Cross My Path

by Clea Simon

  I lash my tail and wait. In part, the movement is involuntary – like my ears and whiskers, my tail projects my thoughts unless I consciously still it. Right now, I am grateful for the movement, the wide sweep its midnight fur makes across the floor. The girl is missing the point, and I would have her notice my agitation. Perhaps, like me, she remains troubled by our previous visitor. It matters not. She is not asking the right question. But the man has begun to speak again.

  ‘It’s Rafe.’ He looks up, his eyes wide with unshed tears. ‘He’s my – he’s like a son to me.’ His head ducks again, although I do not think he sees much now.

  ‘This Rafe, what can you tell me about him?’

  She is speaking calmly, in a voice designed to elicit as much information as she can. But as he starts to talk – to tell her about a young colleague, new to the city, whom he had taken under his wing – my mind races. They have worked together for some years now, the man is saying. As common laborers on the docks, where the river still functions as a connection to the outside world. But the youth was restless, says the man.

  ‘You fear misadventure?’ Her words, well chosen, make him wince.

  He nods, and I wait, but still it does not come. Yes, she needs clients, and it is a good thing that her reputation is spreading. That does not mean she should be careless. If anything, she has more liberty now, and should use it. Following an issue that sprang up some months before, she has been cautious. Diligent about tracing the provenance of each client who arrives, as one trusted person refers another. That woman, now, she came from the keeper. But if her custom serves to upset the girl’s routine, her worth will have been mitigated. I lash my tail again and strive to catch her eye. This man has not said how he came here. He has not said who it was who told him about Care and about her expertise.

  ‘I can pay.’ The hands unclasp as he digs into the pocket of his dirty canvas coat. ‘I have money.’

  He draws forth a small bundle of bills, and Care gasps. Paper money is not much used these days. And certainly not by the likes of a laborer, as this man claims to be. I glance from her face to his, curious to see if her reaction provokes a response.

  ‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ he says, his voice heavy with sorrow. ‘This is what I have. My friends …’ He pauses to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. He blinks back tears.

  ‘That’s fine.’ She takes the bills and counts them out. Two she keeps, the others she presses back into his hand. ‘This will get me started.’

  Now’s my moment, and I stretch to sniff the edges of the notes that extend from her hand. Sweat, of course, like onions left too long in damp. Dirt and clay, I think, moist with the casings of beetles and worms. No surprise, as these suffuse his clothing, even to his skin. This man has slept rough, I think, and spends time out of doors. But beneath these, beneath even the foul warmth of his grimy hand, I catch it. Something – bitter. Biting. Strong enough that I pull back my head, and in that moment lose my chance. The notes move out of range.

  There was none of that iron tang of blood at least. For that I must be grateful. Despite his adoption of a subservient position, I am hesitant to take this man at his word, but I believe him in this one particular. This money has been held by a variety of hands, which may explain that particular scent – the assaultive chemical bite – but it does not carry the most obvious taint of crime.

  ‘You last saw him when?’ Care is listening, making mental notes. But also, I can see, observing the man. Good. She is not as gullible as I have feared.

  ‘Three – no, four days ago.’ The man’s eyes roll up, as if he would count the stars. ‘We’d worked a full shift at the warehouse. We were flush.’ The ghost of a smile plays around his mouth. ‘I was tired, though. I went back to our shack to sleep. When Rafe didn’t show up, I thought, maybe, he’d met someone.’

  He looks away at that. As if the girl wasn’t a denizen of this city, wouldn’t know what money can buy.

  ‘And then?’ she prompts him gently, undeterred.

  ‘I slept late,’ he says. Intoxicated, I interpret. Not that I judge; the lives of such men are harsh and consolations few. From the girl’s slight nod, I see that she thinks so too. ‘And then when he didn’t show, I thought, well, good for him. Only the next day, a rumor went around. There was work again. A ship was coming – something big – and they were signing men. Not just hook boys, either.’ He pauses, then, remembering. ‘Him and me,’ he says, when he sees her looking. ‘We’re a team.’

