A Tinfoil Sky (3 page)

With the clothes draped over all the windows, the car felt like one of the many childhood forts Mel remembered building.

“Would you like some tea and cake?” Mel asked, holding up a pretend teapot in one hand and the peanut butter sandwich in the palm of the other.

“Oh, that would be nice,” Cecily said, holding out her pretend cup and then sipping the hot pretend tea.

They both sat in the back of the car, drinking their tea and eating their cakes.

When Cecily finished hers, she put her hand on Mel’s knee. “I’m really sorry about what happened at Gladys’s today,” she said. “I just kind of lost it.”

“It’s okay,” Mel said, lowering the pretend teapot. Cecily lit her last cigarette of the night, and then, when Mel was finished her sandwich, curled up beside Mel.

It was difficult to get comfortable. In the place where the backseat folded down, there was an edge that dug into Mel’s hip. Each time, when she seemed to be finally nodding off, the words “Go away!” stabbed the place in her heart that had been dreaming about going home.

When they woke up, Cecily announced that they should stay on in the broken-down Pinto until they could figure out some way to get it fixed. They got out of the car and took a good look at everything they hadn’t been able to see last night in the dark.

“This little spot,” Cecily said as she walked through the tall grass, “is not only better than any old campsite, it’s free! I mean, look at that! Riverfront camping.”

It isn’t much of a river
, Mel thought.
It’s more like a creek
. But the edge was blanketed with tiny, smooth, and creamy white-colored pebbles – perfect for walking barefoot.

But first things first,” she added. “We need to get some breakfast!”

Cecily remembered a bakery that made what she called incredible delicacies. And with that thought in mind, they organized themselves and made the ten-minute walk into town.

Everything about the little bakery, from its paned glass windows to the overflowing flower boxes of nasturtiums to a bright cobalt blue bench, felt welcoming.

Mel loved the smell of the fresh bread, and, as she breathed it in, she gazed at the array of scrumptious baked goods. Spending their last few dollars on a treat was something that came easily to Cecily. She’d often say, “Let’s go for it. It might be awhile before we’ve got money to do this again.” And so here they stood, mouths watering before a world of wonderful sweets.

“Pick one,” Cecily said, encouraging Mel. “Whatever you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Come on,” Cecily repeated. “Pick whatever you want.”

Mel chose a blueberry muffin. Cecily chose a chocolate-filled croissant. “And one of each to go also,” she told the cashier as she handed her a ten dollar bill.

Next door to the bakery was a little market. Cecily went in and bought a jug of milk and a pack of smokes. Mel did the math. Two blueberry muffins cost three dollars, two chocolate croissants cost three or four, one jug of milk costs about two, and cigarettes cost seven dollars. That meant that fifteen or sixteen of their last twenty-some dollars were gone.

—

They passed the milk back and forth between them as they walked back to the Pinto. Once there, Mel pulled her blanket out of the backseat, walked to the river’s edge, and laid the blanket down in the tall grass. Cecily followed her.

“Let’s make a list,” Cecily said, “of all the different kinds of muffins we’ll make when we get our next place.”

It was a game Cecily played often: The List Game. It wasn’t like anything on the list ever got done or happened. When Mel was little, it always cheered her up – but not anymore. Now Mel saw it as dreaming – silly, stupid dreaming.

“It’ll be fun,” Cecily said, encouraging Mel.

“I don’t really want to.”

“What do you mean? You love this game.”

“Maybe when I was a kid, but not anymore.”

Cecily ignored Mel’s apparent disinterest and changed the subject. “Do you remember when you wanted to change your name to Strawberry Blueberry Raspberry?” Cicely asked.

“I was six. Kids say things like that when they’re six,” Mel said as she stared up into the clear blue sky.

What Mel really wanted to talk about was what they were going to do now. If it was true that the twenty dollars
Cecily threw on the hallway floor outside of Gladys’s was the last money they had, then that meant they were almost broke. Even if they wanted to, there wasn’t enough money to buy the gas to get back to the city. Gladys had been their only option, and although Mel didn’t say it out loud, she was mad at Cecily for whatever it was that she’d stolen from Gladys.

