Finally Cecily stopped and lit a cigarette.
“Your turn,” she said to Mel as she slumped down on the sidewalk.
Mel coiled her purple scarf into a small basket, stood tall, closed her eyes, and began to sing. Sometimes she sang country, and sometimes she sang the blues. But today, maybe because she and Cecily were in need of a prayer, she sang gospel.
People stopped, some of them shadowing the sun that shone on her face. Quarter after dime after nickel after quarter fell onto her scarf basket. Two hours passed, her throat was raw, but she’d made twenty-six dollars.
“Do you think we’ve got enough to get the car fixed?” Mel asked.
“Maybe.”
Mel noticed an odd, but familiar look on Cecily’s face, as though Cecily was hiding something.
“I can keep singing,” Mel offered.
“No, we’re good.”
“We are still planning to get the car fixed, right?” Mel asked.
Cecily didn’t answer right away, and so Mel inquired further. “Or are you thinking of paying Gladys back for the stuff in the jewelry box?”
“Are you kidding?” Cecily said as she got up. “Look, I’m bagged. Let’s grab some chips, go back to the Pinto, and call it a night.”
—
The next day, as they approached the soup kitchen, Mel looked up at the library window again. The teenage boy that had been peering down at the line yesterday wasn’t there today. Mel was relieved.
She and Cecily were about to go inside to eat when Cecily told Mel to go in on her own and to save her a place, that she’d be right back. Mel figured Cecily was going for another smoke, but she’d also noticed that Cecily had been acting just a little bit strange all morning. Mel went in and waited, hungrily. After a few minutes, she went and picked up her lunch and sat down at the table by herself. She set her thin purple scarf on the bench beside her, saving a spot for Cecily. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen, then twenty. No Cecily.
Where are you? The thought grew louder in Mel’s head with each passing minute. Mel pushed her mashed potatoes back and forth across her plate. Every time the door opened, she looked over; every time she heard footsteps, she turned in their direction. No Cecily. Before long, it was just Mel, a small black cat sleeping on the window ledge, and a guy asleep on one of the two brown couches.
When the same woman who’d touched her forehead the day before came out of the kitchen carrying two pieces of cake, Mel wondered if she was going to be asked to leave. Instead, the woman pulled a chair up to the end of the table and sat down.
“And so, what would be the name God gave you?” the cook asked.
Mel almost laughed. “My name’s Melody, but I go by Mel.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mel.”
“My name’s Rosemary. My friends call me Rose.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mel replied.
“I sure hope you like the corner cuts on cake,” Rose said as she slid the piece of chocolate cake in front of Mel. It had icing on the top and two sides.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m not hungry,” Mel said. Something brushed up against her leg and she looked down to the floor.
“Are you waiting for your friend?” Rose asked.
“She’s not my friend; she’s my mom,” Mel replied and looked again in the direction of the door. She then reached down to pet what she could now see was the black kitten. It was odd to use the word mom; Cecily preferred Mel to call her by her name.
“Well, you’re welcome to enjoy this piece of cake while you wait,” Rose said, and she handed Mel a spoon.
Cecily’s blatant absence made Mel nervous, but the cake did look good.
“Would you like some ice cream with that?” Rose asked.
“Sure,” Mel answered, suddenly happy for the company. The kitten continued to rub its face and body against Mel’s leg.
“Gus!” Rose called out in the direction of the kitchen. “This here young woman would like her pie à la mode!”
Mel loved the way Rose’s deep bass voice dragged out the O sound in mode. Minutes later, the fellow named Gus – who had, in fact, served her lunch – appeared from behind the metal door, carrying a plastic tub of ice cream and a scoop.
“One scoop or two?” he asked, showing her his toothless grin.
“One’s good, thanks,” Mel said.
Mel could feel Rose silently studying her. She hoped Cecily would show up soon.
“My mom will be here right away,” she said, answering the question she was sure Rose was thinking.
