by Nikki Grimes
“Who is it?”
“Hi, Grandma,” said Paris.
The intercom popped and sputtered.
“Paris?”
“Yes, Grandma. And Malcolm, too.”
“Good Lord!” said Grandma. “What on God’s earth has happened now?”
Chapter 3
SHORT TERM
Paris stepped inside her grandmother’s apartment, the sweat of her brow quickly drying in the fan-cooled living room.
“All right,” their grandmother said. “What are you two doing here?”
Paris pushed past the question, leaving Malcolm to explain. “Grandma, can I have a glass of water?” she asked. Her grandmother nodded and waved her off to the kitchen. Paris ambled through the apartment with more than water on her mind.
Her kitchen table’s big enough for three people, thought Paris. It’s got two chairs now, but we could add one. The cabinet’s full of dishes. I could help her wash them. I could even help cook, sometimes.
Water in hand, she went to the bedroom next.
That’s a nice-size desk. I bet Malcolm and I could take turns doing our homework on it. When Grandma isn’t using it herself, that is. The bed’s not so big, but the couch opens up. I’m pretty sure it’s big enough for two. We could—
“Paris!” her grandmother called. “Get in here.”
Paris hurried into the living room, slopping water as she went. She joined Malcolm on the sofa. Yup, I was right, thought Paris. This is plenty big enough for the two of us to sleep on.
“Malcolm told me what happened,” said her grandmother. “But what he didn’t say was why you didn’t call your mother.”
“Mother?” said Malcolm. “What mother?”
Paris gave Malcolm a look. “She hasn’t called us for a while,” said Paris. “And we don’t know where she is, now.”
“Good God,” said her grandmother.
“Yeah, well. You know how she likes to move around,” said Malcolm. “The longest the three of us ever stayed in one place was maybe six months.”
Paris waited for her grandmother to say something, but at first, all she did was shake her head. Then she said, “Well, I guess you can stay here—for a few days. But that’s it. I’ve already raised my kids. I’m too old to start that all over again.”
“No sweat,” said Malcolm, shrugging.
Paris studied her grandmother’s face, though. What’s the matter with Malcolm and me? Did we do something wrong? Is that why no one wants us? The words never left Paris’ lips, yet somehow her grandmother seemed to hear them, and she looked away.
Malcolm and Paris swallowed up the first day running errands for their grandmother, watching television, and wondering what terrible place they’d end up in next.
The caseworker from the Administration for Children’s Services had told the brother and sister they were lucky to be picked at all when they were placed with the Boones. There were few foster homes to go around, and fewer still willing to accept siblings. Paris did not feel especially lucky, but at least she and Malcolm had each other. That much she had learned to count on.
When night fell, Paris’ grandmother made up the couch for Malcolm and said Paris could sleep with her. Boys and girls should sleep separately, she said. That’s silly, thought Paris. Malcolm’s not a boy. He’s my brother. Still, she went along with it.
Paris was more tired than she knew. For two nights in a row, sleep rocked her like a baby, and carried her to a place of dreamless rest. When she woke up the morning of the third day, it was to the sound of her brother screaming, “No!”
Paris rubbed her eyes, and climbed out of bed to find her brother. Near the doorway, she found a tall, black stranger pulling Malcolm by the arm, while her grandmother just stood there, watching.
Paris looked from Malcolm, to the stranger, to her grandmother.
“What’s going on?” asked Paris.
“Go back to bed,” said her grandmother.
“Don’t do this!” said Malcolm, trying to pull away from the stranger.
“Who’s that man, and where is he taking my brother?” demanded Paris.
“Calm down,” said her grandmother. “He’s from Children’s Services. He knows what he’s doing.”
Paris looked at her grandmother as if she were crazy, then darted for the door. Her grandmother caught her mid-flight and held her firmly.
“You let my brother go!” Paris yelled.
Malcolm struggled to free himself, but the caseworker held him fast, dragging him toward the elevator.
“Malcolm!” cried Paris. “Don’t leave me!”
The elevator doors opened.
“Don’t worry!” said Malcolm, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll be back for you, Sis! I promise!”
The elevator doors closed while Paris screamed her brother’s name one last time. Then he was gone.
Paris felt her grandmother’s grip loosen, and then, suddenly weak-kneed, Paris collapsed in the doorway, sobbing.
Her grandmother sighed. “I’m sorry, child,” she said. “But the caseworker said they had to separate you two. There was nothing I could do about it.”
Her grandmother explained that Malcolm had been labeled “incorrigible,” whatever that meant. From what Paris could make out, it had something to do with the money he’d stolen from the Boones. Paris tried to explain what had happened, that Malcolm was trying to protect her, that he’d stolen the money so they could run away, but all her grandmother said was, “Your brother’s gone, and that’s the end of it.”
Paris wiped her tears away and balled up her fists. She found her grandmother in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, and stared her down.
“I hate you,” Paris told her. “You hear me? I hate you.”
Her grandmother said nothing. Paris stomped to her grandmother’s room and threw herself across the bed. Anger was her partner for the rest of the day.
The next morning, Paris was on a platform at Penn Station, waiting for the train that would take her to her new foster home.
