A Tinfoil Sky

by Cyndi Sand-Eveland

  “No, it’s fine. And anyway – even if I fail the poetry part of this course, I think I’ve passed the rest. After all, this is the second time I’ve done English this year. Besides, there is something I want to show you.” Paul took the textbook from Mel and motioned for her to follow him.

  She noticed the title on his English book and the number eight. Paul must be in eighth grade, going into ninth – a year ahead of her. He stacked his books and put them on the floor beside the table.

  “So, what do you want to show me?” Mel asked.

  “Well, did you see the cops when you came in?” Paul asked as he started to walk.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, we found a homeless guy half dead on the steps when we got here this morning.”

  “So, you called the cops?”

  “Well, first my mom called the ambulance, but the cops came, too.”

  Mel wondered what it was that Paul was planning to show her as they entered a long, narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was an exit light, with glowing red letters, hanging over the door.

  “The fire department arrived first,” Paul said as he looked back at her. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure the guy we found on the steps lives here in the alley. I see him every day. He lines up at the soup kitchen and then walks back into the alley when he’s done.”

  Mel felt uneasy; Paul was definitely the person she’d seen in the window.

  “I’m just kind of curious. Aren’t you?”

  Mel didn’t answer.

  When they got to the end of the hall, Paul pushed on the door and held it for Mel to walk through. He then picked up a small stone from the ground, and lodged it in the hinge of the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Mel said as she looked down the alley.

  It was narrow and shadowed by the brick building that towered next to it. Mel knew from experience that this type of alley was not the kind you explored for fun.

  “Nah, it’s fine,” Paul said as he set off at a brisk pace. “Come on. It’s daylight. We’re fine.”

  Yeah, right, Mel thought as she followed him. What would you know about alleys and whether or not they’re safe? She was definitely going against her better judgment.

  “You see all this stuff?” Paul asked her.

  “Yeah, so?” Mel said nonchalantly.

  She wondered if Paul was planning on ransacking the makeshift lean- to that was built against the chain-link fence – even though it soon became clear that someone had already done that. All the contents of a shopping cart were strewn into the adjacent empty parking spot, including collections of cans in large plastic onion sacks. The whole scene gave Mel an uneasy feeling. A blackened aluminum pot, a makeshift fire pit, bits and pieces of garbage, and an old sleeping bag on top of three or four layers of flattened cardboard were in a disheveled heap next to the fence. The only thing left intact seemed to be the newspaper and some plastic florescent pink flagging woven into the small diamonds of the chain link. The dark stains on the concrete nearby were most likely from the shattered green bottle – most of its contents mixed with dirt in a dried puddle. Paper napkins, stained with what Mel imagined was blood, sat among various empty brown paper bags.

  Paul moved the bottles, papers, and clothes around with his foot. “I’ve watched him wander in and out of this alley tons of times. See that window?”

  Mel looked in the direction of the window.

  “It looks directly into the alleyway.” Paul pointed down the alley toward the street.

  It reminded Mel of that first time she and Cecily had lined up at the soup kitchen.

  “Man, I can’t believe people can live like this,” Paul said as he kicked around the cup and pot. He righted the beaten-up shopping cart and raised his foot to the handle.

  “Don’t do that!” Mel shouted at Paul.

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t trash that cart!

  “Whoa! Sorry! You don’t need to get all excited. I was just going to give it a little push.” Paul cast a surprised look at Mel.

  “These are someone’s things,” Mel said as she bent down. She was annoyed with his arrogance and she meant for him to know it.

  What had caught her eye was a small purple sack with the words “Crown Royal” embroidered into the fabric. It was poking out from the sleeping bag. Mel knew that it had to be important if it was being stowed in the worn sleeping bag. She moved in closer and picked it up. She loosened the drawstring. Inside was a collection of shells. Most were broken, as was the plastic face of the Westclox pocket watch. There was also a set of playing cards wrapped together with a bunch of rubber bands, and part of a photograph tucked in on top of the cards. Mel knew that what she was doing was, in some ways, snooping. But she also knew that if there was any chance of finding out who these things belonged to, she would need to look; a part of her wondered if maybe these things belonged to Gus.

  “What’s that?” Paul asked.

  “Just some shells, a watch, an old photograph and …”

  “What kind of shells?”

  “Seashells,” Mel said.

  “So, what are you going to do with all that stuff?” Paul asked in a conciliatory manner.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking that I should take it to the police station.” What she actually planned to do was take the small bag to Rose; she might know to whom it belonged.

  Mel looked down the alley. “You know, we should probably get out of here.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Those guys,” Mel said. She gestured with her head, toward the street. It was the way that one of the guys moved as he walked; it reminded her of Craig’s walk. Fear raced down her limbs, telling her to get out of here. It made no sense. Mel was sure Craig didn’t know about Gladys. Cecily always told people that it was just her and Mel.

  “Ah, good idea,” Paul said.

  When Mel and Paul reached the door into the library, they found it locked. Either someone had discovered it open, or the rock that Paul had set in the hinge had become dislodged. Paul pulled on the door again, hoping it would open. Mel looked back down the alley, then quickly headed into the street and around the corner to the front of the library.