“That’s fine,” Rose said. “We’re here for awhile longer anyway.”
The little black kitten found its way onto Mel’s lap, popped its head up, and peered over the table. It made Mel laugh.
“We call him Fearless,” Rose said. “Kitchen cat by day, street cat by night. He just showed up here one day, about a week ago, looking for a home.”
Mel scooped a bit of the ice cream onto her finger and let Fearless lick it off. She had always wanted a cat, but it had never worked out – even though Cecily had often promised that she could have one.
When Cecily still hadn’t arrived fifteen minutes later, Mel swept the few crumbs that had fallen to the table into her hand, brushed them off onto her plate, and then stood up to leave.
“Thanks for the soup and sandwich. And the cake.” Mel gave a nervous laugh and added, “And the ice cream. It was all really good.”
“Wouldn’t feed anybody anything that I wouldn’t feed my own family,” Rose said, pushing her hands down onto the tabletop and rising up from her chair.
Mel smiled at Rose, gave Fearless another pet, and then walked out through the door.
She stood for a few moments, looking in one direction and then the next. A few of the people who’d also eaten at the soup kitchen were lingering in small groups outside.
“You looking for someone?” a young guy asked.
“No,” Mel answered and immediately turned and began to walk in the direction of the river and the Pinto.
She jumped when Cecily called out her name as she passed the side of the soup kitchen building.
“Man, I thought you’d never come out of there,” Cecily said.
“Where were you?” Mel asked.
“Right here,” Cecily said.
Her arms hung at her sides, and smoke circled up from one hand. Her head rolled as though it was loose on her shoulders. “Been waiting right here.”
It was the way Cecily said the word right that gave her away, and, as Mel stepped closer, the smell of booze on Cecily’s breath told her the rest. Cecily picked up her purse from the asphalt, threw her arm around Mel’s shoulders, the way she often did when she drank, and they staggered back to the Pinto. It wasn’t the time to talk about the money.
From the back of the car, Mel watched as Cecily sat outside, propped up against the concrete pillar, drowning her anger in the contents of a bottle of cheap red wine. With each swig, Cecily talked louder, engaged in a one-sided argument. Mel listened as Cecily’s words gained force – and then smash! The glass bottle hit the concrete, pieces flying in every direction. Mel got out of the car and walked over to Cecily, who was now half-lying against the concrete pillar, and helped her to the car. Cecily started to mumble about Tux. How Tux would never have turned them away. How Gladys had never forgiven her for any mistake she’d ever made.
One day fell into another. And another. After the first week, Mel quit worrying about the car being towed. It seemed that the date on the sticker, the one that Cecily had long since removed, had been more of a scare tactic than a real threat.
Mel also quit going into town with her mother. Cecily had become reckless, especially with the shoplifting, and she had been caught three or four times in different stores. Mel remembered the shame of being told they could never come into a store again – or worse. Cecily didn’t object when Mel told her that she’d rather go to the library or stay at the Pinto than go into town with her.
&nb
sp; So they came up with a plan. The key to the Pinto was to be left on the front tire by the driver’s side, under the frame. This way, whoever came back first had a safe place to wait. In particular, it was for Mel. Cecily was rarely home until late.
Most mornings Mel went to the library, and most days the teenage boy she’d seen peering from the library window could be found reclining on a couch or chair somewhere. Mel came up with a little game of predicting what section she might see him in. He was almost always asleep, and so she gave him the nickname Sleeping Beauty. Once she’d found him, she made a point of not walking directly past him.
Instead, Mel walked up and down the long aisles as though she was selecting books to take home. It reminded her of her favorite years, when things had been pretty good. Cecily hadn’t been drinking and had a job waiting tables in a café – and she always managed to bring something home from the café for Mel’s lunch. On Friday nights, Cecily would take Mel to the library and they’d check out a movie. And even though there had never been quite enough money, the library had been a place where Mel felt rich. That had been one of the few times Mel remembered when she had begun and finished a school year in the same class.
