ARC: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

by M. G. Buehrlen

  My ears felt thick and full, like I was wearing those smooshy, expandable earplugs. My mouth was dry and gritty, and I tasted the salty tang of blood on my teeth. Every bone and muscle in my body felt cracked in half, and I wanted nothing more than for the vision to end. I wanted to see Mr Draper sneeze into the old handkerchief he carried in his back pocket and ask us what the billboard in The Great Gatsby symbolized. I tried desperately to summon the black by squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could, but my senses never left. I still felt the concrete biting into my palms and cheek, and how difficult it was to get one good, decent deep breath.

  As the thickness in my ears faded, I could make out a dog barking nearby, men arguing, a siren off in the distance, a child crying. I slowly lifted my head, the pain of hitting it on the sidewalk sending a rush of dizziness through me. I tried to look around, but everything looked tilted.

  Two strong hands took hold of my arms and hauled me to my feet, holding me steady as the world shifted, then came back into focus.

  “Aw, geez. You’re covered in blood.” Blue Eyes took my face in his leather-gloved hands, swept my hair from my eyes, and tilted my head in every direction, assessing the damage. “Can you hear what I’m saying?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alex.” My tongue was a blob of wet sand.

  “That’s a boy’s name.”

  I rubbed my jaw. “Yeah. It’s also a nickname.”

  “Short for something?”

  “Duh.”

  “‘Duh?’” He scrunched his nose. “What day is it?”

  “October twenty-third. Tuesday.”

  He frowned. “You hit your head harder than I thought. Come on, I’ll take you to Doc Stein.”

  Blue took two long strides, pulling me along, but I stopped and wriggled my arm free. “No, it’s all right, my head’s fine. I don’t have a concussion.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “A what?”

  “I’m fine. I just need to sit down.” And wait for the black.

  He hesitated, searching my eyes. Then he reached out and pulled a piece of glittering glass from my hair. “All right, but you tell me if you feel faint or you need to throw up.”

  I nodded again. He took my arm, gently this time, and led me around the corner, down a back alley to a stack of wooden crates. He pulled one down and helped me sit on it, then leaned beside me against the wall of the building. He crossed one ankle over the other.

  We stayed like that for a long while, me taking in slow, shuddering breaths and staring at my boots, him rolling that piece of glass between his gloved fingers.

  I just couldn’t get over what happened. I’d never witnessed such public violence in my life. Back home, they said we were desensitized to violence, us modern American teenagers with our graphic movies and video games. But now I knew that wasn’t exactly true, at least for me. I was so far removed from violence in my cushy home, in my cushy city where police patrolled day and night, in my cushy world where lawmakers did their best to keep criminals off the street. No amount of blood and gore on screen could’ve prepared me for the true horror I’d just experienced.

  While I felt paralyzed with shock and fear, the boy who saved my life appeared unshaken. Maybe violence was like germs or allergies. If you exposed yourself to real violence, did you build up a tolerance against it? Were these drive-by shootings normal for him, living in a time when gangsters ruled the streets and cops craned their necks the other way?

  I stole a glance at Blue. He was watching me. When my eyes met his, a memory, faint and sort of sweet, tickled the outer reaches of my mind, and I felt the unmistakable sensation of déjà vu. It made my stomach dip. I was just about to ask if I knew him from somewhere, but he spoke first. The memory fluttered away on a breeze.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said.

  I swallowed, trying to get rid of the wet sand feeling. “Does that – this sort of thing – happen often?”

  He tossed the piece of glass in the air, and we watched it hit the ground and roll away. “Not often, but it’s getting worse.”

  “Were those men gangsters?”

  He slid his back down the wall and sat on the ground, his arms propped on his knees. “They work for the Cafferelli Brothers. The Cafferellis think they own the whole damn neighborhood.”

  I’d never heard of the Cafferelli Brothers before. Al Capone and Bugsy Malone, sure. But Cafferelli? “Why would they attack a bakery?”

