Rose says, “Are you—I mean—are you happy?”
Squinting at her as though she’s standing in front of a bright light, he sees the glint of water in her eyes, sees a pulse of uncertainty flicker in her face, and then there’s water in his own eyes and he sniffles, hard. He reaches for her, gets one hand on her shoulder, and pulls her to him, squeezing her until she says, “Oof,” and he panics and steps back, keeping a tight grip on her hand as though she might bolt and run, and then he turns after the retreating salesman and says the thing he’ll later remember with shame as the most guy remark of his life. He says, “Hey, hey. Hey. What about that sixty-inch?”
THEY RIDE IN a bell of silence in the back of the cab, her head on his shoulder. At one point, she turns and flutters her eyelashes against the side of his neck, and he feels the hair on his arms stand up. She laughs softly and resettles herself.
“How long have you known?”
“I had a dream last night,” she says. “Don’t get crazy, it’s not just the dream. I’m a month late, and I’m never late. The dream was—well, it was a message. Telling me to start to take care of myself.”
“One month?” Rafferty says.
“And the dream. And my mother, when I talked to her this morning, she said she’s been thinking about me and a baby. She saw a girl carrying a baby in the village a week ago, and for a second it was me. The month, the dream, my mother. Poke.” Her voice when she says his name is almost all breath. “Poke. I’m going to have a baby.”
He presses his cheek against the top of her head, not trusting his voice.
“I hope I’m this happy when I die,” Rose says. “I have everything now.”
“But—but what do you need?” He finds himself in planning mode. It’s more familiar than being happy. “And what should I do? You know, to get things ready.”
“Be nice to me. And get the TV set up.”
“But I mean, taking care of you—”
“Find something to do. Surely, in this big city, you can find a problem.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Well, something that will keep you busy. If you don’t, you’ll be home. You’ll be looking at me all the time, trying to bring me tea when I need to pee from all the tea you’ve already brought me, asking me if I want to prop my feet up every time I get comfortable, covering me with blankets when I’m hot. Standing in front of the television. Go out and do something. Make friends with Arthit again.” She touches the tip of his nose. “But first, we have to solve a problem.”
“I can solve anything,” Rafferty says. “What is it?”
Rose says, “How we’re going to tell Miaow.”
15
Something Outside Herself
THERE’S ONE STAR that doesn’t move. It’s yellow and dim, but even when her head is spinning, which it does quite a lot, the star stays still. She spins and spins, but it remains fixed, giving her something outside herself, something she can cling to.
Only—
It’s a light bulb.
It’s not a star. It’s a light, high on the wall at the other end of the world.
Her mouth is dry. She’s dizzy. Whatever they’re giving her, it makes her dizzy.
Against the wall beneath the light, on the folding metal chairs, the girl and the ugly boy are asleep. He’s fallen sideways with his head in her lap, and her head is tilted back, against the wall. Her mouth is open.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. She can’t tell whether it’s day or night. That light is always on. She slips in and out of sleep all the time.
And they’re always here.
She’s never known people her own age. It was always her father, the maids, the ghost of the woman who used to be her mother, her face half-buried in a glass of something that smelled so sweet that even now the memory of it makes her stomach shrivel.
I’m not hot any more, she thinks.
She shifts her shoulders against the pillows that prop her up. One door. No windows. One bed, two chairs. That boy and that girl.
The line going into her arm.
She looks down at the steel cuffs that fasten her wrists to the frame on both sides of the bed. Her wrists look very thin.
With her eyes on the boy and the girl, she brings her right wrist closer to her, hearing the grate of the metal cuff as it slides over the rail. The frame rests on an upright, just about where her waist is, so she can’t bring the cuff any closer than that.
But she can sit up.
Slowly, quietly, she pulls herself up until she’s sitting almost vertically. A whirl of dizziness stops her, and she holds still, breathing through her mouth and keeping her eyes on the light, until the dizziness passes. She’s sweating, but it’s not the sour, sick sweat she had before, when she felt like she was on fire.
