Her eyes flutter open, showing me honey and light. I frown.
She sits up suddenly, turns to face me, and coughs.
Blood sprays from her mouth, painting my shirt, her shirt, and the metal space between us. And from beneath the memory I’m slowly getting buried under, I think I hear her say, “I think I bit my tongue.”
I press my small, needle-pricked fingers to my cotton shirt. They come back printed with bloodstains, thin, blackened like cherry juice. I show her my hand and she slowly shakes her head. It’s too hard for her. This isn’t fair.
Maybe I should touch her, but I don’t want to. She doesn’t look the same anymore. Her face is too pale for the desert now. She’s the creamy clay that lies deep below the red surface.
Her dark, silken hair hangs over her shoulders like a shawl, but it won’t warm her. I want her to be warm. Warmer.
“I’m sorry, little one,” she whispers, reaching out to my face with a cool, damp rag. I lean away, and she tsks. “Don’t be scared.” Her coal-colored eyes flick to my big brother, standing beside me like a statue, his arm around my shoulders. He eases me forward, and I let her clean my face of her blood.
My chest hurts. It’s like something’s stuck in there. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like what’s happening to his mother.
Her touch is so light as she gently wipes away what’s left of her. She is good. This shouldn’t happen to a good person.
She gazes at me with what he tells me is love. But her eyes seem smaller, like they’re resting back in her head. She smiles at me and says, “Chisana ichi…” then starts coughing, pressing the rag to her mouth.
Pink.
The men in khaki clothes lean in, masks over their mouths. A muffled word from the one holding a stethoscope to her chest, presses deep into my heart and stays there. “Soon.”
Soon.
My tears are hot and messy, and I wipe my nose with my sleeve. My brother’s hand grips tighter around my shoulder.
“It says here she has one son, husband is serving in the 522nd. Who is this little one?” A pen taps on a clipboard.
Little one. I want to kick him in the shins. I don’t want to be called that by anyone but her and… soon… no one.
Another voice, all high over my head. “Orphan, sir.”
Another cough pulls their attention away from my brother and me. This one doesn’t stop. It doesn’t ever stop. Wet, rasping coughing over and over and over with no break to breathe in.
We are pushed into the night, canvas flaps hitting our backs on the way out. A kinder voice that doesn’t understand says, “Why don’t you go kick a ball around for a while, boys? You don’t need to see this.” His hand shoos us away like we’re stray cats begging for food.
We don’t want to go anywhere. We sit on the edge of the rough wood floor that sticks out from beneath the tar-paper walls and listen. The tower lights scan the desert, sweeping dust into piles that will only be carried by the wind back under the door. We sigh in unison. The dust entering our lungs.
Coughing, men muttering, coughing, a flutter, a sharp bang, a glass knocks over and water splashes on the floor.
Silence.
The door flaps open. A man approaches. He doesn’t lean down; I don’t think he wants to look us in the eyes. I watch the man’s chest move as he talks. He is a greenish shadow beneath the moonlight, his medals jingle and shine as he says, “I’m sorry.”
My brother jumps up and pushes past the man. The man steps aside and lets him back into his mother’s room.
I clasp my hands, look down. Blood patterns my shirt in sprinkles of red that will turn brown. Then they’ll make me wash it.
Now we are alone.
“Kettle?” Nora shakes my shoulder. I look up from my shirt to her concerned eyes blinking at me, blood running from both corners of her mouth like she’s in a cheesy vampire movie. “Kettle!” she says, louder this time.
I can’t speak. She unhooks the container and takes my arm, pulling me to the ladder. Mechanically, I climb down, take my ticket, and walk the plank to land.
Blood. Blood seeping into our clothes. Blood the color of the desert and the lines running across the giant rocks that stood sentinel over our camp. Blood is all I can think about.
I reach the station and take my lunch. Nora copies me and follows as I make my way to the water, to the ship bones, in heavy silence. We ignore the teasing that trails after us as the men laugh at Nora’s accident.
