at the license. I don’t want to see Auntie Sylvia’s face. I grasp all the paper money and leave the change so she won’t notice her purse is lighter.

  A toilet flushes.

  I shove the money into my pocket and creep out of the bathroom. After glancing up and down the corridor, I move with Silent Steps to the back exit, covering the distance without sound. I reach for the door handle and stop. What about Auntie Cat? She’ll be so worried. I have to leave some kind of hint that I’ve run away. If I had my phone, I could send her a text, but I’ve barely touched it since Tony tried calling me during the week. I take out the rosary and drape it on the handle. No one else will recognize it. Hopefully, she won’t see it until I’m long gone. I wince as the door creaks open. Then I slide through the smallest possible crack before easing it shut.

  The exit door leads into an alley that doubles as a parking lot for the hearses. I squeeze past them and find myself on Pacific Avenue. In the middle of the day, on a busy street, I can’t use any of my stealth skills, like the Swift Step or the Climbing Skill. A couple of blocks away, I spot a bus heading to the stop on the corner of Pacific and Powell. My stomach trembles while I wait for the light to turn green. I don’t want to draw attention by jaywalking. A bunch of old people cluster around the stop, most of them hauling handcarts full of fruit and vegetables. They make for lousy camouflage since I’m at least a head taller than all of them.

  I cast nervous glances at the mortuary, but so far no one has come outside. The approaching bus i
s a 12, which means it’s heading for the Mission District. I’ve only been there once, on a school field trip to check out the murals and some old church, and, I guess, learn about the culture. Members of the Two Dragon Clan hardly ever leave Chinatown, except to go to other Chinese neighborhoods, like where Auntie Cat lives. Which makes the Mission District the perfect place to head for. I swallow hard as the bus pulls into the stop. This is it. No going back. I pull out my transit pass and climb aboard. After a quick glance around, I sit beside a large guy who provides ample cover against anyone peering in the window. The bus turns right onto Powell. I hold my breath until it turns right again, onto Broadway and out of sight of the mortuary.

  Getting off on 24th and Mission is like entering a different city. It’s sunny and warm, and the bums bask in the sunlight instead of huddle in doorways against the cold bay breeze. Latino music pours out of the windows and doors of the shops. On that field trip, the teacher had yammered on about something called reverse gentrification. Back during the tech boom, a bunch of hipsters and techies moved into the neighborhood and jacked up the prices. Now that they’re gone, the Mexicans and other Latin people have moved back in, and the city has gone back to ignoring their problems. I don’t know much about it. Booms and busts don’t really affect Chinatown or our problems.

  Looking around, all I know for sure is that a Chinese kid in a suit stands out like a sore thumb. I gotta ditch these clothes. I look up and down the street and spot a thrift store half a block away.

  Inside, I wander up and down the aisles. How should I dress? I glance at other shoppers. Most are parents with kids. A few punks root through the racks, digging for ‘80s treasure. They’re pierced and Mohawk-ed, and their clothes are ripped and frayed in the right spots. If I looked like them, the clan could never find me…

  A lightbulb turns on above my head.

  I trail the punks, trying to look casual as I gather their discards. Inside a dressing room, I count the money I stole. Eighty-eight dollars. Double eights. Some people would say that’s lucky. Yeah, I am one lucky guy.