Reaction

by Seth M. Baker

“Hey,” Amadeus said. They pushed. The bed under him tilted upwards and the compartment grew dark. The latch finally snapped, and Amadeus was squished between the soft bed and the hard plastic wall. He couldn’t move his arms or his legs, only his feet. He longed to move his legs, to stretch, but couldn’t; it was as if his entire body had been bound with duct tape and thrown into a soft, muddy ditch. Some time passed, and outside the car he heard a hydraulic hiss. He thought more and more of funerals. Next he heard the door to the compartment slide open.

  “Oh, excuse me,” a man’s voice said. “Do you mind putting some clothes on? We need to talk to you.” The door closed. Zella said she didn’t mind at all. After a moment the door opened again and the man’s voice asked for identification. His voice had a flat, passive accent. Some shuffling, then beeps as the cops scanned the girls’ IDs. “Have you seen these two men? We think they’re somewhere on this train.” Amadeus’ face warmed, and he felt like an animal in a trap. The urge to move and squirm was greater than the urge to breathe. He took deep breaths and thought about the ocean.

  “Nuh uh,” Zella said. “Actually, hold on just a sec. You know, I think I did see them. They walked past our car just before we stopped. A big one and a small one, right?” The cop gave his assent. “Yeah, are they perverts? Because when they walked by they kind of stared through the window into our compartment.” Her voice sounded spunky and confident.

  “More of a leer, really,” Lucretia said.

  “Did they have bags with them?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, I think they were getting off,” Zella said.

  “They were getting off alright. Weirdos,” Lucretia said.

  “Miss, this is very serious. These two are dangerous, suspected of murder. We believe one of them killed his father while the other tried to set the house on fire. Now, you say you saw them getting off the train. Were they getting on another train, or were they setting off on foot?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” Zella said, her voice far less confident. “And that’s all we know.”

  “That’s enough for now, I think,” the man said. “Have a great day.” The door closed with a whoosh. Minutes passed. Amadeus heard a knock on his bed, then Zella speaking in a stage whisper. “What. The. Fuck? Did I just cover up for a murderer? You are not coming down from there, no way, not until you explain to me why I just covered up for a murderer and an arsonist-in-training.

  Amadeus, still longing to stretch, cried out to Zella.

  “God, no,” Amadeus said, followed by a harsh cough. “It’s not like that. Please believe me. Men came into my house and killed my father. They tried to kill us too, but we got away. I loved my father. This is a nightmare. They tried to make it look like we did it.”

  “Ladies, does he look like someone who killed his father? If his father was his mother he’d be a mamma’s boy. He was a mamma’s boy, but his mother’s dead too.”

  “Mmm,” Zella said. “Lu, what you think?”

  “They’re rich kids, but I think they’re telling the truth.”

  “Listen to your friend, Zella, she’s right, except I’m not rich,” Grassal said.

  “I think you’re right,” Zella said. “But for now, it’s best they stay up there. Lu, good work. You know, maybe we could keep them for ourselves, our very own cabana boys.”

  “Mmm hmm,” Lucretia said.

  The train started up thirty tense minutes later. Amadeus wriggled and stretched as best he could, but his mind wailed with despair. The girls said they saw some police get off, but they couldn’t be sure it was all of them. The police, they decided, were federal, so they could very well stay on the train. Zella said she’d take a look around. After another thirty minutes, Zella returned and said everything seemed cool, but an old man in the dining car had given her a strange look.

  “Did he have really deep wrinkles, like somebody had cut them with a scalpel?” Amadeus asked.

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “He came up and talked to me. Really strange guy. He said I looked like somebody about to fall off the earth and float away.”

  “Well, you kind of do,” Lucretia said.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Grassal said, “could you let us out? Please? We’ve been through nine kinds of hell. I think I’d take handcuffs to this.”

  “Boy,” Lucretia said, “you’re on thin ice. I liked you a lot better when we were drunk.”

  “My heart is shattering into a million tiny pieces,” Grassal said.

