She lets me dress her, then watches me wash the seat of her sweatpants in the sink. I roll them up, top to bottom to keep the outside dry, and put them back in the suitcase.
Another knock. “I’m still waiting,” from the woman.
“So use the men’s.” Honestly. “Time to wash your hands, Granny.”
She does. “Your grampa only washed his hands in the morning and before he read the Bible. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he used to say, even for toilet water. If it had been up to him we’d have only flushed once a week.”
Flushing! I almost forget. I go to press the lever, but whoops. Granny dropped her paper towels into the toilet. Well, I’m not going to pull them out, am I? I flush. The towels disappear. Water rises up the bowl. It stops at the rim and settles down slowly. Whew.
We step outside. The woman waiting makes a face.
“You crap roses?” I hand the key to Hi My Name Is Trevor and get Granny back to our booth. The fries are cold. I pound out half a bottle of ketchup.
There’s a scream from the bathroom. The woman runs out shrieking. Apparently Granny and I plugged the toilet, and when she flushed, it flooded. Big deal. You’d think she had to swim through a sewer.
“It was fine when we left,” I call out.
Trevor glares at us anyway, grabs a mop and puts up an Out of Order sign.
The rest of the afternoon, Granny and I use the men’s. We go every few hours: you can’t be too careful. I bring her suitcase so it won’t get stolen, but I leave my hoodie to hold our table.
Trevor keeps asking if we’ve finished our fries.
“Not yet.” Not ever. We’re moving in, Trev.
I wish that was funny. Well, it isn’t. But where are we going to stay after tonight? I don’t know. That’s not an answer. Shut up shut up shut up.
It gets dark. Hi My Name Is Trevor turns into Hi My Name Is Harold. He’s Dad’s age with arms so hairy you could stuff sofas. The crowd changes, too. The girls are skinny with grey skin. The guys have scars.
“I’m bored,” Granny says out of nowhere.
“Me too. Want to look at some pictures?” I pull the photos of Uncle Teddy and his friends from my backpack.
Granny gasps. “Where did these come from?”
“Under your bed.”
She touches his face, lost in the picture. “Teddy had such nice friends. Look at them all, curled up like kittens.”
“Grampa wouldn’t have liked that.”
“He didn’t like much. Hard as a mule and twice as stupid. I loved him anyway.” She taps the photograph. “That was Teddy’s best friend. He did card tricks.”
“Granny … was Uncle Teddy gay?”
She shakes her head.
“’Cause I wouldn’t mind.”
“Well, neither would I,” she says.
“Good. But if it wasn’t that, why did the two of you stop talking?”
“Why ask me? I didn’t stop.” Her eyes dart like squirrels. “I’m getting out of here, Miss Nosy. I’m going home.” She slides out of the booth.
“Granny, wait. I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“No. You’re driving me crazy.” She heads to the door.
I catch her. “Granny. Uncle Teddy. His photos are on the table.”
“My Heavens!” She runs back to the booth, slides into her seat, and sweeps them up like she’s rescuing babies. Her eyes lock on the one on top. “Look at those curls. What lovely curls. Your grampa cut them.”
“What? When he was grown up?”
“Of course not. When he was little.” She hands me the photo. It’s of Uncle Teddy and friends decorating a Christmas tree. “Those were his housemates,” Granny says. “Lincoln ‘Linc’ Edwards. Bruce Izumi. Susan Munroe.”
My jaw drops. “How do you remember their names?”
“They’re written on the back.”
Duh, I knew that. There’s names on the back of every photo. “I wonder what happened to them?”
Granny shrugs. “Likely some moved, some stayed.”
“Oh my gosh, yes! Some stayed. Yes!” My brain goes electric. “Why don’t we see what’s under our nose?”
“I give up. Why don’t we see what’s under our nose?”
“Tomorrow we’re going to a library.”
“Hunh?” Granny makes a face. “What kind of riddle is that?”
“It’s not a riddle. I’m going to google these names; trace the ones still living in Toronto.”