She is quiet, although I know she has questions. Sitting down, I take a bite of my sandwich. I watch as she takes off her shoes and dips them in the water.
She glances at me. “You should take off your shirt and wash it,” she says.
I stare at the waves. “You should wash your shirt too. And clean your face.”
She narrows her eyes for a moment and then says, “Fine. Turn around.” I turn around and listen to splashing and wringing for several minutes. “Ugh!”
I spin around suddenly. “What?” My eyes skip to her wet shirt before quickly looking away. I don’t need an answer because her shirt is completely see-through. “Oh.”
She crosses her arms over her chest to cover herself.
“Don’t worry. It will dry soon enough,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head and dipping it in the water. She spins around so fast she nearly tips into the water.
I laugh. “You don’t need to turn around.”
“I want to,” she says haughtily, and I snort. Small silence grows between us, just the seagulls squawking, and then, with her back still turned, she asks the question. “So what happened up there, Kettle? You sort of disappeared for a few minutes.”
I sigh. Today, you get truths I’ve never uttered. Memories I’ve tried to suppress.
“How did your mother die?” I ask to her wet back, her peachy skin showing through. Her shoulders rise up to almost touch her ears. “Kin’s mother’s death was messy and long. She was dying for almost the whole time I knew her. She had TB. It happened often in the camps. Mostly to the elderly. But well, I guess she was just lucky. When you coughed on me like that, it pulled me back there. Happens sometimes,” I say, shrugging. Happens more than I’d like.
On her knees, she slowly shuffles around to face me, her eyes struggling not to look at my inappropriate lack of clothing. It makes me smile. I pull on the wet shirt and it sticks to my skin like glue.
“What about your own mother? What happened to her?” she asks, blinking.
“Kin’s mother was my mother for the four years I spent in the camp. Before that, I had no mother. At least not one who wanted me,” I say.
“You mean, you’re an…” It’s just a word. Not a word that means much to me these days anyway.
“An orphan,” I finish.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Her eyes search sideways. Something building inside her that she wants to say. I can sense it. A bubble of air rising in her throat.
She spreads her arms wide and says, “My mother had a beautiful death.” It’s the oddest and most honest thing I’ve heard her say so far. She uses her hands to show me as she declares, “She flew through the air like an angel. The part after though, was like you said, messy.” The water laps loudly at our feet, slowly eroding what we thought we knew of each other and crusting our toes with salt.
“I’m sorry.”
She dips her head and watches the waves. “Thank you.”
Then I spend the next ten minutes telling her in many different and colorful ways how reckless and downright stupid she was for standing up on a moving container.
41. INDEPENDENCE
NORA
You should have seen me, Frankie. I was flying.
You should have…
You will see me.
Soon.
I’ve lost my breath. My heart. It’s all coming fast and hard, and it’s exhilarating. Kettle, this strange boy, this strange mix of responsible and courageous, he’s shoved me from the nest. And I
can fly.
“Nora, did you hear me?” He slaps water at me, and I flinch. “You need to promise me you will be more careful this time. Please.” The concern in his eyes is sweet and foreign. I’m used to disgust and rage flaming in a man’s irises.
I nod. My arms locked over my wet chest. He waits, eyebrows raised, for me to actually say the words. “Okay, okay. I promise.”
I chew on my bottom lip and glance at him sideways. I have so many questions to ask him. Where did he come from? How did he get here all the way from the Arizona desert? What happened to his real parents? Does he even know who they are? I also now know for sure that he is one of those Lost Children. He was in the camps.
He sits with his elbows resting on his knees, turns his head slowly. “What?”
“So Kin, your adop—ted bro—ther…” I span the words over several seconds, waiting for an eyebrow arch, a response to tell me that’s the right or wrong word. He doesn’t say anything, nor stop me. “Why can’t you inquire about him at the hospital? Is it because of your circumstance, you know, being…”
“…a street kid?”
I nod and bring a blush with it.
