Birthday Girl

by Matthew Iden

  Amy shot him an amused look, then surprised the woman by giving her a hug. “How are you, Mama?”

  “Better than average,” she said, then gave Amy an appraising look. “I seen you before. At Francis House. You weren’t there for breakfast.”

  “That’s right,” Amy said, surprised. “I can’t believe you remember.”

  “She remembers everything,” Elliott said. “I hate to ask, Mama, but we’re in a pinch.”

  “You need a place?”

  “Just a night, two at the most.”

  Her expression turned sour, and she gave him a look that slid off his face to include Amy. “I don’t truck with no fooling around, Elliott. You want that, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  “We’re not . . . together, Mama. Amy’s looking for her little girl.” He explained their mission in a few sentences. “We’re just in a tight spot right now.”

  Mama searched his face for something. After a moment, she nodded, satisfied. “All right. You can stay. Two nights. You know where the key is.”

  “I do.” He squeezed her arm. “I appreciate it.”

  “Get going. You’re scaring the customers away,” Mama said, making a shooing motion with one of the papers. “Don’t forget, it’s T-shirt day at the Chase Shelter. You could use a sprucing up.”

  “Thanks, Mama.”

  “One more thing!” She dug into a fanny pack almost hidden by her belly, then came out with a crumpled fistful of dollars, grimy and looking like the leaves of a dead plant. “Get me something special while you’re out, okay?”

  Elliott took the money reluctantly. “You’re sure, Mama?”

  The smile was still in place, but her eyes were shining. “I’m sure, honey. Leave it in the fridge.”

  Elliott nodded and led them away from the market, gesturing toward a side street. “Let’s get off King Street. The cops get a little feisty on market day.”

  “What was that about a place to stay?”

  “Mama looks the part, but she isn’t homeless. She’s had a house up past the train station for as long as anyone can remember. She inherited it after her husband died years ago.”

  “A house? You’re kidding me. Why is she panhandling?”

  “She exhibits signs of untreated depression, which has probably kept her from holding down a job for most of her life. With the house falling into her lap, she ended up house rich but cash poor. So, she hangs out at the shelters and sells newspapers on the corner to buy booze and a few other things.”

  “And she lets you crash at her house?”

  “Not just me and not often. She trusts a handful of street people and lets them stay, but never for more than a few nights. She knows people need a hand up once in a while. It’ll give us a chance to shower and get a decent night’s sleep.”

  “A night?” Amy’s face was stricken. “Elliott, Lacey doesn’t have much time. We’ve wasted days already.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know. But we look like hell, and if we show up at a courthouse in that condition, we’ll get thrown out on our ear. Or worse, they’ll hold us and look around for a BOLO that matches our description.”

  “But, we go to DC tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling grimly. “Tomorrow we go find who kidnapped Lacey.”

  38

  Amy

  The shower hadn’t been cleaned this millennium—the mud-colored ring around the lip of the porcelain tub said so—while the soap, powdered and in a cardboard box, had the strength and smell of industrial lye. An unidentifiable smell rose from the drain, and the water that came out of the showerhead between a trickle and fire hose strength was hot enough to blister skin when it wasn’t ice cold.

  And it was pure bliss.

  Amy stood under the stream of water for what seemed an eternity, unable to scrub enough, or relax enough. In just a few short days on the street, her hair was tied in knots, while grit and dirt were ground deep into her pores and into the seams of her skin. Sleeping in your clothes under a highway overpass would do that to you. Which meant that Elliott must have felt infinitely worse.

  A wave of guilt rolled over her. Elliott was in Mama’s living room, waiting patiently for his turn in the shower. She sighed once, then twirled the dial on the shower and watched with regret as the flow slowed to a steady stream of fat drops. She dried off using the threadbare towels, smelling of mothballs and must, she’d found in a linen closet, then slipped on her jeans and sweatshirt. Underwear and bra would have to wait until they had a turn in the sink. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked and crazed mirror, a quick flash of sunken eyes and long, wet hair, before she jerked her head away.