  “Sloan’s isn’t exactly a real bakery.”

  “You mean it’s a front? For liquor or something?”

  He nodded. “Sloan tried to do business on his own, but when the Cafferellis found out, they wanted a cut. They’ve been at odds for months. Which is why I’m curious…” Blue lifted his handsome face up at me. A swipe of dark stubble lined his jaw. “Everyone around here knows to stay away from Sloan’s. Why didn’t you?”

  I kept my head down and stared at my boots. Keeping my eyes focused on one spot seemed to help with the dizziness and the shock. My throbbing toe didn’t matter much anymore compared to my throbbing head. “I’m not... from around here.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Annapolis.”

  “Maryland? Really? What are you doing in Chicago?”

  Chicago. Was that where I was? I knew the accents sounded a little off from what I was used to on the East Coast, but I wouldn’t have been able to peg it on my own. I’d never been to Chicago.

  “Just visiting,” I said. I pulled a few more pieces of glass from my hair. They were tinted pink with blood. I looked Blue in the eye. “Are they – those people I saw in the bakery – are they dead?”

  He glanced away, which was answer enough. I played the scene back over in my mind, and there was no other way to reconcile it. If it hadn’t been for Blue, I’d be dead along with them.

  “You saved my life.”

  He gave a half-hearted shrug and said nothing. I could tell he didn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. So I just sat there, pulling glass and brick from my hair, wondering how sick my subconscious must be to come up with such a horrifying vision. And what did it mean to have this hot guy come to my rescue? I bet Freud would have something to say about that one.

  After a long while, Blue asked, “Feeling any better?”

  The wet sand feeling seemed to have moved to my ankles and feet, making my legs heavy and somewhat still immobilized from shock, but I thought I might be able to stand. I nodded and he pushed himself to his feet. “Where are you staying? I’ll walk you.”

  I took his outstretched hands and stood up. My muscles shuddered and felt like oatmeal. “Shouldn’t you talk to the police before we leave? Give them your statement?” I asked.

  His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Are you nuts?”

  “I thought you of all people would want to. You were all Defender of Justice at the newspaper stand.” I wobbled, and he gripped my elbow to steady me.

  “That was different.”

  “Yeah, that was a newspaper and these are human lives.”

  “You really aren’t from around here, are you? I can’t go to the cops. They know me. They’ll rat me out.”

  “So you’re just going to walk away?”

  “Yep. You point the way.”

  I stood there, staring at him, trying to think of what to do next. I guess I didn’t necessarily have to talk to the police. If Dr Farrow was correct and this was just a hallucination, then I didn’t have to do anything. And if I was correct and my visions showed me things that really happened in the past, then how would my witness statement make a difference? The explosion had already happened. Those people were long dead.

  I didn’t know what to make of it all. I just wanted to forget about it and find a way out of the vision. “I think I can manage on my own from here,” I told Blue, “but thank you. For everything.” I paused so he knew I was sincere, then willed my oatmeal feet to move down the alley.

  Within s
econds, I heard his footfalls behind me. “Wait,” he said, catching up. “I’d really feel better if you let me walk you home.”

  What was he, a compulsive gentleman? “Really, I’ll be fine.”

  He hurried in front of me, his hands out, making me stop. “Look, Cafferellis’ thugs? They saw you. With me. That means you’re in trouble. And it won’t matter to them that you’re a girl.”

  Maybe not, but it wouldn’t matter at all once the vision was over. I stepped around him. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The Cafferellis won’t lay a finger on me.”

  I rounded the corner, Blue trailing my heels, but we stopped short the moment we saw the bakery scene in full. Glass covered the sidewalk in a lace veil of winking ice. Spots of blood mingled with the glass, and I remembered what Blue said. Aw, geez. You’re covered in blood.

  Was that my blood on the concrete?

  I reached up and my fingers skimmed over a knot forming at the back of my head. Even that slight touch was enough to make me wince. Then there came a sharp ache, spreading from the knot to my temples. The kind of headache that causes you to shut out the world and lie still and silent until the sun goes down.

