Cross My Path

by Clea Simon

  What did he say? My tail beats out a rhythm as I run through what I know. Too little. He was seen spying on us, and not just by the boy. ‘The scat,’ he was heard to say – to yell – within those walls. Perhaps. I do not trust reports given out by men who would dismiss a death so easily. Nor do I believe he was needed to ‘cook’, to practice his foul alchemy. But the man AD had made his living dealing such wares, as well. Supplying those in need and encouraging consumption, though surely the store beneath that low stone house would supply a larger appetite, a larger market than any he had known.

  Was he sought out for some secondary skill, and then found lacking? Did he, in desperation, demand a share? A role in some larger enterprise? Or was the drug secondary to another task – a report viewed as somehow lacking or less than frank?

  Or did he in fact complete his mission? Report back what he was sent to find, expecting a reward, only to be discarded as of no more utility? Such usage is foreign to me as I am now. I kill efficiently and without regret, but only for food or to protect myself or my own. But I know of those who take their pleasure in toying with their prey. Who discard the broken object once it no longer serves to amuse. Was AD such a one? I do not know which fate bodes worse for the girl I love, only that I would keep her far from any so engaged.

  Outside, behind me, the sun begins to rise. The window, still ajar, admits the bustle of the waking day. The rumble of a truck, its gears grinding from long and sorry use. A shout as some unfortunate is rousted, half asleep or drunk, from beneath a vendor’s cart. And somewhere, out of sight, a plaintive call. A bird, driven by instinct, sings out his presence and the day. My ears twitch back. The echo of another life.

  I walked these streets as summer bloomed. My senses were not then what they are now, but I had trained myself to listen, alert to such signs around me. I hear him yet again, as I did then, and I am there.

  Summer, hotter then, and green. The bird – his braggart cry – falls silent as another passes. He quiets before I can attain his perch, and I know to peer about me. To note what has stopped his call, and why.

  I find my reason – a figure, too large for stealth and yet of no apparent threat. I am by nature quieter than that bird, even then, and yet less cautious. I see the figure and approach. She is in pursuit of a certain truth – I know this, though I know not how – and willing to risk communing with others to forward my quest.

  A faint flutter, almost silent as the bird takes flight. I notice and dismiss this as the timidity of lesser creatures. I, too, may be viewed a threat, although I hunt elsewhere, purely by my size and strength. The timing of that flight, however, rankles slightly. A question begins to form. And then I realize. The figure on the path does not wait for me, or not alone. Without acknowledging my presence, she lifts her head to greet a man. Tall and lean, his features sharp. He does not note my presence, I believe, as I crouch down on haunches not yet stiff with age. But she does, and as I stand there, transfixed, she bends and then extends her hand to me. I know this woman, and as I stretch my body, whiskers alert for the hint of violence or of fear, I come to realize she knows me – both in the feline form I now assume and as that tall, lean man who sought her aid.

  ‘Blackie?’

  ‘No!’ I jerk back, as if burned. ‘That is not my name!’ The words form in my head, but all that emerges is a yowl. And I wake. I am frozen on the arm of a ragged sofa, claws dug deep in fabric already torn. Above me, stands a girl. The girl, Care, her face now knit with sorrow. It is not she whom I’d imagined, transfixing me with her stare. She who knew me – who saw me in some vital way. No, this girl, whose brows now gather in dismay, does not even know my name. But she is dear to me, and I, apparently, to her. One hand hovers near me, hesitant. And so, rising, I push my head into her palm and close my eyes. She holds herself stiff and still at first, and then relaxes, and as she cradles my skull, her fingers working underneath my jaw, I unwind as well, and I begin to purr.

  ‘I’ve had the strangest dream.’ She talks as to herself, even after she has settled, once again, upon the couch. ‘I was – somewhere – a street that I don’t know. You were there, too.’ She smiles at me. ‘But different somehow. More – a cat, if that makes any sense.’

  I gaze up at her, alert. She could be speaking of my past life, though how she would know of this, I cannot begin to understand.