She’s gotten stronger.
It takes her a minute or two because of her dry mouth, but finally she works up some spit. When she thinks she has enough, she leans forward and spits on her wrist.
The spit feels cool. It’s slick. She pushes her wrist into the cuff to get the metal wet and then, slowly, rotates her arm, trying to spread the wetness over the entire assembly. Then, very deliberately, she pushes her hand forward, brings her fingers tightly together, straight, with her thumb tucked against the center of her palm, and begins to pull it back.
Pulls it all the way to the base of her thumb.
The boy murmurs something, his big front teeth gleaming beneath the light on the wall.
She ignores the pain and pulls very, very slowly. Feels the cuff slide almost over the knuckle at the base of her thumb. The widest part.
She can do it.
Just a little more spit, just a little more hurt.
The boy says it again, the same sound, and the girl beside him, without opening her eyes, lets her hand drop on the boy’s shoulder. The hand rests there, thin-fingered and dark against the boy’s T-shirt.
Her hand slides out of the cuff.
The boy moves his head slightly, back and forth, just getting more comfortable on the girl’s lap.
On the bed, not far from her left ankle, is a rectangle of white. There she is, in pencil, looking up out of the page. Beyond the drawing, on the hard metal chairs, the chairs she knows are uncomfortable, are the sleeping girl and the boy with the big teeth. They’ve stayed there. With her.
Without making a sound, she begins to weep. She leans back and lets the tears come, not sobbing, not even sniffling, just weeping with her mouth open and snot running down her upper lip. When whatever it is has cried itself out of her, she pushes her hand back into the cuff.
She leans back and closes her eyes.
Part Two
… UNTIL WE SINK
16
Allergic
“TURN IT OVER,” Andrew says in a no-nonsense voice. “The sun will fade it.” He’s in the lead today. He’d taken off at a brisk pace the moment they got out of the cab. Although he’d been tightlipped on the ride over, she thought he’d slow down to walk next to her, but he hadn’t. Saturday morning, she thinks, and he’s not skipping school, so he’s confident.
“It won’t fade,” Miaow says to the back of his head. She likes the way it curves down into his slender neck. “Or did you print it in invisible ink?”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Andrew says. “Why don’t you let me boss you around once in a while?”
“Why should I let you—” She sees his back stiffen and says, “Look, look, I’m turning it over.” She turns the picture over so the image faces down. “The sun is pretty bright.”
Andrew says nothing. His shoulders are high and tight, and his neck looks rigid enough to break if he were to turn his head.
Miaow trots to catch up. Andrew’s little bag with his diabetes kit in it hangs from her shoulder, and it slaps against her side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The alley is intersected by another, and he turns right. Miaow has already started left, which is the correct direction.
“I give up,” Andrew says, coming to a stop. “You go the way you want. I’ll just tag along.”
She tries to meet his eyes, but he’s looking past her. “Are you mad at me?”
Andrew’s gaze falters, and he looks down at his feet. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m just—I feel like—” He screws up his face, relaxes it, and returns her gaze. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
She says, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Andrew says, “I’m sorry.”
The two of them stand in silence for a moment, both of them looking at his feet. Then she says, “We don’t have to do it. We could just give the phone to Poke.”
“I’m not frightened,” Andrew says.
“I didn’t mean you were—”
“We’re the ones who found it,” he says, as though she’s arguing. “It’s a clue, right? It’s got pictures of the man who was killed last night and, and another man, and pictures of two other guys in a hotel room. If one of the men in that room is the man who sold the phone, then he might be the guy who killed that old cop. We’ll have found a suspect, and then you can tell Poke.”
“Okay,” Miaow says, without much force.
“My father,” he says. “My father would never think I could do anything like this. Help the police like this.”
Miaow has no idea what to say.
“I’m not afraid of him, either,” Andrew says.
“I know.”
