[Paper Stars 01.0] Nora & Kettle

by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

  “Kin,” I whisper, shaking his shoulder really gently because it feels like his head’s not attached to them right. “Kin. Kin. Kin.”

  I run a frustrated hand through my hair and look around for help. A crowd has gathered, but their backs are to me and they’re circling around something else.

  Kin is breathing, but there’s something wrong, I just know there’s something seriously wrong. “Help me!” I say hoarsely. When no one turns, I shout, “I need help over here!”

  Muttered concern, a woman gasping, a comforting hand goes to someone’s shoulder. Sounds and actions that are aimed somewhere else, about someone else. Kin and I lie in the shadows as footsteps thunder down the tunnel and a stretcher carried by two paramedics, flanked by another two policemen, enters the scene.

  I lift Kin’s head into my lap, a thin trail of blood dripping from one of his nostrils. “I need help!” I scream. “Please!” I beg. But no one is listening. Someone more important is hurting on the other side of that wall of people. We are the street kids, Kings of Nothing, Nowhereland. If we died right here in the subway, no one would notice.

  27

  The Wave

  NORA

  Frankie gives me a distrustful look when I say it. So I say it again, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, “We’re going on a trip!” I say, straightening my neck and opening my eyes wide, which makes my head hurt worse. There are two doubtful-looking Frankie’s dancing in front of me at the moment, and I’m scared I’m going to vomit again.

  The toast in front of me shines with a slick of sickening butter. I pick it up and nibble on the corner, the fat making my saliva glands force a bloody taste into my mouth. I clutch my stomach and threaten it to calm.

  Frankie places her delicate hand on my arm and says, “Don’t need ta lie to me. I’m eight years old now.” She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her chin up to the ceiling. The love I have for this girl wraps around me like a bandage. “I’ll run away weth you.”

  I grasp her neck and pull her to me. She squeezes my middle, and I gasp in pain. “Not so tight, Frankie.”

  She releases me suddenly. “I’m sawry, Nora. It’s my fault Deddy got mad.”

  Her pink lip quivers a little and her tangled, red hair falls in her eyes as she looks at the floor in shame. I place my finger under her chin and make her look at me. “Daddy may have had a right to be cross at you for wearing Mommy’s clothes without asking, but the way he shows his anger is never, ever okay. Do you understand, Frankie? He did something wrong, not you.”

  She nods, but I suspect she doesn’t believe me. “He wasn’t all—ways like dis. Deddy changed.”

  I try to think of a time in Frankie’s life when he wasn’t like this. But I can’t. And if I start looking for answers, picking things apart, I’m scared about where it ends, where the finger points the blame. So I agree with her and run a hand through her hair, getting stuck halfway because it’s crusted with her breakfast.

  “Frankie, can you go pack a small bag? Just clothes, socks, and underwear.” She screws up her nose at the mention of underwear, which makes me let out a labored chuckle. “Get your hearing aid and its special bag. I’ll get the spare batteries from downstairs.”

  Frankie grins and bounces around on the rug. Her sudden, jerky movements make me nauseous again, and I clutch my stomach. As she’s leaving to pack, I grab her arm and pull her back to me so she can hear me. It sends a wave of pain through my body, followed by hatred, hot and acidic.

  “Get your hearing aid and its special bag. I’ll… I’ll…”

  She shakes out of my grip and crosses her arms. “You’ll get the batteries. You alreddy said that, Nora.”

  I close my eyes for a few seconds and open them again. The room shifts, and I find I can focus. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I swallow. “I did? Oh right. Sorry.”

  She lingers in the doorway, looking at me like my mother used to when I didn’t eat enough. “You need a docter,” she says sternly.

  I can’t argue with her. She is as stubborn as me, so I lie. “You’re right. I’ll go see the doctor after we find a place to stay.” This seems to satisfy her and she skips off to pack. I sigh when I think about the bag she’ll pack. It will probably contain stuffed toys, hair clips, and no underwear.

