by Farley Dunn
“Ms. Sunchaser?” Marisa had her arms on the table, and she took a deep breath. “You work here, don’t you?”
“In the Corona Tower? Of course. Why?” She glanced behind Marisa, whether looking for someone, it was hard to tell. It seemed that her eyes did something and then refocused on the table and the three friends.
“My sister.” Marisa looked down before seeming to regain her confidence and holding up her head. “My sister, Marina. She came to work for the Tower two years ago, and my family hasn’t heard from her since. I thought, well, since you work here, you might know something, maybe you’ve seen her.”
“Marina? I can’t say that I have—”
“My mother says I look a lot like her.” Marisa’s eyes pleaded.
“Now that you mention it, I thought you looked familiar, even at the gym. Maybe I can check on that for you. Nelson Tutu keeps up with our itinerant workers.” For a moment, her expression shifted, her eyes hardened, perhaps, and then her smile returned. “Bruni, right? I’ll ask Nelson about a Marina Bruni and see if he knows anything. I must run. Thank you, Kevin, and I’ll see you in our next session at the Center.”
She turned, stately in her height and flowing kaftan, and smoothly moved away, almost as if not moving at all.
“I’m surprised but happy.” Garik grinned at Marisa.
“Oh?” Marisa licked her lips and seemed jittery.
“Your sister. You never want to discuss her. Now you might find out something.”
“Right from the source,” Kevin added. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“She doesn’t talk about it.” Garik stage-whispered the words, grinning.
“I still don’t plan to.” Marisa’s eyes narrowed. “So, Gari. You can have an opinion, too, Kevin. Let me ask you this. How did she know my sister’s last name would be Bruni?”
“Kevin?” This answer seemed easy to Garik. “You told her, right?”
“No.” He shrugged. “Maybe from the gym?”
“I don’t think so. She said she’d seen me but that we’d never met. There’s no reason for her to know my name.”
Kevin’s watch chimed, and he glanced at it. “I have a client at the Center in half an hour. This is my signal to leave.” He shoveled one last nacho in his mouth and stood, still crunching his final bite of chips, the side of his face shifting as his jaw moved up and down. He cleared his area and stacked the refuse from their late lunch on the food court tray from the kiosk.
“We’ll get that, Kevin.” Marisa gathered several small salt packets scattered around and added them to the tray.
“Leave it like you found it is my motto. Cleaner if you can.” He grinned. “I’ll see you at the Center, Marisa. Feel free to say hi even if I’m giving a lesson. I can introduce you to people. And you, Garik, come on down. We might get you interested. What do you say?”
Garik shook his head emphatically, and Kevin laughed before waving and heading off. The gaggle of tourists had clustered around the central kiosk for a time, but now they were spread about, seated and eating or visiting. Kevin made his way through them without having to request a one to move.
“Thank you for inviting me today.” Garik peered into the nacho bowl, but he was stuffed, and although they still smelled good, the thought of anything else in his stomach was unbearable, and he pushed the bowl to the other side of the table.
“After last night,” she rolled her eyes, “you needed a break from your aunt’s boyfriend. If you want, we could visit the Harbor Yards. There’s a new ship in, a yacht transport. They say it has boats on board worth more than the entire Corona Tower.”
“Pshaw. Worth more than the Tower?” The Tower was enormous, forty stories. And the things it could do, melting into black silicon glitter at night and turning back into a gleaming glass skyscraper. Garik still hadn’t discovered how they did that. Maybe it was a security measure like Marisa had suggested, but it was cool. “Sure, let’s go.” A boat worth more than the Tower? Who would want to miss that?
THE HOTTEST part of the day had passed, but the sun was still bright, and once they crossed the vibrantly hot mall, they took the steps down to the city sidewalk and the streets proper. As they crossed the recessed barrier that would leap sixteen feet from the ground during Corona Tower concerts and events to keep the “riff-raff” out, they found it cooler to keep to the shady sides of the streets.
