Pennies from Burger Heaven

by Marcy McKay

We stop like she commands, but don’t leave. Instead, we crowd inside the closet, surrounded by shelves of cleaning supplies, white towels and sheets. A vacuum cleaner pokes my side as I say, “What happened to you?”

  “Go. Away,” she says in broken English.

  “Who hurt you? Diablo?”

  His name can mean any one of the Barrio Brothers. That just makes her cry harder. She starts making the sign of the cross against her body like she did yesterday when I asked her about Mama.

  “Please, Carmella. I need back in our room. I swear this is the last time I’ll ask.” My voice gets so quiet I almost don’t hear myself say, “Mama needs me.”

  Carmella huddles closer to the corner like she wants to fade into the walls. She keeps crying and crossing herself, with her shoulders caved in more. Her tears could fill a mop bucket.

  Instead of feeling sorry for her and going away, her crying does the exact opposite. Everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve tried to play nice, or at least nice for me, but it hasn’t worked. People have called the cops, dangled me from windows, beat me up, or flat-out tried to kill me.

  Nice hasn’t done jack. I step past Turdmouth and give Carmella a finger jab, then restart our conversation from yesterday in the office. “You owe me. You let Spook and Eddie Loco in our room on purpose. They tried to kill me.”

  She understands every word I’m saying ’cause her eyes spring wide with fear. Carmella breaks into full Spanish now and babbles a bazillion miles per minute.

  “Slow down. I can’t understand. Where’s Mama? Is she hurt? Is she …”

  Carmella sobs. “I no want to see it.”

  “See what?”

  She’s a puddle of sobs at our feet.

  I’d forgotten all about Turdmouth ’til now. He steps forward, kneels besides Carmella, then gives her a side hug, while his Hershey-Bar brown eyes glare at me the whole time. “Leave her alone, Copper. She’s been through enough today. You’re a bully.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts.’ You should be ashamed of yourself to upset her like this. Get out of here. Go,” he barks at me.

  He pats her shoulders. “Shhhhh. It’s okay.” She clings to him, wailing.

  Outside, the sun glows almost straight up in the sky. It’s a clear, cold day in Paradise and all I can think is I’m less than twenty-four hours from Diablo dead. I’ll die alone. I can’t believe Turdmouth picked that traitor over me. He knows that maid is holding out about Mama, but he stuck an invisible knife in my back anyway. I’m not sure why I let him tag along at all.

  A minute later, Turdmouth rushes past me before I can hurt him. He’s already halfway down the breezeway. He even laughs at my slowness. That boy should run, ’cause when I catch him I’ll knot his balls into a bow.

  I scream, “What’s wrong with you? Carmella was my last chance and you blew it. I can’t believe I let you come along with me. I think you should be called Turdbrains. I think you’re too stupid to live. I think—”

  My mad doesn’t bother him one bit. He smiles bigger and laughs harder as he races this way again, on his two good legs I’m about to break. He’s enjoying every second of my failure. He even gives me his famous grin.

  “What?” I snap at him.

  His smile twinkles even brighter as he holds up Carmella’s master key card. “What do you think of me now?”

  CHAPTER 20

  As me and Turdmouth stand outside Room 207, I feel a bigness inside me, like my world is about to change forever. One way or the other. I’m both ready for this and not. Mr. Lincoln has rocked snot today: food, cash and sneakers. This key proves my luck is on a roll, and I need to ride it as long as I can.

  I told Turdmouth the quick version of what’s happened on our way up here and he didn’t make fun of me once. I just might tell him the rest later.

  We don’t hear voices inside. Great. Turdmouth grins and nods me on.

  I knock on the door, then take a quick step back in case there’s new nakedness inside.

  No one answers.

  “Hello?” I knock louder.

  “Open it,” he says.

  Taking a deep breath, I slide the key card into the hole. The blinking green light gives us the go ahead. CSI would call this a cold lead, but I can’t think of it like that and definitely not a crime scene yet. I try to ignore the yellow CAUTION tape watching me down from across the street.