  I ease myself from the bed and quickly pack the rest of my things. Everything seems to take much longer than I want it to. I have to think really hard about even the smallest movements. It’s frustrating and slows me down.

  Marie is busy cleaning downstairs. I hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner in the front room, the noise conveniently covering what we’re doing. It’s after eleven by the time I’ve managed to dress, wash, and pack. Clipping my belt, I stand on the round rug at the foot of my bed, the swirling circles dragging down through the floor like a porthole. It’s time to go. I drag the bag into the hall and move toward my mother’s bedroom, stalling a little when I reach the door.

  Frankie slams into my back as I take the handle in my broken fingers. “Don’t go in there,” she warns, pulling my waist, and the way I feel right now, she could probably overpower me. The hearing aid is in one of her hands. “You’ll get in trouble again.”

  I turn around and carefully fit it to her ear, tucking the other part in her sash. “It’s okay, Frankie. I won’t get in trouble because I won’t be here when Daddy gets back.” I push open the door and walk inside.

  My whole body shudders when I see the blood spray over the pretty lace bedspread. The room stinks of the vomit I refused to clean up. I don’t dawdle. I rifle through her drawers and pull out the things of most value—watches, pearls, and rings. I stuff them in the bag and move too fast out the room, swaying when I reach the balustrade.

  Frankie follows me, patting my back gently as I hang over the rail, staring down at the black-and-white tiles that seem to swirl like a whirlpool beneath me. I take a deep breath to calm myself. It doesn’t really work. I’m too angry, too hurt. I don’t think about what I’m doing. I don’t want to. I just need to get out of here.

  Marie calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “Lunch is ready.”

  Frankie gives me a look, searching for what to do, and I nod. Might as well have one last meal before we leave.

  We carefully tread down the stairs. Each decline sends splitting pain through my neck and head. I ignore it.

  I should feel fear, shouldn’t I? I should be worried about what I’m going to do, how I will manage, but all I can think about is being free of this place.

  Frankie tears down the stairs, so fast they barely have time to creak, and waits for me at the bottom. I wave her off. “Just go in, I’ll be there in a minute.” I reach the bottom and try to pull myself together. This is harder than I would like. My body feels like it’s been run over by a tank and my head is fighting with me. I stare down at the tiles, the pattern seeming to jump up in my face and then fall down flat, over and over again. I hold the stair rail and count to three.

  One, two, three. Don’t think about what’s next, just put one foot in front of the other and move.

  Frankie pokes her head out the kitchen doorway and says, “Hurry up, Nora Snora.”

  I walk straight through where Mother landed, without looking down. I feel cold air skewer my chest through, but then it’s over. I collapse at the hallstand, holding onto it like it’s a life raft, and pull out the drawer full of batteries. Picking them up in slippery fingers, I shove them in the bag and kick it under the hallstand. Then I titter to the kitchen, feeling puppet-like and full of determination.

  Marie sets a plate before me at the kitchen table, avoiding my eyes. It’s a look I’ve seen before. It’s the look in the policeman’s eyes, the doctor’s eyes. It’s the ‘I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you’ look. I try to catch her gaze. She should look. She should take in every bruise and scratch and admit to herself that it’s not ‘I can’t,’ it’s ‘I won’t,’ and there’s a difference.

  She turns her back to me and starts cleaning
the bench tops with extra vigor. “Marie, what are your plans today?” I ask, poking the food with a fork. Gravy glistens with grease under the dull kitchen light, the muggy day adding no light from the window.

  “I’ve got to go to the market today. Do you need anything?” she asks, spinning around and wiping crumbs from around Frankie’s plate as quickly as she’s dropping them.

  I try to swallow a piece of roast beef. It sticks in my throat, and I grab the glass of orange juice in front of me. Marie’s shape stretches in my vision, her big eyes blinking as big as headlights as she waits for me to answer.

