Ruin

by N. M. Martinez

  I pull the duffel close to my body and wrap both my arms around it. Mom used to tell me that not every situation will be something within your power. Sometimes there are just things you have to do and you have no control over how things get done. This is one of those times she was talking about. This is one of those times where the situation is beyond me, but I have a choice. I can either go into it whining and whimpering, or I can face it head on the way my mom would.

  So I lift my head, and I remain very conscious of it each time it dips back down. Every time it does, I force myself to look back up and to stare in the direction we're going.

  We reach an intersection with old rusty signs and I continue straight, but Jimmy gives a low whistle. I stop and turn back to him, surprised to see him half way smiling.

  "This way," He says as he points down the street.

  I nod and turn down the street. It looks more abandoned than the others. The buildings are dark and dirty like the ones I could see from Brandon's balcony. The area surrounding us is completely silent. It's just us two walking down this street. My heart pounds when I realize it.

  I don't dare turn around and look at Jimmy though the thought does cross my mind that I should ask about where we are and why these buildings look even more abandoned than the other buildings I've seen. My footsteps slow. When Jimmy's fingers brush the back of my neck, I jump. Before I turn around to look at him, his hand is pushing me forward again as he gives a little chuckle.

  "Jumpy." His voice is part of the darkness, deep and smooth.

  "I don't like the dark." It's an honest confession, but I'm certain that he sees right through it.

  His thumb, rough and calloused, runs up the side of my neck and back down. The move makes me hunch my shoulders and shiver. There's no point in trying to hide it. Even if he couldn't see it, with his hand on my neck he would feel the goose bumps on my skin.

  We turn into a walkway that leads to a large building with darkened windows. My feet stop, and I'm sure I can go no further. Not with Jimmy. It doesn't appear as if anyone else lives there. There are no lights on. The building could be abandoned for all I know. My thoughts run away with me, and I'm left rooted to the spot, Jimmy's large hand hot against my neck.

  He stops behind me but doesn't speak. Not for a minute. Not until it's clear that I'm not moving. "I'm not carrying you."

  Good, I don't say, because I'm not going.

  Jimmy gives me a shove, one not nearly as hard as he probably could push if he wanted to. When I don't move, he reaches forward and takes my bag from my hands. I nearly bite my lip when he moves towards me like that. Our eyes meet, and he nods towards the door of the abandoned building.

  "C'mon."

  I shake my head. It's completely possible that he could have lied to Brandon. Maybe Henri isn't waiting there for us.

  Jimmy lets out an exasperated sigh before he grabs me and drags me along behind him. I fight myself to not whimper, terrified that he's just leading me to my death in this abandoned building where no one will hear my cry for help and no one would help me if they could hear me.

  We reach some stairs and he shoves me ahead of him. Free of his hand, I step up quickly to the second floor. Under my feet the stairs squeak, but when Jimmy steps up after me, the stairs groan under the extra weight of his muscle.

  I want to hide, but at the top of the stairs it's even darker. This hallway has only a window at the end of the hall. The silver light peering in through the dirty glass casts shadows on the door handles.

  Jimmy touches me again. This time it's his flat hand on my back. I jerk away from his touch, aware that he's just using it to throw me off as if I wasn't already at a disadvantage. But some part of him is probably enjoying it. That cruel part of him. The one that hurts people and calls it all part of his job protecting the others. The side that even Brandon probably doesn't want to see.

  He steps in front of me and opens one of the doors. A bright white light blinds and beckons me. Though I know it isn't wise, I follow after Jimmy quickly, determined to get out of the dark.

  Just inside the door, I stop and let my eyes adjust. The light isn't a normal oil lamp like Brandon's but a proper electric lamp. In the room it's the only lamp I notice right away. It sits on a table with no cords hanging off it.

  Henri steps forward to take my bag from Jimmy who hands it over easily. "That took a while."

  Jimmy gives a chuckle. "She's scared of the dark."