  The bed is made inside and everything is clean, but I swear I still smell Mr. Jesus and his woodsy stink. It brings up such an awful feeling that I gag and almost hurl. I make myself breathe deep and head straight for the bathroom before anymore interruptions.

  Turdmouth checks behind the curtains. “What are we looking for?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  My reflection in the sink mirror stops me. I knew last night was bad, every inch of me still aches from the Street Killer. His handprints bruised my neck and my left eye is almost swollen shut—it’s way worse than Carmella’s pretty shiner. Crusty blood cakes my nose. My face looks like the puzzles from the library, jumbled up and out of order. The truth stares at me in black-and-blue.

  Turdmouth leans against the doorway and points to the bathroom window. “So, that’s where you escaped from Spook and Eddie Loco?” I nod, he says, “Not bad.”

  Blushing hurts, but a grin still breaks across my face. I’ll wash up in just a sec. I can’t let anything stop me this time.

  As I stand on the edge of the bathtub, I tug at the shower curtain rod to our hiding spot.

  “What are you doing?” he says.

  “You’ll see.” I remember being four or five and getting super sick in here: puking, fever, the runs. All kinds of gross. Mama bought us this room for a full forty-eight hours, and we didn’t have one appointment the whole time. She let me pick every single show we watched—Sesame Street, The Cosby Show. She even let me watch five minutes of The Lord’s Power Hour. She did all that just for me.

  Mama sat on the edge of this tub and gave me a cool bath, singing songs and telling stories about all our cemetery buds ’til I was me again. I wanted to stay sick forever.

  The memory slips down the drain.

  That’s my life with no Mama. What if Turdmouth is right? What if the Street Killer murdered both our parents? How will we survive? I can’t even look at him, afraid he’ll read my mind and see me bawl.

  The shower rod pops free. I pull off the rubbery end, then shake the long, plastic bar.

  Turdmouth whistles, impressed. “Sneaky. Your mom’s smart.”

  I smile ’cause he’s right. A small, clear, plastic bag packed full topples out. We both see the white crystals at the same time.

  Meth.

  CHAPTER 21

  It’s like my head snaps back against the concrete of more lies. My face reddens and panic rushes through my body staring at this meth. This hurts worse than the Street Killer attacking me. Mama really and truly stole from Diablo.

  That’s what he was saying yesterday, “Tu madre took something of mine.” Of course, he added later, “Find her fast, Roja. Before something bad happens.”

  It already did, long before yesterday. Drugs ruin Mama and keep making her do things she doesn’t want to do. I want to scream and flush this down the toilet, but can’t. That’s cash. I swallow hard instead, but there’s no spit left in my mouth for words.

  Turdmouth doesn’t say a thing about this, but he doesn’t have to. His shock and disappointment hang heavy on his shoulders. He nods and looks away, knowing what this means for me.

  Dread doesn’t just pool in my gut. It’s a swamp. The bathroom sort of spins. This rolled-up baggie isn’t close to the one grand she owes Diablo.

  “There’s got to be more.” I shake the shower rod as hard as I can, but nothing else falls out. I cram the drugs back inside before my fingers fry off from touching it. “Let’s keep looking.”

  I check the bathroom. There are no drawers in here, so it’s easy. Still, I don’t find another clue.

  Next, I rush a
round the room desperate, looking behind the curtains Turdmouth already checked. Where Spook and Eddie Loco searched yesterday. The same dust bunnies flitter around my feet. I open the nightstand to the dark red Gideon’s bible.

  If only that book could talk, but no one wants to hear what happens in these rooms, so I slam the drawer shut.

  Nothing’s in the dresser, either. I throw open the closet door, knocking my hand against the hangers. They clang and jangle; a few drop to the carpet. I hear Turdmouth working in the bathroom, even though I’ve already been there.

  Carmella told us a few minutes ago, “I no want to see it.”

  Did she mean the meth? Did she see Mama get hurt? What happened? I toss the comforter back and feel under the king-size mattress all the way around.

  No clues there.

  Dropping to my knees, I look beneath the bed. It’s weird seeing down here from this angle. After I hop up, I lose my balance and sort of stumble back. That sets loose a tear, but I’m sure to wipe it away before Turdmouth comes back.