Kettle’s eyes are serious, narrowed as he talks. “No, not exactly. It’s because Kin and I are runaways. We’re meant to be in Homes. The cops have been looking for us for a long time.”
I purse my lips. “Really? Even after all this time?” I sigh. “Don’t they have anything better to do?”
He stares down at his lap, an answer or a story there. “Just coz the war is over doesn’t mean people forget. At least, they don’t forget about people like me. They like to know where we are and what we’re doing at all times. If I showed my face at the hospital, they’d detain me and then what would happen to the boys, to our home?”
I see the fear in his eyes, feel that he really believes his words, and I understand. I know it’s difficult to shed years of abuse. Like a plant trained over a frame, my body has grown rigid and able to take a punch. Kettle’s has grown to seek the ground and learned to hide. After a while, you don’t know how to do anything else. But I’m not so sure he needs to keep running. Things have changed. “Are you sure that’s what would happen?” I ask warily.
He crosses his arms and his expression darkens. “I can’t take the risk.”
And maybe he’s right. I understand losing so much you can’t stand the idea of losing more.
I am resolute. My branches lean down, offering him some sunlight. “Okay then. I want to help you find him.” These words—I want to. They are like raspberry cordial dripped on my tongue. They are words I’ve barely spoken until a few days ago and I owe him big because he gave me the chance to use them.
His head drops down and he laughs softly as he shakes his head.
“That’s funny?” I ask, confused.
He looks up, eyes full of stories, rolls and rolls of script written in dark blue ink. “No. I just thought I would have to work really hard to convince you to help me and here you are, just offering it to me.”
The horn blows and we jump up and walk back to the loading area. I tuck my hair in and glance down at my shirt. He was right. It’s already dry, a little stiff but at least it’s not transparent. “I’m going to need some different clothes if I’m going to be convincing at the hospital.”
“We’ll go in a few days, when the docks are closed,” he mutters as we approach the group of men waiting to be assigned.
A larger man shoves Kettle as he passes, grumbling the words, “Go home, Nip.”
Kettle keeps walking like he wasn’t touched and I just stand there, eyes wide until he has to circle around and take me by the arm to pull me away from the horrible man.
“How can you…?” I start.
“It’s not worth it,” he replies with hard-edged sadness in his tone. Softly, fists clenched, words calm but driven with anger, he mutters, “It’s never worth it.”
We start the second part of the shift, and I abide his wishes and am more careful.
***
“Kite! Kite!” Heavy, uneven footsteps approach from behind. I’m slumped forward, barely able to lift my legs. I am so happy and exhausted, my muscles burning, but it’s a good pain. It’s not about bruises, bones cracking, or organs being squashed to make room for a fist. This is my own pain, something I earned for hard work. “Kite!”
Kettle carefully nudges me. “Black is calling you.”
I slowly turn around, and Mister Black is waddling toward me with an envelope. “Good first day, son,” he says, smacking the envelope of cash into my palm. I hold it up to my eyes and grin. My first paycheck.
“Thanks!” I say in a low voice. Kettle snickers at my side as Black hands him another envelope and limps away.
“Feels good, right?” he asks.
I nod as we walk toward the gate, stinking of sweat, squinting into the sun, and aching for a bed. “Feels good,” I agree.
He slaps me on the back and I cough, startled. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking down at the ground that’s leaking heat back into our sunburned faces.
“It’s ok,” I say, wishing that it really was and that the slap he just gave me didn’t send my whole body into a shock of shuddering, shivering fear.
I have a long way to go, I can tell. But that’s life. That’s my life. One foot in front of the other. Courage. Toes testing first. Even if what’s beneath is unsteady, a bridge made of brittle bones and broken shoelaces, I can do this. Eyes forward and keep on walking.
“You did well today,” he says with a wary smile. The words beat one, two, three, four like the knock of a door inside my heart. This is my acceptance.
