Tom Finder

by Martine Leavitt

  “Where’s the girl they brought in with me?” Tom asked. “Pam.”

  “No girl. The police saw her, but she got away.”

  What if it’s not true?

  As soon as the nurse went out of the room, Tom dressed and left the hospital.

  His heart couldn’t beat as fast as his feet could run. The sky was lightening from a purple black to a deep gray. The wind began to blow, and the leaves rattled on the branches.

  Tom knew every street. He knew where all the regulars slept: War Hero under the skirts of the giant pines at the library; Red Shoe on a bench across from the doughnut place; the one who sniffed glue in the window well of the old CP hotel. The holes and cracks were full of eyes.

  Jenks was in his usual spot, asleep on an old blanket he’d spread out on the sidewalk.

  He shook Jenks awake, and the old man came up punching.

  “Whoa, hold on. It’s just me, Tom.”

  Jenks relaxed. “H’lo, ghost,” he said.

  “I’m alive,” Tom said.

  “S’what they all say.”

  “If I was looking for a ghost, where would I go, Jenks?” Tom asked.

  Jenks waved his hands at Tom. His hands were covered in socks. “You like my mitts? Look, there’s holes for my middle fingers.” He poked the fingers out for Tom’s benefit. “That means leave me alone. I know what I say when I’m juiced. Right now I’m dry.”

  “I will, I will,” Tom said. “Just tell me where to find Daniel.”

  “Told you. Go ’way.”

  “Acorn told me you know where he is, he takes care of you sometimes.”

  The old man swore at him and curled into a ball.

  Tom squatted to be at eye level with the old man. “Listen, Jenks. Daniel’s father’s been looking for him for months. He won’t eat anymore until he finds his son. When he dies, his ghost is going to find you, Jenks. Now there’s a ghost that won’t go away when you sober up. Believe me, Jenks, Samuel’s a ghost that’ll stick with you.”

  Jenks unfolded himself and looked up at Tom, his eyes wide with alarm. “The dead don’t hide under roofs. The dead don’t care,” he said finally. “Besides, they can’t read their street survival guide. Some never could. If you’re looking for ghosts, you just look in the shadows. They are alone. Nobody can sell them anymore. Damaged goods. You just go down any old dark street, and you’ll see them.”

  He pointed with his two middle fingers, which poked out from his socks. Tom looked over his shoulder at the alley Jenks was gesturing toward, and swallowed. Jenks pointed again and nodded his head. “Don’t worry, boy. You blow on them, they fall over,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Tom said.

  Jenks shrugged. “Coulda told you a long time ago.”

  Tom searched the shadows in the alley, picking his way among broken beer and Listerine bottles, among trash and human waste. He found the dead, the drug dead, the drunk dead, the dream dead. He found them standing, sitting, squatting, sleeping in the shadows of back doorways and dumpsters, tar babies, sucked so far into the street that she gave birth to them again—helpless, crying, hungry, and without language.

  The sun was almost up. They shrank from the light.

  Tom found one warrior.

  Standing tall, hands in pockets, wide-shouldered. He was street lean—not the spa leanness of the downtown workers, but the leanness that looks like it’s been dried out in the wind too long, the leanness that comes with long periods of not much to eat. He was standing, just standing. Beside him was a dumpster with the words RIP ROSIE painted in red on the side of it.

  “Daniel?”

  The young man looked at Tom. “Who are you?”

  When he spoke, Tom knew it was Daniel. His voice was like his father’s. He was thinner than his picture, and his hair was longer.

  “I’m Tom. Your dad, Samuel, sent me to find you. He’s waiting for you at the park. He needs to talk to you.”

  Tom could see the young man translating in his head, sounds to symbols, words to meaning, school English to street English.

  “You’re the one who’s been asking about me,” he said slowly.