  Care tilts her head.

  ‘The bosses,’ the man explains, anticipating her question. ‘They like to hire teams. Two men to lift and carry. And Rafe and I – he’s tall, but I’m still strong – we work well together.’

  Care nods. She must see what I do, that our visitor must rely on his younger colleague to get hired. To get work and to keep it, despite his muscular shoulders, those big arms. ‘You must have asked around,’ is all she says.

  A nod. One hand disentangles to rub a bristly chin. ‘Nothing. And that was four days ago.’ He shakes his head, as if he cannot believe his own words.

  ‘A fight, perhaps?’ The girl has a natural delicacy, but her visitor gets the point.

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘The hook boys brag, and Rafe’s not the type to pick a fight. Besides, there’s work coming. Everybody says.’

  ‘Well then.’ The girl returns to her desk, extracts a sheet of paper and begins to take down notes. This missing man – this Rafe – is tall, we learn, his coloring light, with reddish hair and freckles. When Care asks about his age, the other man sighs. ‘Sixteen, maybe? Eighteen? Still growing, anyway.’

  I watch as the girl writes. Sixteen is young for such work, hauling bundles on the docks. But Care isn’t even that – is barely fifteen, I believe – and yet she has assumed a grown man’s job. His office and his career. This work she does she was being trained for, not eight months before. Apprentice to a master of detecting, of ‘finding that which is lost’, as her second-hand cant brags. An aged man, who schooled her in deciphering both clues and language. That skill betrayed him, ultimately, as he followed a path set to trap him, as his hubris overcame his intelligence and that trap brought about his end.

  Finally, she is done, having asked all the questions except for that one all-important query that I would have her give precedence, the matter of who sent him to her. She looks up, weighing, I believe, how best to seal the contract. A thumbprint or an X, I suspect.

  ‘In all fairness,’ she begins, ‘I should let you know—’ I turn toward her in surprise ‘—I have taken another client on – another missing person case – and I’ll have to give that one priority.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ says the visitor, who, task completed, now looks eager to be gone. ‘I mean, there’s no rush now. Is there?’

  Care must realize, as do I, that despite his earlier demurral he believes the boy is dead.

  SIX

  I am not happy, and I cannot pretend to be. As the girl gathers up her belongings, I pace and mumble, my tail expressing my unease even as I prowl the room. I have not been easy since that woman – Augusta? Blaze? – climbed the stairs. Her disconcerting gaze, her words unnerve me still. And now, this rough man – this laborer … where did he come from? How did he come to solicit the help of a girl not half his age? Yes, I am aware that she is capable, this Care. And that she is building a reputation for her talents, I am glad. That is what the old man trained her for – what I trained her for – in a different form, a different life.

  But as much as I appreciate her industry, I am discomposed. Forcing myself to sit, to focus, I concentrate on the threat at hand. This man, and worse, her oversight. There’s danger here, a risk as clear to me as that faint but stinging trace. And if she cannot sense that contamination, I would have her question its source – the bundle of bills from a poor man’s pocket. A laborer from the docks.

  Her clients, until now, have been largely small-scale merchants or purveyors of more personal service
s. Women, mainly, who pass Care’s name among themselves as one who can undertake the search for a child or a necessary object. Those most likely to be misused by society are most likely to have need of such services, as with the mother who came by earlier, with such heartfelt gratitude over her son’s return and who paid in one poor penny, its edges scraped for use in some earlier exchange. And while those who work the docks may number among the roughly used, it is rare to see such generosity and fellow spirit from among them as those pooled funds would indicate. My tail whips back and forth as I weigh the improbability of such largesse against the emotion clear in the man’s eyes. Perhaps it is simply the novelty that unsettles me, and I seek the comfort of more wonted custom. The surety. As much as there can ever be, in this city reverted back to something wild.