  The room is sparse just like Brandon's apartment but there's a difference to it. Brandon's had the clean feeling of an apartment that isn't used as if he spent all of his time elsewhere or maybe he just inherited his apartment from someone else. Henri's apartment has things stockpiled from over the course of his life lived here. There are shelves stocked with books and papers askew, sticking out of binders and from between pages. A couple of tables are piled up with newspapers and I'm shocked to see a few yellowing papers from the Neutral side of the border.

  Henri looks at me and motions for me to follow him. He opens a door just behind him to a small bedroom and steps inside it, flicking on another lantern for me that sits on a small wooden dresser. I sneak past Jimmy and into the room, taking a step to the side of the door to get out of Jimmy's line of sight.

  The room is small, but it is furnished. There's a bed covered with a cream colored knit blanket and an old wooden dresser.

  Henri puts my bag on the bed and then turns around to look at me as if this were the first time he's seen me. He holds his lips tightly together, almost in a frown, his bushy brows furrowed low over his eyes. I feel scrutinized, and knowing what I now know about him I feel strange. This is a man who helped start the Revolution if I can believe what I've been told. Maybe it doesn't even matter if I can believe it since everyone else here seems to believe it and revere him.

  Henri doesn't move. His eyes fall down to my large grey sweatshirt. "Where did you get that shirt?"

  I glance down and give a tug to the bottom of the shirt. "I found it in my bag."

  "It was your mother's."

  The words seem to come from him involuntarily. Our eyes meet and he seems as surprised as I am. He looks away from me and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Did you eat?"

  I nod, but he isn't looking at me. "Yes. At Brandon's."

  "Good. Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." He still doesn't look at me when he leaves.

  I step over to the door and watch him walk away. Jimmy stands in the living room with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on Henri as he walks out, but I catch them for a moment. For one instant, his gray eyes fall past Henri and on me. I shut the door.

  With the door shut, I step away from it and to the duffel on the bed. Despite the somewhat early hour, I'm suddenly exhausted. I slide the duffel off the bed and climb on top, resting my head on the cold pillow. There's one small window, dirty and grimy like the other second floor windows must all be. With the light on, it looks blackened outside, and I don't bother peeking out of it. I'm not even curious about it.

  The blanket is very soft and has a fresh scent to it as if it's been washed recently. I run my fingers over the knit covering on the blanket feeling each tiny hole and the semi-soft fabric used to knit it. Each of my breaths moves the tiny hairs on the knit fabric.

  I'm here now. With Henri. The thought doesn't comfort me, but I do feel as if I've managed to make it over a hurdle. It could have just been the danger of walking in the dark with Jimmy. That is something I hope to never do again.

  There is one thought that concerns me. It floats over the rest even when I try to shake it. Mom saw something in Henri. She must have known him. In the letter, she said I should trust him.

  I give a shiver. The air is cold. The lantern doesn't let off any heat and the old window does nothing to keep the cold air on the outside. But it's also that thought which gives way to the realization that Mom knew him. She must have known him all this time and just never told me. It's a secret that she kept from me my entir
e life.

  The thought disturbs me. It's not the same as an outright lie. I'd never asked her if she still saw my father from time to time or still knew him. There were all those times when I'd asked about him, questions that were always in the past tense. She gave me some answers while sometimes skillfully dodging others until I'd just stop asking. And I always did after a while. At the time it didn't really seem important. I didn't really care.

  But now there are things I need to know, and I don't know how to find out short of asking him. And if he's anything like my mother, I'm never going to find out. Not from asking him directly.

  Fifteen

  The group downstairs is not quiet. Their voices travel from the bottom of the stairwell all the way to Henri's living room. Though their voices are distinct, their laughs and jeers permeate the relative safety of the apartment so that during the day it's impossible for me to pretend that I'm alone and safe.

  "They won't come up," Henri had said the first day I asked him about them. He didn't really bother saying any more about it.