  “Um sure. Can you pick up some shampoo, a pair of black stockings, and some, some, some…?” I hold out my palm like the answer is hidden in there. The word I’m trying to find doesn’t want to come. It’s like pulling an anchor from a muddy swamp. I tap the side of my glass, the liquid vibrating from my touch. “Some…”

  Marie does make eye contact, her large chest heaving up and down at the sight of my battered face. “Some more orange juice?”

  I nod slowly. The words seem alien to me. I scrunch my eyes together and wait for the wave of nausea and confusion to subside. “Yes. Orange juice,” I say slowly.

  Marie moves to the counter just as Frankie jumps down from it, putting her rough hand over mine. “Miss, are you all right?”

  My eyes snap open, anger pushing at me. “What do you care?” I spit. “Don’t you dare pretend that you care about us now!” Marie quickly withdraws her hand, and I feel bad for a moment.

  Frankie stomps her foot and copies my actions, though it’s unconvincing. “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, Miss Nora,” she says, righting herself. She continues to clean as we eat. When she leaves, she announces, “I’m leaving for the market at five o’clock. I won’t be back until six. If there’s anything else you need, please let me know, Miss.”

  I don’t respond. I don’t have the energy.

  My fork clatters to my plate as I rest my head in my hands, little splatters of gravy decorating my face.

  28

  Escape

  NORA

  At five o’clock, the door slams loudly. I grab my bag, tell Frankie to grab hers, and we creep out the door like burglars. Frankie enjoys the theater of it, and it works for me to have her play along. As long as she’s quiet, it’s fine. I have to keep telling myself that it’s going to be fine. Whatever that means. If it’s something other than being here, then that’s all I want.

  Fine. Fine. Fine.

  The bag is not meant to carry this much weight, and it digs into my shoulder. I get to the front door and pause, thinking I should feel a pull to turn around. That this place should mean something more to me, and giving it one last look to say goodbye is what I should do, but my head won’t turn. I’m happy to say farewell to this place. Within these walls, I’ve felt nothing except tied down, restricted, and terrified. As I open the door and step outside, it’s like every binding just snaps. Pulling the door closed, hearing it lock. That sound. It should be scary but it’s triumphant. It’s locking him in there. All of it in there, away from Frankie and me.

  There are no nosy neighbors with their letters fluttering between their fingers as they casually try to assess where I’m going. I stride to the glass doors, the breakable bubble that separates me from the real world, and shove it open. The sounds of the city envelope me, call to me, and I smile.

  I hold out my hand and Frankie takes it, her skin sticky in my palm, her hair clumped in ribbons of autumn colors. I strike the match and walk away.

  “Where are we going?” Frankie asks as we ease down the steps. Her voice sounds buffered, like she’s speaking through wads of cotton wool.

  I glance down at her eager face. “Subway station.”

  I open the purse slung across my shoulders. I have enough for train fare, and a cheap hotel room. Tomorrow, I’ll sell what I have and go from there.

  I hit the last step and trip a little on the sidewalk. Frankie steadies me. “Thanks, sis,” I manage, as I stare down the street that seems to lengthen the longer I look.

  We walk slowly to the corner, me gripping fences and steadying myself on walls as we go. The ground is a ship deck and we’re in a storm. To outsiders, I probably look drunk, wobbling around, taking small, determined steps so I don’t trip over again. I keep my hat pulled down, but I know it does little to hide the swelling of my jaw and the bruises under my eyes.

  Frankie sounds smaller and further away when she asks, “Which way?”

  I point to the subway station two blocks away and across the street. I take a too-big step and fall forward, crashing down to the pavement like a blown-up building. A man rushes to my side and helps me up. When he sees my face, his brow furrows and he grips me harder. “Thank you, sir,” I mutter.

  “Do you need me to call your husband, Madam, or… your father?” he asks quietly.