  ‘I think it might have been a memory.’ That smile turns inward. Fades. ‘The old man was training me. He had me shadowing him, not that I was any good. I think it was a meeting he’d set up. A contact – not a client. Only the woman never showed, not that I saw at any rate. I remember him standing, looking thoughtful. Only, in my dream, he’s not alone. He’s looking at a cat. At you.’

  That’s all, but it is enough. A tantalizing fragment of the past with which I continue to rebuild my history. The girl rises to begin her day. I know her patterns well enough to rest easy as she leaves to seek water and to wash. The sound of plumbing barely registers as I mull over what she has said and what it may mean.

  A dream, she said. But a memory beneath. A scene that echoes what I too begin to recall. A woman, said the girl. A client, perhaps. So not this woman, who has come from afar. Not this client who claims to be seeking me. And a cat. I extend my paw, as if to make further examination of the leather pad, the fur, the claws that make me what I am. By habit, I begin to wash. Yes, I am a cat. Was that feline she remembered the antecedent of who I am now? Did these two figures – lone hunters, both – somehow merge?

  The girl returns as I complete my toilette. Despite my restless night, I jump down to join her, standing by the door. I do not know if she will follow her vision today, will seek to recreate that long-ago scene, or continue to pursue the livelihood I have left her. She is a strange girl, and her pragmatism is colored by her emotions, by the ties she feels to others in her life.

  When she heads toward the waterfront, I follow closely. By daylight, the area is busy once again, the threat of violence diminished by the bustle. Commerce takes precedence here, and one girl will be, more or less, ignored. If she goes to observe, to note who speaks to whom, and where they gather, she should be fine. If she makes inquiries, I know she will be discreet. Still, I cannot forget the sight of the girl’s onetime leader, his body twisted on the muddy silt. Nor the memory, more closely held, of my own untimely end – my vision fading as I sank into that ditch.

  I am relieved, therefore, when Care breaks off, blocks still from the wharf, in an area of large brick buildings neither reclaimed for storage yet nor wrecked for material.

  She heads toward one building and my ears prick up. I know this place – its brick, those walls. But some factor – a familiar scent – is missing, and without smell, I may as well be blind. What I am seeking, I do not know. Perhaps those papers she consults would have explained were I still able to make sense of the ink scrawled on their surfaces.

  It is not in my nature to brood, to fret over that which might have been. Still, I am mindful – more than most – of the danger of the unforeseen. To better arm myself, I catalogue what aromas I may. The hunters who have passed by here – another cat, whose young reside nearby, a feral dog, near toothless now with age – as well as their luckless prey. Traces of humans, too. A woman who plies her trade in the quiet dark. A drunkard, taking comfort of a different sort. He has slept here and moved on.

  As does the girl. As I look up, I see the distance she has already put between us, and so I trot to follow. Around a corner, the building where the drinker slept, she crosses through an open area, past where the rusted hulk of a car lies rotting. And then it hits me.

  Startled into action, I begin to run, desperate to turn her back. For all too clearly, I can guess her path. She is heading back to the den of her old gang. Some strange allegiance still to the man with whom she sheltered and whom she once betrayed draws her, I fear. I leap ahead of her. Stop and stare, willing her to recognize the fruitlessness of her search, if not the danger. But she will not pause
, and strides past me toward a burned-out shell. The brick a blasted black, its windows gone. Its upper stories crumbling, but its basement, dead ahead, still intact. A burrow of a sort, or warren rather. A place where a homeless girl and the boy that she defended once found refuge, of a sort, and where AD once held sway. Where with heat and flame, he created that noxious substance that held his gang together. That was the element I could not find – the acrid stench of the drug.

  Perhaps she smells it too – notes its absence in the air. She slows as she approaches the building, its open windows yawning black even in the morning light. She crouches as she approaches one. Balances herself with one hand on the ground and squints. Her narrowed eyes cannot penetrate the dark, and so I join her, peering deep inside. A figure lies within. Asleep. The woman of the streets, her body rank with use.

  I pause, uncertain how to proceed. The figure within poses no apparent threat, and yet, any creature cornered and at rest may lash out. I turn and view the girl. She stares still, as day blind as a mole. I cannot warn her, and so I make my move.

  ‘Get out!’ The hand slaps up at me. It pushes me away. ‘Shoo!’

