ARC: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

by M. G. Buehrlen

  I don’t know what that means, but it sounds really far back in time. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. All coherent thought has left, and I feel dizzy. My knees lock, then give out. Porter catches me up in his arms, then lowers me to the black ground. He holds me steady until I can sit up on my own. The stubble on his chin snags my hair like Velcro when he pulls away. I swear he smells like pipe tobacco.

  Or is it the perception of pipe tobacco?

  “I’m sorry, Alex. I went too fast again. I meant to take it slow. Once I realized you didn’t remember anything about Limbo at all, anything about me, about your past, I knew I had to go slow. I got ahead of myself. I wanted to show you your level, to show you that your soulmarks were safe, but you don’t even remember why they need saving.”

  “It’s OK,” I say, not really listening. I’m too overwhelmed to make sense of anything he’s saying. And I’m too distracted by the grove of soulmarks. My soulmarks. Beauty and elegance softly swaying all around us. Alluring. Radiant. Each one representing a life.

  A whole life lived.

  And forgotten.

  Were they beautiful lives? Was I alluring and radiant? Or was I a freak in each one just like I am now?

  The soulmark next to Porter catches my eye. Which life did that one represent? Had I been rich? Poor? Had I lived in the rain forests of Brazil? In a medieval city in Morocco? On the streets of Brooklyn?

  I try to look away from that particular soulmark, but I can’t. The way it sways is hypnotic. It bends in the middle like it has hips. I become lost in its dance, its captivating pull.

  I reach out to touch it.

  “No, don’t!” Porter shouts.

  Like a child about to touch a hot stove, I try to yank my hand away, but it’s too late. The soulmark pulls my fingers in like a magnet. My hand fuses to the shaft of light. The soulmark swells and expands, then swallows me in brilliant white.

  CHAPTER 8

  BICEPS, PICKLED CUCUMBER SOUP, AND JOHN PHILIP SOUSA

  It was a long time before I opened my eyes, fighting against the heavy resistance of deep sleep. Gravity felt so much stronger after being without it for so long in Limbo. It pinned me to a stiff, spring-coil mattress, my ear pressed to a firm pillow. A scratchy woolen blanket was draped over the top of me. Even that felt like it weighed fifty pounds. I winced when I tried to lift my head – that blasted knot had returned, only it was bigger now. My body ached like it had been pummeled in a boxing ring.

  I knew right away I’d descended into one of my past lives, but which one, I didn’t know. I felt so far removed from Porter and Limbo, like it had been weeks since he showed me the forest of lights.

  It took a while for my eyes to focus on my surroundings, but soon everything became clear, even though I wasn’t wearing my glasses. A dark-wood dresser stood across from me against a yellow floral wall. Midday sunlight glinted off its brass pull handles. An oval mirror hung above it, and a lace runner spanned the top with a dozen picture frames arranged purposefully upon it. Black and white faces stared out at me from within the various frames.

  One face looked like Blue’s.

  I peeled the blanket off me, padded across a bare wood floor to the dresser, and picked up the frame. It was Blue. He was leaning against a brick wall, wearing a white undershirt, his bare arms folded across his chest. He was smiling and looking at the camera. I couldn’t help but notice how the black and white photograph didn’t do his blue eyes justice.

  There was a man leaning against the wall beside Blue, same build, same dark hair, similar smile. He had his head tossed back in mid-laugh. I guessed it was Blue’s older brother, Frank. As I scanned the rest of the photographs, catching Blue in various poses at different ages – as a boy riding a bike; opening presents on Christmas morning in pajamas; hugging a beautiful, smiling woman I could only guess was his mother – I realized something rather euphoric. My heart began to race.

  I didn’t know how I had gotten there, but I was in Blue’s house.

  I was back in Chicago.

  Is that why I was drawn so strongly to that particular soulmark in my garden? Because that was the one that would lead me back to Blue? Had it known I wanted to get back to him more than anything? Or had it been just a coincidence? Was Porter still standing beside that soulmark waiting for me? Would he be furious with me when I got back?

