by Clea Simon
‘You’re back.’ I see the question rather than hear it. The boy – young man – who has spoken thrusts his jaw out. He’s been hurt. Rejected, I’d say, and I glance at my companion to gauge her response. ‘Sorry about …’ His voice softens. ‘About what happened.’
She shrugs, unaffected. Or, no, sad. ‘Thanks.’ Her voice has flattened from its natural cadences. She is pretending at something with this boy. ‘AD around?’
He nods toward the back and she passes him. I follow, keeping my distance, all too mindful of his unclean body. My whiskers bristle, aware of his eyes on me as I pick my way through the broken wall. Aware, too, of the others who have woken with less fanfare and who gather now in our wake.
‘Care.’ One word, but she looks up. We’ve entered a back room, she stepping over a pile of bricks, me through a smaller hole in the stove-in wall. The figure addressing her is squatting by an open flame. Like the others, he is rank, stinking of sweat and this close, river mud. Of something else as well. Bitter and sharp, it emanates from the fire and I sink back into the shadows. It’s not the flame – although I distrust that blue sprite – it’s the odor that offends. The wall behind me is open, the wooden frame holds more worms than plaster, and I leap up to a crossbar for the cleaner air and a better view.
‘Want some?’ The fire-keeper looks up, shadows playing across his angular face. He’s older than the others, his eyes sunken and dark.
Care – could that be a name? – shakes her head, dismissive. This is a conversation they’ve had before, the details understood. ‘I’m here for my things. I’m heading out.’ Despite her anger, her tone is tentative, explanatory. This man has some kind of power over her. ‘Moving on,’ she adds, for emphasis.
‘Moving on?’ He stirs the fire and the shadows shift. Something else does as well. Care can hear it, too. He’s smiling. Mocking her. She holds her silence, though I can feel her tense from here. He wants more. ‘You still sore about your old man, darling?’
Your old man? Darling? I recoil. The greasy lout’s endearment reeks of possession and entitlement, and my feline sense of propriety is offended at the idea of a creature such as this being the child’s love interest. But no, the girl – Care – is shaking him off.
‘It’s not like he’s going to need you.’ He tries again. ‘He’s not going to need anyone to do his dirty work anymore.’
I didn’t require the repetition to get his drift, but the speed with which she reacts sets us both straight.
‘It wasn’t like that.’ She snaps, anger doing more than comfort could to rouse her. ‘He was teaching me how to be an investigator. I helped him on his cases.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He turns back to his fire. She has passed some kind of test, the rules of which I do not understand, but she does.
She crosses over to a pile of cinder block and shoves one aside.
‘You might want to talk to Tick.’
‘Tick?’ The girl whirls around. This means something to her. To the others in the space, too. From my vantage point, I sense a shift. ‘He’s here?’
‘Hey, Care.’ The watchers part as a small figure comes forward, skinny as a rat with a mop of dark hair that nearly covers his eyes. He nods at her, pushing that hair back, then turns toward me, his hand outstretched. ‘Check out the cat.’
I hiss. He stops, mid-reach. He’s small, for a human, but I’m not taking chances. Any closer and I’ll jump.
‘Whoa, kitty. OK!’ He backs up, hands raised, but the sparse crowd that has gathered has converged behind him and he must stop. He’s watching me, and I him. There’s something wrong here.
‘Tick, what are you doing here?’ Care is talking to the boy – a mere slip of a child, skinny as a wraith – but he keeps staring at me, his dark eyes huge in his thin face. I don’t like that direct stare. Never have. My back begins to arch. People. You can’t trust them, and this boy is making too much of a fuss. ‘Tick?’
‘Care!’ A girl butts between them, dragging a young man behind her. They’re stumbling, impaired. I smell that burning again and draw back, the wet of my nose stinging. The gang leader nods at her, approving. ‘She’s back,’ he says.
‘Where you’ve been?’ Now that AD has given his approval, everyone starts crowding around the girl. Everyone except that one boy, Tick. He stands as still as stone, his eyes on me. He must see my fangs. But – no – his dark eyes dart. He is watching the girl beneath his lashes. Watching in silence as his colleagues mill about her.