Still, Sycamore was four lanes, plus a turn lane in the center, and they had to walk to Beacon to catch an elevated pedestrian crossover. The shade from the Tower was falling to the east, and that meant Sycamore was still in full sun, at least on the Tower side. The Beacon Street Crosswalk had a small, covered shelter in the center, a bench, really, with a tinted glass top, and they paused there, looking at the cars driving below them, joking that if the cars with glass roofs opened them, they could drop in water balloons, and wouldn’t that be fun. Beacon ended three blocks over at Waldorf’s Department Store. Garik watched the glittering displays in the windows hungrily. He’d never been to Waldorf’s, and he’d lived in the city ever since coming to America. Then, Waldorf’s was for the richies, and that would never be him.
They turned right at Waldorf’s on Bleaker, running down the line of manicured shrubs and the tinted SUVs, and at the corner, they crossed against the signal, laughing when they thought they saw a flashing light. It was only the signal blinking to warn the pedestrians heading the opposite direction that the light was about to change once more.
Another four blocks, and two lights later, and they had to go left on Williams and right on Welton, cutting between the massive buildings of the Williams Street Apartment towers. At the end of the block, they looked both ways along Shorefront, waited for a break in traffic, and ran full out to The Docks. They could see Harbor Shipyards to the right, with towering gantry cranes looming over the water like muscular arms waiting to snatch up anything that came within reach. In front of them, four massive piers labeled A to D jutted into the water, perpendicular to the wharves hugging the shore. Several tugboats pushed bigger ships through the water, and at the largest pier, just to the left, was a massive floating superstructure that hardly seemed real.
“It’s an entire city on the water!” Garik was impressed. He leaned his elbows on the railing alongside the wharf. The vessel taking up the entire length of Pier A was filled with large and small boats of all shapes and sizes. Men were like ants scrambling over the deck, and they made the ship look even larger.
“Not quite.” Marisa turned and rested her elbows on the rail, looking back at the real city layered behind them, to Corona Tower, and higher, past the Old City Hall on Sycamore with its gold dome, to the Ransom Communications Building way up on Stanwick Hill. The cell tower at the top was all she could see of the Ransom, but still. Their apartment building at Maple and Avenue D would be across Sycamore from the Ransom but not tall enough to see from The Docks. Conversely, they couldn’t see The Docks or the water from their building, not even from the roof.
“How many . . .” Garik began to count the boats clustered on the floating barge. “One, two, three—”
“Too many to count. That big sailboat on the left? I read it’s worth over fifty mil.”
“Million? Dollars?” He felt lucky to have his Street Strider, and it had been abandoned in an alley.
“No respect, though.” Marisa thumbed her nose the direction of the massive ship holding dozens of other massive ships.
“Why’s that?” He grinned. Nothing much earned Marisa’s respect.
“Lazy. Anyone with that much money has enough time on their hands to sail it themselves. After all, boats aren’t made to hitchhike on other boats. They are made to be in the water.”
“Still, it’s cool, even if they’re fools.” Garik was feeling good. “Hear that? I made a rhyme. Give me a dime.”
“I might walk home without you if you make another one.” Marisa hit her shoulder against his arm, and she plunged her hands into a set of pockets, setting
her elbows akimbo and giving her pockets a full appearance. She pulled one hand out to shade her eyes from the western sun, and she called, “Let’s go the back way. We can stop by Argyle Station if we have time.”
“Okay.” As long as Garik was tagging along, he’d go anywhere Marisa suggested.
Just down from Pier A, Plymouth Avenue cut back into the city. It was seven blocks to Shady Ridge Acres, a richie’s area, with winding streets and cul-de-sacs, with Argyle Station one block west. Plymouth changed to Vista at the Ninth Street walkover, the houses even ritzier than Shady Ridge, seven blocks long and winding, making it seem even longer. They had another walkover at First where the street changed names once more to Cedar, then four more blocks to Avenue D, left, and they were nearly home.
All that, and it was still too close, because at the end, Garik would have to say goodnight to Marisa, and he would get to listen to Arik grind on him all evening long, ruining his one good day and making it into nothing at all.
Garik refused to think about Arik or how much milk there was in the fridge or if the fridge even worked.