  “Do you know those guys?” Paul asked, chasing after her.

  “No,” Mel answered, “I don’t, but I’ve gotta go. My grandmother is expecting me.”

  Mel left Paul standing on the library steps and ran as fast as she could. She sped down four blocks and then circled back to the alley behind the soup kitchen to be sure there was some distance between her and the guy who reminded her of Craig. Cecily would be back in fifteen days.

  Rose was surprised, but glad, to see Mel again so soon.

  “You look like you just bumped into death or something. What’s going on?” Rose asked.

  “No, I’m fine. I just found this by the library. I think it belongs to a guy that was beaten up last night. He’s in the hospital. I thought you might know him. I’m hoping that it wasn’t Gus.”

  Rose looked at the small purple bag, pulled the top open, and nodded. “Gus is here; you don’t need to worry about him. But I’ll check with him,” she said. “If it’s Carl’s, Gus will return it to him.”

  “Thanks, Rose. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Hey, what about that job?” Rose called out as Mel turned to leave.

  “No interview yet, but cross your fingers!”

  “Okay, but take some of these with you,” Rose said as she reached for a couple of homemade cookies and handed them to Mel.

  “Thanks, Rose.” Mel took a bite of one, and headed back out the door to the alley.

  As she walked to Gladys’s, Mel tried not to think about the guy that had walked like Craig. But the more she tried not to, the more she started to believe that it was Craig. She decided that from now on, she would catch her bus at the next stop, a block and a bit away from the library and the soup kitchen.

  “Where have you bee
n?” Gladys asked sternly from the kitchen when Mel opened the apartment door. It was unusual for Gladys to say anything when Mel arrived.

  “At the library,” Mel said, catching her breath.

  “So, where are your books?”

  “Ah – I didn’t check anything out. I still have something I’m reading.”

  “I don’t see any reason for you to be going to the library if you don’t need any books. You better not be getting into trouble. Your supper is cold and you’ll have to eat it that way; I waited forty-five minutes for you to get here.”

  Mel was shocked. Gladys never waited for her.

  “What? You’re standing there like some stone statue. Sit down.”

  Gladys also never planned dinner. Usually she left a small plate of food on the coffee table if Mel wasn’t home when Gladys made dinner. It wasn’t as if meals arrived at any particular time. From what Mel could tell, food arrived when Gladys was hungry, or felt like cooking. There didn’t seem to be any rule about having to eat at the table, or against eating in front of the TV – or while sitting on the couch, for that matter.

  On the few occasions she had taken her plate from the coffee table and walked into the kitchen where Gladys was, Gladys’s eyes had remained glued to the TV. But tonight Mel sat at the little red arborite table and Gladys sat across from her. The TV was off, and the key sat in the center of the table between them. Mel noticed Gladys shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

  Finally, when Mel had almost finished eating, Gladys spoke up. “So, I heard some bum was found bleeding all over the front steps of the library this morning.”

  Mel looked up from her plate.

  “I guess for once I’m not wondering if it’s you or Cecily.”

  “Cecily and I were never bums,” Mel said as she picked up her plate and went to the sink, purposely turning away from Gladys.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Gladys answered back. “I just meant …” Gladys stopped.

  Mel turned on the water in the sink, washed her plate, and stacked the dish, leaving what Gladys had to say unspoken.

  After Mel dried her hands, she returned to the living room and curled up under her blanket. She looked around at the walls, the small woven carpet under the coffee table, and the locks on the doors. Then she opened her book and began to read.

  22

  The Phone Call

  Today was different; Gladys was going shopping. Instead of toast for breakfast, there was a freezer-burnt store-bought blueberry muffin, a small knife, and a dab of margarine.

  “Here,” Gladys said when Mel sat down at the table.

  Mel looked at the muffin. It made her think about Cecily and their last visit to the bakery.

  “Well, you’ll need to get eating if you’re going to finish that before I’m on my way,” Gladys said, interrupting Mel’s thoughts. Gladys glanced at the key still sitting on the table.

  Mel took a bite of the muffin.

  Gladys drew in a stiff breath and then began to busy herself: writing her list, gathering up cloth sacs for her groceries, and cutting the last of the coupons from the flyer that had come in the mail the day before.

  When Mel finished her muffin, she picked up her pack, books, and flip-flops, and walked out the door. Gladys had no sooner locked the door behind them than the phone started ringing – and the phone never rang. Mel knew it was the library calling about an interview. Gladys appeared not to notice.

  “It’s the phone!” Mel blurted out. Gladys stopped and looked at Mel. “The phone – it’s ringing! And I know it’s the library calling me about an interview!”

  “I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my bus,” Gladys said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Please,” Mel pleaded.

  Gladys gave a sigh and unlocked the door. Mel ran for the phone.

  “Hello, yes, this is Melody.” Mel smiled at Gladys and mouthed the words It’s the library.

  Gladys’s face remained stern as she lifted her key and made a locking motion. Mel nodded. Gladys turned as though leaving, unaware that Mel could see that Gladys had only taken one step before stopping momentarily and then continuing through the hall and down the stairs.