I will make an experiment. Jumping down, I pick my way through the debris. I saunter past him, over to her. Sure enough, he looks but does not follow. Although his head remains bent, as if he were watching the ground, his eyes follow the girl’s actions. Meanwhile, as quickly as it arose, the hubbub has subsided, bodies readjusting in the half light. The couple, giggling, retire to a shadowed corner, while that first boy – young man – looks on. The others gather round the fire, blue flame reflecting off their wide and anxious eyes. The boy stands now in shadow, watching.
The girl has turned her back on all of them. Turned back toward that pile of rubble. She has taken a book, its cover bent and broken, from beneath a brick. Wiping it on her pants, she shoves it into a denim bag. Some clothing follows, as colorless in this dim light as her faded blouse, those worn-out jeans. She pulls the bag up on her shoulder and looks around one final time.
‘Tick, what happened?’ Her voice is so soft, I wonder if he hears her, alone among the shadows. He’s staring at the ground as if willing it to open for him. A child’s wish. He can’t be more than ten or eleven. ‘I thought, since we found your mom …?’
He shrugs and seems to shrink, making himself smaller even than he’s been. I wrap my tail around myself. No need for further clawing here. Her bag packed, she steps toward him, curious rather than angry. It doesn’t matter. He has no fight left in him.
‘Talk to me, Tick.’ The words sound wrong in her mouth. She’s aping someone else. Not AD, though. Someone who stood back, who taught her not to suggest the answers.
Hands in pockets, he turns toward the glassless window. In the weak spring light, his face looks strangely aged for one so young. Gaunt where it should be round, and as hungry as a kitten. Hungry for attention, too, I see. But whoever has instructed Care did so well. She waits, and sure enough, he turns again. Not to face her, but to stare at the ground by her feet.
‘Tick?’ Her voice is soft. ‘Is it the scat?’
He starts to nod then shrugs again, and the movement of his narrow shoulders conveys something to the girl.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says and reaches for him.
He flinches and she stops herself. ‘It didn’t work, Care. She tried …’ He glances up to where the man has gone back to his cooking. Something went wrong there, that much is clear. ‘He was looking for you, the old man was. The day before it happened. You know.’
‘The old man?’ Her voice has tightened. I sense the others listening.
‘He had a message. I was supposed to find you. Only—’ He breaks off. Kicks at the dirt.
‘Tick?’ Again, I hear it. A tone that isn’t natural to her. She’s holding herself back. Thinking of someone else.
He hears it, too. Stands a bit straighter. ‘The balance is off,’ he says, the words foreign in his mouth. ‘The balance, or maybe the scale.’
‘Yes?’ She’s waiting. She must be aware that every creature in the room is watching her now. Everyone except me. I use the moment to survey the wan, rapt faces. Even AD looks up from the burner, his eyes slits.
Tick sighs, and the last of his resistance seems to dissolve as he exhales. ‘He said someone is weighing down the scale. That you’d know what to do. That Fat Peter wasn’t on the level.’
‘Fat Peter?’ She’s leaning in. ‘He said that?’
‘Uh huh.’ The boy nods. ‘He said it was urgent, that I should find you. I figured it was a job. You know, like we used to do, helping him figure out who done what. And since I was back, sinc
e my mom – I figured I could do it. I mean, I’m sorry you won’t get the coin—’
‘The coin?’ She explodes, spitting the word out. ‘I’m not thinking of the coin. This was a message, Tick. A message. If you had found me, if you’d told me this before, maybe I could’ve saved him.’
THREE
The response is immediate, and not what I would have anticipated. The girl is angry. Red spots appear high on her pale cheeks. She’s gotten loud, her arms up in the air. These signs all communicate that if she had fur, it would be on end. So I brace for an attack. A counter to her accusation.
What I don’t expect is the roar of sound. Ears flattened, I wheel to see heads thrown back, their mouths open, exposing black teeth and gaping jaws. Foul breath joins the miasma. They are laughing, all of them – even the couple, who have emerged from the darkness by the rotted stairs. All except the boy.
AD silences them, standing to raise one dirty hand. ‘That’s good, darling,’ he says. He’s tall and rangy, his voice too soft for his size. ‘I like to see some spunk in you.’
