Orphan Love

by Nadia Bozak

  The walk was slow, me being kind of weak from the sadness and sleeping and stillness I had been through, and the case started to weigh as much as Dave’s bashed-up boat. Stopped in bus shelters along the way, especially when the rain came on too heavy.

  When I got to Canal I knew to turn east. In Chinatown the rain was a little less and so the streets were still glutted with Chinese, pulling carts, dragging bundles, buying and selling and trading in a chaos I could never understand. Liked it OK there because I felt myself to be in the company of other refugees and runaways, strangers to the fucked-up battleground of New York and America. Stopped under the awning of a restaurant with a sweating window and crazy dead ducks, cooked to red, just hanging there. My mouth really drooled for a taste of what I smelled, the hot, syrupy sweetness of that barbequed Chinese meat. Walked on looking for a restaurant less busy. Less Chinese too, somewhere I’d know what to order, what manners not to use. Settled on a grubby place called Gold Star Café that said it was proud to serve all kinds of American home-cooking. Empty inside, long and narrow, lit with fluorescents. The lazy staff in paper hats didn’t even look at me. Followed the signs and slipped downstairs into the bathroom. Under the shower of that cold yellow fluorescence I stood before the horror-movie mirror and saw myself—what I had become. Told that kid Bozak she was worse than a stranger, stranger than a Bozak.

  “How did you get to be?” I asked her. “How come you think you can be me?”

  It was like she’d never seen daylight or kindness or the glance of a boy. Face streaked with rainy paint. Green-glass eyeballs were webbed in red. Sockets circled in the bruises of tired and sadness and no sunshine. Scratched cheeks. White goddamn lips. Filthy clothes underneath a jacket that was clean and shiny, but only from the rain.

  “As skinny as a boy,” I whispered to Bozak.

  Turned on the tap and peeled off the stinking bandages that were my mitts. Threw them in the trash. Remembered the underpants in my pocket and dumped those too. Going gentle, I used that gummy pink soap and washed my finger stubs, careful to keep the scabs in place. But scrubbed that goddamn face, neck, arms, and reeking pits. Used bunches of toilet paper to wipe down. Ducked my damp head under the electric drier. Then stripped the bloodstained Goddamns T-shirt and pitched it too. The filth of the plain black one I had underneath was more ingrained, harder to see.

  Under all that dirt, white skin shone a pale blue. A little sunshine and no more Slava, I’d get well in California. Be as brown as Dave the Brave.

  Still had the lipstick I’d picked up back in the park that first day in New York. Found it in the same pocket as those horrible underpants. Got my lips painted, and I came off looking a bit grown up and gussied up, a bit less like a goddamn fucked-up girl. The red set against that wig of black and white. Would have to get rid of that hair next, soon. Before Ottawa and LA.

  California punks don’t dye their hair, Slava O’Right had said. That’s old school. Besides, the shit would just get washed out whenever they go surfing.

  Didn’t care about that, the style of punk in California. And I didn’t want to surf either, but I did want to swim. But first I’d have to learn how. All that way on all those rivers and lakes, down the Hudson like a goddamn ocean, and I couldn’t even dog-paddle. Dave, I guessed, was likely the same.

  The restaurant was mostly empty. At the counter I asked for a coffee, then I sat down at a table in the window, Dave’s heavy-metal suitcase at my boots. Ate the Kit Kat bar. Stayed until the rain was gone, and it was dinnertime and the place was starting to get busy.

  Didn’t even need Dave’s map, I found Brock’s building pretty easy. Got there just as the rain was coming on again.

  Buzzed. Waited for so many minutes I thought the guy still wasn’t home. Buzzed again. And again. It was evening now. Had maybe four, five hours before the midnight bus up north.

  Turned to leave, to get back in the rain. Would throw away the case rather than carry the goddamn thing across town again. Worry about money for the LA ticket after I settled up with Slava O’Right.

  Behind me, though, a lock turned and the door opened. Just a crack, a chain barred it from opening all the way. An eye shone out. Caught the profile of a fine nose and sharp chin.

  “What?” Voice of a watchdog.