Paris’ heart beat so loudly, the noise filled her ears. For the first time, Malcolm’s hand was not at her elbow to steady her. His arm was not across her shoulders to calm her. His smile was not there to tell her everything would be all right.
The caseworker tried to hold her hand, but Paris snatched it back. She needed her hand to wipe away her tears. She’d never felt so alone in all her life.
Sometimes I wish I was like my name, thought Paris, somewhere far away, out of reach. Somewhere safe down south or on the other side of the ocean. Instead, she was neither Paris nor Richmond. She felt like a nobody caught in the dark spaces in between. A nobody on her way to nowhere.
The train rolled into the station, and she took one last look around before boarding, hoping to see her brother running to catch up.
Malcolm, Paris asked the wind, where are you?
Chapter 4
TRAIN RIDE
Paris ignored the caseworker seated next to her and pressed her brown face against the cool window of the train, staring wide-eyed at the Hudson River as the train raced across the rails, heading north.
Riverdale, Greystone, Hastings, Dobbs Ferry, Ardsley-on-Hudson, Tarrytown, Philipse Manor, Scarborough. Slowly, the cityscape gave way to the chiseled rock coast of the Hudson. The Hudson seemed one wide, wet boulevard separating the train and Paris from the other side of—what?
There was more open sky than Paris had ever seen from the streets of New York City. It was a view she would have loved to share with her brother.
Was Malcolm on a train going far away, too? Or was he still somewhere in the city? No one would tell her.
Paris fell back in her seat and wiped away a tear. Except for a sniffle or two, she rode to Ossining in silence. She wished the noise in her head would die down, though. Thoughts and questions were banging against each other like tin pans inside her skull.
What if they hate me? What if they beat me? Who will protect me? I could run away, b
ut where would I go? I won’t know anyone there. What if they lock me up like Mrs. Boone did? No, I won’t think about that. Malcolm told me never to think about that again. Oh, Malcolm! I need you.
But there was no Malcolm.
Paris balled her fists, stuck them in her pockets, and closed her eyes. If she concentrated really hard, she could hear her brother’s voice. Except now, that voice sounded a lot like her own.
Everythingwillbeallright. Everythingwillbeallright. Everything will be all right.
“Ossining! Next stop Ossining.”
Chapter 5
MEETING THE LINCOLNS
Paris sat scrunched up against one door of the taxi while the caseworker chattered the length of the drive.
“You’ll like the Lincolns,” she said. “They’re good people.”
How would you know? thought Paris. You never had to live with them. But she said nothing. Instead, she stared out the window. The driver seemed in no particular hurry, cruising slowly through the small town. Even the people on the street seemed to move more slowly than folks did in the city. Paris couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or not.
They passed through a small square of shops and restaurants, then started down a steep hill. The sign read “Spring Street,” and near the beginning of it was a redbrick building with a cross on top. Star of Bethlehem Baptist Church. Paris liked the solid look of the place. It reminded her of churches she’d seen in Brooklyn.
“The Lincolns have two little boys of their own,” the caseworker rattled on. “They also have a foster daughter who’s a few years older than you.”
The taxicab left Spring Street and wound its way to the final destination. Up they climbed along a hill that was nearly vertical, past two-story houses with sunporches and children’s bikes strewn across the front walks.
The hill dead-ended right before a Con Edison power plant, but just below it stood a sweet old house. It was a two-story with brown shingles, and a whitewashed front porch wide enough for a bike, a tricycle, and the two-person rocker that faced the street. The dingy white fence that surrounded the house sagged in places, giving the house a relaxed and comfortable look, like an old slipper that was broken in and soft. But Paris knew better than to trust first impressions.
The caseworker paid the cabby. Paris followed her onto the porch and waited while she pressed the bell. Suddenly, the screen door swung open. A stout woman, near as pale as Paris’ daddy, filled the doorway. She was black enough, though, and Paris would learn that hers was one of just three black families on the block, and the Lincolns were the only ones with kids.
“Well hello. You must be Paris,” she said, very matter-of-factly. “Miss Liberty, yes?” she said to the caseworker. “We spoke on the phone. Please come in.”
Paris entered the tiny hall, where she was quickly surrounded by several strangers.
“This is Mr. Lincoln, David, and Jordan, and that’s Earletta,” said Mrs. Lincoln in her clipped, all-business manner.
Before Paris could ask about Earletta’s unusual name, the girl shrugged and said, “My mother wanted a boy. Guess that’s why she didn’t fight to keep me.”
Mrs. Lincoln made no comment, but Paris noticed her give the girl’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Welcome, Paris,” said Mr. Lincoln. “We’re glad you’re here.” His voice was warm as hot chocolate, and just as sweet. Paris almost believed him. But when he reached out to give her a welcome hug, she jumped back. A look of understanding passed between Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.
“All right, boys,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “Give the girl some space to breathe. But first, why don’t you show her to her room.”
My room? How can I have a room?
“Okay. This way,” said David, bouncing up the narrow staircase. Paris felt her suitcase slip from her fingers.
“I’ll bring that up for you later,” said Mr. Lincoln. Paris wasn’t so sure about leaving her possessions with this stranger.