“If you say so.” She blinks. “I’m tired.”
I roll my hoodie into a ball. “Rest your head on this.”
Granny leans against the end of the booth, the hoodie propped on her shoulder. “Sweet dreams, Pumpkin.” Her eyes close.
No dreams for me. I’m too excited. Tomorrow, I’ll track down Uncle Teddy. I just need to get us through the night.
32
It’s after midnight. The place is empty, except for two guys passing paper bags under the table and a gnarly woman in sweaters. Outside, a man missing an ear presses his face to the window and knocks on the glass. I pretend I’m invisible. Granny wakes up and waves. He yells at her and lurches down the street.
“What’s his problem?” Granny says.
The druggies leave. The old woman stuffs her pockets with ketchup packets and shuffles off with her pushcart.
“Everyone seems to be going,” Granny says. “We should go, too.”
“But I’m taking you out for dinner.”
“Why, how nice.”
A car drops off a guy of maybe seventeen, eighteen. He saunters inside and up to the counter. His jeans are so tight you can practically see everything.
“Toasted Western and fries.” His voice is butter.
The Guy sits at a table, facing us. I sneak peeks, playing with my fork. He knows it, too. I want to crawl under the table. He smiles.
Look away! I can’t. So hide in the bathroom.
“Granny, do you have to go to the washroom?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
I walk Granny and her suitcase past the Guy’s table. He has green eyes, dirty blond hair and the sweetest kiss curls ever. The tattoo on his neck is feathers. I force my eyeballs to look at Hi My Name Is Harold, a.k.a. Mr. Happy-Not. “We need the key again.” He hands it to me like some dungeon master.
I wait till I think the Guy will have gone, but when we come out he’s still eating his Western. Meanwhile, our leftovers have been cleared and Mr. Happy-Not’s wiping our table.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“This isn’t a shelter,” Mr. Happy-Not goes.
“You threw out our fries.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, you give her a break.” It’s him. The Guy.
“Mind your own business,” from Mr. Happy-Not.
“Come on, Harold.” The Guy pulls a few bucks from his pocket. “Get them two chocolate milkshakes and a burger. Keep the change.”
Mr. Happy-Not growls off to give our order to the kitchen. The Guy tosses me a wink as I get Granny back to our table.
“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” Granny whispers.
“I don’t know him.”
“For Heaven’s sake, you can be polite without tossing your legs in the air.” She turns and hollers: “My granddaughter Zoe would like to say thank you.”
“Granny!”
“You’re welcome, Zoe.” The Guy slouches down. “Care to join me?”
“She’d be delighted,” Granny says, “but don’t you try anything. I’ll be watching.” She gives him the fingers-eyes sign.
If I was redder I’d be a tomato. The Guy switches sides as I sit at his table, facing Granny. Two skinheads come in and take the booth across from us.
“You just get into town?” the Guy asks quietly.
“No. We’re waiting to take the train out.”
“Most people wait at the station.”
“We aren’t most people. My father’s driving us there.”
/> “Why isn’t he here?”
“We came from shopping.”
“Stores closed hours ago. Besides, who shops with a suitcase?”
“People who don’t like being bothered by strangers.”
He leans in. “You think you’re tough? You’re not. You need to ditch your grandmother. Drop her off at a hospital or a shelter.”
“What?”
“She’ll never make it on the streets, and she’ll take you down with her.”
A woman twitches through the door in torn pantyhose and a skirt that barely covers her ass. “C-coffee. Yeah. Coffee.” She sits somewhere behind us.
“We’re not on the street,” I say. “I have an uncle.”
“Sure. Like your ‘father.’”
“No. I also have the names of his friends. I just need to track them down.”
The Guy runs a hand through his hair. “Look, if you want, you can stay at my place tonight. It’s a hole but you’ll be safe.”
“You want me and Granny to go with you?”
“One night. That’s it. I’m not a babysitter.”
“Right. Like, I’m really going to go home with a stranger. I know exactly what guys like you are after.”
