No Apple.
Once she’s past the entertainment district the crowds thin again, the lights are spaced farther apart, and sois, little streets that could lead anywhere in Bangkok, open up right and left. Apple could be on any of them. She’d said something about going back to the shelter, Chalee remembers. Some of these sois would take her there, down to the Klong Toey slums near the river where the former street child named Boo administers a small, hot shelter, a building crammed with throw-away children, boys on one floor, girls on another, and Boo and his wife and baby on the third, although now some girls have to sleep up there, too.
For a brief moment a few months back, Chalee had thought she might get adopted, after she and Dok had found a sick, feverish girl named Treasure in an alley and brought her to the shelter. Treasure was fifty-fifty, half farang, and beautiful, and a policeman and his wife wanted to take her in, but Treasure was terrified of men and insisted that she would only go for a trial period if Chalee came with her. Chalee had done everything she could think of to make them want her, too. She’d washed dishes and polished tables that were already polished, and smiled all the time, but in the end they had taken only Treasure, and Chalee was back in the shelter. She was thirteen now. She knew the window had closed. People wanted children, not teenagers.
And then Dok was taken out on trial by a fat man and his thin, sharp-looking wife. Dok didn’t know that the two of them had argued before they took him, didn’t know that the woman had said Dok looked like a rat and she wouldn’t have him in her house, didn’t know that the fat man had promised that if it didn’t work out, they could just bring him back, like, he’d said, “One of those dresses you’re always returning.”
But Dok was still gone. Apple, with her mumpish cheeks, might be Chalee’s only friend.
And Chalee had been so busy drawing she’d sent Apple away.
There’s a sudden knot of people in front of her, a snarl in the flow of the foot traffic, and she hears shouting, some of it angry, and then three farang men push their way through, arms linked in defiance of the narrowness of the sidewalk, red faced and drunk, shouting “Happy Christmas Eve, assholes, happy Christmas Eve.” One of them winks at her as they pass and says to his friend, “Too young and too dirty.”
“Merry Christmas anyway, honey,” his friend calls back. “Merry Christmas.”
Chalee says, “Merry Christmas.” Then she says it three or four times, just getting it right, since she hasn’t said it for a year, and when she thinks she has it down she says to the next person who comes by, a farang woman with coppery hair who’s wearing tight shorts, “Merry Christmas,” and the woman smiles and said, “Merry Christmas yourself, cutie.”
“Cutie,” Chalee says experimentally. “Cutie.” Then she says, “Merry Christmas, cutie.” She tries it out on the next man she sees, but the way he looks at her makes her decide to retire her new word. It’s just “Merry Christmas” from then on.
***
She’s gone fourteen or fifteen sois now. The sidewalks are getting emptier and darker, and Chalee is getting hungrier and more frightened about Apple. Her eyes are gritty with exhaustion; the two of them had been awakened and moved along by the police every time they fell asleep the previous night, and they were wandering wide-eyed and yawning when the sun rose. They ate tom yam soup around nine, using half of the money in Chalee’s pocket, but that’s all they’ve had since the previous night.
Why had she been so mean to Apple? She realizes, with a little start, that it’s not only Apple. She snapped a few times at Dok, too, when she was drawing and he wanted to talk to her about it. One time when he’d been praising her she’d said, “Don’t like it until it’s finished,” and Dok had left the room, banging the door behind him. She’d even ignored Boo once, too busy trying to get some stupid, meaningless detail right.
But even as she feels the flush of shame on her face, the thought of drawing makes her slow and shrug off the backpack. Leaning against a storefront with a row of yellowish lights above it, she pulls out her stack of paper and fans through it until she comes to the two drawings.
There’s Baby Noi, reaching toward the warmth of his mother’s gaze. The look in her eyes and the tilt of her head seem make it seem as though you could go into that room and call her name and she wouldn’t hear you. And the moon-curve flows through the two of them, connecting them like a bend in a river, exactly where it should be. This is something new, Chalee sees, something she’ll have to think about.