  The gesture has no force in it. The woman barely rouses from her sleep. But my aim has been achieved. By leaping through that window, onto the woman’s palette, I have caused her to betray her presence. Care has followed, lowering herself down to the floor, and stands now waiting. Her eyes take longer to adjust than mine, but she can see the movement, hear the voice, if not the matted yellow hair. My task completed, I retreat to bathe. This woman is not as clean as I.

  ‘Rosa.’ The girl says nodding. ‘You’re still here.’

  ‘Who’s that.’ The woman rises, blinking, her pale face drawn and dirty. ‘Care?’

  ‘Who else?’ Care watches as the woman pokes around. She finds a sweater of some sort and pulls it on. The sleeve, unraveling, does little to hide the marks. ‘How are you?’

  Care sees the bruises from rough hands, the burns – she must. Her eyes will have grown accustomed to the dim as Rosa pulls more clothing on. Still, she stands there, waiting.

  ‘Good enough.’ Rosa looks up at her. Appraising her, perhaps, for future custom. ‘You look good.’

  ‘Come on.’ Care holds out her hand and pulls the other woman to her feet. She’s tall, this Rosa. Raw-boned and gaunt. ‘It’s been a while. I know I could use some breakfast. Couldn’t you?’

  ‘Breakfast?’ Her face narrows as she weighs the words. ‘So – you’re buying?’

  Care nods. ‘I was thinking of the Sunrise, if it’s still around.’

  ‘You’ve got scratch?’ A spark of interest. Beyond hunger is my guess.

  Another nod. ‘Enough,’ Care says.

  ‘Hang on.’ The woman pokes through her pile of rags and adds a few. Adornments, I would guess. Though whether in celebration or in anticipation of attracting clientele, I cannot tell. Perhaps she makes no difference, in her state, but follows as Care leads her to the doorway and the street.

  The woman has forgotten me – the stray who woke her – and does not seem to notice that I pace them, as they walk. That I observe, all curiosity. I do not understand the girl’s intent. It is enough that she suffers this unclean creature to accompany her. That she returns her embrace when the woman opens up her arms to her. I am relieved to note how Care then frees herself from that embrace. Those hands would search as well as cling, and I would not have the girl’s generosity abused. But still, she carries on a friendly patter, drawing the woman out with talk of warmth and food.

  ‘The Sunrise!’ Almost, Rosa sounds a girl again. ‘I haven’t eaten there in ages. I wonder if they have eggs.’

  Care laughs. ‘Who does, these days? But we can see.’ I tag behind, as curious as the tall, ungainly woman who now links her arm through Care’s as they walk freely down the street.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘So where you get the coin from?’ Rosa licks her fingers. Her plate is already wiped clean. ‘You on the job?’

  ‘Me? No.’ Care looks away, embarrassed. She doesn’t want to shame this woman. Doesn’t want her to think she has competition, either. ‘I’m still working as a finder. You know, the old man’s gig?’

  ‘You?’ Skepticism in her eyes. ‘Alone?’

  ‘I get referrals.’ The girl shrugs, not wanting to antagonize. ‘There’s a keeper sends me work.’ For a moment, she pauses, and I wonder just what she will reveal. What she will trade to this Rosa, to gain her confidence. ‘And others, too. Right now I’m looking for this boy named Rafe.’

  She describes the youth, her voice casual and her expressions veiled. Her gambit pays off.

  ‘Red-headed kid? Skinny as all get out?’

  ‘You know the guy he hangs with?’ Care acts casual, like an interested friend. She hasn’t told her companion about their former boss, the body that’s been swept out to sea not far from the greasy spoon where these two now sit. ‘Older guy?’

  She’s testing her colleague. Checking to see if the other woman is telling the truth, or simply agreeing for the sake of her meal. It wasn’t much. No eggs, but the bread and drippings were clearly better fare than the slatternly woman has enjoyed in recent days.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The woman stares. Care has left a crust, and the woman eyes it as I would a fat vole. Rosa licks her lips. She knows there’s a price. ‘Pete? Peter? Little guy. Bow-legged.’