“Oh yeah?” he snorts. “I’m not into girls.” Do I ever feel stupid. He hunches in. “Here’s the deal, princess. That meth head has her eye on your grandmother’s suitcase. The skinheads over there have their eye on you. When I leave, Harold’ll kick you out. You want what comes next?”
I gulp. “You’re just scaring me, right?”
His phone beeps. “Work. My place is on the way. Coming or not?”
“I don’t know. I— What’s your name?”
“Ryder Knight.”
“Your real name.”
“You ask too many questions.” Ryder slides out of the booth. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” He heads out the door.
I glance at the skinheads. They’re staring through my top. One of them licks a finger. “Granny quick” — I run to our table — “we have to move it.”
“What?”
I grab her suitcase and hustle us out the door. “Ryder, wait up!”
33
Ryder takes us along side streets full of weeds and sagging porches. A lot of the houses are boarded up. Others have windows covered in tinfoil and duct tape.
“Are we getting near the Bird House?” Granny asks.
“Not tonight. We’re staying at our friend’s place.”
Ryder flicks on a pocket flashlight and leads us up a lane of tilted garages.
I stop. “Where are you taking us?”
“My place.”
Granny tugs at my sleeve. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay, Granny.” I call to Ryder: “We’re going back.”
He rolls a garage door partway up. “It’s just through here.”
What happens if we follow him? What happens if we don’t?
Ryder disappears into the garage. There could be people inside ready to jump us. I want to be home. I hold Granny’s hand as we dip our heads into the dark. Overhead, things run along the rafters.
“Rats,” Granny says. “I’ve told your grampa we need traps.”
Ryder opens the far door to the yards of a five-unit rowhouse. The doors and windows are nailed over with sheets of plywood and big No Trespassing signs. The roof in the middle is caved in.
“There’s no electricity or water,” Ryder says. “If you have to go, squat behind the junk pile. I’ve got a bucket in my room, but only for emergencies.”
“You mean this is your place?”
“It beats the street.”
Okay, yeah. “Granny, do you have to go to the bathroom?”
She makes a squeeze sound. “No. I’m good.”
We cross piles of junk to a rotting deck; a clothesline runs from the door above to the telephone pole by the garage. We duck under the deck and take four stairs down to a sheet of plywood leaning against the wall. Ryder wedges it to the side. Behind, there’s an open doorway to a basement.
We go inside. Eyes gleam at us out of the dark. Ryder shoots his light at a family of raccoons. The mother shakes herself and slouches them next door through a hole in the shared wall. Ryder pulls the plywood back into place.
“This is like a dream I have,” Granny says, as we follow his light up the stairs. “I walk through dark rooms and I don’t know where I am. Is this that dream?”
“Yes, but I’m here and it has a happy ending.”
“Good.”
At the top of the stairs is a kitchen lit by a kerosene lamp. A man is raking the walls. We walk down a hall of graffiti.
“Who else lives here?” I whisper to Ryder.
“Depends on the night. I have a lock on my door and a bolt inside. I’ve only been broken into twice.”
We stop at a door with crowbar marks on the frame. Ryder unlocks a padlock and we step inside. A mattress and sleeping bag are flopped in the middle of the room. Clothes are heaped on shelves of plywood and cinder blocks. There’s a table with candles and matches, a duffle bag in the corner, empty pizza boxes and pop cans on the floor.
Ryder lights the candle. “Don’t worry about the mattress. I’ve slept on it for six months, haven’t been bitten yet.”
“Where did it come from?” The dump?
“It belonged to the girl before me: a Laura, Lanie, somebody. She got on the wrong side of the Razor on George Street. Disappeared. Anyway, lock up. I’ll be back by morning.” He takes off.
Wait! My throat’s frozen. I bolt the door.
“So, where are we?” Granny puzzles. “Still in that dream?”
“At a friend’s place.”
“Oh.” She pokes her nose around.
I look at the bed. Did Laura/Lanie run away like me? Is this a dead girl’s mattress?