She slips the picture back into the stack of paper and concentrates on the drawing of Apple. It’s new in a different way, and she feels a tingle of excitement. It’s Apple, yes, but Chalee has made her prettier. It’s not just the smooth skin, it’s the work she put into the mouth, the girl’s strongest feature. She’s never done this before, either. Up until now she’s wanted her drawings to look like photographs. For a moment she thinks, It’s a lie, but no. What she’s drawn is probably the way Apple would like to look. Maybe, if she wants it enough, she’ll actually look like this someday.
Two new things in one day. And she needs to find Apple.
She pushes the papers into the backpack, more carelessly this time, and takes off at a trot. A dark soi goes by and then one with a cluster of bars surrounded by farang, and she hears “Merry Christmas” again, and then there’s a third soi, dark at her end but brighter at the other with the hard whitish glare of portable neon and the red glow of charcoal, and Chalee smells food. It’s worth a look.
She’s about a quarter of the way down the soi when someone shouts, a woman, and then there’s a confused tangle of people that opens suddenly as the shouts scale up, and Apple bursts through, holding something in both fists and running full out. Some men laugh, not very pleasantly, and a few meters behind Apple a woman appears. She wears a white apron and she’s shouting and waving a cleaver above her head, and she’s coming after Apple as fast as she can.
She’s heavy-built and not very fast, but Apple has short legs. There’s no doubt that the woman will overtake her. Catching the light, the cleaver glints broken glass.
When Apple is halfway to Chalee—Apple’s eyes are wide and white in her dark face, and she obviously hasn’t recognized her friend—Chalee sprints toward her. Apple falters and registers Chalee’s face for the first time, and the missed steps bring the woman with the cleaver too close. Chalee produces her highest scream and rushes toward them, and at the moment the woman’s outstretched hand lands on the shoulder of Apple’s awful shirt, Chalee uses both hands to swing the backpack, heavy with paper and everything else she owns, over Apple’s head and straight into the woman’s face.
The shock of the impact travels up both her arms and almost brings her down. She’s taking a step back to keep from falling and trying to get the pack up to swing it again, but the woman with the cleaver goes down backward, stiff as a tree. Chalee tucks the pack under her arm and grabs Apple’s hand, but something sticks her—the point of a wooden skewer with broiled meat on it, and Chalee sees four of them in each of Apple’s hands—and Chalee snatches her hand back, waving it in the air to shake away the pain, and says, “Come on.”
She slows just enough to let Apple keep up. Looking back over her shoulder, she sees the woman with the cleaver beginning to sit up, her nose bleeding, her spirit clearly scattered from the blow. She’s not even looking in their direction. Some of the men at the far end of the soi applaud.
“To the left,” Chalee says when they reach the boulevard. Then she opens it up as much as she can, hearing Apple’s steps grow fainter behind her, until she leans gasping against a building and waits for the little girl to catch up. The moment she does, Chalee is running again, pacing Apple this time, listening to the wheeze of her breath, punctuated by sniffles.
They take the next soi, which leads them to a cross-street, and they angle down that. They’re in a neighborhood of apartment houses, some of them with Christmas
lights blinking in their windows. One building is set back far enough from the road to sport some shrubbery, just a little higher than Chalee is tall. Shrubbery is the street child’s friend, and Chalee grabs a fistful of Apple’s shirt and yanks her into it, both of them ignoring the scratches they get as they push through the branches.
Once through the hedge they find themselves just outside a big window. The curtains are closed, but they’re white curtains that let the light inside sift through, and the two of them, both panting, regard each other until Apple begins to laugh. Chalee joins in, her hand pressed over her mouth, until they’ve both gotten it under control.