  “Yes,” Tom said. “That’s me.” He realized that he was standing on his toes for sheer joy. He lowered himself, but a moment later he was on his toes again. “Oh, man, you have no idea—I’ve been looking for you forever. Your dad, he told me when I first came that I was a Finder, and, well, at first I thought he was crazy, but you won’t believe this, turns out I found all this stuff, stuff I needed, like a job, and money and food and, well, it worked like this: if I wrote it, I found it, and I wrote that I was going to find home, but your dad said I had to find you first and then I’d find home . . . . Oh, man, I was getting scared there for a while because I wrote that I could fight and then I got, you know, beat up by this guy, Cupid, so I was starting to think none of it was true and I couldn’t write after all and I’d never get home . . .”

  Tom stopped. He was chattering. He waited a moment, but Daniel didn’t speak.

  “It wasn’t just for that. It was for your dad, too. He was good to me . . . So, well, if you want to go now, I’ll show you where he is. I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”

  Tom reached out to guide Daniel’s arm, but Daniel drew back.

  Tom felt gravity pull his forehead and the corners of his mouth down.

  “He doesn’t eat anymore because he knows you’re hungry,” Tom said. “He gave away his coat because he knew you were cold. He cries for you.”

  Daniel looked up at Tom.

  “He told me about you when you were young, how when you were little you broke your arm and your leg at the same time while you were stunt biking. He calls you a warrior.”

  Daniel took a step deeper into the shadows.

  “I wrote a poem for you,” Tom said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. He’d dreamed of finding Daniel, but he’d never dreamed about what he’d do if Daniel wouldn’t come with him. “I’ll tell it to you, if you’ll come.”

  Daniel didn’t move, but he didn’t tell him to shut up either.

  “It goes like this: This is what to remember: Remember that you were strong and wild when you were a child. Remember all your good dreams. Remember what he did for you, too. Tell him: this is what you did for me, and this and this. Remember to fight for what you need. Remember that you are a warrior . . .”

  He stopped. Gravity was squeezing all the air out of him.

  “So? What do you say?”

  “Leave me alone,” Daniel said, and he walked away.

  Tom couldn’t move. He couldn’t wade in gravity this thick. He wanted to grab Daniel, wanted to tackle him and scream and shake him. But he didn’t do anything. He just stood there and let Daniel disappear into the shadows.

  Tom walked to the river where he knew Samuel would be. He was going to ask:

  Does it count? I found Daniel—does it count? You never said I had to bring him to you, you only said I had to find him . . .

  But when he saw Samuel from a distance, sitting on the bench, hunched and cold by the river, his mouth moving soundlessly, Tom stopped.

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell Samuel that he’d talked to his son and he wouldn’t come. Tom folded his arms over his head and screamed through gritted teeth. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do.

  What if none of the words were true?

  Tom turned and walked away from Samuel. He walked, not knowing what to do or where to go, until he came to the billboard.

  THE MAGIC FLUTE, SEPTEMBER 12–15.

  From where he stood, Tom could see the electronic sign flashing the date: SEPTEMBER 15.

  He glanced from the electronic sign to the billboard. Today would be the last performance of THE MAGIC FLUTE.

  Maybe that day when he’d seen the billboard from the tower, he’d made a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t a billboard he should have been looking for. Maybe it was the opera, all along.

  Tom smiled. Something about
that opera had to do with home . . .

  It was working! He’d found Daniel, and now he’d find home. It did count! He couldn’t think about Samuel now. He had to think about getting to the opera.

  It was too late to find a ticket. He’d have to find another way. If there was one time when he had to be a Finder, it was now.

  You had to look like you belonged to go to an opera, Tom thought. He knew he looked different from everyone else. But maybe if he thought, I am a writer, I am a poet, he could pass for belonging. Poets probably went to operas. Maybe at an opera, though, the less you belonged, the more you fit in. He could pass for a musician, perhaps, or a singer or a set designer. You just had to walk in with confidence.

  First he had to find clothes.

  He went to the drop-off bin at Sally Ann’s. He found a black shirt, and a black jacket only a little too big for him. He also bought an almost-brand-new pair of jeans. They had a cowboy label, but the jacket covered the label. He wasn’t sure cowboys went to the opera. He had enough money left over for a pair of clean socks. He’d given up on underwear a long time ago. He couldn’t hear gravity in his ear when he was thinking about what to wear.

