Stealthy Steps

by Vikki Kestell

  Zander deposited the bag and Powerade bottles between the two of them before offering what he had in his other hand to Emilio. Emilio took whatever it was and turned it over in his hands.

  I thought it looked like a block of wood.

  I guess that makes sense, what with Emilio’s fetish for carving.

  Zander pointed at the chunk of wood and made some gesture. Emilio nodded and handed his knife to Zander, who examined it.

  “That kid’s likely to turn that blade on me the next time he breaks into my house,” I sniffed.

  As those words dropped out of my mouth, I was dismayed to hear how calloused I sounded. I shook my head and gnawed on the inside of my cheek, upset with myself—and angry with Zander, yet unable to tell myself why.

  Zander handed back the knife, patted Emilio on the shoulder, and then, as though he’d forgotten it, reached for the Blake’s bag. He looked inside and said something to Emilio, who shrugged.

  Zander pulled out two wrapped burgers. He handed one to Emilio. Then he reached inside and retrieved a paper sleeve brimming with fries. He handed that to Emilio, too.

  The kid placed the paper wrapping for his burger in the concrete gutter and poured the fries out. He’d already stuffed half of the burger into his mouth; he tossed back a handful of fries, too.

  Zander had taken only two bites by the time Emilio had polished off his burger. The kid was devouring fries with both hands.

  Quite casually, Zander dumped half of his fries onto Emilio’s burger wrapper, where they disappeared before Zander finished his burger. He cracked the lid on one of the drink bottles and set it on the paper near Emilio’s vanishing fries.

  When Zander cleaned up the trash from their meal, he left the second Powerade on the curb and slapped Emilio gently on the back. I was surprised—no, astounded—when Emilio flashed Zander a smile.

  Chapter 12

  Zander called a few times and came by twice more, but I didn’t answer the door or pick up his calls. I didn’t hear from him after that and, while it smarted a little, I was also relieved. I turned my attention to my job instead.

  I was late getting going the day of my next scheduled visit. Dawn was much too near when I packed groceries into my backpack and carried it out to my car. Emilio sat on my curb, his small blade carving through another scrap of wood.

  “You goin’ hiking again?”

  I was so surprised by his unexpected question that I nearly dropped the backpack—which would have been rough on the eggs.

  I turned toward him, face placid, framing an answer. “Yeah. I try to get out for the whole day, couple of times a month.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Not exactly.

  Emilio had never spoken to me. He’d rebuffed every greeting I’d offered when he’d moved in with his uncle, so I’d stopped trying a while ago. And our last encounter had been, after all, in my kitchen over a sack of pilfered food.

  “That guy go with you?”

  By “that guy,” I assumed he meant Zander.

  “No.”

  “He coming ’round soon?”

  I sighed. “No. I’m sorry; I don’t think he’s coming to see me anymore.”

  He mumbled something, a curse word, I thought. I couldn’t see his face. He was turned away from me and it was still dark.

  “Where you go?” he asked finally. His eyes never left the chunk of wood in his hand or the blade he plied to it.

  “Just up in the foothills.” My response sounded natural enough to my own ears, but my heart thudded in my chest. “Lots of trails to explore up there.”

  “Yeah. I’d like to do that. Sometime.”

  I placed the backpack on the floor of my back seat and closed the door. I was considering what he’d said, looking at it through my observations of his home life. The conclusions were distressing.

  “Well, why don’t you go, then?”

  He mumbled a few more words under his breath. I was certain he was cussing this time. His response confirmed what I’d guessed: He had no one to take him. His uncle would be more inclined to teach him how to cook meth than take him—God forbid—on a hike.

  From everything I’d seen, Mateo didn’t allow Emilio to leave the block, which would partly explain why the kid was always perched on the edge of the sidewalk. Come to think of it, I’d never seen Mateo’s girlfriend Corazón leave the house either, except to walk to the little grocery a few blocks away—unless, of course, Mateo took her somewhere else. Yeah, from what I’d seen, Mateo ruled Corazón and Emilio’s every move, and he did so with an iron fist.