  “You Henry Brock?” Had Dave’s note ready and I passed it through. “Dave sent me.”

  Door slammed shut, the chain was released. Stepped inside when the door opened. Dark in the hallway, so I couldn’t see Brock clearly. Just barely made out his small figure. The door closed behind me.

  Brock’s room was on the second floor. The guy was not young like I had thought. Small, slight, he had bones like a bird. Face was fine, a girl’s almost. No silver suit or platform shoes either. Instead he had on sneakers and baggy jeans, a white T-shirt without sleeves, and around his neck was a golden chain that should have been thicker. It was how New York kids were dressed, Black kids and Latin types especially. Had seen it on the street as I had walked over.

  It was shut up and dark in there except for a lamp, shaded with orange and fallen over in the far corner. There was a girl there too, and seeing her gave me a start and it made me step back. She was sitting on the floor, almost at my feet, her head leaning back against the iron frame of Brock’s crumpled bed. Dressed in dirty white jeans and basketball sneakers and a really big T-shirt that must have been Brock’s. Dark hair in tatters, so fucked up on something she had no goddamn eyes. Beer in one hand and a spent cigarette in the other, a pile of ashes on her knee and the floor, and because she was cross-legged, I saw the menstrual stains on the crotch of her white jeans. Brock didn’t say anything about this person, this girl, being there.

  He asked me if I wanted a beer.

  My eyes glued to the grubby girl, I didn’t, or couldn’t, answer.

  “It’s warm, though,” he said.

  Long, chipped-up blue fingernails, silver hoops in her ears, red in her cheeks, she wanted boys to think she was pretty.

  “No,” I said, looking up at Henry. “I have to get a bus.”

  He thought for a minute, leaning up against the yellowy wall. Arms crossed, showing off his tattooed forearms. Me, I waited there sniffing. Through my running snot I smelled burn and beer and a lifetime of smoke. A smell so familiar I felt Bellyache whispering in my ear and I heard him aching in my bones. Rain was hitting Henry’s gritty little window, trying to get at us, angry we were on the inside.

  “Should wait out that rain,” he said. “It’s coming down hard.”

  “Thanks, maybe I will.” Set the suitcase on the floor.

  Brock got our beers from a half-size fridge in the corner. He unfolded a chair for himself and told me I could sit on the bed. “Don’t worry about her,” he said. Looking at me, he asked how the antibiotics were working out.

  “Real well. Infection’s almost all gone.”

  “Yeah, your shadow said it was nasty.”

  “My shadow?”

  “Well, that’s what he called you anyway. That or the kid.”

  Nodded. Asked if he had a shot of booze, something to warm me up.

  “She’s got some,” he said. He picked up the girl’s denim shoulder bag, beside her on the floor. Because she had no eyes, she didn’t blink when Brock swung the bag and hit her full-on in the face. Unzipped it, and pulled out a water bottle filled with brown.

  “Rum,” he said, tossing the bag on the bed.

  Said thanks. Drank deep. Passed it to Brock, who drank too.

  The beer bottle fell out of the girl’s hand and her body gave a twitch. Henry picked it up before too much spilled. Drank from it, finishing the contents.

  Silence but for the rain on the window. And there was traffic, the great grey noise of New York.

  “What the fuck is he going to do in LA?”

  “Be an actor.”

  Henry nodded. “What
is he anyway? Like what tribe?”

  “Well, he doesn’t really know, but likely it’s Ojibway.”

  “Never heard of that kind. Thought at first he was Mexican.”

  “Most here do,” I said. “Maybe it’ll be better for Dave being a Mexican in the states than an Indian in Canada.”

  Henry said he doubted that because that was a bummer of a deal, a Mexican in the States.

  “Same as in Canada,” I said. “Being an Indian up there really sucks too.”

  “Good luck to him,” Henry said. Then he said for us to do business.

  “It’s all yours,” I said, nodding at the case.

  Brock cleared a spot on the floor, laid out the case and opened it. He whistled. “What a crazy metalhead. Too bad they’re not cds.”

  “These’ll be collectors’ items someday, don’t forget. When you can’t get cassettes anymore.”