“Hey, doofus. I’m talking to you. Where’s your head?”
Garik grinned. They were two blocks up Plymouth, the street lined with crape myrtles, and they were brilliantly in bloom. It would take an hour to get home. He said, “Argyle Station. I vote we stop and see what kinds of trains are in.” And pretend we’re taking one and leaving Arik behind forever.
“Just what I was saying, doofus. At least we’re on the same page.”
Yep, Garik thought, watching Marisa talk. Just what I was thinking.
― 9 ―
GARIK OPENED his eyes to the sun cutting into his small bedroom.
“Summer,” he moaned. His time was his, but then there was this.
He rolled over, twisted from under the sheet, and sat up. It had been cold during the night, but he expected the afternoon would blister the city. He reached to the old crate that was his bedside table and touched the framed photo of his parents.
“Mama, Papa.”
At St. Anne’s, just last Sunday, the smell of the old wood on the floors and the incense from the braziers had stirred a windstorm of memories—his mama and papa—and tears had almost filled his eyes. Irina hadn’t attended with him. Garik preferred not to go alone, but his aunt had said she had enough demons in her life, and she didn’t need any of the Christian kind. He loved Iri, and so he kissed her cheek and left the apartment alone in the early morning light and made his way to the church. In the picture, behind his parents, the old stone house, his grandpapa’s, built by his own hands, where Garik had learned to walk and wished to return one day, reared out of the soil, the dirt-colored stone a permanent part of the earth in his mind. Eck, he considered, with a wistful grin. Maybe not return to live, but to hold his mama and be patted on the head once more by his papa.
“I miss you.” He released the picture and blew them a kiss before leaping to his feet and taking the one step across his room to the door. He peered out, uncertain who was home. His aunt, certainly, but Arik was his concern.
“Iri?” He called Irina’s name, not too loudly, as not to irritate Arik if he was still sleeping. He turned as something pinged against his window. Stepping on his bed, he turned the crank and leaned out when the window opened enough for him to work his shoulders through. A small stone hit him on the forehead. “Hey!”
“Garik, come down.” Winter, thin as a rail and his hair bright against the dark soil and gravel grounding the backside of the apartment building, waved to him. “It’s important.”
“Tell me from there.” Bathroom. Breakfast. Dodging Arik. Recalling his dreams of Marisa. That’s what he wanted to do.
“Ah, come on. Don’t be a pansy. Hey, did you just get up?” Winter laughed. “Sleep tight. I guess the bedbugs didn’t bite.”
“Arrgh, you little ape. Okay.” Garik twirled the crank and resealed the window. Hooking yesterday’s pants with his foot, he kicked them upwards and grabbed them, a move very much like a skater’s. He shoved his feet into his shoes and pulled a fresh shirt from the back of a chair and tossed it on. Slipping into the hallway quietly, he made a pitstop before exiting the apartment and tripping down the stairs. He found his way through the storage cubicles to the back entrance, pushed the door open and stepped outside, only to be startled by a bucket of water dumped on his head.
“Ha, ha, we got you!” Winter, about a dozen feet away, held his stomach and laughed.
Beside Garik, Firestarter was backing down a wooden stepladder with a red plastic bucket in one hand that said IN CASE OF FIRE on the side; and little Shrimper, a shadow among the morning shadows, held tightly to the legs of the ladder to keep it stable.
“Why, you!” Garik made as if to grab the boys. Firestarter leaped from the fourth step, falling, too wrapped up in laughter to manage running and keeping hold of the bucket, and he was off to the far side of the weedy plot. Shrimper wasn’t so lucky. Garik caught his leg and wrapped him in one arm and tossed him over his shoulder.
“Wasn’t my idea, Garik!” The boy laughed as he fought for freedom.
“You’re the one who’s going to pay.” Garik snagged the bucket, set it under the outside faucet, and turned it on. “It’s worth a little of the building’s water to see some paybacks come your way.”
Garik didn’t slosh it over him. Instead, he moved the bucket to a clear area, held Shrimper upside down, and dunked his head in the water. By the time Shrimper came up the second time, the other two boys were pulling at Garik’s shirt, pleading for a turn.