  I shoved all those thoughts aside. After all the stress and shock Porter had put me through, the least he could do was let me have a few hours to myself to process things. I needed time to digest everything he told me. I needed to slow down so I could grasp the concepts of time travel and reincarnation. It’s not like time would pass while I was gone anyway. And I needed to know what happened after I heard the gunshot. I had to know how I ended up at Blue’s house in my past life and if he was all right.

  I set the picture frame down and caught a glimpse of myself in the oval mirror. A stiff, cream-colored nightgown hung from my bony shoulders. My long dark hair was rolled into rag curlers all over my head, some white, some red, some blue, like the colors of the American flag.

  I made my way over to the bedroom door and eased it open. There was a small landing and a staircase leading down. I took the stairs gently, but they still managed to squeak and announce my presence. At the bottom, Blue peeked around the doorframe of a sunlit room. “You’re up,” he said, flashing me a grin.

  He was alive.

  I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms around his neck. He laughed in my ear, his breath a puff in my hair.

  “What was that for?” He leaned back to see my face. His smile was like sunshine. Infectious. The only sign of the fight in the alley was a shiny silver bruise – a swipe of charcoal below his left eye – and a cut above his right temple. His bottom lip was pale purple, only a little swollen.

  “The last I heard was the gunshot,” I said. “I thought you were dead. I thought it was all my fault. I’ve been so worried, you can’t even imagine. How long was I away?”

  “Away?” He cocked his head to the side. “You mean asleep? You blacked out after you tackled Teeth. You’ve been out like a light ever since. I bet you’re starving. Come in and have a seat. I’m making soup.”

  He motioned for me to follow him into the sunlit room. It was a small kitchen awash with soft yellow light reaching lazily through white lace curtains. A large soup pot sat on top of an ornate green and white gas stove that stood on spindly legs. It was just like the one Gran and Pops had at their old farm. A porcelain-topped table stood in the center, surrounded by four white chairs. Blue pulled one out for me, and I sat down, tugging the hem of my night gown out from under my foot. It was too long for me. I guessed it was Blue’s mother’s. She must be tall, like my mom.

  “Hey, I got you a present,” he said, reaching for something off the counter and tossing it onto the table.

  A newspaper. All shiny and new and ready to turn my fingertips black.

  I grinned. “Did you pay for it?”

  “Naturally,” he said with a bow of his head.

  I shook my head, smiling. As I watched him tend his soup at the stove, I got lost in the sight of him. I’d forgotten how handsome he was. He wore dark slacks, the kind men wore every day back then. His feet were bare, like mine. A soft, white undershirt and dark suspenders stretched across his muscular shoulders. I imagined this was the sort of thing Pops wore when he was a teenager. If so, I could see why Gran fell for him. There was something about a young man in that classic, old fashioned style that made a girl’s heart flutter. For one, the shirt sleeves were shorter, showing off a lot more bicep than modern T-shirts. I thought about how Jensen’s short sleeves came almost all the way down to his elbows.

  Not that Jensen had much to show off in the bicep category.

  But Blue…

  The fingers of a blush stroked the back of my neck. Before it spread to my ears and cheeks, and before Blue turned around to see it, I snapped my attention to my hands.

  Hands were so muc
h more interesting than biceps, right?

  That’s when I noticed my fingernails were filthy. Outlined in grime like I just came in from gardening with Gran. Only I never bloodied my knuckles planting hostas.

  I scrubbed my nails clean at the sink with a nail brush. The soap was harsh and made my skin squeak, but it did the trick.

  “So what happened last night?” I asked, joining him at the stove. “After I blacked out? I heard the gun go off. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  With a large knife, Blue scraped a mound of freshly chopped dill from a cutting board into the steaming pot. “After you tackled Teeth, I knocked the gun out of Loogie’s hand. It went off when it hit the ground. No one got hurt, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “What happened then? How did we get here?”