  Cracking the door open by hooking her finger in the hole where the knob should be, she yelled, “Elliott! Batter up!”

  There was no answer. She slipped her shoes on and headed down the hallway. If they’d been any farther south, Mama’s house would be called a shotgun shack, a skinny little thing two stories tall but only five big steps wide, with a living room and kitchen on the first floor, two bedrooms and a bath on the second. Big enough for a family of eight around the Industrial Revolution, too small for modern resale, it was just right for a single aging welfare lady and the occasional houseguest.

  The house smelled of damp wood and Vicks VapoRub, old frying grease and dirt in the corners. From the kitchen counters to the front porch, there wasn’t a level surface in the house, and the walls were so crooked that she had the urge to tilt her head as she walked. She held the banister with both hands as she went down the steps for fear of pitching over the railing.

  She followed soft voices to the living room, where Elliott perched on the corner of a sagging velour couch the color of forest moss, while Mama, balancing a wide-mouthed Mason jar on top of her belly with both hands, sat embedded in a blue pin-striped, overstuffed chair. Paperback books held up a corner of the chair where a foot should be.

  Elliott raised an eyebrow as she walked in, and Mama beamed to see her. “Feeling better, hon?”

  “Incredible, thank you.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy,” she said, wriggling in the chair. “I have trouble with those stairs myself. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to do anything except use the powder room down here. Nothing a little bit of flower water won’t cover up, but it’s nice to hear someone can make use of this old house.”

  Amy moved to sit on the couch near Elliott, lighting on the edge of the frame to make sure she didn’t sink into the unknown depths of the velour. “I thought you had people over from time to time, Mama.”

  “I used to, but you and Elliott are the first in quite a while. A few weeks ago, I let Coco and Kirby stay here—you know them, Elliott, they used to hang around the train station on King Street. They helped themselves to my bottle without asking, and I told them to get out if that’s how they were going to pay me back. They didn’t like that at all.”

  Elliott frowned. “Were they any trouble?”

  “Not really.” Mama pushed up a sleeve of her jacket, revealing a yellowing bruise with purple center about the size of a lemon. She looked at it critically, but without rancor. “Coco put this on me when I told him to leave. My circulation isn’t what it used to be, so these things take a while to fade.”

  “Oh my god,” Amy said, staring at the bruise. “You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” Mama said. Reaching down into the cushion of the chair, she pulled out a blue-steel revolver in a single, smooth motion. Elliott swore as they sat back instinctively. Mama laughed out loud. “Easy, children. Don’t take my juice or talk politics and we’ll be fine.”

  Elliott looked at her uneasily. “Is that thing loaded?”

  “Is it loaded?” She laughed. “What good is a gun without bullets? My goodness, Harold would’ve gone through the roof if he thought I’d held on to his gun but didn’t keep it working.”

  “Harold?” Amy asked.

  “My husband, dear. Gone twenty-nine
years ago last month.” Tears suddenly appeared in her eyes, spilling over and down the cherubic cheeks. Ice clinked as she took a long pull from her glass, draining half of it. When she spoke again, her voice was thick. “We’ve been apart longer than we were together. Can you imagine?”

  She held her glass toward Elliott, who reached down to a paper bag on the floor next to the couch and filled her glass from the bottle inside. Mama took another long pull, then sighed and tilted a look at them. “Speaking of Harold, once you get cleaned up, Elliott, I want you to look through the closet in the back. There are some things of Harold’s I can’t use—imagine that!—and you could.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t—” Elliott began, but she cut him off.

  “I’m not talking about a pair of work pants, sonny.” Her voice was tart. “Didn’t you just tell me you were going to court or something like it?”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly.

  “Do you think they’re going to let you in wearing a T-shirt? You won’t get anywhere if you show up looking like you fell off the back of a caboose. Just take a look in the closet in the back, the tall one near the window.” Mama looked at Amy. “Same for you, missy. There are some old things of mine in the other room that I haven’t been able to fit into since before Nixon was president.”