  I shake free of his grip, the world spinning, spinning, spinning. Part of me wants to say yes. I’m scared I won’t be able to do this. The other part tells me I can’t go home. That I’m too close to getting away. That I won’t last two more years of this. He’ll kill me. He might hurt Frankie next time. I can’t. I just can’t.

  “No, thank you. I’m on my way home right now,” I say. Reluctantly, he steps away. Thankfully dark is closing in, the light fading in like at the end of a movie. And like the end of a movie, little splotches of black appear in my vision. I keep my head down, my hand tight around Frankie’s, and stumble forward.

  It becomes easier to hide as more people pour into the streets, clocking off from work. Frankie and I slide into the crowd and follow them to the station. Every now and then, she sneaks a look at me, her expression plastered with concern. I’m making her anxious and I make more of an effort to look normal as the darkness grows in the street and over my eyes. Streetlights blink on one by one, seeming to buzz like fireflies in a bottle. I keep my eyes focused on the one marking the entrance to the subway and doggedly continue.

  People gallop down the stairs. I press close to the wall of the tunnel and move sluggishly. I pay for my ticket, the man speaks to me, but all I can hear is the blood rushing through my ears and the sound of the subway tunnels seeming to flood with water. Frankie anchors me and almost leads me through the turnstiles. “Where do you want to go?” she asks, pointing at the various destinations and platform numbers.

  I put my hand to my head, trying to think, people bump me, twist me around, and I feel like I’m sinking. “Nora?”

  I don’t know what I’m doing so I just pick a platform, and Frankie pulls me forward. Everyone’s moving faster than me, or I’m in slow motion. I hear Frankie jabbering but it’s just noise, not words. I pick out the individual bricks of the tunnel and count them as I run my hand over each one.

  The incline down to the platform seems steeper than a high slide and I dig my nails into the wall, inching down carefully, all the while hearing the thump, thump, thumping in my ears as if someone were pounding my brain with a rubber mallet.

  When I reach the platform, cool air blasts through the tunnel and sends my hair flying around my face.

  The doors slide open and we step onto the train, pushed along by other commuters. As the train starts to move, I feel my stomach protesting. I watch the stations zoom by, light hitting my eyes like new punches. If people stare, I can’t see them. I’m focused on the closing circle of light in my vision.

  As I grip the underside of the chair, nausea rolls through me. I push up and out of my chair. “I need to get out,” I whisper, touching the back of my hand to my mouth. The doors open at the next station and I stumble out desperately, my sister’s trembling hand in mine.

  I pull up as the doors close and the train moves on, feeling like I’m trapped between two plates of glass. I can’t move for fear of being ill. I can’t think. Everything is dim, dark. Frankie tugs on my arm, her little lips moving, her eyes tearing up with worry. I wonder if I’ve made the right decision and how much I’ve scared her.<
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  The tunnel lights flicker, or my eyelids flutter, and the bulbs in the lamps all black out. Fabric tears, my shoes slip out from under me, and I fall. I don’t feel the landing.

  My last thought is a bad one. He’s going to find us.

  29

  The King

  KETTLE

  “Kin. Kin. Kin. Kin…” His name loses its meaning as it turns into a mantra, a prayer. I stroke the side of his face, his sweaty sideburns, and his greenish skin. He looks wrong. Too peaceful. His face should be angry, contorted with the fight I hope is still in him. His chest rises and falls, but his body is so slack it’s like his nerves are gone.

  I look up to see the paramedics carrying a woman from the platform on a stretcher. I can only see little cuts of the view through the splits in the fabric of curious onlookers. One pale, limp hand swings back and forth as it hangs over the stretcher. It’s clad in silk buttoned to the wrist. A smaller, paler hand reaches out and grabs it, squashing the fingers together in what would be uncomfortable if the woman was awake or alive. I’m not sure. I don’t care.

  The paramedic talks into his radio, “Incoming. Female appears to have lost consciousness on the platform. We’re bringing her in now.”