  I shocked myself. “Want to go with me sometime?”

  I wasn’t offering to take him today, of course, but he and I could go any day I wasn’t headed up to the tunnels. Not that I thought we’d ever go; I was certain he would turn me down. I was just checking.

  “Naw.” His face flamed red as he mumbled the one-word reply.

  “Because Mateo won’t let you go?”

  I was pushing the boundaries of common sense and caution now—but there you go. I do that sometimes. Because I really don’t like people who control others through fear and intimidation.

  Emilio’s black eyes turned toward mine and stuck there. I didn’t blink and I didn’t look away. I kept my expression impassive.

  He broke first.

  “What you care?” he spat at me. With an angry snarl, he stood up and stomped away toward his uncle’s house.

  Leave it alone, Gemma, my inner voice warned. Just leave it alone.

  Nodding in agreement, I got behind the wheel and headed for the foothills.

  I parked on a street I hadn’t used before, along a sidewalk and under the branches of a spreading tree. The tree’s branches brushed the roof of my car. I climbed out, shouldered my backpack, and headed toward the trailhead.

  My hike up to the tunnels was uneventful, the climb quite enjoyable, really. I came at the PIDAS from a little different direction today, to prevent wearing a path to the cuts in the fence. I didn’t mind the extra climbing. In fact, I was in better shape for the several hikes I took each month.

  “Bonus!” I said aloud and laughed.

  Dear Reader,

  I have spun this tale full circle now. We have arrived back at that mid-September day, the day of Cushing’s attack on Dr. Bickel’s lab under the mountain.

  Oh, I miss him. I do.

  I apologize for the soppy tone. I’ve been isolated for a couple of weeks myself now and, well, I guess I understand how alone Dr. Bickel must have felt, by himself under the mountain.

  Anyway, on that last day, Dr. Bickel made another great midday meal for us: salad; pasta and pesto sauce with chicken and artichoke hearts; and fresh-baked garlic bread. It was so good!

  We were too full to eat dessert right away, but Dr. Bickel showed me the two beautiful frozen parfaits he’d made. They were simple, really, just colorful sliced fruits and flavored ices, but elegant and sweet. Perfect for summer. We decided to save them for later.

  I’m looking at a picture of them on my phone right now, the shimmering strawberry and kiwi slices peering through the tall glasses. We didn’t get to enjoy them. We were into our card game and I was up by 1,500 points when the first explosion blew our world apart.

  You know what happened right after that. If you’ve forgotten, you can re-read the first entry in this account.

  I can’t bring myself to write about it twice.

  Part 2:

  Stealthy Steps

  Chapter 13

  The Morning After

  Do you remember my saying I had to talk myself off the crazy ledge before I could drive myself home? Yeah, that was a noteworthy moment!

  My memories are a bit hazy after I pulled off the freeway and had my little nervous breakdown. Eventually I guess I just set the car in motion and let it find its own way home. I don’t remember checking for traffic while getting back onto the freeway, so I’m grateful that we, my trusty Toyota and I, weren’t flattened by a semi when we merged back onto I-40.

>   Then, somehow, I was back in my own neighborhood and sort of snapped out of it.

  I kept my speed under 15 miles per hour the last block before my house. My engine made less noise at that speed. I came around the curve, passed by Abe’s house, and entered the cul-de-sac. Then I stepped off the gas and let forward momentum carry the car over the curb and down the driveway to my garage door.

  I sat with the engine still running, breathing hard and scared out of my mind. I wanted to bolt, to tear up the steps and into the safety of my house, but I was frozen in place. Getting inside presented a challenge, the first in a line of challenges I would face that morning.

  I’ve told you how the folks in my neighborhood watch out for each other? So when I came home that morning—the morning after the attack on Dr. Bickel’s lab—it had to have been after 6:30 a.m., and I knew curious or prying eyes were likely to be watching. I had to be careful.