  She is quick, this girl, and learned well the arts by which to uncover the lie and to discern the truth through interview and observation. But she is young yet and susceptible to the sentiment – and the palpable fear – of others. Under its influence, what she has overlooked, it would seem, is the essential art of self-protection. She did not insist on a reference from this rough man, and I am worried. I am concerned, I am …

  I still my tail. Two factors must be considered. The first is that I, her mentor, may not have stressed the importance of such defensive measures. For it was only by my own demise that I truly learned how vulnerable we are. The other is that she, unlike me, is human. A child still, and likely more prone to emotion than I ever was in any form, but while this may seem a weakness, I cannot utterly discredit it. This girl, this Care, has saved my life, knowing me as no more than a struggling creature. Her compassion is not calculable by such a one as I, but as much as it goes against my nature, I should not discount it entirely.

  ‘Blackie?’ Her voice breaks into my thoughts. She stands at the door, her old canvas carryall on her shoulder. She has grown used to my company, but still this summons is a curious one. ‘Are you all right?’

  Of course, my pose – eyes wide, ears laid flat as if readying for a fight – make my agitation apparent to such a careful observer and highlight again the dissimilarities between us. Yet, if I must now come to terms with such physical manifestations of my distress, so too must I accept her body’s limitations. She is an observant girl and clever too. It was not pity that drove me to pick her from the pack in that other time, to select her from the group of half-feral, half-starving children who ran my errands back when I had other form. No, she was special. Is special, I correct myself. But the senses of a human, even a sensitive and intelligent young adult, like this Care is becoming, are nothing compared to the acuity of even a day-old kitten.

  It maddens me that she cannot perceive through scent or sound what I could scarce avoid, but there it is. She cannot, and I can no longer teach her, nor even warn her of what she may have missed. It is all I can do to pad along after her like the dumb beast she believes me to be, and so I do, slipping out of the closing door to follow her down the stairs and out, once more, into the street.

  I did not have to worry so, not really. Although she is quick enough to understand the value of improvisation, she follows still the system that I taught her. She will begin her work as she has learned, with groundwork and observation, building from the known to the unknown to reveal that which has been hidden. That she gives priority to the woman’s case she has made clear; her confession of this to the man was what bothered me, as it derailed the line of inquiry I would have had her following. But it was a courtesy, and in that had some value.

  For this reason, as a gesture of my own, I let her see me trailing her as she makes her way down the day-lit street. Although it is not my nature to jog like some dog at her heel, I keep pace in my own way, darting from shadow to shadow alongside her, at times moving forward, at times dropping back. As the heat of day rises, so do the aromas of the street, and I take my time, surveying them as the girl takes in the visual landscape she passes.

  The building we are leaving, for example, has withstood much. As we walk along its length, I breathe in the dust of decades. Good brick, once, though it has begun to crumble, water and the poisoned air clawing away as surely as any work of vermin could do. If I pause and close my eyes, I can taste the source of that red clay, as I can the sand of the mortar that still holds, more or less, in place. A riverbank, drenched in sun, its mud redolent of spawn and tadpoles. A remnant of memory – heat, scent – that makes me salivate.

  Many springs have passed since then, and I do not know if such a waterway still exists, nor how I would find it again. Still … at times the girl has talked of leaving this city. Of heading south. Talk it usually is, something to entertain herself or sooth the boy who comes to visit and to shelter with her at night. I lick my chops and wonder. Could there be a place, still, where such abundance could be found? Surely, if there were, others would be heading there. Would already have gone.

  For there is nothing here. Nothing healthful, at any rate. And with that I wake from my reverie, to find the girl is gone. As I have mused, distracted, I have let her pass from sight and hearing. My fur comes to a rise. If I have been wrong … But, no, with racing heart, I scramble down past our building and past the one beyond, and find her there. She has turned where I expected, being forced by her human form to take a surface route that I could have shortened for her, if she could squeeze beneath a fence and overtop a trash bin as easily as I.

  I race toward her, eager to take in her warmth, her fragrance. To reassure myself that she is not as lost to me as that forgotten spring. She pauses and turns with a smile.

  ‘Blackie.’ She makes as if to stroke me, then stops herself. Her caution – or her solicitude for my dignity – overtakes the natural desire of a child to touch my gleaming fur. ‘You’re panting. Are you OK?’