“That’s okay,” she said, grabbing her suitcase back. “I’ll take it myself.”
Mr. Lincoln nodded. “Suit yourself.”
Reluctantly, Paris followed the boys into the belly of the house. At the top of the landing, she looked around, wondering which room was going to be hers. She’d never had a room all to herself. Why were they giving her her own room? “Girls and boys should sleep separately,” her grandmother had said. But what about Earletta? Why wasn’t she bunking with Earletta? Did Earletta have her own room, too? The house sure didn’t look that big to Paris.
“Here it is,” said David.
The older boy waved her over to the smallest room she had ever seen. It was hardly bigger than a closet. The thought made Paris shiver.
At least there’s a window, she thought. A twin bed hugged the wall. A rag rug lay in front of the bed, and a few feet away stood a desk and chair. There was a musty old wardrobe to hang clothing in, and, squeezed in next to it, an ancient dresser with peeling paint.
Now I get it, thought Paris. They were sticking her here in this little room to keep her out of sight, to hide her away so they could forget about her as soon as the caseworker left.
Paris looked dejected and the boys couldn’t figure out why.
“You’re lucky,” said Jordan. “You get your own room!”
“Wish I had my own room,” added David. “Then maybe I could get away from this squirt for more than a minute.” Jordan punched his big brother in the arm, but Paris ignored them both. She swung her suitcase up on the bed and got busy unpacking. Bored, the boys headed back downstairs.
Paris sat on the bed, letting her eyes sweep every corner of the drafty room, wondering what the place would be like at night, wondering how bad it would be.
Fear was not something Paris needed to rehearse. “Frightened girl” was a role she already knew by heart. The question was, how often would she have to play the part here?
Chapter 6
FIRST NIGHT
Miss Liberty, the caseworker, said good-bye, assuring Paris that she was in good hands.
The rest of the evening was a blur. There was dinner, a litany of rules for Paris to memorize, then a brief tour of the house. Earletta gave her the tour, but only because Mrs. Lincoln told her to.
“This is the laundry room. That’s the downstairs bathroom. Front porch. Backyard. Mom and Dad’s room. The linen closet. The zoo, otherwise known as the boys’ room. That’s it! You’ve already seen the kitchen, dining room, and living room. And here’s your room. But you already knew that. Don’t get too comfortable, though.”
“Huh?”
“You probably won’t be here that long,” said Earletta.
Paris turned around.
“What do you mean?” she asked. But Earletta was already halfway down the stairs.
Paris filed Earletta’s comment away and crawled into bed, fully dressed except for shoes.
Gotta be ready in case I need to run. But where? Malcolm, I need you to tell me what to do, where to go.
Like a favorite blanket, or a teddy bear, Paris clung to thoughts of her brother. They were all the comfort she had.
The room was dark as a cave, even with the bedside lamp on. Paris strained her eyes in the direction of the dresser. Her suitcase stood right beside it. She’d left it nearby so she could repack in a hurry, if she needed to.
All in the house slept, except for Paris, who willed the hours to move faster toward dawn.
What will happen to me here? What if they lock me up in here? What if, this time, no one ever finds me?
Paris walked the tightrope of her fears for hours. Eventually, she missed a step and started falling, falling, falling to the ground. She flailed her arms, crying, screaming as she plummeted through the unending abyss. And when she finally hit the ground, it was morning, and she found herself in a tangle of blankets on the bedroom floor.
Chapter 7
BACKYARD BEAST
Paris slipped downstairs and out the back door to explore the grounds while e
veryone else was still asleep. Quiet escapes were getting to be her specialty.
Wow!
This was no postage-stamp backyard. It was a green and floral field to run in. The right was edged with hydrangea bushes, bursting with giant pink and blue blossoms. Towering above them were a smattering of trees rooted in the next yard over, and through the trees Paris could make out a silver snake, glistening in the morning sunlight, moving north to south. Of course, it wasn’t a snake at all. It was the Hudson River slithering by.
The river the train followed to bring me here, thought Paris. The river that could take me home.
But where was home? Not with the Boones. Not with Grandma. Not even with Viola, because she never seemed to belong anywhere, in particular.
Home was such a funny word. For most kids, home was where your mom and dad lived, where you felt safe, where the bogeyman was merely make-believe. Home was where you knew every square inch of the place by heart, where you could wake up in the middle of the night and know exactly where you were without even opening your eyes. Paris didn’t have a place like that. She didn’t even have an address she’d lived at long enough to memorize, no single place that felt familiar as all that. Except maybe the city itself.
For Paris, home was more a person, and that person was Malcolm.
I could follow that river back to Malcolm. But how do I know Malcolm is even there anymore?
Paris kicked the ground and shook off the question. She had no answer and there was no way to find out the truth. At least, not yet. Paris turned her attention back to the yard.
Whitewashed arbors framed a small grapevine in the center of the yard. Here and there a few blue-black grape globes still held on tenaciously. Otherwise, Paris would have no idea what she was looking at. There were no grapevines on Lenox Avenue! The left side of the yard was enclosed by a picket fence, and in the back corner stood an old toolshed. There’d been one in the yard in Queens.