My fur rises, even if hers can’t, and I prepare for a leap. I do not know this man but I do not trust him.
‘But you should be thanking Tick.’ He’s moving closer. I gauge the distance. Focus on his eyes. ‘If it weren’t for him coming back to us, him sticking by us, you might have been there when the old man was offed. You might’ve gotten it too. Accessory and all that.’
Care had frozen from the noise. Now she shrugs, her shoulders still stiff with rage. I pick up the movement even as I watch the man. She’s readying for a fight, too.
‘That’s not what accessory means, AD.’ Her voice is quiet but her jaw is clenched. She cannot help herself, I think. I will her to be silent. To have caution.
‘Care and her books. Getting above herself with the old man’s investigations.’ He turns to the others and gets another laugh. He is showing teeth. His version of a smile. ‘Don’t know everything, though, do you?’
‘Guess not.’ She looks down, then over at the boy, and the moment passes. The softness of her voice and the downcast gaze have appeased AD. I keep my eyes on him. Those teeth. But I sense Tick digging through his clothes – a pocket, a fold. ‘Tick?’ She senses it too.
‘Here.’ Whatever he has retrieved, it’s heavy for its size. His hand trembles as he offers it up to her. ‘He knew I had it.’ His words come in a rush, almost a whisper. ‘He said I should give it to you.’
He turns, but AD is already there, moving almost silently over the earth floor. He takes the trinket from the boy’s hand as if he hadn’t spoken at all. I can see its rounded sides, the dull glow where the faint light hits it, the engraving on its flat bottom. But AD must hold it up to the light and even then seems to have trouble making it out. He squints and his mouth draws tight before he tosses it in the dirt.
‘Pretty cheap, your old man,’ he says, turning back to the fire. I can see the effort it takes Care not to bend, not to scramble for the discarded object. I make my own move, silent and unnoticed in the larger drama, sniffing at the small thing that has rolled to a stop. No scent beyond the boy. And yet …
‘Your old man had fallen on hard times, Care.’ AD keeps talking, his voice flat. ‘Used to be, he paid in coin. Used to be, we could keep what we lifted, no questions asked.’
She’s staring at the piece and doesn’t respond.
‘So where are you going, my girl?’
She stands defeated, a new weight on her back. ‘Don’t know. South, maybe.’
‘South, is it?’ AD says the word like it’s part of a fairy tale. ‘Well, you know you always have a home here.’
He laughs, and the gathered crowd begins to disperse. Care has been dismissed, her potential for amusement – or threat? – played out. I watch as she makes her way toward the doorway before following, silently, along what remains of the wall.
‘Wait. Care?’ It’s Tick. He’s hung back until AD moved on and now he chases after her as she leaves the inner room, catching her by the ruined stoop. The light is brighter here and I see how sallow his cheeks are compared to the bruises beneath his eyes. How the skin on his lips peels. ‘I’m sorry, OK? It was right after my mom – well, I had just come back here and all.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s probably right. I probably couldn’t have done anything. Only, I would’ve liked to try.’
Tick nods, and I watch, wondering if the two will embrace. Although he had shrunk from her before, there’s something like a family feeling between these two, an attachment that explains AD’s jealousy.
‘He said something else.’ Tick looks up at her. ‘Something only for you. He made me repeat it. He said there was too much current. That he was looking for other tributaries.’
‘Tributaries?’ She’s quizzing him.
He nods. ‘Like in a river,’ he says. ‘I asked.’ He pushes something into her hands. The trinket.
She smiles and pockets it, then holds out her arms. He hesitates, but he goes to her. ‘Take care, Tick,’ she says once he pulls away. She searches his face, those dark eyes. ‘Stay away from the scat.’
He nods again. ‘You’re not going south, are you?’
Now it’s her turn to shrug. ‘We’ll see.’
I move in, wanting to get a last impression of this Tick, this boy who seems to mean something to the girl. I smell sweat and dirt and, ever so faint, that chemical tang. I glance up at the girl, wondering if she knows. Wondering if it could be from the building, the close quarters. She hasn’t picked up on it, I am sure.
‘What’s with the cat?’ he asks, looking down at me. I freeze.
