by Vicky Savage
Frowning, I look down at my clothes. Okay, maybe I did overdo it a bit today. Then an idea hits me. I begin unbuttoning my embroidered jacket. “Hey Rals, can I borrow your vest and hat again?”
He appears scandalized. “Frankly Jaden, you ask a bit too much of me sometimes.” He sounds cross, but slips out of his vest anyway. “This is not a fit way for me to present myself to Agent Chelmsford. I feel positively bare without a hat.”
“Look over there, Rals,” I say pointing. “There’s a men’s shop three doors down. Get what you need, and put it on the palace account.”
His expression remains sour at first, but then he seems to warm to the idea. “Oh, I suppose that will be acceptable. Very well, then. You two had better run along. I’ll meet you back here in two and one half hours, Jaden. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.” Patrick takes my jacket, for safekeeping, and I button up Ralston’s vest over my blouse.
“Come on,” Asher says. “We’ll leave from the alleyway.” He leads me to a narrow lane next to Bartlett’s shop. Twisting up my hair, I tug Ralston’s hat over the top. Asher takes my hand and Zzzt. We’re gone.
TWENTY
We land in another alley, this one dark and damp. “My house is a few blocks away,” Asher says. “I don’t like to shift in too close in case someone sees me. There’s no need to draw any unwarranted attention to my family.”
“I get it,” I say. “Are we in any danger?”
“Well, this neighborhood can get a little rough.” He steps close to me. “In fact someone may decide to kill you just for that lace.” Unbuttoning my Edwardian collar, he tucks it under so my blouse has a v-neck. The gesture is oddly tender; his fingers warm against my skin.
“Thanks,” I say smiling.
“Stay close,” he says, taking my hand again.
We venture out into the street. The scene isn’t what I expected at all. Instead of a bombed-out, scorched cityscape, we’re in the midst of a busy little metropolis. It looks nothing like New York City—no skyscrapers or traffic jams. Graffiti-covered buildings, no more than four or five stories high, push up against each other on a wide, littered street teeming with activity. Merchants loudly hawk their wares from storefronts covered by filthy awnings, or from open-air wooden carts, resplendent with flies. Fruits, vegetables, raw meat, live chickens, racks of cheap clothing, tacky souvenirs, fast food, and bakery goods, are offered for sale within a few feet of each other.
The signs are in English or Russian with a sprinkling of Mandarin Chinese thrown in. The city stinks like something dead from unnatural causes, and I clamp a hand over my nose to block out the stench.
The sky is clotted with angry gray clouds, as we pick our way around inky puddles, scattered like booby-traps along the rutted road. A man in a shiny black suit with a greasy mustache lurks in a darkened doorway, whispering to passersby. He beckons to Asher and me in Russian. I can only guess that the guy’s selling either sex or drugs.
“Don’t make eye contact,” Asher says.
An Asian man in a coolie hat, pulling a cart on the back of his bicycle, stops to inquire if we want to buy some fish. We just shake our heads. This place is a mishmash of cultures. It’s like Manhattan meets Moscow meets Shanghai.
“Wow. Strange place to grow up,” I say. “Why did your parents move here?”
“Back in the ’80s when they were first married, the government was practically giving away homes to anyone who agreed to relocate to the city and work in the government factories. It was a way to lure people back to the once contaminated area. My folks were poor, and it seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“I expected the city to look ruined, you know, decimated from the war.”
“It was completely leveled in the war. But that was fifty years ago. It was rebuilt from the ground up, and now it’s just decaying from within.”
Asher takes us down a side street to a residential area of ramshackle little houses. He bounds up the crumbling front steps of a small bungalow, signaling me to follow. Quietly he taps on the door. “Ma,” he says, his mouth close to the opening. “Ma, it’s Asher.”
The door creaks open, and a middle-aged woman sweeps Asher into a strong embrace. She wears a faded housedress and saggy brown cardigan. Her hair has the appearance of dusty cobwebs, and her face is Grapes of Wrath gaunt, but her eyes are the same cool, clear shade of celadon green as Asher’s.
“Son. Come in. I wasn’t expecting you,” she says, clutching the front of her sweater with one hand, and smoothing her untidy hair with the other. She catches sight of me. “Oh, hello. Both of you come in.”
The living room is modestly furnished with a threadbare couch and chair that relinquished their color years ago. A complicated-looking sewing machine and stacked bolts of cotton and felt fabric occupy a metal table pushed up against one wall.
“I was just working,” she says, scooping up scraps of rickrack and cloth from the floor.
“Ma, this is my friend, Beckett,” he says.
“Call me Jaden." I smile and extend my hand.
She shakes it. “Nice to meet you Miss Jaden. Forgive the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“Sorry for dropping in on you like this, Mrs. …” I turn to Asher suddenly realizing I don’t even know his last name. Maybe Asher is his last name.
He smiles. “Steele,” he says.
“No, no. No trouble at all,” Mrs. Steele says. “Please sit down.”