  Brock went right for the Metallica. “That song ‘One’ is just incredible.”

  “That the one on the radio?”

  Brock didn’t answer. He had his hands on the Walkman now. When he opened it up, Dave’s dad’s big bucktooth fell on the floor. Brock picked it up, between thumb and forefinger, and held it to the light. One eye closed.

  “What the fuck is this?” His open eye was shining.

  “A man’s tooth,” I said.

  “No shit.”

  “But also a guitar pick.”

  Brock was impressed. Knew I had him hooked. “Too bad I don’t play.”

  “So find someone who does. Some punk kid or metal head. Bet you could sell it.”

  “So what do you want for it?”

  Remembered what Dave told me about why hitching to LA was so dangerous. “A gun,” I said. “I want a gun for it.”

  Henry shook his head. “What makes you think I got one?”

  “Because Dave said you do.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But this tooth ain’t enough for it.”

  “So, the case, the Walkman, only half the money you owe Dave, that tooth.”

  Brock scratched the stubble on his head.

  “And I’ll fuck you.”

  He smiled to himself. Put the tooth back in the Walkman. Set it inside the case. Shut the lid with his foot. “Wait out the rain,” Brock said. “Have a drink. I’ll think about it.”

  We drank, smoked pot. Ate old, cold pizza and the bottom of a bag of Doritos, damp and soft. When the girl officially passed out, Brock and me dragged her into the corner, left her slumped up against the wall.

  He had a tape deck and we were listening to Dave’s Metallica tapes.

  “Kill ’Em All is their best one,” I said.

  Brock didn’t think so. “Justice, that’s the shit.”

  Had it loud to cover up how goddamn awkward and bored we both were. Henry asked me all these dumb questions, making like he wanted to get to know me a bit before coming on over and having sex with me on that bed, if that’s what he was going to decide to do.

  Henry said, “What about your name?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it’s weird. But better than Becky or Jessica or some shit like that.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Got sisters with names like that too?”

  Nodded yes. “Brothers. Seven half-brothers, and all of us with a different mom.”

  “Shit,” said Henry. His face was getting red-hot from beer. He drank heavy for a little guy.

  “How old are you?” I said straight out.

  “Thirty.”

  “That’s pretty old. Slava’s that old. Thirty-three.”

  “One of your brothers?”

  “Brother, boyfriend, worse goddamn enemy. All the same to us, up there in Black goddamn Dew Seat.”

  Brock sort of smiled. Veins on his head were set to throbbing. Was glad for Pickles’s knife tucked inside my jacket.

  He passed me a beer, though I was working on the girl’s rum. Henry, meanwhile, was on maybe his tenth.

  “What happened to your fingers?” he wanted to know.

  “Tried to get something out of a blender.”

  “Sure.” He smiled again, dumber this time.

  “It’s true,” I said. “Forgot to shut it off. Just not the housewife type, I guess.”

  Then Henry Brock came over and sat beside me on the bed.

  “Gun first,” I said.

  Brock made me close my eyes and open my hand. He got off the bed, and when he sat down again he put in my open palm a handful of cold metal. A hammer, I thought from the shape of it. But a small one. Wrapped my fingers around the handle, finger found a trigger. Eyes open, I was face to face with a neat little handgun. Was hoping for a six-shooter, but this would have to do. Shoved the thing inside my jacket.

  “You can’t have these, though.” He showed me four golden bullets before putting them in his pocket.

  Tucked the weapon inside my jacket. “Clothes stay on then,” I said.

  Henry nodded. “Blow job after. And the bullets are yours.”

  His eyes were bloodshot, lids heavy. He wouldn’t last long enough for that. “OK,” I said.

  Undid my belt, pulled down my pants. No underwear to worry about.

  Laid back and Henry got a condom out. “aids is some scary shit,” he said.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Buddy of mine got it, and from a girl too.”

  He got the rubber on and he got himself inside me, wetting me with a gob of foamy beer spit. And he went at it hard, the bed starting to shake and hit the wall and someone on the other side started banging back. At first just joking, keeping the rhythm, then getting mad because Henry, drunk like that, was taking forever to do his goddamn business.