  For those first couple of days, I try hiding out in my bedroom. It's quiet there at least, but there is nothing to do. The book Brandon got me from the junk shop is too quick a read despite my best efforts to read as slow as possible. And though Henri's house has bookshelves full of things to read, I avoid them all. Henri hasn't told me not to touch his things, but he also hasn't told me it's okay to fiddle with them either.

  I doze lightly on the blanket staring at the ceiling. This is all a waste of time.

  Roughly, I push at the mattress and sit up quickly. After a few days here at Henri's, I feel as if I know even less than I did when Brandon was trying to protect me. Henri shares nothing with me. The most I get from him are grunts and sometimes, if he's feeling generous, a sigh.

  The living room is actually a mess in the light of day. There are stacks of yellowing and crinkly newspapers on surfaces I hadn't seen the first night when I was just trying to get away from Jimmy. The only surfaces uncovered are the kitchen counters and the dining table which is surrounded by four chairs of dark wood with faded seat cushions. This is definitely the home of a person who's lived here a while.

  That's the nice way of putting it. As I stand there in the living room with a hand on my hip, I can feel the thought burbling up before I can stop it and I just think, Old person. It catches me by surprise and I almost snicker to myself like an idiot.

  Outside, a laugh carries up from the downstairs hall and it helps me sober a little. Henri isn't young, but he isn't what I'd call old. At least, he's not a typical old person. His eyes have a dangerous sharpness to them that beats any of the looks I've gotten so far from the tribe members standing around out front of buildings. It's a look that even Jimmy can't really match.

  It's taken me a couple days of dozing and thinking, but I think I've gotten it. It's the look of a man who shouldn't be here and he knows it. Most of the people I've seen are closer to Brandon's age. Jimmy is probably the oldest among that crowd I've seen. And no one but the villagers have been as old as Henri.

  I rub at the goose bumps on my arm absent mindedly as I step over to the living room door. The voices from downstairs carry like music, soft and indistinct. Yet those laughs, some deep and some higher pitched, they cut through the melody sharply at unexpected intervals. Each time I almost jump, already slightly creeped out by the dingy and dark house that looks surprisingly worse by the light of day than it does by the harsh light of the lantern at night.

  My chest rises as I inhale deeply and close my eyes. Henri didn't say much of anything about the people who'd be downstairs, but I imagine that they won't hurt me. I mean, as far as they know I'm under Henri's protection, right? And Henri doesn't seem like the sort of person you want to piss off or disobey. That thought brings up the memory of my day standing on the balcony and I shake my head as I reach for the door handle.

  The door opens easily and quietly. I step into the hall and listen. The voices definitely come from the stair well. Without the door between us, it's easier to catch some of the words that float up.

  "C'mon!"

  "..dare you."

  "Move."

  Carefully, I step over to the stairs to listen but the old dry floorboards still squeak under me as I walk. I stop right away, but the voices have gone quiet already. My ears burn, and I make ready to turn around and run back to the apartment with its door ajar, but something stops me.

  There's a squeak on the stairs and a head of messy brown hair, streaked red from the sun, appears just before bright green eyes pop over the ledge. I recognize him right away from the bonfire, and a tiny bit of relief courses through me though I know it's ridiculous to feel that way. I know nothing about him but I remember that he was the one who told me that Jimmy and Brandon were brothers when no one else would.

  He glances down at the others then back at me. "You shouldn't be here."

  That's the entire point of my life right now. No I shouldn't be here. But I understand what he means. I should be back in the apartment. Henri didn't give me any specific order about the people downstairs, not even an order to avoid them. Maybe he assumed that I'd have enough common sense to know better.

  I nod and head back to the apartment and shut the door quietly.

  Henri is a large man. I watch him as he prepares dinner, standing at the kitchen counter island with an elbow to prop up my head. It's exhausting doing nothing all day. Much more than I ever imagined. There were so many times between homework and school functions and even hanging out with friends that I wished I could just stay home and do nothing. I had no idea it would be like this.

