Nora & Kettle

by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

  My eyes fly open.

  Darkness presses down on me, and a weight leans against my windpipe. My eyes flick to the window. I imagine small rectangles of golden light shining in the night like invitations and witnesses, though only hollow, broken-glassed holes stare back at me. I reach for them, my arms shaking, a tear caught in the creases of my eyelids.

  “You knew and you didn’t tell me,” he whispers darkly, dragging my oxygen-starved body from the bed, to my feet, and then releasing me. I stumble as I drag in a breath as quietly as I can. I can’t wake Frankie. My knees knock as I brace myself against the wall. “You sad, pathetic little girl. Did you honestly think you could keep this from me?”

  My head drops, my mind still catching up, still caught in cotton candy. “Keep what from you?” I manage, my voice squeezed of sound like my windpipe now has a permanent kink in it.

  I can barely see him in the dark room, but I hear the deep, frustrated breath in. It’s wrapping around me like a snake constricting and squeezing. I feel the disgust in his footsteps, sharp, stabbing at the floorboards. He darts and grabs my arm, gripping so tightly that I know his handprint will be tattooed on my skin by tomorrow. “You come with me. Now!”

  Like I have a choice.

  He yanks hard. Every movement is punctuation to his hatred of me, to his unending anger that it was her and not me.

  The hall is lit by a single lamp, and it flickers and dances happily against the wallpaper. My heart beats along with every flick and my body starts trapping itself against the pain. I fold in and in like a note passed around the classroom.

  When I trip on the rug, he doesn’t even stop, just tugs upwards on my arm hard. I bite down on my lip to stop from crying. He won’t spare Frankie if she comes out of her room, and she won’t be able to take another beating.

  I can.

  I can do this.

  The study door is kicked open, and I’m swung into the room like a discarded doll. I land, palms flat on the hard floor, the polished boards reflecting the golden spines of hundreds of books. Books that educated a man, yet failed to teach him how to be one.

  He looms over me, hands on his hips. His striped pajamas and slippers softening him into a lie I can’t believe, because there’s a darkness in him, a clawing, scrabbling darkness deep within. He casts no shadow. He swallowed the unwilling likeness years ago, and now it coats every organ in his body with blackness.

  “What were you trying to achieve?” he spits.

  I shuffle backward on my bottom and prop myself up on my elbows, trying to think what to say, how to diffuse him. There’s nothing.

  “I wasn’t trying to ‘achieve’ anything. I’m sorry, Father,” I say. “I thought Mister Inkham would inform you of the changes.”

  His eyes widen at the name, but he doesn’t respond to my words. He’s stuck on the speech he wants to give. The punishment he’s holding in his clenched fists.

  “Do you think it’s acceptable to lie to your father? To entertain strange men in my home when I’m not present?” he starts. Raking a hand through his ash-blond hair, he pauses. “I don’t know why I bother…”

  He takes a step toward me, our feet just touching, and I’m frozen. I want to run. I want to scream for help. Fight back. But I can’t overpower him and I can’t leave Frankie alone with him.

  “Please, Father. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what he was calling for until it was…”

  A dark whir like a giant batwing comes at the side of my face with such force that my teeth feel as if they’re escaping through my cheek. The words, the futile words, are knocked from my mouth. I should have learned by now. But I always try.

  “Get up!” he snaps, nursing his hand like it hurt him too. I scramble to my feet and start for the door. “Stop.” He swiftly closes it and turns, his face shadowed in violence. “Get the belt from the desk drawer.”

  I abide.

  What did Mr. Inkham say? Survive, endure, for three more years…

  Disappear. Sink down, down, down. Go somewhere he can’t find you. Hide.

  I can do this. I have to.

  “You’re nothing like her,” he says with the first crack. “You’re of no value to me.” The words are a cloud floating away as I cocoon myself, pull down the shutters, and wait for it to be over.

  ***

  My back is broken. Split apart. I pull myself up from the study floor only to collapse back down again. The clock reads three am. My skin reads lashes of the belt. Wet blood cools my wounds. It’s the smallest relief. Gathering my strength, I stand. I need to clean myself up before morning.