‘He saved me,’ says the girl. My girl. Care. ‘He’s my friend.’
FOUR
As a cat, it makes sense that I prefer to be alone. We are not pack animals, despite sharing the same needs as any other mammal. We hunt and thrive on our own. This partly explains why I am glad to be quit of Care’s crew: the derelict building and its rag-tag inhabitants serve no purpose in my life, whatever they may have in hers. And while I would not have minded a brief hunt – the morning’s chicken is a dim memory – I am content to have moved on. There will be prey aplenty down by the water.
It is all I can do to ignore the stirrings around us as I follow the girl down the road. She, too, is happy to be gone. She’s breathing more easily out here, despite the cold and the damp. Her stride has lengthened, even as the broken asphalt gives way to cobblestone. Whatever succor the group gave her has long since expired, and while I can see that she’s concerned about Tick – she’s glanced back twice – she is fine without the company of her own kind.
Fast, too. A loud rumble as a vehicle comes by, and she’s flattened against a wall almost as quickly as I am. Not ducking, not trying to run – her invisibility comes from her stillness, and the machine passes without a pause. Somebody has taught her this much. When we reach the docks, I’ll be ready for a break. I hear scrambling in the rubbish we pass, and I’m too hungry to be fussy. But she keeps on walking and I feel obliged to follow. When she stops at the tracks, I want to warn her. The smell of the metal is bad enough. There are vibrations here. Something is coming. Something huge.
I throw myself against her, anxious to push her away. The air is moving, full of steam and grit. Surely she must hear it now. I look up, searching her face, but she is staring down the track. She cannot hear, that much is clear. But she must see the approaching monster. We must retreat. We must …
I cannot help it. I howl as she pulls off her jacket and grabs me, lifting me into the air, binding me. I twist, wishing once again for the flexibility of youth. She is moving – heading toward the noise, the approaching beast so loud I cannot hear my own cries. She holds me firmly, wrapped in darkness, and I flash back to the day before. To the dream. Could I have been that wrong about her?
With a desperate effort I arch back, my teeth finding purchase in the threadbare cloth of her blouse. It is not enough – she jumps
, holding me against my will. Even as I writhe, we are rising. We are inside the monster – a word comes to me: boxcar – and as the realization of her purpose hits, she lets me go and stumbles backward, laughing, as I spit and edge away.
‘Sorry, Blackie.’ She looks at the rip in her sleeve and pushes it up, exposing her wiry arm. ‘I’m used to hitching, but I couldn’t risk you bolting and getting hurt.’
I am glaring. I know it, but my fur has begun to settle along my spine. My ears perk up again, even as the floor beneath us continues to rumble and growl. To regain my composure, I groom.
‘I meant what I said to Tick, Blackie.’ In imitation of my own efforts, she pulls a comb from the denim bag and slicks her hair back. Her bare forearm, I am relieved to see, shows no blood. ‘You’re my good luck charm, and I’m going to need as much of that as I can get.’
I am, I confess, abashed. Carefully – the train has gained speed again and its rocking motion is unsettling – I approach her. She seems to bear me no ill will for my thwarted attack, and I once again decide that my instincts were correct. This girl is safe for me to trust. Leaning against her, I fall asleep.
Maybe we both do. She grabs me with a start, her jacket still on, and jumps again before I can adjust myself in her arms. The train has left the water’s side and landed us somewhere more dry. I don’t believe this is the south of which she spoke. Her voice was too high when she was talking to Tick. She cares for him, but she was lying. No, this is another errand, a journey I do not yet understand. Then I see her take the trinket from her jacket pocket, and I suddenly do.
The old man. He wanted her to see this, and it matters for that reason. I do not see how a piece of metal can bring back a living creature and I watch her, curious as to what she will do. She turns it over in her hand and I stretch up to examine it once more. She kneels, opening her palm, and I think how very foolish AD was. This item is small, but solid, with a warm glow that makes me consider its value. Flat on one end, with a bulbous top on the other, it is smooth and round and heavy. Perhaps his thoughts were addled by that scent he had been inhaling. Something about Care’s reaction makes me think it was evil. He was more intent on maintaining the illusion of control and he knew Care was set on going.