  “Grassal, these girls saved our asses. Weren’t for them, you’d have your wish and we’d be locked up right now. You think you’re in a tight space now. So I think we do owe them a heavy debt of fucking gratitude. Whatever we can do to repay them, I suggest we promptly do it.”

  “I’m sure we can think of something,” Zella said. Satisfied they wouldn’t be disturbed, the girls unlatched the beds and helped first Amadeus then Grassal down to the floor. Amadeus shook and stretched, working the kinks out of his arms.

  Fifteen minutes later, Amadeus sat on the carpet, working his fingers into the rough skin of Zella’s feet. Grassal did the same for Lucretia. For the next six hours, they acted as personal masseurs to the Interstellar Sisters as the sun rose high in the sky and they grew ever closer to the mile-high city of Denver, Colorado.

  10

  Just before they arrived at the Denver station, rain began to fall, streaking the windows. Few words were said during the last leg of the journey; there was nothing left to say. Before Amadeus and Grassal left the train, Zella wrote down an address and told Amadeus to look her and Lucretia up if they were ever in San Francisco. Grassal and Lucretia had made up, but only a little, and both seemed relieved to be quitting each other’s company. As they left the train, Zella watched them through the window and waved.

  Amadeus took deep breaths, but the air was thin and wet. He remembered reading about elevation sickness and decided that that, combined with the alcohol, would mean he was in for a hell of a headache. Standing beside the train, watching it leave, he felt exposed and naked. Their ruse had allowed them to get to Denver, but that didn’t mean they still wouldn’t be out looking for him. In fact, he realized they had probably sent out bulletins to police at all major stations.

  “We need to buy some aspirin or something,” Amadeus said, “and go someplace less,” Amadeus turned to look behind, “public.” He thought he might start coughing and was afraid of the attention that would draw to himself. Grassal pointed out a little convenience store. Amadeus bought a jar of aspirin and two umbrellas. Outside the store, Amadeus looked around; this station was different than the others; rather than glass and steel, the inside walls were wood, painted in bright greens and purples. The restaurants sold all kinds of food, and they decided to stop in a place that served soups and bread, mostly for the cover provided by the high walls surrounding the dining area.

  “How far west you think the news got?” Grassal asked, dipping some bread into a steaming bowl of pureed squid soup. He chewed on the soggy bread and awaited an answer.

  “What is this, the Gilded Age?”

  “I mean, maybe it was just a local interest kind of story? Would they expect us to flee west?”

  “Not to brag, but hundreds of thousands of people knew my father’s name, if not his face. But it has been a couple days now, maybe everyone forgot about it. People are stupid like that. Hopefully our pictures aren’t splashed all over the place.”

  After they ate, Amadeus asked a guy behind the counter if he knew of any payphones. He laughed as he looked up from his magazine and told them they’d need to use an internet cafe. “There’s one not far from here, a couple blocks south, in the Latino neighborhood.” Amadeus thanked him and they left, giving the police booth by the exit a wide berth.

  Outside, taxis lurked around the station, waiting on fares. Steel, brick, and solar-panel-covered buildings towered above, some reaching over a hundred floors, as if being a mile-high wasn’t enough for Denver. Glass-covered walkways hundreds
of meters off the ground connected ran between the buildings. Heading south, they passed stores selling cheap cell phones and portable computers, train tickets, and a place with two barber poles advertising “sensual massage for the weary traveler, best prices in town.” On a nearby sidewalk, a man was selling roasted chestnuts from a cart. The city smelled cleaner than Indianapolis, but the air was cooler. Even with their umbrellas, the rain soaked through their clothes, and they both began to shiver.

  Ten minutes of walking through rain swept streets found them in a neighborhood with Spanish signage and restaurants selling roasted chicken smelling of cumin. A poster read “llamar Guatemala, muy barato!” Amadeus and Grassal ducked inside.

  A clerk with slick-backed hair stood behind the counter. Grassal nodded to Amadeus.

  “Buenos días.Quiero utilizar un teléfono,” Grassal said. The clerk smiled and waved Amadeus over to a row of sealed plastic phone booths. Grassal continued to converse with the clerk in Spanish. Inside the phone booth, Amadeus fished the crumpled scrap of paper from his wallet and dialed.