  In the bathroom, I don’t look at my reflection. I can’t stand to see her. I can’t argue with the fear, the sadness in her eyes. It shouldn’t be like this. But it is. I sigh and dab at my back as best I can, tearing up my nightdress and throwing it in the bin by the sink.

  As pink water runs down the bathtub drain, I think of his words. “You’re of no value to me.” He may think he has me pinned. That he has clipped my wings and broken my spirit, but he’s wrong. My value is in my love for my sister. My value is growing with every day I live.

  Drying myself, I dress in my day clothes, the cloth sticking to my back. I grimace at the thought of changing at the end of the day.

  Poking my head out of the door, I pad down the hall. I can hear him breathing heavily and when I get to the end, I can see one leg hanging over the armchair in the den. Stepping back, I head to their bedroom.

  Each toe stamps out a message. I’m a million thoughts, but only one seems to be propelling me forward. I creep into my mother’s room, the room they shared, and close the door behind me.

  He doesn’t come in here, coward that he is. This room is stuffed full of memories and stopped up like a cork in a bottle. Nothing new can escape.

  My hand grazes the brass bed; a layer of dust floats up and sits on the moonbeams that stream through the window. I lightly kiss her personal items with my touch. They feel cold, dead. Cautiously, I move to her dresser, sliding open the stiff drawers and sifting through all her combs, clips, and brushes.

  I touch each crystal, each shining silver and gold piece, until I have the one I want. It’s my favorite. A simple comb with a small ship glued to it. The ship is dull pewter and it sits, not in waves, but on a cloud, diamanté stars clustered around the tops of the sails. I sigh as if to breathe life into those sails and clutch the small comb in my hand.

  I came here to steal. To take something of hers, something that held value in his eyes, and remove it. It’s a pointless crime really. He’ll never know it’s missing. But it gives me some very small sense of control, the size of the head of a pin, but it’s something. I tuck the comb into my sleeve and turn to leave the room.

  A small breeze tickles my legs, teasing the silk scarves hanging from the bedpost, and I pause.

  I start to cycle through the possibilities and punishments that will occur if he finds the comb on me or in my room, and I shudder. I can’t give him any more reason to hurt me. Tiptoeing back to the dresser, I pull the comb from my sleeve. It glints, almost winking at me under the white light of the moon. I do have one other option.

  I creep across the floorboards to the window, each creak making me flinch, and ease up the sash, leaving enough room for me to ease my torso out. My torn-up back scrapes against the frame. I let out a whimper but as I lean out, curving to the side so I can clear the fire escape, the cool night air is a respite to my burning skin. My arm punches out, comb in hand, and I release it. As I hear it clink in the alley, it makes me smile. I don’t search for it. I don’t look down. I retract my arm, put my hand on my chest, and breathe a sigh of satisfaction. Maybe this way part of her will reach beyond the prison of these walls.

  He’s trying to rob me of my freedom, my confidence and self-respect. I’m just going to plain rob him.

  15. TRUST AND FAIRY DUST

  KETTLE

  “I’m tired of sleeping in the alley, Kettle. We’ve earned a lot of b
read this week. Wouldn’t you like to take a hot shower and sleep in a real bed for once?” Kin asks after swallowing a large mouthful of hot dog and mustard-soaked bun. He’s so loud when he eats that I can hear the cartoon-like gulp. He likes to think he has good manners, but years on the street have etched them out to more of a faded manual.

  I shake my head as we walk, crossing my arms against the cold. “Is your head hollow? I swear, I can hear every chomp and chew even though your mouth is closed!”

  Kin grins at me and opens his mouth to expose a mashed-up ball of food on his tongue. “Oh yuck!” He proceeds to keep his mouth open and in my face until I say, “Look, a hotel room costs as much as it would to feed us all for days. You know we can’t.” I try to connect with his annoyed eyes, although I’m finding the open mouth and the looks we’re getting just a little distracting.

  Kin finally shuts his yap and faces forward.

  Suddenly, his arm shoots out and he shoves me, my shoulder hitting a poster with rosy-cheeked kids smiling over a plate of “Vitamin Donuts.” I make a mental note to buy them next time I’m at the store.