Apple is still clutching the bouquets of skewered meat, and she glances at them and drops her eyes and licks her lips, suddenly shy. “I stole these for you,” she whispers, extending her right hand. “I was going to take them back to you.” She indicates her left with a tilt of her chin. “These are mine.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Chalee pries the skewers loose and sits on her haunches, letting the backpack fall to the ground. Apple kneels beside her. The smell of the cooling meat envelops both of them. When the skewers are clean, the girls sigh in unison.
Apple is studying the ground in front of her as though there’s something very interesting lying there. Chalee sighs, opens her knapsack, paws through it, and says, “Here.”
In the light of the night’s second window, Apple lifts her eyes to the page in Chalee’s hand and coughs up a little pop of breath, soft as a heartbeat. Her eyes widen, and the beautifully shaped mouth opens slightly, and for just a moment Chalee sees, in color and three dimensions, the face she drew. Apple starts to reach for the drawing but pulls her hand back as though she expects it to be slapped.
Chalee reaches out and takes Apple’s hand and puts the drawing into it. “It’s for you,” she says. “I made it for you.”
“You―” Apple swallows. She looks as stunned as the woman with the cleaver had. “You did?” She takes it between her fingertips, as though a breeze could tear it, and holds it close to her eyes, following the curve of the lines. “You’ll give it to me?”
“Sure,” Chalee says, batting away a slight tug of regret. She closes the backpack and slips her arms through the straps, rises to her feet, and offers Apple a hand. Apple shifts the drawing to her other hand, out of Chalee’s reach, and grasps Chalee’s outstretched hand, and a moment later, both girls are standing in a little litter of wooden skewers. Chalee puts her arm around Apple and hugs her close, gazing down at the straw-like hair, and smelling feet. “It’s was always for you,” she lies. Then she says, “Merry Christmas,” and after a moment’s thought, she adds, “Cutie.”
She steps back and takes her friend’s empty hand. Says, “Come on, let’s go home.”
A Mother’s Curse
by Mette Ivie Harrison
Mette Ivie Harrison is the author of numerous books for young adults. She holds a PhD in German literature from Princeton University and is a nationally ranked triathlete. A member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, she lives in Utah with her husband and five children. She has written three novels in Linda Wallheim series, which features a Mormon bishop’s wife who turns ward detective: The Bishop’s Wife, her crime fiction debut; His Right Hand; and For Time and All Eternities.
I was out shopping at Men’s Warehouse with Samuel for clothes he’d need for his Mormon mission when my husband, Kurt, called me. “Did you close the garage door and lock up the house when you left?” he asked without any greeting.
I was surprised enough that it took me a second to answer. “I think so, yes.”
“I need you to be sure. If you’re not sure, I’m going to go over right now and lock it up myself.”
“Kurt, what’s going on?” I asked.
“Someone’s targeting homes in the neighborhood, going in through garage doors and back doors that aren’t locked. They’re taking Christmas presents, even wrapped ones, and any other big ticket items like TVs and laptops. They’ve hit three homes in the ward in the last night.”
A chill ran through me, and it quickly turned to something else—anger. Who would do such a thing at Christmas time? It seemed the Grinch Who Stole Christmas come to life.
“Who’s been robbed?” I asked.
“Swedins and Hansens,” said Kurt. “I can’t remember the third. Oh, it was the Gibbys.”
The Gibbys were a newlywed couple, barely back from their honeymoon. They were adorable to watch in church together, often breaking the physics rule that said two things could not occupy the same space at the same time. And now they had had their new home broken into. I sometimes wondered why they had purchased a house so early in their marriage. They both worked, but they were just out of college and I couldn’t help but think that all the square footage was going to waste. And really, who wanted the stress of a mortgage in those years when you ought to be carefree?
“The police are taking statements right now, going around asking if anyone saw anything, any unusual cars, or people lurking in bushes, I suppose.”
Kurt’s idea of investigating burglaries amused me briefly. Then again, he was an accountant. As well as a Mormon bishop, of course.