  Care pushes the plate toward her, and I turn away. Rosa grabs up the crust, scraping it over the plate. She’ll eat it all before she talks anymore, and I am at ease. Care has made the sensible move: pursuing the easier quarry. That these two cases may be connected, she can surely see, but tracking a local, a man known on the waterfront, is the sensible start. As was rousting the woman for information.

  I settle into my niche, a deep sill warmed by the mid-morning sun. It was easy enough for me to follow these two inside. The door is only a hanging strip of plastic, cloudy with age and grime, and although the man behind the grill misses little, he is wise enough to welcome my presence. I confess a moment’s trepidation, when I saw his cleaver. But that bread – that’s his stock in trade – and the rats cost him more than he can get for meat.

  ‘That guy, Peter, he’s kinda weird.’ Rosa is sucking her fingers again. The crust was too hard to absorb much, and she runs one dirty thumb over Care’s plate before pushing it back again.

  ‘Oh?’ Care’s voice is noncommittal, and I knead in satisfaction. I never had the chance to teach the girl this part of the job: the grooming of sources. The interplay of reward and, yes, threat that could elicit information. Then again, she was one of AD’s gang. Often enough, they were my source – my eyes on the street. Care was different, but she, too started as a snitch. A spy on the world at large.

  ‘Not – you know.’ The woman looks around, but the shack is empty. The day laborers who must make up the bulk of this greasy spoon’s custom have gone off to their jobs. ‘I mean, that’s fine, you know? Only, I don’t get any scratch for that.’ She laughs in a forced way. I suspect there is little she will not do – or find – for hard cash.

  ‘How do you mean, then?’ Care’s voice, soft, keeps her on track.

  ‘Just, about the kid. You know?’ It’s a verbal tick, and Care knows it. Still I see the effort she exerts, willing herself not to respond. Her silence will better serve. ‘Like he was scared for him. Scared I’d hurt him.’

  The sudden grin reveals the missing teeth. This woman is a peer of the girl’s, not more than one year or two older, but experience has aged her.

  ‘Was he the timid type?’ Sometimes the pump needs priming, but the woman looks confused. ‘Peter,’ says Care. ‘Was he the kind who was always scared?’

  A shrug. ‘Who knows? But for the kid, yeah. It was like he was his boy or something.’

  Care nods and I can imagine her thoughts. The older man is protective of the youth. That’s why he sought out Care. Why he hired her. Only Care does not know what I do: that this man has had dealings with tho
se in charge of the waterfront. That he may have been involved in the death of her onetime gang leader, as well. I sigh and shift. My bad leg stiffens if I stay still too long. Perhaps it is better so, I muse as Care takes up her mug. As she finishes the mud-colored beverage within. Let the dead stay buried, I think. Let them drift out to sea.

  ‘So, have you seen AD around?’ The question jolts me awake, and I stare at the girl. She is still holding her mug, but her eyes drift up, to take in Rosa’s reaction.

  ‘AD? Nuh-uh.’ The woman is staring at the mug. Her own is long drained. ‘I heard he got out though. Early release, ha!’ Another forced laugh. She knows, as does Care, that no legal body authorized their former leader’s return. She knows, as well, that Care is interested. ‘You gonna have more coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’ Care looks up at the grill man. Fishes another coin out of her pocket, and he comes over with his old kettle. Rosa’s tit for tat is growing wearisome, however. The strain has begun to show. ‘So, what have you heard?’ She doesn’t even wait for the grill man to retreat.

  ‘Couple of things.’ The woman holds the chipped mug with both hands, savoring its warmth, it appears, as much as the beverage within. ‘Some people say he made a run for it. Jumped ship, when it got close to shore.’

  ‘Jumped ship?’ The question pops out, interrupting the flow. But the woman nods. Keeps talking.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she says. ‘Work crew, shipped out. That’s what they do with them now. The ships need crewmen, especially if they’re to bring back the trade.’ She eyes her hostess. ‘You thought they just locked ’em up? What would be the sense in that?’

  Care merely shakes her head.

  ‘But some people say that’s not possible. That nobody comes back from those ships.’ She nods, her lips held tight. Care leans in as if to ask. There’s something this woman isn’t telling. Something she hasn’t said.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Care’s question, when it comes, is gentle.