  I rub my shoulder and am about to punch him back when he says, “Sometimes, it’s okay to be selfish. Even if it’s just once in a blue moon.” He’s smiling. And I know he’ll go along with what I say even if he doubts me. He’s annoying, proud, and arrogant, but he’s loyal.

  “Maybe. But it’s only one more night before we can go home,” I chirp, hooking my fingers in my belt loops and increasing the pace. Each step is a strain on my aching muscles, but the promise of being home is enough for me to want to rush to a resting place and close my eyes so the next day can come.

  The temperature of the air sinks as we walk. Streetlamps flicker on as the sun slips below the level of the high rises, glowing over the blackened stones of the tired buildings that always seem to appear wet even when it’s not raining. We step around the crowd, picking our way through like we’re playing a game of hopscotch. Kin whistles, and I try to pretend I’m not associated with him.

  My bag is pressed close to my hip, the money sitting there like a hot coal that may burn a hole through the canvas. I nervously lay my palm on it and look ahead. Kin knocks his head toward the alley between the burned-out apartment building and the fancy brownstone again. I nod. It’s a good spot because there aren’t people watching us from above.

  He scoots into the alley and heads to the dumpster we slept against last night. The dark in here is almost complete. Just a slice of waxy moonlight that doesn’t want to lower itself to come into the alley shows at the two street ends. We curl into the shadows and sink to the hard ground.

  Backs against the wall, we prop our elbows up on our knees and gaze at the small rectangle of sky above us.

  “Would you like to live up there?” Kin starts, his voice airy and philosophical.

  The back of my head rubs against the grimy wall. It doesn’t much matter. I’ve accepted that on these days, I’m filthy. There’s nothing I can do about it. Water tumbles past my ears as someone uses the bathroom in the brownstone. “Up there. What? In the sky?”

  He slaps my knee and scoffs. “Don’t be dumb. I mean, up there in one of those brownstones.”

  I ignore him, thinking about the sky. How it’s temporary. It gives promise, but it also takes it away. That’s why I like to be up there, flying through the air on a container… but it’s also why I like to land.

  Kin nudges me. “Hey! Are you even listening to me?”

  My eyes droop heavily like they’re hooked to weights. “Sorry, just tired… No. I don’t think I would like to live up there. Besides, we’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

  It’s a lie. Of course I would like to live in a proper home, have security, food, warmth. But that’s not my life. It’s never going to be my life. This is better than where I was before and it’s probably all I’m going to get, so it has to be enough for me. I sigh and smile. It is.

  “One day,” Kin whispers. “One day, I’ll get up there. Maybe I’ll marry that pretty little thing we bumped into at the cake shop…”

  I chuckle quietly. “Don’t you think she was a little young for you?” I tease, thinking of the lively redheaded girl who snapped his suspenders. She looked like she had firecrackers in her eyes and hands made for mischief. I liked her.

  I get a clip over the head for that comment. “Don’t be daft. I was talkin’ about the blondie. The one with the rosy cheeks and haughty attitude.”

  I’m about to say, I don’t think she was haughty, just… protective and a little sad, but I don’t feel like sharing what I gained from our brief exchange. I shuffle closer to Kin for warmth as the night really starts to take hold and the stones bleed ice into my back. Let him have his fantasies. “Good luck with that!”

  “Luck? I’m too handsome for luck to play any part in our inevitable union.” His arms shoot out from his sides, and he starts gesticulating as he winds his way around to some sort of point. “You know what your problem is, Kettle? You…”

  I ‘mmhmm’ and nod and let him prattle on for the next half hour about how I need to relax, I’m too responsible, I need a woman’s touch, etc… etc, until he’s run out of words. Slowly, his breathing calms and so does mine. I drape our coats over our legs, keep my bag tucked between us, and drift off to sleep.

  ***

  My dreams are wishes. My nightmares are truths.

  There’s a song playing in the background. Strings and halos of music hum against rice-paper walls. Her voice is so soft and soothing. Her black hair pinned tightly to the nape of her neck balloons with weight and thickness. She scoops water from a bucket with a wooden ladle and pours it over my head. I shiver before it touches me but smile when I realize it’s warm and smells like jasmine. I hold my chubby two-year-old hands out in front of me, giggling as the water pools and pours away.