  I tried not to think about it.

  Instead, I patted my hair gently, assessing the damage. There were more glass bits, and the hair around the knot was coated in thick, sticky blood. At least that meant the wound was clotting. I could live with clotting. Healing. Even if it did feel like an ice pick stuck in my skull.

  I remembered the blood I tasted in my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth. There it was again, that salty tang. I found the source – a slice inside my lower lip. I wouldn’t be able to leave that alone for a while.

  As beaten up as I felt, I was glad to be alive. Especially when I saw a pair of paramedics pushing a stretcher out of Sloan’s Bakery – a large body draped in a white sheet.

  Another crowd had gathered, all looking on but giving the scene a wide berth. Eyes were wide. Whispers swirled behind cupped hands. A handful of policemen stepped in and out of the bakery, some asking questions, some canvassing the scene, and one standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t wear a cap like the others. His hair was jet black and combed to the side, and he had a scar on his lip that made him look like he was mid-snarl.

  My eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. He must have felt my gaze because his eyes snapped to mine. He took one last puff of smoke, flicked his cigarette over his shoulder, then started toward us.

  Blue gripped my wrist. “We gotta move.”

  I didn’t resist this time. We hurried down the sidewalk, turning left down a side street after the newspaper stand. Newspaper Boy scowled at me as we passed. Another turn down a street on our right and Blue broke into a run.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of running while I was so sluggish and bruised, but to my surprise, running wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I kept pace with Blue, even though I could tell he was sprinting at full tilt. He still had hold of my wrist, but he didn’t need to pull me along. Perhaps it was adrenaline – fear that the snarl-lipped cop would catch up with us – but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like something different.

  It felt like running was something I did every day. And not the track and field type running, but real run-for-your-life running. I’d never run this fast or this hard in my life. Mostly because I could barely make it around the track at school without keeling over from an asthma attack. But in this body, my lungs were clear. My leg muscles were rock solid. They burned to go faster, to run harder, regardless of how battered I felt.

  I felt Blue tug at my wrist, guiding me off the sidewalk and down a dusty path behind a row of tiny brick houses. When we were halfway down, he slowed to a stop, and we both bent over, our chests stretched full. We gulped and gasped until the blood in our ears stopped pounding, and we could once again hear ourselves think.

  I stared down the path, my hands on my knees. “Do you think he followed us?”

  “No.” Blue spat on the ground. “He doesn’t have to. He knows where I live.”

  “So why did we run?”

  Blue continued on down the path, his boots scuffing at the dirt and gravel. I followed.

  “Because I needed to get away. I need to think.”

  “About what?”

  “About what all this means. About what he’s going to tell the Cafferellis.” Blue looked shaken. His calm exterior had given way to panting breath and darting eyes.

  “So, back there,” I said, pausing to gulp a breath, “when we almost got shot and blasted to bits, that didn’t unnerve you one bit. But now that that cop saw you, you’re white as a ghost?” I rested a hand on his forearm. He stopped walking and looked at me, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. They were hazy with worry. “Tell me what you’re up against here.”

  “What we’re up against.”

  I nodded, letting him know I was on his side. Then his eyes found mine, and they suddenly snapped into focus.

  “What did you mean when you said the Cafferellis wouldn’t lay a finger on you?”

  I dropped my hand from his arm. “What?”

  “Are you working for them? Are you in the Family?”

  “What? No. I’ve never heard of the Cafferellis before today.”

  “Then why did you say it?”

  How could I explain that I would’ve said whatever I could to get rid of him? That I thought this whole thing would be over, that he’d disappear, if he’d just let me walk out into the street?

  “I don’t know.” I took a step back, scrambling for something to say. At a complete loss, I tried the only thing I could think of. “I’m sorry. I don’t even remember saying it.” I touched my head lightly as I spoke, using my most convincing where-am-I? look.