  He went back to the Greyhound station, showered, and put on his new clothes. The shirt smelled a little of cigarette smoke covered up by pine room freshener. Tom wondered how he knew what pine room freshener smelled like, and decided his mom used it in the house. He liked his new look. His father would probably hate the bald head, but he’d have to admit it had a kind of artsy appeal. Everywhere he went he looked for a ticket, but it was a long shot even for a Finder. Still, he was a Finder. He’d found Daniel. He refused to listen to what if, what if . . .

  Finally, he took the LRT to the Jubilee station. Patrons who wanted to avoid traffic took the LRT. They arrived at the station looking out of place in black and diamonds, looking like they had been cut out of magazines and glued onto a child’s crayon drawing.

  He was scared. He took out his notebook and read, Everything is going to be okay. He felt better.

  Tom thought maybe the patrons had money. They looked bright, clean . . . moral. Half an hour before the performance was to begin, a couple arrived that looked especially moral: moral in their clothes without creases, in their hair that didn’t look like it blew or grew, moral skin, moral teeth. Maybe there was something about attending operas that made you rich. Maybe people like that would share.

  He approached the couple. “Could you spare some money so I could go to the opera?”

  “The opera?” the woman asked as she slowed. She lifted her purse. “Dear?”

  “He doesn’t want to go to the opera. Give him money and you’ll just keep him on the streets a day longer. Grow up and mug you someday.” He put his hand on the woman’s back and hurried her along.

  Tom was invisible to the others that came. If he spoke to them, they ignored him. He found half a bag of taco chips in a trash can and ate them. When he’d licked the bag clean, and all his fingers, he got out his notebook. He’d write a story that began with a boy sneaking into the Jubilee Auditorium. He wrote the boy invisible, walking just below the line of vision, slipping into an empty seat, listening to invisible music, filling his ears with the secrets of money and family. He wrote that he was a fine actor, with a voice that could cast a spell. He wrote until he felt better.

  He just wanted to get in. He knew he would find something in there, something to remind him of home.

  He walked casually behind a group of patrons as if he belonged, as if he had a right to walk through the doors of the Jubilee Auditorium.

  He was in.

  No one even looked at him.

  He was just as invisible here as he was on the street.

  He climbed the stairs. It was more likely that there’d be empty seats in the second balcony. How had he known about second balconies? His parents must have brought him here before! He knew for sure that he would find here what he was looking for. All he had to do was get by the usher.

  Once on the top floor, he pretended to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. The usher took tickets as people came to the door. He hoped an older person would come along who would need help to be seated. No one came along who needed help. Maybe the usher would go away once the show began, and he’d slip in.

  She was looking at him, now. He could see her reflected in the window in her navy and gold uniform. She was suspicious. He had to try something quick.

  He bent his head and pretended to cry, softly at first, and then audibly. She ignored him at first, and then she called, “Are you all right?”

  Tom pressed his fingers into his eyes. “My girlfriend didn’t come,” he said. His voice was shaking from fear, but it could have sounded sad, too.

  “Your girlfriend was supposed to meet you here?” she asked.

  Tom nodded. “We’ve been having troubles.” He walked toward her a bit, put his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “The worst of it is, I paid for the tickets, but she’s got them. I’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. We could check our records—”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she cancelled them without telling me,” he said hastily. Tom lowered his head.

  “You know what?” she said. “Why don’t you just go in. There’s some empty seats, and the show’s about to start. Who’s going to know?” She opened the door.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” Tom said. He didn’t have to act that part. He was genuinely grateful.

  He slipped through the doors.

  Tom was hardly able to believe that it had worked, that he was in. He walked to the railing and leaned over. The musicians were testing their instruments, warming them up. Each had a light over his or her music. The musician was alone in that light, in a little world of his own, round and golden. The flute trilled, and Tom felt it play his spine, give him goosebumps from his thighs to his scalp. He would find out now about home. He’d found Daniel. That counted, didn’t it? He wouldn’t think about Samuel waiting by the river.