  It's ridiculous to stand at the counter. Henri never speaks to me while he's prepping the food and hardly even speaks to me when we're sitting down to dinner. This is easily the most awkward part of my entire day and the only thing I can say for it is that it's awkward for him too.

  I tap on the counter lightly with my fingertips, trying to avoid the annoying sound of nails against the surface. I can't sit still tonight. Something has to be said. I'm not sure if I should tell Henri about stepping out into the hall. It's such a small thing, but it feels like something.

  A couple of times, I open my mouth and inhale to start saying something but lose my nerve at the last second. There are plenty of questions that I have, but I know that he won't answer any of them. I glance down at the ground, my hand on my chin pressing up some of the skin of my cheek towards my eye. I have to say something. We're not getting anywhere.

  So I open my mouth one last time. "I can cook, you know."

  Henri doesn't even look back at me. "No." His answer is too quick and much too easy.

  I give a sigh, and roll my eyes, secure that he won't be able to see me. But just as I do, he turns ever so slightly to glance back at me with his sharp, beady eyes.

  "Is there something you need to talk about?"

  I stand up and take a gulp. Has he heard already from someone else? I don't doubt that he would have heard. Henri doesn't strike me as the sort of man to let anything go unnoticed or unturned.

  He only glances back at me. His eyes are back on the food in the pan that's almost done. That doesn't give me much time where we can talk without him shoving something in his mouth to avoid talking about it.

  "The people downstairs... who are they?"

  Henri is quiet for a moment, focused on the pan and the food. I half expect that he'll just ignore the question completely. Then he speaks. "Don't go downstairs."

  I swallow again and shift my weight from one foot to the other. This isn't something he told me before. I'd remember if he'd said something like that before and so directly. "Why are they down there?"

  Henri slides the food out of the pan onto two waiting plates. "There's nothing wrong with them being down there. They keep an eye on things."

  The implication is partially clear and somewhat disconcerting. I'm trapped here on these upper floors, unable to go downstairs. I don't know what would happen if I
did go downstairs. My brain answers for me, imagining them holding me down while others rip at me and my clothing. The thought surprises me with its strength and I have to fight it back by reminding myself that it isn't real.

  Henri hands me my meal without saying anything more. I'm sure as far as he's concerned everything that needs to be said has been said and anything not said isn't important enough to get the time or his attention. My breath comes short. It's like that time I got stuck in a box while trying to play a trick on my friends when I was little. I had to kick and scream until someone came along to let me out. But that panic, it felt much the same as the slow realization of what it means to be really trapped-- really stuck. I have a lot of ground, but I can never go elsewhere. Just these two floors and hope they never come up and try to pull me downstairs.

  Because Henri strikes me as the sort of person to let others learn their lessons. And I'm sure anything short of death he'd count as a very important lesson.

  Henri is already sitting by the time I catch my breath, and he glances at me sharply. "You going to sit down?"

  I can feel my face tighten, my brows draw together, and my head throb, but still I nod and take a seat too. There isn't anything I can say. I glance up at Henri and he's already digging into his food as if I'm not really here. There is no point to bringing up my thoughts, to asking him directly about the orders of the people downstairs. This is probably my first and most very important lesson.

  Sixteen

  Henri leaves after right breakfast. It's still early. The sky is lightening up, but the sun hasn't made an appearance yet.

  My eggs are cold and the strips of bacon even colder. Still, I don't want to waste the food so I keep eating them slowly while glancing out the window. I had nightmares last night. Nothing that I can remember except for this morning when the smell of cooking bacon filled the house and seeped into my room becoming part of my dream.

  I half woke at the smell. The faint traces that reached me in my sleep brought up an image of something snapping, crackling, and burning that made me sick to my stomach, fear like lead pushed everything else out of my stomach and I sat up. The cold morning air brought me back to my senses and helped push the dream away though the memory of it remained.