  These old houses don’t have attached garages—just tiny, detached ones toward the back of the lot. My old Corolla fit inside my garage (just barely), so I never left it in the driveway. (Not the best neighborhood, right?) The problem was, I didn’t have an electric opener on my garage door, so I had to get out of my car to raise the door.

  I also described the two break-ins to my garage earlier. Do you remember the humongous screwdriver I stuck through the door’s track just above one of the wheels? Well, the screwdriver guaranteed that no one could open the garage door from the outside—and “no one” included me. That meant I had to enter the garage by the side door.

  Once in the garage, I would remove the screwdriver and lift the door. Then I would drive into the garage and park, get out and pull down the door, and stick the screwdriver through the door’s track again.

  I would leave the garage by the side door, locking it behind me, and go inside my house via the kitchen door. (For that reason, I almost never used my front door.) And my kitchen door is diagonally opposite the garage’s side door—in plain view of the neighborhood.

  Have I painted a clear enough picture? In my mind, the whole world could see me come and go. Except they would not see me.

  Anyway, my car rolled up to the garage door that mid-September morning and stopped. Before turning off the engine and opening the car door, I paused and looked around for my neighbors. I wondered if any of them were out and about so early.

  Mr. and Mrs. Flores were retired. They often walked their little dog, Pepé, as soon as it was light enough. I was relieved not to see the sweet old couple, but I figured they could pop out any time.

  You’ve met Mrs. Calderón, our mean-spirited gossip. She slept late, so I wasn’t as concerned about her. Not this early at least.

  I wasn’t worried about Abe, either. Although I considered him a real friend, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t freak out about this. But, like I said, since Abe was not out on his porch, I wasn’t worried about him.

  I was, however, on the lookout for Emilio.

  So I stayed put, scanning for “watchers.” And there he was, perched on the curb in front of his uncle’s house—kitty-corner to the right of my driveway at the crack of dawn—whittling on a stick of wood, scowling, and shooting daggers at my car from under his bunched brows.

  How was I going to run that Keystone Kops fire drill—get in the garage’s side door, lift the garage’s car door, get the car into the garage, close the door, and jet out the side door into the house—all without Emilio noticing . . . that I wasn’t exactly myself?

  I scowled back at Emilio.

  Fat lot of good that did.

  I was angry. More than that, I was scared. Scared because I didn’t understand what had happened to me. All I wanted was to crawl into my bed and fall into a dreamless sleep—from which I would eventually awake back in the real world.

  But to do that, I first needed to get into my house.

  Unseen.

  And that’s the joke, Dear Reader, the ridiculous joke. Because as far as I could tell, I already was “unseen.”

  I stared at my hands on the steering wheel. I knew they were there. To prove my point, I used my right hand to turn on the radio. Music filled my car.

  I pushed the knob off and again wrapped my shaking fingers around the steering wheel. I could see the steering wheel just fine. I just couldn’t see my hands on the wheel. Or my arms.

  I pulled the rearview mirror toward my face—for the umpteenth time—and got the same view of the back seat, said view apparently right through my head. I gagged and thought I would throw up, but I had nothing left in my stomach.

  At the reminder, a raging thirst revived. I had thrown up hours ago. How long had it been since I’d had anything to drink? I licked my lips; they were as dry as tissue paper.

  Hot, frustrated tears dripped from my face. I knew they dripped, because I felt them—not that I could see them in the mirror, because I couldn’t!

  Movement in my rear-view mirror recaptured my attention. Emilio, across the street, rose to his feet. He glared at my Toyota, distrust oozing from every pore. He had to be wondering why I was just sitting there, why I hadn’t gotten out to open the garage door.

  Great. Just great! Now I’ve attracted his attention!

  He cocked his head, but kept staring toward me. Except I knew he couldn’t see me. He should have been able to see my form in the driver’s seat but—

  He frowned and looked around as though thinking, trying to make up his mind.

  What do I do if he starts walking toward me?

  Which is exactly what he did.