  “One minute to curtain, ladies and gentlemen,” said a well-modulated voice. Modulated. What kind of awesome parents did you have to have to know a word like that?

  Tom turned around. There was one empty seat near the front, someone sick that night, someone who couldn’t come and who couldn’t find anyone to whom he could give his ticket. Tom sat in the seat as if it were his.

  To his right was a large man whose bulk spilled over into Tom’s space, and to his left was a woman with a fur coat that spilled over into his space. Tom didn’t mind. It was like being in a cockpit, waiting to be launched into space. Any minute now, he would be in zero gravity. Tom took out his notebook and pen. He was going to write down what happened in the opera so he could remember it later.

  The music began. Prelude. Tom turned his good ear to the orchestra.

  The music was even louder in his bad ear.

  It blew over him like a wind. He couldn’t breathe in it for a moment. His broken eardrum offered no resistance. He heard in stereo, the hearing and the deaf.

  Where the music went, a great bolus of gravity went, pumped into him, forced, taking up space in his veins so that he could feel it moving through him like a huge clot, coming closer to his heart. He would remember everything soon. As soon as the music in his blood reached his brain, he’d remember. Already he knew he’d heard the whole opera before. At school. At school, where he was terrible at English, Mrs. Leonard Mrs. Leonard Mrs. Leonard had given him an extra project on Mozart.

  Tom was beginning to remember.

  He remembered now that he knew the story of the opera. He took out his book and wrote it down. The man and the woman on either side of him seemed to lean in toward him. He heard the woman whisper, “Critic.”

  Tom pressed his pen into the paper so hard that it ripped it. He wrote: The prince is lost, he is attacked by a dragon, witches co
me . . . He couldn’t stop himself from writing; he couldn’t stop himself from remembering. The Queen of the Night begs him to find her daughter . . . Tom wrote: The prince agrees to rescue the Queen’s daughter . . . He is given a golden flute that helps him through ordeals . . . The maiden loves the prince and weeps and sighs for him . . . The prince must prove himself worthy, passing tests of fire and water, tests of courage and love . . . At last the sorcerer gives the maiden to the prince to be his love . . .

  Opening act.

  The singers began to sing.

  Tom put his notebook away slowly, squeezed his backpack between his thighs, and placed his hands on his knees.

  The singers had such small mouths, no bigger than his own, and yet huge sounds came from them. Their voices were wise, knew how to go right into Tom’s ear, and into his brain and blood. Their voices were beautiful, so beautiful it hurt, so sweet that it pressed tears from his eyes. All his memories were there, in the music part of his brain. The notes, the perfect pointed notes, were moving his memories, jostling them, so out they came, each in a tear, all his life trying to squeeze out of a pore-sized tear duct, one drip at a time.

  Tom was very still.

  All during the opera he was very still except for the memories dripping from his eyes. As he listened he invented his own libretto.

  Mrs. Leonard plays The Magic Flute one day during free reading. “They say Mozart makes you smarter,” she says. Everyone groans, but then they listen. Tom listens hardest of all. He can feel the music reaching inside his brain, where he knows he’s smart, even though Bruce says he’s retarded . . . Bruce .

  “Can I do my homework

  in class after school, Mrs. Leonard? While I listen to The Magic Flute?”

  Mrs. Leonard isn’t pretty, but she is nice. She has eyes that really look at you.

  “Certainly, Tom, but don’t take what I said too literally . . .”

  “I need to be good in English. I’m going to write a book someday.”

  She smiles. Nice smile. She is nice. “I’ll do all I can to help you, Tom. Maybe we can work on some remedial spelling . . .”

  For three weeks Tom goes to English class to do his homework. His mark goes from 53 to 67. For that Mrs. Leonard gives him a Magic Flute pen she received as a promotional item for being a season-ticket holder to the opera. One day she gives him the tape.