  The phone rang a few times. No answer. He tried again. A girl’s voice came on the line.

  “Um,” Amadeus said. “I’m trying to reach Jones.”

  “He can’t talk right now,” the girl said, the opposite of friendly. “He’s quite busy.”

  “Who is this?” Amadeus asked.

  “I’m his daughter. Who is this?” Amadeus smacked his forehead. Of course! How could he forget Lilly? But the last time he encountered her, she was a squeaky–voiced girl who played with magical plastic ponies.

  “Lilly, this is Amadeus Brunmeier. I need help.”

  “Wait a second, little Amadeus? The boy who used to beat me? I guess you want to talk to my father. Hold on.” A click as she dropped the phone. Amadeus heard her yelling, “Daddy, it’s Tommy’s.” Amadeus heard more clattering and wondered why she didn’t bother to put him on hold.

  “Amadeus Brunmeier, this is Holden Jones. I’m deeply sorry about your father. The world is a lesser place after this tragedy. I read horrible rumors about you, but I know they’re not true. Right?”

  “Jones,” Amadeus said, giving Grassal a thumps-up through the glass, “you know right, they aren’t true. But right now we’re in trouble. People are looking for us.”

  “I’m not surprised; your father told me a few months ago that something bad was brewing, a disagreement with some powerful people. Now, though, we’ll need to get you out of there and down here to the estate. Let me see.” He tut-tutted into the phone. “Light rail doesn’t run out here, but three times a day there’s a bus to Leadville, the nearest town.”

  “You don’t have a vehicle?” The sudden silence on the other end of the line made him realize this was a mistake.

  “Ah, your father never told you. My condition, right now I, eh, can’t really leave my place. It’s a medical condition that requires complex machines, and I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it. The contractors are off for some well-earned recreational time, and Lilly certainly isn’t driving to the city in this weather. The bus will get you here, no problem. Let’s see, caller ID says you’re near the station. My boy, go to the main entrance, there’s a bus stop. Take the fifty two and get off at the post office. Lilly can pick you up from there. Only a couple people know we’re out here, and most of them don’t know the way up.”

  Amadeus repeated the directions back to Jones, who confirmed them. When the call finished, Amadeus suddenly remembered playing with Lilly a couple times when he was younger; he had hit her, but only after she punched him in the kidneys, surprisingly hard for a little girl. He hadn’t seen her since then. He resolved to apologize for hitting her, even if she had hit first. Then he thought of his father and mother, of the happier times, when things were so normal and stable. Now all that was gone, replaced only with uncertainty and anger, anger at those who did this, anger at the world for letting it happen. He started to punch the glass of the phone booth but caught himself.

  “Also, Amadeus,” Jones said, “there’s a bakery called Ramona’s near there, on Center Street, two blocks from the station, a big shopping area, you can’t miss it. I need you to do me a favor and pick me up a custard pie with hushberries. Can you do that? Won’t take but a minute.”

  “I suppose,” Amadeus said, though he had never heard of that kind of pie. “What exactly are hushberries? I want to make sure I heard you right.”

  “You heard me right, and you probably wouldn’t have heard of them, they’re a regional thing, like rocky mountain oysters.” Amadeus hadn’t heard of those either.

  They walked back to the train station, dodging puddles as they went, and found Center Street. A clear plastic roof covered the five-block pedestrian-only strip. Restaurants and novelty shops filled the store fronts. Couples strolled arm in arm, wandering from shop to shop. Some children carried balloons they bought from a man holding a plastic rainbow cloud of balloons nearby. The smell of chili and baking bread filled the street. Amadeus sneered at the happy families and imagined popping the children’s balloons.

  “This place is making me hungry,” Grassal said. “We should eat before we head out. Sounds like a long way to Jones’ place.”

  “We just ate breakfast. Besides, I don’t like this place; it makes me nervous. Let’s just get that hushberry pie, whatever that is, and get to Jones’. We can eat there. You’ll survive until then.”