***
“Where are we going?” I ask when Kettle steers us away from the subway station and toward a group of buildings blanched black as coal. The sun attempts to sweep the walls clean with rays of pink and gold but fails, a murky yellow wash dripping down the walls instead. I blink up at the washing lines strung between them, flapping in the cooling breeze like wedding bunting. Faint smells of soap and linen rush over my skin, mixing with the salt and sweat of the docks.
Kettle looks up and down as we cross the street and shakes his head, leading me around the corner. “We don’t sleep in the tunnel every night. It’s too conspicuous.”
My wooden legs struggle to catch up with him. He peeks his head in the alley between the next two buildings where it’s dark, dirty and lined with large metal bins on wheels that stink of garbage. There is no clean laundry hanging from the sky here, just a rectangle of graying air lined by broken windows. “You have a second home?” I gasp, my eyes wide with surprise.
Kettle snorts and sweeps his arm out grandly. “Sure. Welcome to my fall home. It’s a little draughty, but the views, as you can tell, are spectacular! The cardboard mattresses are real good for your back too.”
Shut your mouth. I’m gaping. I can’t sleep here. I… I… “We sleep here?” I ask, pointing at the slimy, stained stones that slope into a drain in the center of the alley.
Kettle nods, his face serious. “We sleep here.”
Stepping into the shadowed space, I try not to look as afraid as I am. I lift one arm and grip my elbow, biting my lip as I mumble, “Okay.”
Kettle seems surprised. “Okay?”
I’m not saying it again, so I just nod.
“All right, well, how about you find some clean-ish cardboard for us to sleep on and I’ll get us some dinner?” He motions to a dumpster that appears to growl at us with cardboard hanging from its metal jaws and slings his bag over my shoulder, removing his wallet. “Look after this.”
I want to say wait, don’t leave me here, but I don’t. I clamp my mouth shut and let him go, while I stand in the middle of a slow dripping stream of foul-smelling water and try to work up the courage to touch one of the bins.
I think I let myself forget, pushed it out of my mind somehow, that Kettle, the boys, they’re really homeless. And this is how they live every day. It’s how they survive, and I shouldn�
��t complain.
I hold my breath and stomp over to a bin that looks slightly less wet and slimy, and start pulling old boxes out for us to sit on. A screen door slams and I duck down behind the bin, listening to a slopping, squishy sound as food scraps are dumped right by my head. The smell of rotting lettuce, off milk, and cigarette smoke makes me gag. I press a fist to my mouth and try to stay still. A man yells to another man at the door in an Asian language I don’t recognize, finishes his smoke, and goes back inside.
I gather up my cardboard and move further away from the where he came out, which was clearly the back door to a restaurant or café of some sort.
I dump it all in the small space between another dumpster and a large stack of wooden pallets and sigh shakily. Once I’ve run several pieces up the wall and along the floor, I stand back and admire my work, pushing my hair from my face and shivering. It’s getting darker by the second. Where is he?
I sit down, pull my knees to my chest, and a feeling of lonely sadness surrounds me like the cold. Sadness for Kettle, for his brother, and for the other boys. People shouldn’t have to live like this. I try to think and feel this now before Kettle returns. When I try to put it aside, I find I can’t. I deliberately try to turn my thoughts to Frankie and how I’m going to find her. I fish around in Kettle’s bag and find a pen. Tearing off a small square of cardboard, I quickly scribble down a list.
The list is too short. I have three names here. Three addresses. These are the only relatives we have in the city. The only homes I can think of where he may have hidden her. Three places that may be crossed out very soon. It makes me afraid to even look.
I hear a splash and press myself closer to the wall. Fearful, small, the confidence I had earlier pouring off me like beads of rain from an umbrella.
I let out a rattling, relieved sigh when I realize it’s Kettle. “What’s that?” he asks, handing me something wrapped in paper. It’s warm and smells tart and sweet.
I fold the cardboard over and tuck it into my palm. “It’s a list.”
He can’t know who I am. Not yet.
“A list of what?” he asks, crouching down in front of me and taking a large bite of his food.
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