  “Mr Clemens – he owns the hardware store on the corner – he heard you shouting, so he knew something was going on. Came out with his shotgun.” Blue smiled at the memory and gave his soup a good stir. “Cafferellis’ guys hit the bricks, and Mr Clemens helped me carry you home. We’ll be safe here; this is Fifth Street territory.” He rapped his long wooden spoon on the side of the pot and set it down. “Ma patched you up the best she could and got you dressed and in bed. I told her not to bother curling your hair, but she did it anyway. Made it easier for her to look at that knot at the back of your head.” He reached up and flipped one of my striped cotton curlers with his fingers. “Looks cute, though. Very John Philip Sousa.”

  At first I thought he meant I looked like the heavily bearded composer on the cover of one of Pops’ old records, the guy who wrote all those patriotic marches the marching bands play during parades, but I shot him a playful glare when I got the reference. The red, white, and blue rag curlers. “Oh yes, I know, very Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  We laughed as he ladled soup into two bowls. “Hungry?”

  We sat down, and I leaned over my soup. The hearty smell filled my nose. My stomach growled.

  Blue’s soup was an old Polish recipe called Zupa Ogórkowa, which I tried to pronounce and failed. He said it meant pickled cucumber soup, which didn’t sound appetizing in the least. Who was the genius who thought putting pickles in soup was a good idea? I prepared myself for something truly disgusting, but it so wasn’t. It was steaming hot chicken broth seasoned with dill, with sour cream stirred in to make it creamy and silky smooth. The few slices of pickles floating beside tender potatoes and carrots made it a bit salty and sour, tart on my tongue. I supposed it was the same idea as Gran adding lemon juice to her chicken noodle soup. Either way, it was glorious, and I loved every bite of it. I devoured two bowls and half of a third before my stomach felt content.

  Blue pushed his bowl aside and folded his arms on the table. “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask you.” Suspicion sat on his right shoulder. Intrigue sat on his left.

  I raised my eyebrows as an invitation for him to ask away. I didn’t want to stop slurping down my soup just to say shoot.

  “When Ma gathered your clothes up… She took them to the laundry, by the way. She wanted to get the blood out and mend a few tears for you.” He shook his head and waved that trail of thought away. “Anyway, she found something in your coat. In the hidden pocket on the inside.”

  Hidden pocket? Intrigue sat up straighter. So did I. “What was it?”

  He hesitated, looking a bit surprised that I didn’t know what was in my own pocket.

  “You still don’t remember anything, do you?” he asked.

  I shook my head and touched the bruised knot for good measure. It wasn’t exactly a lie when I truly didn’t remember who I was in that past life, was it?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must be awful. Your aunt must be worried sick about you.”

  It took me a moment to remember the story I’d made up about visiting my aunt. I supposed it was awful, in a way. I probably did have an aunt back in 1927, one I’d never get to know because I couldn’t remember anything from my past fifty-six lives.

  “I guess you won’t know what all the money’s for then, huh?” Blue said.

  “What money?”

  His cute lips curved into a grin. “The fat roll of twenties you had stashed in your coat pocket.”

  DIRTY CABBAGE

  Back in Blue’s mom’s room, the one I spent the night in, he and I sat cross-legged on her bed and counted the money. There were five hundred dollars in all, the twenty-dollar notes laid out evenly on the blanket between our knees like floor tiles. There was a hunger in Blue’s eyes. He couldn’t look away.

  The old bills were larger than the ones I was used to, and instead of a portrait of Andrew Jackson, Grover Cleveland was on the front. A steam train and a steam ship faced each other on the back. I wondered what each bill would be worth today if I took them back home, but how would I travel with them? It seemed all I knew how to transport through time were injuries.

  “What could I buy with this much money?” I asked.

  Blue whistled and scratched the shadow of stubble on his cheek. “That’s half my year’s wages.”

  “Could I buy a Model T?”

  He nodded, the green ink from the bills reflected in his eyes. I stared down at the money. I so wanted to buy a Model T. But I thought of a better use for it.