  I panicked. He was in the middle of the street, headed my way, when I, without a conscious decision, locked all my doors and shut off the engine.

  He stopped, right in the middle of the cul-de-sac, and stared. Puzzlement flitted across his face.

  If I’m really invisible, I reasoned, then he can’t see me sitting here. All I have to do is be still and wait him out. He can’t watch forever.

  I looked down and freaked: My keys were still in the ignition. I yanked them out and threw them into my car’s litter bag where they’d be out of sight.

  Emilio stepped up on the sidewalk next to my driveway and paused. He folded and pocketed his knife and held up the piece of wood he’d been whittling, making a show of examining it. At the same time, he was checking out my car and scoping the neighborhood to see if anyone else was paying attention.

  Oh, you’re good, I sneered.

  Showing no hurry, he sauntered up the drive to my car and stopped next to my door. He stared into my eyes and I, wide-eyed and hyperventilating, stared back. Sweat ran down my neck but I didn’t move a muscle.

  It was a weird, curious experience. I could see him, of course, but it was obvious that he could not see me, and that was the curious part: I was, I realized, privy to his unguarded expressions and movements. I felt like a spy or (yuck) a voyeur.

  It was creepy.

  It was intriguing.

  It might have been entertaining if I hadn’t been so parched, so anxious.

  Emilio shot another covert glance around him before he tried my car door but, of course, it was locked. He glanced into the back seat, and then turned and studied my house’s kitchen door, the one I always used.

  I was glad right then for the barred and locked security door.

  Emilio turned in a circle, apparently scanning for me and chewing his bottom lip. I’d seen the lip-chewing thing before, usually accompanied by a scowl of disdain, but I hadn’t seen him do this before: He wrapped arms around his middle and hugged himself. Hard.

  Whoa! This kid is really skinny.

  Then it hit me: Emilio is hungry.

  If I could have seen my own face, I would have slapped it.

  How could I have been so dense? In a blinding flash of genius (duh!) so much made sense, and I felt a bit ashamed. Except for school and nighttime (and where did he crawl off to then?), this kid had sat on the curb across the street for a year, dodging Mateo’s fists and likely going hungry.

  A
unt Lucy would have realized. Aunt Lucy would have seen, my conscience informed me. Aunt Lucy would have done something.

  Emilio wheeled and set off toward his house. I grabbed my keys and, as soon as he was about halfway across the street, I eased my car door open. As it had in the foothills, it creaked—and I froze. Emilio must not have heard it, though, because he kept walking.

  I got out, pressed down the lock, pushed the door, and used my rump to make it latch. Quietly.

  Emilio kept walking, but he was almost to “his” curb. I sped up the steps to my kitchen door, unlocked it, and bounded inside.

  At the last moment, I remembered how the security door swung all the way out on its own and that I had to pull it shut. I reached back and grabbed it, yanking it toward me. It slammed closed with a bang.

  I flinched a little then turned the deadbolt latch and closed and locked the inside door.

  Home!

  I cannot express the relief I felt at that moment. I went through the kitchen touching every dear object but stopped short at the sink—water!

  I grabbed a glass and filled it, letting the tap run while I gulped down several glassfuls. When I was sated, I filled the kettle and set it to heat some tea water. I took another half-full glass to my little table overlooking the neighborhood and flopped into my chair.

  Emilio had crossed back to my house.

  From the foot of my driveway, his eyes darted from my back door to my front door. He strode down the sidewalk, scanning my windows, his jaw hanging partway open.

  He had to have seen the side security door swing wide and then close on its own.

  Ooops.

  I swallowed again. Well, what if you did? I demanded silently. Just what can you do about it, you little monster? I stared back at him, but it was apparent that he could not see me.

  Little monster? My conscience reminded me how thin Emilio had grown in the last year and how I hadn’t noticed. Had I also misjudged the budding juvenile delinquent’s motives? I could almost hear Aunt Lucy clucking her tongue and planning some do-good Christian intervention. I cut her off.