Cecily had always chosen books filled with pictures of interesting and beautiful places. Mel loved to curl up in a chair with her and they’d dream about visiting them all. Cecily told her they just needed a lucky break. “It’ll happen, Mel,” she often said. “One day we’ll be singing all over the world; we’ll be famous.”
Mel also went to the Mission Soup Kitchen every day for lunch. It was her only real meal of the day. But now she approached the soup kitchen from the opposite direction and waited until everyone else went in. She’d quickly glance up at the library window to make sure Sleeping Beauty wasn’t watching, and then slip into the mission.
Sometimes Rose peeked her head into the dining room, found Mel in the crowd, nodded, and went back into the kitchen. Always, Fearless left his spot on the window ledge and pranced over to Mel and curled up on her lap. If Mel was on her own, Rose packed up a to-go container for Cecily. Some days, Rose sat down at the table with her. She didn’t ask questions. Mel liked that. Most days, Mel ate and left before everyone else had returned to the street.
If Cecily wasn’t outside the soup kitchen when Mel came out, which happened more often than not, Mel walked back to the Pinto, but not before stopping to sing on the corner of Olive and Fifth. There she could be assured of making at least five dollars, sometimes fifteen, in an hour. And she’d noticed that some people were becoming regulars – they didn’t just give her money; often they would compliment her singing or ask how her day was going. But there was one creepy guy; he would go by three or four times. The first time, Mel took his money. But when he showed up again minutes later, she’d figured him out, and she made a point of always looking in another direction.
She didn’t tell Cecily about the singing, or the money. Instead, she hid the cash under the front passenger seat floor mat. When the time was right, and there was enough money, Mel would tell her. They’d get the car fixed and then go where there was work – anywhere.
Today had started out like most days. But after Mel stepped out from the soup kitchen door, something felt different. The sky had turned from light blue to a dark gray. The air was humid, and the first spits of rain were splattering on the sidewalk. The whole scene hinted of a torrential downpour. Cecily was probably back at the car.
As Mel ran, the rain began to pound down. With each crack of lightening, she ran faster, counting the seconds between the rumbling thunder and the light that followed. Her wet jeans tightened and stuck to her legs; the small patches of dry skin behind her knees began to sting. Her feet slipped in her flip-flops, causing her to trip and lose her grip on the large to-go container of soup. It sailed through the air and exploded on the sidewalk in front of her.
But for the moment, that didn’t matter; getting back to the Pinto and changing out of her wet clothes was the thing Mel wanted most. That’s when she realized she’d forgotten to put the key back under the frame of the Pinto. She groaned when she thought of Cecily waiting in the rain and then ran faster.
8
Homeless
Mel wasn’t sure at first if the pelting rain was blurring her view of the Pinto, or if the car had actually been moved. She slowed her pace to a jog, scanning the area where the Pinto had been parked. The clothes she’d carefully hung on the line that morning were lying limp and wet in the grass. Her favorite green sweater appeared to be immersed in a puddle.
Mel could see that Cecily wasn’t there, but she called her name into the darkness of rain and thunder anyway. She ran back down the street, hoping to find her. For as far as Mel could see, the street going into town was empty. She turned and ran back to the overpass. Every few minutes, she called out Cecily’s name, but no one answered.
As Mel’s disappointment turned to anger, she stopped calling for Cecily and began to yell. “I! Hate! You! Cecily Tulley! You hear me? I hate you!” And she kept on yelling until the only thing left in her was sadness.
Exhausted, Mel collected the clothes she’d hung to dry earlier in the day. She couldn’t believe her blanket had been spared; it had been tucked next to the side of a pillar just enough to have remained mostly dry. Mel needed to get out of the rain. Sound moved in all directions under the overpass – even the sound of her flip-flops touching down on the asphalt echoed in the vacant space. She didn’t remember it sounding this way when she’d explored The Pillars, as she called them, that first day. It had felt safe then. She tried to convince herself that this was the same place, and that the shivers running up and down her spine were caused by nothing more than the darkness and the rain.