  Elliott smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “You’re so welcome, honey,” she said, smiling, but her eyelids dropped to half-mast, then bounced upward only to sink again. She roused enough to take another pull from the glass. Some of the liquor dribbled down her chin to blot on the neck of her fleece. “Haven’t been able to help anyone since my little boy left. Miss helping people. Feels good . . .”

  Another tear spilled down her cheek as her voice trailed off, her eyes closing completely. Elliott leaned forward in time to catch the glass just as it slipped out of her hands, then placed it on the end table next to the chair. Mama’s head fell forward slightly, coming to rest on her many chins. Soft snores rose from her as her hands slid off her belly, stopping perfectly on the arms of her chair.

  Amy looked at Elliott, an unspoken question on her lips.

  He shrugged. “I don’t think Harold or her son had a happy ending. This is how she deals with it.”

  They watched the old woman sleep peacefully for a moment, before Amy cleared her throat. “Maybe now’s a good time for you to take your shower.”

  He gave her a small smile. “I thought hippies liked earthy smells.”

  “Earthy, sure. Latrinelike, not so much.”

  “A rose by any other name.”

  “Rose is not the word that came to mind.”

  “Okay, I can take a hint.”

  “Easier than taking a whiff.”

  “All right, all right. I’m going,” he said, laughing quietly. “Will you watch her? I know this is her routine, but I’d still feel better if someone were here.”

  “Of course.”

  Elliott crept away, careful not to wake Mama, but from what Amy could see, it would take a twenty-one gun salute to rouse the woman. Cracks and pops and creaks accompanied Elliott as he climbed the stairs and crossed to the bathroom, followed by the rattle, bang, and dull roar as water rushed through the metal pipes of the decrepit house.

  She smothered a groan at the ache in her back. Her short experience with street life had been taxing, and she wondered how Elliott—or any homeless person—managed it, prompting her to promise silently to never complain about her futon again. Even Mama’s couch, with the spring prodding her in the butt and the spar of the wooden frame running along her spine, was heaven compared to the benches and sidewalks they’d slept on. She pushed back into the depths of the couch and felt herself relax.

  Physically, at least.

  Mentally, a clock was running in her head that wouldn’t stop, a buzz-saw countdown to Lacey’s birthday. Everything they’d done had been necessary, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch as the hours slipped by, taking Lacey’s chances with them. Anxiety had nearly eaten her up over the last few days . . . at least until exhaustion had made it impossible to care about much except putting one foot in front of the other. She was telling herself to stay focused and calm when she fell asleep.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat woke her. She sat up, fuzzy and dumb with sleep, but her eyes popped open as they focused on the man standing in front of her.

  Clean-shaven cheeks revealed a narrow, square chin with a dimple in the center. The face was all angles, with sharp trenches running from the prominent cheeks to the bones of his jaw, while the long, aquiline nose only added to his piercing look. Poker-straight hair was combed back in a wave that hung almost to his shoulders, though a lone strand fell into his eyes that he brushed away irritably. He wore a summer-weight charcoal gray suit with a slim black tie and a white shirt. Black wingtips over black socks completed the ensemble.

  Elliott tugged at the sleeve at his wrist, an unconsciously sophisticated move straight out of a boardroom or a Wall Street office. “What do you think?”

  Before she could answer, there was a snort next to her and she glanced over. Mama was awake and looking at Elliott like he’d dropped from the sky. “Oh my word, you look good enough to eat, Elliott.”

  Amy smothered a smile. With no beard to hide it, Elliott’s blush rose from his neck all the way to his hairline.

  “We’re going to court, not a fashion show,” he growled, then turned and headed back upstairs.

  Amy caught Mama’s eye, and they both gave in to long peals of laughter.