  Blue lifted an eyebrow.

  “I can’t really remember much of anything,” I said. “Honest.”

  Thankfully, he bought it. His suspicion lifted, and he sighed. He pushed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. “Well, you did hit your head pretty hard back there. Bound to be a bit screwy for a while after something like that.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I gave a half-hearted smile.

  “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  We walked past brick house after brick house, each with their own tiny backyard and shade trees. Wet clothes hung heavy on clotheslines, taking longer to dry in the cool fall air. Leaves shuffled and scraped against each other, and one fell to the ground every now and then as we passed, too weak to hang on.

  Everything seemed gray – the sky, the buildings, the leaves, the grass – everything except Blue’s red nose and cheeks. I wondered why he didn’t wear a cap. His dark hair was trimmed so neatly around his ears, his eyes so chilled and blue. Wasn’t he cold?

  He veered off the road and into one of the backyards, and I followed after him. He stopped at a clothesline in the back and unpinned a damp rag.

  “Is this your house?” I asked.

  “Nah.” He reached out and dabbed at a scrape on my cheek. “It’s Mrs Dudek’s. But she won’t mind if I borrow this. I’ll let her know what happened when I see her at church.”

  Since I didn’t have a mirror, I lifted my chin and let him clean my wounds, trying not to wince. I watched cold, gray clouds slide across the sky as he wiped the blood from my skin. My eyebrows. My lips.

  I’d never had a stranger be this kind to me before. This caring. Standing this close and intimate. I felt awkward, but he seemed in his element helping me. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

  My gaze fell from the sky to his face, and his eyes met mine for a split second. Again, my stomach dipped. I recognized him. Knew him from somewhere. Especially those blue-green eyes. Had I seen his picture in a history book? Was his face archived somewhere in my subconscious, like Dr Farrow had explained?

  “I’m sorry I’m so jumpy and accusing,” he said with an apologetic half-smile. He dragged the cool cloth across my neck, then dabbed at a scrape alo
ng my jaw. “It’s my brother, Frank. He’s got me so suspicious. He’s been mixed up with the wrong guys since we were kids. For a while he was in good with the Cafferellis, then he started rubbing elbows with their rivals, the Fifth Street Gang. He’d lost a lot of money gambling, so he did a side job for them. The Cafferellis found out, and he’s been their target ever since. Of course, Fifth Street took him in with open arms. Claimed they’d protect him if he joined their gang. Anything to hack off the Cafferellis. Seemed to only get Frank in more trouble. Now he owes more money than ever.”

  He took my wrists and turned them palm up, then dabbed the blood from my hands where I’d scraped them on the sidewalk.

  “How much money does he owe?” I winced at the sting of the cloth.

  He shook his head in that life’s a bitch sort of way. “More than we can afford, that’s for sure. I’ve been working two jobs. So has Ma. Just to pay his debts. And what does Frank do? He hides away with the Fifth Street boys, drinking, gambling, losing more money he doesn’t have, leaving Ma and me stuck with the bill.”

  I frowned down at my clean, pink hands. “That’s awful.”

  He stepped behind me and pulled the ribbon from my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. “Yep. And now, thanks to Frank, you’re tangled up in this mess too. He doesn’t care who he leaves hurting in his wake. He never did.”

  But Blue did care. He cared enough to take the time to wipe the blood from a stranger’s face and hands. There weren’t too many people like him back in the real world. Maybe that was proof enough that he was a figment of my imagination.

  He parted my hair carefully around the knot at the back of my head and dabbed it with the cloth. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to make a sound. I bit my lip. I played with the cut inside my mouth.

  “It’s not as bad as I thought,” Blue said, stuffing the rag in his coat pocket. “You don’t need stitches.” He pulled a comb from his trouser pocket and combed the blood and glass and brick from my hair. He was overly gentle, like he’d never combed a girl’s hair before. Despite the pain from my tender scalp, I couldn’t help but smile to myself at the sweetness of it all.