“Well, I didn’t see anything,” I said.
“Good, then you can keep out of it,” said Kurt. And that was his opinion of me being involved in police investigations.
“Do we need to ask for donations to cover the losses?” I didn’t want to think that anyone’s Christmas was ruined. I remembered my first Christmas when Kurt and I were married. There had been one lone present under the tree for each of us because we were so poor. It was a wonderful Christmas, even so. Then again, we hadn’t been shaken in our security in our home.
“I’d have already done it if I didn’t know that the insurance companies involved had already promised to expedite the payments so they arrive before Christmas.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” I asked, imagining baking up a batch of homemade wheat bread when I got home from shopping. The bill at the end of this adventure was going to put me into a mood to pound some bread dough, that was certain.
“I’m thinking about a prayer vigil,” said Kurt. “And a reminder to priesthood holders that they have the power to bless their homes against Satan’s incursions in any form, if they haven’t done it already.”
Well, I wasn’t sure that would stop burglars, but it might bring people some peace, at least temporarily.
“Is it just our neighborhood or is it other neighborhoods in the same area?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked directly to the police, only to the Stake President. He called me and I called the families involved, the Relief Society President, the Elders and High Priest Group Leader, and then you.”
That put me in my place, didn’t it? Bishop’s wife, in fourth place in terms of importance in the ward hierarchy. I was lucky to be there, in fact. I had no power. Everyone else in the ward had a neat chart of their authority over others. But the bishop’s wife was only in charge of—her own children.
“Linda? You didn’t answer my question about locking up,” Kurt said. “Do I need to go over? They tend to hit homes in the middle of the day, not at night. They seem to be watching when people come and go.”
Then was it already too late?
I had a sudden flash of memory of me turning the lock on the front door. “I locked the front,” I said. “And I closed the garage door. I don’t know about the back, though. I didn’t check.”
“All right, I’ll go back and double check it myself. You and Samuel keep shopping.”
I hung up, then turned back to Samuel, looking at the six suits he was choosing among. Two black, two gray, one blue pinstriped and one brown.
“One black, one gray,” I said, as I’d said to all my other sons. The black one would do for formal occasions, any funerals he had t
o go to while on a mission (God forbid), any weddings, or temple visits he managed to get to. The gray was lightweight enough to last through summer in Boston, which was where Samuel had been called to serve. His official mission call had arrived in the mail three weeks ago.
Two years from now, when he got home, both of these suits would go in the garbage can. Or to Goodwill. Samuel would never want to see them again. Wearing one of two suits every day for two years could do that to you. He would be allowed to wear something more casual on P-days—preparation days—and then only as long as he wasn’t visiting investigators or the mission president.
“But which gray?” asked Samuel. He didn’t try to argue for the blue or the brown, though either were acceptable colors according to the list of rules we’d been sent along with his mission call. And yes, there was an extensive list of rules about what was acceptable to wear, complete with online depictions of appropriate tie width, belt buckle size, and a list of dos and don’ts—you could wear a sweaters under a suitcoat if you were cold, but never a hoodie. Jewelry was strictly forbidden, as were tattoos and backpacks.
“I think they’re both fine,” I said. “It’s up to you.”
Samuel had come out as gay to the whole family last summer, a big deal in Mormonism. He had been open about his sexuality in every step of the process of getting ready for his mission, honest with everyone from his college ward bishop to his college stake president. He’d even tried to find a place to add it on the mission papers, though it wasn’t like there was a place to check on the form for being “gay.” The church didn’t even call it that. It was “same sex attraction,” and they insisted it was just a temporary problem that would be solved in the resurrection, like being blind or having a missing limb—in his afterlife Samuel would be “restored” to heterosexuality, according to the Mormon church. I wasn’t sure what I personally believed about sex in the after-life, but I didn’t think Samuel needed to be fixed in any way. He was the best of my sons, even if that wasn’t something I told them openly.
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