  An interview – tomorrow – ten-thirty. Mel placed the words in her memory. She hung up the phone and bounced toward the open door. The top lock could be locked from the inside, by setting it and pulling the door shut. Mel smiled; she could leave the key on the table.

  As Mel ran down the stairs, she was barely able to contain the excitement bubbling out of her. She practically leaped across the street to the store to tell Mr. Frohberger the good news.

  “Well, I’d say you’re having a mighty fine day,” Mr. Frohberger said as Mel bounded in.

  “I am. I’ve got an interview at the library tomorrow!”

  She hadn’t mentioned the possibility of a job to Mr. Frohberger, but now it seemed so close it was almost real, and she wanted to tell someone.

  “It’s just an interview, but maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get the job.”

  “Oh, I’d say that if they hire you that they’re the lucky ones. So is this your first job interview?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Well, you’ll have to get ready for it.” Mr. Frohberger was very businesslike. “Be prepared to answer some tough questions.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, for sure. That’s a good job there, working at the library.”

  “Like, what kind of questions?” Mel was feeling a bit nervous.

  “Oh, you know, questions about your experience. What you’re good at. Things like that.”

  “Okay,” Mel said, nodding her head. “Well, I don’t have any experience. I’ve never had a job. But I can sing, and I do like to read.”

  “Sounds great. So, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Well, if you’d like, you could help me clean, stock, and organize the shelves. That’ll give you a little work experience.”

  “Sure, that sounds like fun!”

  Mr. Frohberger used a moving dolly to bring out boxes of canned goods from the back, and Mel took a damp cloth and dusted all the shelves. She then restocked them, making sure to turn each product’s label toward the aisle. Mr. Frohberger called it “facing the shelves.” Mel thought the freshened “faces” looked rather pretty.

  Mel had just finished positioning the last of the cans of soup when Mr. Frohberger came down from his upstairs suite with cucumber sandwiches and suggested to Mel that she get them each a root beer out of the cooler. They were sitting down on the front steps and eating their sandwiches when Gladys came around the corner.

  Mel almost choked on her root beer. “I’ve got an interview,” she blurted out. “Tomorrow … ten-thirty.”

  “Hello, Ed,” Gladys said, ignoring Mel.

  Mr. Frohberger picked up on Gladys’s apparent disapproval. “Good afternoon, Gladys. Your granddaughter here has been a big help in the store today.”

  “That’s good; I would hope she has not been a nuisance. Melody, I’ll need you to help me bring these bags up the stairs. Good day, Ed.”

  Mel took the last bite of her sandwich, thanked Mr. Frohberger, and set off down the street, carrying the three bags that Gladys had left on the sidewalk. One, Mel noticed, was lighter than the other two. Inside was a clear plastic bag wrapped around a white shirt on a hanger.

  Mel delivered the bags to the kitchen and skipped into the living room to the place on the shelf where she kept her things. There weren’t many clothes to choose from, but what she did have was clean. She picked out her orange T-shirt and best jeans. Her only shoes were well worn, stained, and tight on her feet. If only she could buy a new pair, but there was no chance of that. She took the beaten-up runners into the bathtub with her, and filled the grand old tub to the brim. With the nailbrush and some hand soap, she did what she could to get them – and herself – clean.

  Gladys was walking into the living room when Mel came out of
the bathroom. “You can have that blouse,” Gladys said, pointing to the white shirt in the clear plastic dry-cleaning bag on the couch. “It was left at the shop for over a year, and we have a policy about leaving things at the dry-cleaners. I’m sure whoever it belonged to has long since outgrown it.”

  Mel picked up the hanger and lifted it up so she could see the shirt. She read the tag clipped to the top of the plastic: Fan’s Dry-Cleaning. The white blouse, with its – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen – tiny white buttons was beautiful. It looked brand new. Mel loved it. “It’s gorgeous,” Mel said as she walked into the kitchen.

  Gladys remained silent, her gaze on the TV. Then out of the corner of her eyes, Mel saw it. A shiny new brass key set next to the one she’d given back to Gladys.

  “I love the shirt, Gladys,” Mel said. “Thank you.”

  “Well, don’t be taking it out of the plastic until you need to.”

  23

  The Interview

  The office for the children’s librarian was at the back of the library, next to the picture book collection and just opposite and around a corner to what Mel now knew to be the back exit.

  Although the louvered blinds on the window to the office were turned down slightly, Mel could see a woman speaking to someone about Mel’s age, maybe a little older. Above the woman’s desk was a framed poster of the book The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. Mel took this as a good omen; it was one of her all-time favorite books. She sat down at a small round table with her back to the window. She looked down at her faded jeans and shoes. If the canvas had dried, the shoes might have been white, or at least whiter, but soaking wet they were gray and dirty-looking. Mel had put toilet paper in her shoes, to stop the ridiculous suctioning noise they belched out with each step she took. A corner of the tissue was sticking out of one shoe, and she quickly tucked it back in.

  As the door to the office opened, Mel heard the woman thank the girl for coming in. Mel’s palms began to sweat and the patch of dry skin on the back of her knee began to itch.