  Sighing, I sit on the bed. Out of habit, my hand glides over the dingy comforter and I lean down to catch a whiff of Mama’s cinnamon and cigarettes, but just smell detergent.

  She’s gone from here, too.

  It’s like Valentine’s Day never happened …

  Two days ago, me and Mama sat propped against these same pillows. She smoked, while we talked and watched TV, waiting for our three o’clock. Mama held me and kissed my forehead while we talked about LA. I still want her to buy us a little, white house with red shutters and a dog named Sugar. I want us to walk along the beach and not dig through trash cans. Most of all, I want her to quit this room forever.

  A knock tapped at our door.

  California disappeared.

  My eyes begged Mama to not do it this time. They begged her to not let the badness in again. It probably would’ve worked if she’d seen me, but she was too busy fixing her hair in the mirror. My words stayed stuck in my throat.

  “Hurry.” She lifted up the comforter. “Get under.”

  The door thumped again. Louder.

  “Go!” Mad punched her voice.

  I knew better than to sass her, so I folded myself up extra fast and crawled under the bed. Me and my fingers waited.

  The loud music started. Sometimes, the smoke. Other times, the needles. The fake laughing and the real partying.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak—the bed pounded above me. A spring almost stabbed my head, but Mama tossed down his wallet and I went to work. I counted three twenties, one five and twelve ones. Mama always makes ’em pay up front ’cause that’s how we do business.

  Body stink hung in the air. I just took twenty-one dollars, so he wouldn’t notice, and set his wallet back out for Mama. She put it on the dresser after they were done, like it never even happened. She says to not feel bad ’cause they don’t pay us enough. We’re just taking what’s ours.

  My mind always tries to erase from listening, so I usually travel to the Warrior Angel where I’m safe and I’m home. Nobody can get us there, though the Street Killer proved that wrong.

  “Hello?” Turdmouth stands in front of me, with his fists buried in his jeans pockets. He shrugs and looks away. “Nothing else in the bathroom. Sorry.”

  The memory fades, but not the dirty feeling. I hope Turdmouth doesn’t notice this nastiness all over me. The television next door blares extra loud, but I can’t hear what show, just TV laughing.

  Turdmouth sits on the edge of the bed. “Do you think your m—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He nods, though he’s got no idea what happens in this room. I mean, of course, he does, but thinking it and living it are night and day. I’ve searched this place from top to bottom. Other than the shower rod, there’s no more clues.

  Mama didn’t hide the rest of the drugs inside the Warrior Angel—unless there are other secret spots in the statue. It never dawned on me to look, but I will when I go home tonight. Maybe I could sell that meth to get the rest of my Diablo cash.

  No. That junk hurts me as much as it does Mama. I can’t do that to someone else. Besides, the guilt from stealing Corn Dog’s five is bad enough, I couldn’t handle the pressure of dealing.

  Why would Mama steal from the biggest gangbanger this side of Paradise. anyway?

  I gasp. This really is all my fault. I’ve griped so much about the streets Mama turned into a thief trying to get us to California. I made her do all this and now, she’s in trouble.

  Maybe even, dead.

  I hop off the bed and tell Turdmouth, “I dragged you into something terrible. Something we could both die over.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Forget what you saw in that baggie. Spook and Eddie Loco already destroyed this room once, but they may come back again.”

  “What will you do about the meth?”

  “Shhh. I think it’s safer here. It’ll get stolen if I take it.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Carmella will deactivate our key as soon as she discovers it’s gone. Can you find another way in later?”

  “You know I can.”

  “The best I can hope for is to find Mama before Diablo does.” I don’t mention how it’s all my fault.

  Turdmouth peeks out the curtains. “Let’s talk to Carmella again.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, then let’s head to chunch to look for Miz Jesus. I need to talk to Bird, too. We’ll look for your daddy after lunch.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Wait.” He opens the door for me, but steps out and looks both ways first. He’s already playing bodyguard again. I’m sort of glad to not be in charge for a change.