Andrew’s shoulders ease a little. “Okay, you know where it is. You take me there.” Blushing furiously, he holds out his hand.
“Sure,” she says around the hard little stone in her throat. She transfers the photo to her other hand and takes his. It’s very smooth and a little damp, and it feels as delicate as a bird’s nest. She wants to squeeze it, but she knows he’ll grab it back if she does, and anyway it seems too fragile to squeeze.
They go back the way they’d come and start the curve to the left. Miaow can hear Andrew’s breath, and she has a sudden, unexpected urge to lean over and sniff it. The very thought heats her face. She’s thinking about fanning it with her free hand when she hears Andrew gasp. He’s stopped cold.
He says, “Whoa.”
The little shop where they bought the phone looks like a car has been driven through it. The glass in both display cases is smashed. Bits of telephones are everywhere, gleaming among the shards of glass, all afire with sunlight, in the absence of the awning, now ripped down and left to dangle from its poles.
The Sikh, his head sloppily bandaged, is pushing the wreckage around with a broom, creating piles of devastation. The linen wrapped crookedly across his forehead has a red stain on it. The blood hasn’t even had time to dry.
“Okay,” Miaow says. “Let’s go home.”
“No way,” Andrew says. “We came all this way, and—”
“This, uh, this.” Miaow says, lifting her chin toward the ruin of the shop. “This has got to have something to do with the guys in the pic—”
“Maybe not,” Andrew interrupts. “Maybe it’s those farang who stole the phone when we were here yesterday. Or maybe he cheated somebody and they got mad.” He’s already walking, and once again Miaow has to hurry to catch up to him.
When they’re a few feet away, the shop owner hears them and looks up from his sweeping. His eyes widen in a way that makes Miaow want to turn and run, but Andrew bulldozes forward.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Problem,” the Sikh says. “Small problem.” He shakes his head as though to clear the pain. “You go,” he says. “Come back in three days, four days.” He’s looking past them, scanning the area for someone. She tugs on Andrew’s shirt.
Andrew shrugs her off. “Is this the man—can I have the picture, Miaow? Is this the man who sold you the—?”
“Go,” the Sikh says, his eyes all over the place. “Go now, or—” He sees whatever he was looking for, and his teeth click together.
Miaow looks over her shoulder and sees two men in T-shirts and jeans, both of them familiar from the photos in the phone. One is short and dark and heavy, and the other, staring directly at her, is tall and lithe, with golden skin.
His eyes are fixed on her. He has a hand on the back of the smaller man’s neck, the way someone might rein in an attack dog before letting it fly.
Without moving his lips the Sikh says, “Go now, go fast, go.”
“Andrew,” Miaow says, smiling up at the Sikh. “When I say now, you are going to run as fast as you can. To our left. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, but why—”
“Do you hear me?”
“Uhh, sure.”
“Yes, child,” the Sikh says, smiling back. “Fast fast.”
“Good,” she says to the Sikh. “Thank you. You’ve been very nice and I hope your head feels better soon.” She gives him another big smile and says, “Andrew. Now.”
THE FIRST SURPRISE is how quick he is.
He leaves her behind in just a few steps. In a burst of panic, she forgets about the men behind her, focusing only on one terrifying revelation: He’s abandoning me. His legs seem to stretch elastically in front of him, and the distance between them lengthens although she’s already running as fast as she can, past a blur of stands and open-air restaurants, through the smells of frying food and spices and exhaust, and a glance behind doesn’t lessen her fear: the shorter man is pounding along behind her, T-shirt flapping, and behind him, loping easily, like a big cat that’s preserving its strength, is the tall golden man.
He’s got lots of speed left.
A couple of meters ahead, Andrew risks a look back and slows, extending a hand to her as though she were on skates, as though he could whip her around in front of him. Then he sees the men behind her and his eyes go wide, and Miaow realizes he was only running because she told him to, and he’s got energy in reserve. Well, she thinks, at least one of us will get away.