  “How much does Frank owe for all his debts?”

  Blue tore his eyes from the cash. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head and climbed off the bed. “You’re not giving it to Frank.”

  “But it would solve everything. It would get the Cafferellis off your backs.”

  He paced the room, still shaking his head. “No way. I got a bad feeling about that money. It’s meant for something. No one carries around that kind of cabbage unless it’s dirty. I mean, you don’t even remember who you are. You could be some gangster’s squeeze for all we know. With my luck, the moment you hand it over, you’ll remember what it’s for and want it back. Besides, I won’t take money from a girl.”

  “Now hold on right there,” I said, standing up. I could always argue better on my feet. “I bet you take money from your mom.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s my mom.”

  “She’s still a girl.”

  Blue groaned up at the ceiling and clasped his hands behind his head.

  “And what about Sloan?” I said. “You won’t take money from a girl, but from a bootlegger, sure, why not?”

  He froze for a moment, then slowly turned around to face me. “How did you figure out I was working for Sloan?”

  “When Loogie asked why you were hanging around the bakery, you said you were making a delivery.” I frowned. Blue hadn’t been wearing a uniform. He didn’t have a delivery truck. “You weren’t, were you?”

  He looked down at his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “No.”

  The front door opened and closed, and a friendly voice called hello up the stairs. Blue and I looked at each other.

  Helena was home.

  A SEAMSTRESS’ TREASURE TROVE

  Blue’s mom was a gust of summer wind. A smile in heels and flesh-colored stockings. She made a fuss over you and hugged you like you were a toddler with a skinned knee. She was tall and fashionable, looking like the quintessential Twenties woman with a dark bob and cloche hat. Her cheerful presence in the apartment sent shadows scurrying in every direction. They hid under doors and behind curtains. It was as if the sun only shined on Helena Piasecki. It went with her everywhere, tucked in her pocketbook.

  She had already worked a full day at a shop down the street, taking in the neighborhood wash and repairing garments. She took my clothes in with her that morning, and since they wouldn’t be cleaned and mended for a few more days, she brought back a few things for me to wear – items women had dropped off at the shop but for some reason or another never came back to pick up.

  “Unclaimed garments,” she s
aid, laying them out on the bed. Her Polish accent was faint, like Blue’s. “A seamstress’ treasure trove.”

  The first item was a grass-green trench coat, soft to the touch with a tweed lining. Lighter than the heavy woolen thing I wore the day before, but the lining was thick enough to keep out cool breezes.

  “I’ll trust you not to scuffle in back alleys while wearing this coat, missy,” Helena said when I tried it on. She poked me in the ribs with a wink.

  No, this was not the sort of coat I would “scuffle” in. It was the sort of coat I’d wear downtown, to the theater or a soda shoppe.

  Just thinking about going to a soda shoppe made me giggle to myself.

  “Watch out, Sousa. She’s trying to turn you into a lady,” Blue said, leaning against the doorframe and watching my reflection in the oval mirror.

  “Pfft,” said Helena. “She doesn’t have to be a lady. She can be whatever she wants.” She tapped me gently on the cheek. “So long as it doesn’t get her killed.”

  The second thing she brought from the laundry was a pair of gleaming white gloves. She stroked them with her fingertips, admiring them. “These belonged to a French woman who didn’t speak a bit of English. She wore white from head to toe, from the tall white feather on her hat all the way down to her pointed white heels. She even kept a tiny white mouse in her breast pocket for company.”

  Blue and I exchanged a glance and laughed.

  The final item Helena brought for me was a dress, but she wouldn’t let me see it until after my bath.

  “Then Nicky will take you downtown for the evening,” she said. She sat on the edge of the claw foot bathtub, still in her stockings and heels, running the water. There was something lovely about the sound her heels made on the pale green tile floor. “I want you both to stay as far away from Cafferelli territory as possible. At least until your memory comes back, or all this business with the bakery blows over.”