Looking up at his window and to the one just down that was his aunt’s room, he decided he could do without risking an altercation with Arik. Marisa was likely working at the flower shop for the morning. He felt for his fob and groaned to remember it was on his bedside table. The shop was only four blocks away, fronting on Sycamore, with back and side doors butting up to Elm and Avenue C, a little triangle of a city block left after they had widened Sycamore at one point.
Popping the backs of each of the heads of his “hood,” he instructed them to return the red bucket to the fire shelf and leave it there, and if Irina should ask about him, he was at the flower shop. He unlocked his apartment’s storage and worked out his Santa Cruz, and he dropped it in the parking lot next to his bike and caught it with one foot. His Strider reminded him of Wu Han. The Airman had admired something that belonged to him. He smiled, feeling good for a change. His hair dangled wetly against his neck, his shirt still damp enough to keep the morning’s rising heat in check, and the sun through the lone not-maple tree splattered charcoal-colored splotches across the sidewalk. A good skater day.
He came out on Maple, giving a push with one foot, while keeping an eye out for Catnip and Catnip’s business. He waved and called to Mr. Larkin across the street. He was pulling a small wagon toward Avenue C.
“Hey, Mr. Larkin.” Garik stopped when the old man looked up and waved back.
“Garik! Good morning. Where’s your bike?”
“Eh, I’m just headed to the flower shop. It’s only a couple blocks. Are you off to Fasst Market?” Garik liked Mr. Larkin, and if he was, he didn’t mind helping.
“Yes, I am. Does your aunt need me to bring her something?”
“Nah, Mr. Larkin. Do you need help with your wagon?”
Mr. Larkin laughed. “I know who works at the flower shop. You go see your girl, and I’ll manage my wagon fine.” Mr. Larkin waved again and returned to plodding down the sidewalk.
My girl. Garik grinned, especially pleased with his morning, and he pushed off, hooked a right at Avenue C, and pushed hard to build up his speed. At Laurel, cars blocked the curb, and he had to ride down the handicapped ramp from sidewalk to street and back up again on the other side, but on Ash and Beech, he was able to jump the curbs, once kick-flipping his board before skid steering around a lamppost and up to the flower shop’s back entrance as he crossed Elm.
Garik kicked his board up to grab
the end, and he caught his reflection in the glass door. Medium height, slender but tight, muscular frame, oversized hands. Thick, dark hair more wild bush than controlled mane, but that was from skating for four blocks. Big features, bronze skin, his Armenian heritage out there for the world to see. He thought nothing of it, just recognized himself as who he was, and put his hand on the metal bar spanning the door. The backside of the glass had a large red arrow and said, “Entrance Around the Corner,” being the delivery door, but Garik had entered this way so many times that the sign didn’t register.
The door dinged as he entered, and he found himself in the bowels of the shop. Bundles and buckets of flowers, banks of glass-fronted coolers, and rivulets of water running across the sloped floor to a drain in the center. A compact Asian man in a leather apron spouting a bit of a belly pushed through a plastic curtain from the front of the shop and looked over his glasses at Garik.
“Mr. Bruni, hello.” Garik ran his hand through his hair, aware of its disarray. “I’m putting my skateboard here. Okay?” He leaned it against a waist-high portable white cabinet covered with buckets of greenery.
Mr. Bruni brushed the air with his hand, sighed, and said, “Mari is in the front. She is with a customer. Perhaps you wait?”
“Sure.” Mr. Bruni disappeared back through the curtain, and Garik browsed the stocks of blooms filling the humid space. He heard Marisa’s laugh, and in response, he heard another voice he recognized. He poked his head through the curtain and called out, “Marisa?”
Her father answered. “No, you, Garik. You say you wait. You wait.” Mr. Bruni walked his way, brushing him back into the stockroom with his hands waving in the air.
“Oh, hello, Garik.” Marisa intervened. “Father, it is okay. Mr. Lee and Garik know each other.”
“Mr. Lee? This is so?” Marisa’s dad looked to Kevin for affirmation.