Mel found a small cave-like place up behind one of the shorter pillars that supported the road above, and it gave her a vantage point to watch the street. It was hard to climb into the space with her wet jeans. She finally managed by running at the concrete wall, jumping, and pulling herself up with her fingertips until she could lift one leg onto the ledge and hoist herself up. She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders; but even so, she was unable to get warm – much less contain the salty tears pouring from her eyes. She thought about Fearless, and his window ledge, and she hoped that he’d either stayed in the soup kitchen or found a place to stay dry. The rain continued to pelt against the asphalt for what seemed like an eternity, at times beating like a million drums in the dark. Mel prayed for the rain to stop, and, to her surprise, moments later it did. But what remained was silence, and stillness, and although Mel tried to stay calm, her imagination filled the quiet with fear.
Why wasn’t Cecily here? The question sat in front of her, demanding an answer. Mel pushed it away. It pushed back.
Mel curled up into a tighter ball, her arms wrapped around her knees, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She was cold to the bone and too scared to move. Cecily would show up. She wouldn’t just take off.
Every now and again, Mel called Cecily’s name and listened as a hollow echo reverberated through the concrete pillars. It was an eerie sound, and the place felt haunted, especially when the smell of menthol drifted from somewhere. Mel hoped it was a sign. Cecily would be back soon.
She probably came, saw the car gone, and went looking for me, Mel thought. But that did little to console her fear. What she knew for sure was that Cecily hadn’t taken the car – because Mel had the key. The only possibility was that it was towed, or – a shiver shot straight up Mel’s spine – maybe Craig had found their campsite. Maybe he’d come looking for his car; he was the only other person who had a key. The more she thought about it, the more she feared Craig must have found the Pinto.
Mel quietly began to sing, hoping it would dissipate the fear, but she stopped when she realized that there might be others also taking shelter under the overpass. She began making lists in her head. As each list came to an end, she began another. She listed every book she could remember reading and every poem she’d memorize
d. She began spelling words, as many as she could that began with a, then b, then c, then d. She continued the list-making all night long, never stopping for fear she’d fall asleep and not hear Cecily’s call when she came looking for her.
9
Waiting for Cecily
As the first bit of sun reached over the horizon, Mel stretched her aching arms and legs. Enough waiting. She was determined to find Cecily. She found a pen and an empty menthol cigarette package near the place the Pinto had been parked. She took the thin foil papers out that normally held the cigarettes in place, folded them, and tucked them into her pocket. The clear plastic sleeve on the pen was broken, but the little ink tube was intact. Mel carefully ripped apart the glued edges of the cigarette package until she had a flat piece of cardboard; the inside was mostly dry. She wrote Cecily a note. There had been a few other times that Mel had spent the night alone, when Cecily hadn’t come home, but Cecily had always shown up the next day, and Mel was counting on that to be the case again.
Cecily,
I’ll be right back. Please don’t leave!
Love, Mel
PS. Where were YOU?
Mel gathered a collection of stones and grouped them in a circle. In the center, she placed the note; she added a small stone to hold it in place. She folded one of Cecily’s shirts into the shape of an arrow, laid it on the ground so that it pointed at the circle, and headed toward town.
As Mel walked past the bakery, her stomach began to churn and it reminded her that it was Saturday and the soup kitchen was closed. She thought about all her money hidden under the floor mat. It was gone, too.
She continued walking up one street and down another all morning. At each alleyway, she called out Cecily’s name, and on more than one occasion, she was sure she saw her. But each time, in the end, it was someone else.
On the corner of Olive and Fifth, the morning traffic was slow but steady. Mel went to her spot, stood tall, laid out her purple scarf in a circle, and she began to sing. The singing served two purposes. First, Mel could make a few dollars to get some breakfast. And second, there was also the chance Cecily was nearby and would hear her voice.
A Tinfoil Sky Page 3