  Finally the fucker rolled off me, stretched out. Pulled off the condom and threw it away. It landed near the girl. Then he pulled up his jeans, leaving them unzipped. Brock passed out before he could even light a cigarette. Got up and got my hunting knife and opened the door I thought had to be for the bathroom. Pulled the chain that turned on the light, and I locked myself in. Took hold of that knife and I hacked off all my hair, real close to the scalp so all that was left was an inch or so of matted black. And when I was through the sink was overflowing with all that rotten old wig of black-and-white mess, and I grabbed up big handfuls of the stuff and I filled up the garbage and then I flushed the rest down the toilet.

  Looked at what I saw in the mirror over the sink and I thought for certain no one up there would recognize me now—I sure as hell didn’t. With my hair all gone, my eyes were really huge-looking and the glass of them, that see-through green, was as clear and bright as I’d ever seen. Eyes set in a pasty face with that sharp chin and dark brows, and taking off my shirt to shake it free of hair, I saw there was nothing on my chest but boys’ nipples and some leftover scabs and scrapes and scars. And I look so hungry, I thought, and I look so ugly too.

  And I was real quiet as I crept back into Henry’s room. His breathing, deep and loud, covered up the sound of me fishing around the sheets for the bullets that had fallen out of his pocket. Found only three. His jacket was hanging on the back of the door. Inside was his wallet. Took the few bucks I found inside it, and his driver’s licence, I pocketed too. The girl’s bag was on the bed still. Inside was a beaded purse, and I emptied it of coins and two fives. Got on my own leather jacket and boots, but with the spurs off, tossed on the floor, because what I was going to do needed to be done in absolute quiet. Left Dave’s case, the tooth.

  Was late by then, so I took a cab to the bus station. Headed back up in the direction of north, to a trailer in the bush.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The front door was made of brittle old plywood, so was easy enough to bust. Gave it a kick with my boot and a slam with my shoulder. Stumbled in. It smelled of c
igarettes and booze and sour garbage, and it was freezing cold. There was a cool new light coming in the windows. That a woman once lived there was clear, but that she lived there no more was clearer still.

  Slava O’Right was passed out in the back bedroom—saw that through the window. Crept around the living room and the kitchen a bit. The filth of the place was under my boots and it was up my nose. Everyplace I looked, stepped, stumbled, touched, there was a stubbed butt, a spilled drink, bottles without beer, empty Wild Turkey quarts lined up on the windowsill, and balls and dolls and rainbow-coloured toys mixed in, as dirty as the rest of it. So much smashed glass, and also blood smeared on the wall. And there was a bunch of broken records, The Goddamns, Circle Jerks, SNFU.

  “What a fool,” I said to the silence of that mess.

  Fridge was open with nothing inside except the burning bulb.

  Rubbed hands over scalp. Tried to remember, tried to forget that wig of hair, now amputated and gone. A stranger to myself now, and so a stranger to Slava O’Right. Walked around. Glass and clutter crunched under my bootsteps that otherwise would have been so silent, having left those spurs of mine back there, with my hair, in New York City. Fingered the gun all the while. There were six bullets in the chamber. Cocked and ready, I had it tucked into the hip pocket of my jacket. The hunting knife was on me too, shoved down the side of my boot, just in case. Lit a smoke and let my lungs take a deep breath that went right to my head, and from there to the part of my heart that was not dead.

  The bedroom was at the back of the trailer. Slipped through the half-open door, and there was Slava O’Right, laid out on the bed, jaw hanging open and his mouth a black hole of stink. All clothed he was, in boots and jacket with no shirt on, and the jeans I saw were stained with pee and over his lower belly were patches of dry jism. The Wild Turkey belt he usually wore was hung from a post on the crib that stood by the window. Went toward it because I wanted to tie his hands with it and that was when I saw the kid. A black-haired baby, as filthy as its dad and with nothing on but a rotting diaper. That little old kid, its blue-glass eyes half open and so it was only half alive. But as I moved around the room, they followed me along, just watching.