Granny shakes out the sleeping bag and crawls underneath. “Sorry, I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“Granny, first let me take off your shoes. Please? You’ve had them on for a few days.”
“So? I don’t want cold feet. Your grampa had cold feet. Gave him pneumonia. That’s what killed him. Cold feet.” She yawns. “Nighty night. Turn off the light on your way out.” And she’s asleep.
I snuff the candle and cuddle beside her. Running away. What was I thinking?
A bunch of people crash up the stairs. There’s yelling in the kitchen. Crazy talk. Whoever it is bangs their way down the hall. I pull the sleeping bag over our heads to hide. They stumble up to the second floor.
How long before morning?
34
Light pierces a crack in the plywood over the window. Granny’s still asleep. She mumbled crazy stuff all night. I know ’cause I was awake. My skin’s clammy. I’m chilled to the bone. There’s nowhere to run. I wipe my eyes.
Normal Tuesdays, I’d be finishing breakfast, Mom would be making her grocery list and Dad would be talking back at the phone-in show. What are they doing today? Are Granny and I in the news? If only I had my phone.
A knock. “It’s me. Ryder.”
I let him in. He’s smaller than I remembered. His face is bruised. He takes off his shirt. More bruises.
“What happened?”
“Guess.” He swipes on some deodorant.
“It’s from that ‘job,’ isn’t it?”
“What do you care?”
“Do you do what I think you do?”
He slips into a cotton sweater. “Probably.”
Granny rubs her eyes. “What’s the commotion?”
“Ryder’s back,” I say. “He let us stay here last night.”
“I’m taking you guys to Trigger and Tibet’s,” Ryder says. “They’re friends of mine. They have a guest room and a toilet.”
“Great idea,” Granny says. “I have to go pretty bad.” She squints at Ryder. “Did you fall down the stairs?”
“Sure.”
We’re dressed from yesterday, so we head out right away. Granny can’t wait for Trigger an
d Tibet’s. She does her business behind the junk pile while Ryder and I stand lookout.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask. “Please? I have to check a few things online.”
Ryder passes it to me. I google “Zoe Bird” + “Grace Bird” and get six hits, all local radio stations and newspapers. The Free Press says we’re missing: we called a cab from the Blackstock Farm and disappeared, and anyone with information is asked to call police. Luckily, Granny’s photo is blurred; mine’s from a yearbook.
“You done?” Ryder asks me, as Granny comes back from the tires.
“Yeah. Sure.” I hand him his phone.
Ryder leads us back towards the restaurant. Past the park, we stop at a shop: 2TZ Tattoos. I look between the bars over the window. Up front there’s a counter; in the middle, couches held together by duct tape; at the back, two barbershop chairs with tray carts. The walls are covered in coffins and swords.
“Relax,” Ryder says. “The Ts raised twins over the shop.”
He opens the door. Instead of a tinkling bell, there’s a scream. A tall, skinny, bald woman swings round on one of the barbershop chairs. She’s somewhere between Mom’s age and Granny’s, ears rimmed with rings, arms and scalp with ghosts and Buddhas.
“Hey, Trigger,” she calls upstairs, “come see what the tide washed in.” So she’s Tibet. Her face changes as she gets closer. “Whoa, not again.”
Trigger rolls down into the shop, an apple in a bandana. “Oh man.” He stares at the bruising.
“It’s no big deal,” Ryder says.
“Tell that to the mirror. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
“I won’t be working the street forever.”
“That’s what you said two years ago.”
“Preach much? You haven’t even asked about my friends.”
Tibet’s forehead wrinkles up onto her scalp. “Sorry,” she says to Granny and me. “You are …?”
“Zoe Bird. And this is my granny, Grace Bird.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Granny says, and shakes their hands.
“I found them last night at Sonny’s, took them home,” Ryder says.
“Aw, kiddo.” Tibet hugs me, voice like a blanket, hands like work gloves. “It’s rough, hunh?” She opens her arms for Granny.
Granny’s eyebrows pop up. “Who died?”
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