  “It’s all clear.” Turdmouth closes the door behind us, then walks on down the breezeway, looking every which way for trouble.

  He’s wasting his time. Trouble seems to find me, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 22

  When me and Turdmouth step into the shelter waiting room, Nobodies are already filing into the chapel for chunch. The other “guests” look as cold, hungry and windblown as us. We walk to the end of the line and follow ’em in for the service.

  On cue, my belly growls. I can’t believe how greedy it is since we already ate once today.

  Mrs. O’Dell’s ham-and-cheese sandwich was delicious.

  I tell Turdmouth, “I hate we couldn’t find Carmella.”

  “Yeah. It’s like she disapp—oops. Sorry.”

  What he almost said sits right before us—our parents’ empty chairs. One-Leg always sits on this back row and Mama over in the middle. Some older teen parks herself into Mama’s spot now. She’s looped, pierced and modded all over her face, with pink, spiky hair and tons of black eye makeup.

  The heaviness of missing Mama is too much. I’m glad Turdmouth is here to help me carry it and hope I help lighten his load, too. I give his boot a tap with my shoe.

  He tries to smile, but it’s sort of flat. There’s so much sadness in his eyes. He sits beside his daddy’s chair, like yesterday, and crosses his arms. I do the same next to him. My cramped feet are glad for a break. My scrapes and bruises twinge with pain.

  The rest of the room looks the same with the Amens all sitting up front together. I knew God was as fake as Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, but I’m still bummed the preacher turned out to be a sleazebag. I can’t help but wonder if Miz Jesus knows he’s a cheater.

  They probably won’t come back today. Worry rolls through me again, picturing that baggie of drugs laying on the floor. Who chased Mama from our room? The pig, the preacher, or the gangbanger? The last two are connected somehow. Maybe No-Brains is, too. Is Mama mixed up with all three?

  Salt and Pepper wave to us from their seats in the middle. Bird always sits next to Mama when she bothers to show up to feed her boys. Her backwards skunk hair is dirty and matted, sores cover her face. Meth’s eaten up a few more of her teeth. She’s way worse than Mama.

  Bird’s kid
s head towards me, but one of the shelter goons calls ’em back to their seats. They mind him ’cause they can’t eat if they don’t behave. Who knows when their crap-sandwich mama will feed ’em again?

  At least Corn Dog’s nowhere to be found.

  The electric guitar player starts jamming to their theme song from the side door and walks on in. “What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear …”

  My stomach lurches as Mr. and Miz Jesus stroll into the room for the second day in a row, waving like it’s a beauty pageant. I can’t believe they’re back. They’re both wearing fancy suits again. This time, navy blue. His bed head’s gone. Her long, ginger hair isn’t real like his, but her insides are way better, and that’s what counts.

  Maybe my lucky penny’s fixed after all. We’ll see if she’s got a backbone and coughs up more cash for me.

  The Amens go crazy with excitement over these preachers again. They clap, whistle and holler. A few others tap to the music to be polite, but these TV stars didn’t change a thing in our lives yesterday. We’re all still hungry, broke and forgotten.

  Pepper waves wild at me from his seat, then points up front and mouths something. He squirms so much in his chair with his “I got to pee” dance that I wonder if his little fro might pop off. I’m not sure what’s up with him.

  Mr. Jesus scans the crowd as he claps to the music. His gaze lands on me, flickers a sec, then moves on extra fast to the others. I can’t read the look his wife gives me, though the corners of her mouth turn up into a half-smile. She gives me a wink, too.

  Turdmouth whispers, “She totally recognizes you.”

  We both sit up straighter. This must be what school is like—to know that the teacher is watching you. It’s harder to pay attention since I just want the service to be over to get more cash.

  Mr. Jesus smooth-talks her into singing again, and angels still fly from her mouth during her slow song. I realize this is part of their gimmick, her acting all shy before the crowd and him coaxing her to do stuff.

  It works, though. I wish I didn’t know the truth now. He does the talk again, while she watches from the sidelines. Man, she loves him. Her stare eats him alive. Poor thing.