  I sit and stare up at her, willing my heaving sides to be still. It was panic more than that flustered run that has my old heart beating so. I lick my chops to erase the memory of that old scent, and wrap my tail around my forepaws, to illustrate my ease at sitting so.

  ‘You’re right at attention.’ Her gaze is quizzical. ‘I almost think you’re waiting for me to give you a treat or something.’

  I cannot help myself. My ears flip back. She does not intend derision, and yet her flagrant disregard for my focus, for the offer of my superior senses, irks me. More than it should, I remind myself. She is a child, for all that she has grown in our time together. And unlike me, she is not accustomed to be alone. She had a family once, parents who cared for her as few do these days. A father who was taken from her unlawfully, and a mother who declined as a result before they both were killed. It is natural for her to reach out to others, to try to recreate this clowder she once enjoyed. When her foster home did not provide such nurturing, she left it, but she took the boy Tick with her. And although she never gave all her allegiance to the gang that took them in, she did seek a form of family there, I know.

  She is not a cat, this girl. She must be lonely, although she is not, in fact, alone. I recall myself and force my ears to rise. Rising on my hind paws, I push my head into her hand. I feel her fingers around the base of my ears, on the soft fur beneath my jaw. They are tender, teasing out the rough spots where scars hide beneath my fur. If she noticed my flare of anger, she forgives it, as silent in her acceptance of my penance as I am in her gentle grace. For a moment, we are one and we are warm. She pets me, and I purr.

  ‘Care!’ The voice butts in, as intrusive as a rock, shattering our peace. I turn with a snarl. The boy, Tick, stands by the avenue that we just left, his arms akimbo, mouth ajar. ‘Wait up,’ he says, stumbling closer. He has been running. That much is clear from his fresh perspiration, as well as his high color and the ragged breath he draws.

  ‘Tick, are you OK?’ Care turns from me without a thought, though if she heard my aggrieved growl, she still would not likely credit it. She knows I have no love for this boy, taken too young from any parent to learn his proper role. She still believes
her nurture can relieve the gaping need in him. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  He nods, not even questioning her statement. Care does not approve of his job at the factory, a hellish place even I would have him flee. In his preoccupation, he barely notices. ‘I’m on a job,’ he says. ‘I’ll get back in time, but I had to find you. I’ve done some asking. You know, like you do?’

  She nods, biting the inside of her lip.

  ‘About AD. He’s going to work again. To cook.’ He pauses, scanning her face to see if she remembers. How could she not? The sting of the drug, the web of addiction that bound their gang to its leader. Care learned quickly enough the price of shelter and protection.

  ‘Scat?’ One word, but there’s a question in it. I wonder if she too could have sensed the stink – or notes the lack thereof. Perhaps she saw a sign in his ragged attire, or his haste.

  The boy just nods. ‘He’s rounding up the crew, those as got away. Asking everywhere for folks. You know, Rosa and the others.’

  ‘We’re not going back.’ She kneels to study the boy’s face, looking past his words. His mother was a victim of the drug. He, too, nearly fell prey.

  ‘I know.’ He nods, his mien serious. ‘I can’t. Not ever. But, Care, he’s talking big this time. About protection, about working for the boss.’

  ‘AD?’ The slightest huff of laughter. ‘I can’t see him answering to anyone.’

  ‘He’s just being careful. You know. This time.’

  She nods. She was instrumental in the gang leader’s downfall. If, this time, he has sponsors …

  ‘I’ll be careful too,’ she says, in answer to the unspoken question. She does not hide her gentle smile.

  ‘You better, Care.’ The boy, affronted, stands up straight. ‘I won’t always be around to tell you things, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ The smile grows broader, warming her face as it reveals her affection for the boy. She does not hear the growl that rises once more in my chest, the warning I would give. For she responds, as she always has, to the boy before her, to the affection they have come to share. She does not hear, as I do, the rising note in his warning. A note that speaks of the future, and of the man he may yet become.