  A sucking sound, like water pulled down the drain, overpowers the music. Rice paper tears. A man yells ‘haji’. She grows smaller and smaller, her back rounded and smooth as a stone. She curls into a ball on the floor, bowing and apologizing as I stand there, dripping wet and crying. A towel is thrown around my shivering body and I am gathered up, pressed against the chest of an old man. An angry man. He says nothing but haji—shame—over and over again.

  Distance grows and grows. Her cries come from behind a door, behind a car window, and they peter out as I’m driven away.

  I wake suddenly. My mouth opens in a silent scream. I rub the back of my neck and feel sweat around my collar despite the cold. Kin snores beside me, rumbling like a dirty motor at my side.

  It takes a moment to orient myself, to come back to the real world, the one I’ve been placed in by authoritative hands. My breath is quick, and I have to remind myself to calm down. These dreams feel like early memories, but they may not be. Maybe they are wishes. An invented past so my brain, my heart, can believe that at some point, someone wanted me.

  I remind myself I’m not with them anymore. I’m not a prisoner. I am free.

  The sound of a window being jimmied above grabs my attention, and I shuffle closer to the dumpster, trying to hide. My eyes cast up the wall of the brownstone.

  The moonlight touches a thin, pale arm, outstretched in the air like it’s just sampling the weather. Fingers open like a star, and something drops at my feet. Dirty water splashes into my eyes, and I swallow a curse word. The arm withdraws and I hear the window close out the alley, the person returning to the warm safety of their home. I remain frozen, drips trailing down my face and onto my shirt, waiting for the person to come back, to retrieve what they have lost. I wait for at least an hour, rigid as the stones behind me. They never come back.

  I snatch the item to me. In the dull light, I can see it’s a comb and I can feel the bumps and ridges of the carvings as I run my finger over it. It’s probably expensive. It’s probably not something I should have.

  I put it in my shirt pocket and rest back, wondering who would drop a treasure from th
e sky and why?

  ***

  The dawn light crawls along the road and finally angles its way into the alley last. Kin’s eyes blink open as the light hits them. He yawns and stretches, cracking his neck several times. I grit my teeth at the noise, which sounds like beads breaking under someone’s foot on ceramic tiles.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks, although I know he’s not overly interested.

  “Oh, wonderfully!” I snarl sarcastically.

  He slaps me on the back too hard, and I sprawl forward. I grab my shirt pocket, my hand over my heart to stop the comb from falling out. Whatever it is, wherever it came from, it feels like I shouldn’t share it. It feels personal.

  Kin throws back his head and laughs, his dark eyes glinting in the weak light. “Sometimes I forget how tiny you are!” he mocks. Then he holds out his hand. “Gimme some money for breakfast. I assume you’re going up there for your alone time.” He rolls his eyes and smirks like I’m doing something elicit up there.

  I frown and hand him a dollar bill. “Don’t be long,” I warn as I glance up at the fire escape clinging to the burned-out building.

  He flips me off as he walks away.

  I avoid the brownstone, wary of the person inside who might be looking for their comb and regretting their decision. Quickly, I clamber to the top of the building, the escape croaking quietly as I swing around each corner and scamper up. By the time I reach the top, my hands are blackened from the soot residue caused by the fire. I wipe my hands on my pants and sit cross-legged on the roof, the odd pigeon cooing behind me for company.

  Pulling out the comb, I take a good look. I was wrong. It’s not expensive. It’s costume jewelry. I think maybe they were just throwing out something old they didn’t want.

  Despite that, I keep it. And I keep it to myself.

  16. HIDE ME

  NORA

  A cool hand swipes the back of my neck. I quietly moan in pain when the hand lightly touches the skin between my shoulder blades and withdraws at my whimper.

  “Frankie, let me sleep,” I mumble into my pillow.

  A throat clears, and I stiffen. “Nora, let me look at your face,” he says with genuine concern, confusing but not unfamiliar.