The long curve of the alley comes to an end. To their right is the straightaway, a narrow passage between shopfronts, that leads to traffic and taxis and policemen. Miaow gasps as Andrew takes the wrong turn, a turn that will lead them farther into the maze, and she manages to grab the back of his T-shirt and yank. It almost pulls both of them off their feet, but he turns to her again, a wildfire of confusion in his face, and she points toward the boulevard and takes off.
She hears his sneakers slap the pavement behind her, coming up fast, and then in front of her she sees another short dark man, this one with a brutish, heavy face, standing dead center in the passageway, arms spread and knees bent to lower his center of gravity. At that instant a new, even narrower alley opens up to her right, and she shouts Andrew’s name and makes the turn.
She bangs the top of her head against an umbrella, earning a shout from the vendor, and she sees that this passageway is all umbrellas on both sides, put up to prevent sun-faded merchandise. We’re short, she thinks with a thrill of recognition; this is a street-kid tactic—use your pursuers’ height against them. An adult will have to edge his way through. She bends at the waist and motions behind her, patting the air palm down and exaggerating her stoop, and she hears one umbrella go over. When she looks back, she sees Andrew leaning down just enough to clear the umbrellas and gaining on her.
And then one of the short men charges into the alley and knocks over two umbrellas.
The day shimmers and brightens as Miaow realizes that she knows where she is.
Or used to know. It’s been six years.
But what’s the alternative?
She risks a look back to find Andrew on her heels, close enough to touch, his eyes tiny and his lips drawn back with effort and fear. Eight or ten yards back, she sees the closer of the short guys trying to hop through a tangle of fallen umbrellas as a couple of shopkeepers grab at him, shouting.
“Up here,” s
he says to Andrew, “to the right, to the right, follow me.” And she takes off again, part of her looking for the turn and part of her listening for the sound of his shoes.
“Faster,” he gasps behind her. She manages to force out a tiny bit of additional juice, and she almost overruns the alley.
It’s too narrow to be an alley. It’s more like a space between buildings for air conditioners to drip into. Even now, even running for their lives, she’s stunned by how filthy and smelly it is—was it like this before? What will Andrew think, her dragging him into a place like—
And there it is, the chain-link fence.
Without even knowing she’s doing it, Miaow looses a yell from deep in her chest and launches herself, arms spread, from five feet away. She lands about a third of the way up, fingers shaped into claws, the toes of her sneakers jammed into the diagonal openings. The strap with Andrew’s insulin kit slips from her shoulder, and as she grabs at it, the fence bounces like a trampoline, nearly shaking her off, announcing Andrew’s arrival. She starts up again and feels the fence shudder as he climbs, and then he’s passing her. His mouth is pulled tight and he’s squinting like someone facing into a sandstorm.
“Over?” he pants.
“Over.”
On the other side, visible through the wire, is a weedy field, and in the center of it is a chunk of concrete blight, the asymmetrical ruin of an abandoned hotel that was partially demolished and left to mildew in the rain seven or eight years ago. As she swings a leg over the top of the fence, she hears the men shouting behind her. She shoves herself free, lands loosely, rolls, and comes up running again, with Andrew right beside her.
“Those men—” he says. It’s all air.
“Yes. The last few pictures on the phone. The ones in the hotel room.”
“Where to?”
She risks a glance back and sees the two short men struggling to climb the fence. “There,” she says, indicating the ruined hotel. “Come on.”
Andrew ups the pace just a bit, but she stays with him, the weeds whipping at her legs. The men are shouting to each other, but then, suddenly, she and Andrew are at the hotel, and she leads him around the shell and through a gaping wall into the ruin of a lobby that’s been stripped to the concrete. Across the room, a long rectangle cut into the gritty tiles shows where the reception desk once stood. Beyond that a dark doorway leads to the offices. At either side of the lobby, corridors lead right and left.
For the Dead Page 10