Asher pulls off his jacket, and tosses it on the couch. “Where’s Amber?”
“Gone to get some food. We worked practically all night. Look what we’ve made.” She holds up several colorful ruffled aprons with the same little Russian girl embroidered on the front of each.
“That’s great,” Asher says. “I like the design. How are they selling?”
“So far they’ve been very popular. I’ve gotten Mr. Willard to carry them in his store. He put one up in the window. Amber and I sell them from our cart in the afternoons. The tourists like them so far.”
The front door swings open, and in steps a wisp of a girl with a paper bag in each arm. “Asher,” she says brightly when she spots us on the sofa.
He springs up to hug her. “Amber, this is my friend Jaden.”
She set’s the bags on the sewing table and pulls off her cap. A cascade of dark, shiny curls tumbles across her shoulders. I stand and shake her hand. She’s five-foot-four maybe, with friendly brown eyes and a Julia Roberts smile. She wears tight faded jeans, and I wistfully remember the pair I just lost.
“Well, big brother, it’s nice to see you finally found a woman who will tolerate you,” she says.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Asher replies. “We’re just associates. In fact, I don’t really like her very much,” he adds, straight faced.
Amber’s laugh is full and lovely. “Well, she’s the first person you’ve ever brought home to meet the family, so sorry if I don’t believe you.” She begins removing items from the paper bags and setting them on the metal table. “You’re lucky I just went shopping. We were nearly out of everything.”
Mrs. Steele helps Amber unload the groceries. “Good. You got borscht, and pumpernickel,” she says removing a thick round loaf of brown bread. “This will be nice for lunch. Amber, you get the bowls and I’ll slice the bread.” They carry the food to the back, where I assume the kitchen is located.
“Nice way to introduce me to your sister, Ash. Thanks a lot,” I say.
“I didn’t want her to get the wrong impression. Besides you are kind of a pain at times.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“That’s load of guano.”
“See what I mean.” He flashes his bewitching little smile, and I swat him on the arm, just as Amber walks into the room carrying a tray with four bowls.
“What’s he done now?” She asks, smiling widely and placing the tray on the coffee table in front of us.
“Nothing,” I say sheepishly.
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Amber draws a chair near the table, and passes a bowl to me and one to Asher. The bowls are filled with a deep purple-red soup that gives off an aroma of potting soil. Asher’s mom arrives with a basket of sliced bread and a dish of butter. She sets them on the table and drags over the chair from the sewing table. “Asher, would you like to say grace?”
“Oh Ma, it’s just lunch. Can’t we skip grace?”
She shoots him an exasperated look, makes the sign of the cross, and mumbles something under her breath. “Please have some bread, Miss Jaden,” she says to me.
I thank her and select a slice. Not knowing where to put it, I balance it on my knee and take a spoonful of soup. Ye Gods, this stuff is foul. Holding my breath, I swallow, then quickly gobble a bit of bread to mask the taste.
“I’ve never eaten borscht before. What’s in it?” I ask.
Amber and her mother exchange astonished looks. “Never had borscht?” Asher’s mother says, like I just confessed to being an axe murderer.
“She’s not from around here, Ma. She’s from the western provinces,” Asher says.
“Uh huh.” She sounds doubtful. Squinting, she scrutinizes my clothes. “Well, it’s mostly beets, with a little beef and some potatoes. There’s supposed to be cream also, but Mr. Vasilevich scrimps on the ingredients. I swear he uses milk.”
“Oh. It’s uh … good.” I have another bite of bread, bracing myself for more soup. It’s clear these people don’t have much money, and probably not much food, I don’t have the heart to waste it. Holding my breath again, I take a large spoonful. It’s not as bad as the first one, but it’s still like ingesting liquid mulch.
Asher’s mother tears off a small chunk of bread and chews it slowly. She scoots forward on her chair. “May we speak openly in front of Miss Jaden?” she asks Asher in low tones.
“Sure Ma. We work together.”
“How are things going? You know, with the movement?”
Asher gives her a little song and dance about how things are progressing with the underground revolution. He doesn’t really say much. Just enough to offer some hope, and to reassure her that he’s in no danger. It must be a difficult juggling act, keeping up with two separate identities. I guess I kind of know how that goes. You find yourself in a situation and you do what you have to do. At least when he’s with the Transcenders, Asher can be himself.
After Asher’s fictional update, Amber and Mrs. Steele fill him in on all the news of the neighborhood and their extended family. The three of them have a warm and easy rapport. Our little lunch of soup and bread is rich with joy and love, even in this meager setting.
The time zooms by. Asher checks his watch and gets to his feet. “Let me help you clean up, Ma.” He begins stacking bowls.
“There’s no need for that.” She flutters her hands at him.
“I want to. You always say many hands make light work.” He kisses the top of her head and makes for the kitchen. She piles the remaining lunch items on the tray and follows him.
“So,” Amber says when we’re alone, “how long have you two been seeing each other?”