  39

  Elliott

  The Moultrie building was simultaneously nondescript and imposing, a function of both its practical use—taking care of legal matters on a daily basis—and its intent: intimidating people. Solid vertical blocks of gray-white granite and narrow, tinted windows looking like massive arrow slits gave the building the appearance of a tower or castle. The angular construction seemed part of the message: the justice dispensed inside would be straightforward, unbending, severe.

  Elliott looked at the building from the curb on Indiana Avenue, unable to move. Since hitting the streets all those years ago, he’d scrupulously avoided this place, knowing that just seeing it again had the power to unhinge him. And he wasn’t wrong.

  From the moment they’d came up the Metro escalator at Judiciary Square, raw, unexamined memories had swept right through the shell he’d painstakingly created around himself, battering him like an artillery barrage. Each step from there to here—the walk past the bronze lions of the stirring but melancholy National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, through the manicured lawns of the DC court system, alongside the Metropolitan Police Department headquarters—triggered memories of a previous life.

  Not all were bad. Most of his professional triumphs had occurred within a block of where he stood, many of them in the building across the street. But that same edifice was where he’d sat in the gallery, watching as John Jeffery Kerrigan was tried and sentenced for the abduction and murder of his daughter.

  Although he told himself the two things had nothing to do with each other, his mind strove to force a connection, attempting to link the aggregate of who he had been as a person with the single most important, and tragic, event of his life. But if they were supposed to add up to something, he couldn’t see it. He was blind to whatever the universe was trying to tell him, a sad, broken man tapping a stick in the dark, trying to find the edges of things.

  “Elliott?” Amy was looking at him, concern etched on her face.

  “I’m fine. Just fighting memories.”

  She smiled hesitantly. “Should we go in?”

  He stared at the courthouse a moment longer, then nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head. “Let’s go.”

  He plucked at his cuffs and fiddled with his tie as they crossed the street. He had a hard time believing they would blend in: he for the years spent on the streets, but Amy for what she was wearing. Unlike Harold’s somber and subdued collection of suits, Mam
a’s wardrobe had been a time warp back to the craziest part of the seventies, ranging from a matching red, white, and blue plaid blazer and pants combo to a purple one-piece jumpsuit. Most of it was too outlandish to wear and would attract too much attention, so Amy had settled on a plaid jacket over a silk gold blouse and black bell-bottoms.

  “You look like Farrah Fawcett in Charlie’s Angels,” he’d said when she’d first tried on the combination.

  “Thanks, I think, but I could do without wearing something from the sexual revolution,” she’d replied, trying to pinch together the blouse. The topmost button, by design, stopped between her breasts. “Do you think we could find a safety pin somewhere?”

  A line of people were queued up outside the courthouse, awaiting their turn to go through a quick bag search and a trip through the metal detector. Once through, they joined the swirl of people crowding the main lobby. Some moved with a purpose, others aimlessly. Lawyers wearing Ferragamos and thousand-dollar suits mingled with gangbangers in torn flip-flops and sweatshirts. The escalators that normally moved people from the large lobby to the courts were closed, so Elliott led them to a bank of elevators, only to find that the line was ten deep.

  “Family court is on the second floor, if they haven’t moved it since I was here,” Elliott said, impatient. “Let’s take the stairs.”

  The stairwell was wide and industrial-looking, with shallow steps and a no-nonsense steel handrail, the whole thing big enough to accommodate all of the traffic they’d seen in the lobby. As they started up, their footsteps echoed loudly on the concrete steps. An answering clip-clop was descending and, precisely at the halfway point, they rounded the first curl of the stairwell to face a woman in her late forties or early fifties. She was dressed in a leaf-green wool business suit that was as vintage as Amy’s outfit.

  Elliott nodded as they passed, but kept his eyes on the stairs in front of him. The woman smiled at them, and as they continued up the steps, her hard-heeled footsteps proceeded down. Keeping her smile frozen, Amy forced herself to climb at a steady pace, resisting the urge to break into a run.