  “Maybe,” Grassal said, shrugging, looking surly. Amadeus studied his friend and then thought that after only three days on the road, he looked like someone else, his hair mussed and his clothing disheveled, so different from his normally neat and fastidious appearance. Amadeus guessed he himself didn’t look much better. His faced itched, and he could smell himself. Grassal didn’t seem to care, and Amadeus realized how lucky he was to have his friend along.

  “You know what, Grassal, maybe you’re right. We’ve made it this far. I think we could have another meal. Why not? You see anything that looks good?” Grassal stretched, looked over the crowd, and scanned the street.

  “There’s a cool-looking vintage diner down that way, neon sign and all. I could probably get a malt, that sounds pretty swank. Hey, even better, Ramona’s is right beside it.”

  “Perfect.” Amadeus peered through the wide glass window of Ramona’s Bakery as they walked by. A woman wearing a floppy white hat and matching apron was pounding out dough. He guessed that was Ramona.

  The diner had movable white letters on a black felt menu board. On the wall, a red and blue hand-drawn sign advertised steak burgers, shakes, malts, and rocky mountain oysters. A group of teenagers sat in a red booth at in the corner of an otherwise empty restaurant.

  “Hey,” Amadeus said, pointing to the sign. “Jones mentioned those oysters, they must be good. I think I’ll try them.” Grassal shrugged and said he was getting a burger. When their food came, hot and greasy, they ate without speaking. The oysters didn’t taste like oysters, but Amadeus ate them anyway. Through the window, a group of people dressed as elves and forest nymphs passed by. Neither commented, they simply watched. One rode a unicycle and juggled bowling pins. Amadeus liked seeing this spectacle; it made Grassal and himself inconspicuous by comparison. After their meal, they went next door to Ramona’s Bakery.

  “Hi,” Amdeus said, “are you Ramona?”

  “Nobody else works here,” she said, not unfriendly. Her skin was the color of honey. She wore gold hoop earrings and a small diamond stud on the side of her nose. “What can I do for you?”

  “Umm, this might seem a little strange. I’m supposed to pick something up for someone, a, uh, hushberry pie. He said you’d know what I’m talking about.”

  Ramona smiled and said “no problem, hold on just a minute.” She went to the back and returned with a small package wrapped in blue paper. “You take this to old Jumpin Jones, he’s been pestering me about it for a week now.”

  “It doesn’t look like a pie,” Amadeus said.

  “Y
ou have to excuse my friend,” Grassal said. “He’s a little slow sometimes.” Ramona smiled at them, a faint twinkle in her dark eyes.

  “That’s okay, boys, you just tell him—” Bang! A gunshot. Ramona’s face went slack. Glass shattered. A small red hole grew in the center of her forehead. More gunshots crackled. Ramona backed against the wall and collapsed to the floor. Amadeus felt Grassal’s hand on his back, pushing him down. The broken glass threatened to tear through the soft skin of his hands. They scampered behind the counter. Ramona’s body was sprawled on the floor. Blood oozed from her forehead and dripped onto her clean white apron. Amadeus’ stomach turned.

  “Out back,” Grassal said, crawling over her body. More gunshots, screams from outside. The floor was covered in flour. The flour mixed with Ramona’s blood and made a red pasty batter that stuck to Amadeus’ hands. They crawled through the door to the back of the bakery, the store room. Bags of flour, the smell of yeast and strawberries.

  “Okay?” Grassal said, catching his breath.

  “Not more gunshots. It’s awful, it’s like a demon is after us.” Amadeus scanned the room and saw an exit sign. “There’s the back door.”

  “What the hell kind of pie is that?” Grassal asked. Amadeus looked down at the solid, heavy package in his hand, surprised he still held it.

  “Think the alley’s safe?”

  “I don’t think any place is safe.” Amadeus stood just high enough to peer over through the window to the front. A man in a black facemask stood outside the door to the bakery, rifle drawn. He fired a couple times, hitting a bag of flour just over Amadeus’ head. The flour poured out and dusted his hair.

  “Damn it,” Amadeus said. “Back door, let’s go.”