“Actually, Asher was telling the truth. We aren’t seeing each other. In fact I’m engaged to someone else.”
“So you’re going to break his heart?” She laughs lightly.
“No chance of that happening. Like he told you, he’s not very fond of me.”
She folds her arms across her chest and gazes at me. “You know that’s not true. I see the way he is with you. It’s okay, though. He probably deserves to be jilted. But level with me on something; are you really part of the movement?”
I nod slowly. “Every bit as much as Asher,” I say.
Asher finishes up in the kitchen and grabs his jacket. I thank the two ladies for their hospitality. They invite me to come again, and I promise I will.
“Oh, Ma. I almost forgot,” Asher says lifting a small pouch from his jacket pocket. “It’s not much, but it should get you through the month.”
His mother pushes it back toward him. “No, no, Son. Keep it for the cause. We’re doing well with the aprons. We don’t need it.”
“Then stash it away. I’m not sure when I can come again. I hear they’re sending more soldiers to fortify the city.”
Her face creases with worry and she wraps an arm around Asher’s neck pulling him to her. “Be careful, Son,” she says with a catch in her voice. “May God go with you.”
“Love you, Ma.” He kisses her cheek. “Be good, Amber.”
They wave, and we make our exit into the dismal little street.
TWENTY-ONE
Asher’s mood seems to have darkened, much like the weather. I pull Ralston’s vest tight around me to ward off the chill.
“They’re wonderful, Ash. Thanks for bringing me to meet them.”
“I hate it when I have to leave them,” he says almost angrily. “My life’s so comfortable and theirs is so damn depressing. I’ve tried and tried to get Ma to move to someplace better, safer. I have the money. But she won’t hear of it. She says this is their home. She doesn’t want to live anywhere else. God, it’s so frustrating.”
“They seem happy, though,” I say, searching his troubled eyes.
“You saw the way they live. How can they—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
Someone behind us shouts something in Russian, and then cries out in English, “Halt! Stay where you are.”
We turn in the direction of the voice. Two Russian soldiers stride purposefully toward us.
“Oh shit,” Asher says. “We have to run for it. They may have seen us coming out of Ma’s house.” He takes hold of my arm and we bolt. He steers me toward an alley that cuts through to the crowded street, but two more soldiers step into the road blocking our escape. We stop and slowly back up toward the buildings and away from the soldiers.
“What do we do now? We’ve got to shift,” I say.
“Stay here. Let me talk to them for a minute.” He puts his hands in the air and steps into the road, leaving me on the sidewalk. The soldiers surround him.
Asher speaks to them in Russian. One of the men responds angrily. In English, Asher says, “What do you want?” I think I hear the word “papers” from one of the soldiers. Asher reaches a hand inside his jacket and, quick as a flash, one of the soldiers snatches his arm, spins him around, and slaps handcuffs on him.
Jungle drums beat heavy in my chest. “Asher,” I call, terrified.
We lock eyes, and he shouts, “Meet me back in Warrington.”
“But I don’t have my—” I try to tell him I don’t have my TPD bracelet, when poof, he disappears. “What the—?”
The soldiers completely freak out, turning every which way, grasping handfuls of air, trying to figure out where Asher went. I don’t stick around to see the show, though. Instead I use the diversion to make a hasty exit. Racing down the side alley, I burst into the congested street, nearly toppling over a kid on a bike. No idea where I’m going, but I figure once Asher realizes I don’t have my bracelet, he’ll come back for me. I jog to my right, glancing over my shoulder for my pursers, and wham! I’m knocked flat onto my back. The air slams out of my lungs.
Gasping, I struggle for breath. My chest hurts like an elephant just used me for a whoopee cushion. My eyes flutter open to the sight of a soldier looming large and gray above me.
“Get up!” he says.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Hooking his hands under my armpits, he jerks me roughly to my feet. His buddies trot up behind him, snickering at my ungraceful landing. The soldier barks something at me in Russian.
“Wait a minute. I don’t speak Russian,” I say, shaking my head.
The Russian goon backhands me across the face, nearly knocking me to the street again. He really shouldn’t have done that. Now I’m pissed. Gingerly holding my cheek, I take a step back, planting my feet firmly. The goon makes another move toward me. Spinning quickly, I ram my foot into the side of his head wi
th all my strength. The blow lays him out, rendering him unconscious. The force of my kick sends me to the ground too, but I spring up immediately, ready for a fight.
The other dumbasses are suddenly paying attention. One soldier runs to check his fallen comrade, while another slips the rifle from his shoulder and points it directly at my face. I snap-kick it out of his hand and sweep-kick his feet out from under him. He crashes to the pavement face-first, and I take off running again.
I hear a pop as a bullet whizzes past my head. Holy shit! Everyone on the street hits the deck. I guess they’ve been through this drill before. I’m the only one still standing, and I need to get gone fast. Even if I can outrun these guys, I can’t beat their bullets. Unless …