She was about to ask Cecily if there was anyone else she knew in Riverview that could help them out when they heard a vehicle pull up somewhere in the direction of the Pinto. Doors opened. There were two voices.

Cecily and Mel pasted themselves to the blanket, hardly breathing, hoping the tall grass concealed their presence. Moments later, doors closed. An engine started, followed only by the sound of tires rolling over the loose stones on the worn pavement. They both sat up.

“We need to figure out a way to get this car fixed and get out of here,” Cecily said as she lowered her head to the blanket.

Mel got up and walked over to the car. What caught her eye first was the large fluorescent-pink sticker stuck to the driver’s side window.

The date July 7 was written in black felt marker. They had two days. The Pinto needed to be moved or it
was going to be towed. Mel walked back to the blanket and broke the news to Cecily.

“This is a free country and if I want to park under an overpass for a week or two, no one is going to tell me I can’t.” Cecily said it as though this was a matter she had a choice in. Mel didn’t bother to disagree; instead, she walked back to the Pinto, opened the door, and began folding and sorting the mess of clothes.

The next morning, Cecily woke up with a plan in her head. She was going to look for work. Bars and restaurants often hire singers or musicians to perform for their patrons. One, maybe two nights worth of singing and they’d be able to get the car on the road.

“I might even be able to get a regular gig,” Cecily said.

Mel didn’t like the thought of Cecily being out at night, but tips were better in a bar or at a fancy restaurant than on the street.

The same scene played out in bar after bar all morning. Cecily would go inside, guitar in hand, and ask to speak to the manager. Mel would find a patch of shade, if there was one, and wait. Sometimes she would hear Cecily singing and Mel would cross her fingers. But no one, it seemed, was hiring.

Cecily decided to give up for the morning and suggested they get some lunch at the Mission Soup Kitchen.
It would give them a chance to sit down, she told Mel, and get out of the blistering sun. The line for food was long; she and Cecily leaned against the building in an effort to squeeze out a little bit of shade. Mel glanced up at the library window; her eyes caught those of a boy, about her age, looking down in her direction. Mel untied her sweatshirt from around her waist, put it on, and pulled the hood onto her head to avoid being seen.

When they finally got inside, Mel noted that the soup kitchen was not all that different from others they had eaten at. It was a large, plain room. Tables were arranged in two rows; there was an aisle down the middle, and at the back stood two worn and weathered brown couches. Cecily went up to the serving window to get their lunches and Mel found them a place at a table. The room’s only art (and Mel wasn’t sure you could really call it art) was a message: the words “Jesus Lives Here” painted in large pastel letters above the counter. As people shuffled past the table, Mel noticed the cooks, who greeted each person as they loaded plates. It seemed that the cooks knew many of the people by name. But Mel was tired, and it was soon easier to close her eyes and rest her head on the table than to take in more of the hustle and bustle of the soup kitchen.

—

“Is she feeling okay?”

Mel awoke to a warm, heavy hand resting on her forehead. She looked up. An absolutely enormous woman with a colorful chili-pepper apron towered over her.

“She’s fine,” Cecily said, “just tired.”

Mel smiled at the woman. She was one of the women she’d spotted in the kitchen serving the lunch. “I’m fine,” Mel said.

The cook, or whoever she was, smiled and walked back through the swinging metal door and into the kitchen.

The dark burgundy soup was both sweet and tangy. Mel carefully spooned bits of the dollop of sour cream into each mouthful of beets and cabbage. She wanted to savor the creamy texture, but Cecily was in a rush, and as soon as Mel finished they were back on the move.

The afternoon was no different than the morning. Only now Mel was
really
tired. Cecily began asking about work anywhere: fancy shops, shoe stores, grocery stores, and offices.
It was as though
, Mel thought,
Cecily was proving to herself there was no work, no hope of fixing the car, no hope of finding a place, no hope of anything
.

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.