Anonymity (11 page)

SHE WAS surprised to see another person step from the passenger side of Emily's car. Her daughter was never a child to bring home unexpected guests. While other mothers in the neighborhood complained that their refrigerators were always raided by a swarm of kids, Barbara had been left wondering if Emily had any friends at all.

The girls ran through the rain, dodging washed out spots on the brick walk. They stepped into the entryway, water dripping down onto the terrazzo.

“Careful,” Barbara warned. “These tiles get really slick when they're wet.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the girl said.

Emily shed her rain jacket and waited to be told what to do with it.

“Laundry room,” Barbara said.

“Okay,” Emily said.

“And why don't you give me your sweatshirt and I'll fling it in the dryer,” Barbara said to her young visitor. “I have a cardigan you can put on.”

“No thank you,” Lorelei said.

“But you must be freezing.”

“I'm fine.”

There was something genuine about the girl's shabby appearance, as if the fade of her clothes was earned. No artfully ripped jeans or distressed designer T-shirts for this child. She held her head in such a way that Barbara couldn't see her face beneath her hood. The smell of the child hit her then and reality set in. Emily had brought home a street urchin.

“This is Lorelei,” Emily said. “This is my mom. You can call her Barbara.”

Gerald appeared from around the corner and gathered Emily in a bear hug.

“So good to see you. What an awful day, huh? Who is this?” Gerald said.

“This is Lorelei. This is my dad. You can call him Gerald.”

“Nice to meet you,” the girl said.

“We were just about to sit down to some chili. I'll set another place,” Barbara said. “Gerald, why don't you and Lorelei go check the Weather Channel and I'll have things ready in ten minutes.”

“Can I take your coat?” Gerald asked the girl.

“She's fine,” Emily said.

“But she's all wet.”

“Really. She's okay. Let it go.”

Gerald seemed unsure. He was trying to be gracious, but this girl wasn't receptive.

From the kitchen, Barbara said, “Emily, could you please come and help me?”

“Sure, Mom.” By Emily's tone, Barbara knew what was coming. When she rounded the corner by the wine rack, Emily was already on the defensive.

“So who is she?” Barbara whispered.

“Just a girl. I'm trying to be her friend.”

“Why?”

“Because…I don't know. Lots of reasons. Because she needs a friend.”

“Is she homeless?”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes no difference at all. I was just asking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She smells awful.”

“I'm well aware of that. I drove all the way out here in the MINI with her.”

“Would she be offended if we offered to let her take a bath? You have some old things upstairs she could wear while we wash her clothes.”

“She doesn't like to accept help.”

“Then why is she here?”

“Geez, Mom. Do you want us to leave?”

A crack of thunder rattled the house.

“No, of course not. Don't be accusatory. I'm just wondering how you…oh, never mind.”

“She showed up at my house while I was packing to come here. I couldn't very well leave her standing there in the rain with nowhere to go. I mean, my God, they're evacuating the city.”

Barbara peeked into the den. She could see Gerald's profile in his chair and the back of the girl's head.

“Why won't she take off that hood?”

“She has tattoos. They're off-putting to some people.”

“Is she going to wear that hood up while we eat?”

“I don't know. Probably. Please, don't act like a dork.”

Barbara bristled. “I most certainly will not ‘act like a dork.’”

“Just don't give her the third degree.”

“I think I should get a little credit here. You did spring this on me.”

She could see Emily reconsidering her words.

“You're right,” she said. “What do we need to do to get ready for dinner?”

Barbara decided if the child wouldn't change her wet clothing, then they would eat on the wooden chairs in the kitchen. No way was she ruining her dining room cushions.

When the table was set, Barbara said, “Let's eat. Lorelei, if you'd like to wash your hands before we start, our powder room is in the hall.”

They sat at the table waiting for Lorelei. Ten minutes ticked by, their food growing cold.

“Do you think you should check on her?” Barbara asked Emily.

“No.”

They waited silently, hands in their laps. Finally, the bathroom door opened, and a few moments later, the girl reappeared. She had taken off her grungy sweatshirt and tried to brush her violently streaked brown hair back into a ponytail. Tacky plastic hair clasps gripped above her ears. Barbara wondered if she had used her brush and made a mental note to throw it away. The tattoos were strange and large, but Barbara had seen worse.

“I left my sweatshirt on the bathroom door. Would you mind if I borrowed that sweater?”

“No, of course not,” Barbara said. She went to the closet and selected an older brown one that seemed more the girl's morose style. “Here. Feel free to keep it. I haven't worn it in years.”

Emily glared at Barbara from her end of the table, but Barbara failed to see how the offer of a nice cardigan could be offensive.

“Thank you.” The girl pulled the sweater on and buttoned it up. She unfolded her napkin onto her lap and waited. Barbara raised her spoon and began to eat and the others followed suit. But that was where Lorelei's manners ended. She must have been starving because she finished her first bowl of chili and asked for more before anybody else had eaten half of theirs.

“Thank you,” she said when Barbara set another full bowl in front of her. “You're a totally awesome cook.”

When they had all finished, Barbara said to Emily, “Why don't you and your father clean the dishes while Lorelei and I go make up the guest bed?”

Emily seemed nervous about leaving them alone, but Barbara was going to prove her daughter's bad assumptions wrong. In the upstairs linen closet, Barbara selected her oldest sheets and towels.

When Barbara began to make the guest bed, the girl stepped opposite of her. The rhythm of Lorelei's movements showed that she knew the routine.

Barbara smoothed the edges and laid towels at the foot of the bed.

“Thanks for your help,” she said.

“I'm sorry to put you out.”

“Honey, I'm the one who's sorry. If I had known you were coming I would have had things ready. Here are some towels. The guest bath is through that door. There should be plenty of soap and shampoo. There's a new toothbrush and some paste in the medicine cabinet. Oh, and here, I grabbed the hairbrush from downstairs. You're welcome to keep that and the toothbrush if you need them.”

“Okay,” she said meekly. “Thank you.”

“Emily still has some clothes and pajamas here. I can leave them outside the door while you bathe.”

The girl nodded, but didn't meet Barbara's eyes. Maybe Emily was right. Maybe she was stepping on the girl's pride.

As Barbara picked though the drawers in Emily's room, she heard the shower turn on. She selected a warm pair of pajama bottoms and a faded UT shirt that had actually been hers in college. Barbara also selected a faded cotton camisole with a shelf bra and a pair of underwear. These items she laid neatly folded on the floor outside the bathroom door.

When she came downstairs, Emily and her father were watching local storm coverage.

“Emily, why don't you ask your friend if she'd like to launder her clothes?”

“Okay. I bet she has a bunch of dirty stuff in that backpack in my car. And her sleeping bag looks like a rat's nest. Could we wash that too?”

“Of course, just make sure you use hot water.”

Emily went up the stairs and knocked at the guest room door. There were muffled voices. She came back down with her arms full of clothes, her nose crinkled at the smell. She went into the laundry room connected to the garage by an access door. The garage door screeched up.

“How bad is the weather report?” Barbara asked Gerald.

“Bad. They say this may be a five-hundred-year-flood.”

According to the animated weather girl, Austin was known as Flash Flood Alley, one of the most flood-prone areas in the nation.

“That bit of media attention is going to be bad for tourism, not to mention downtown development,” Barbara said.

“Doubt it,” he said. “You can't keep Austin down. This city will grow no matter what.”

The garage door scraped back down and Emily banged into the laundry. Barbara fought the urge to ask if she needed help. The washing machine dial made its scratchy metal grind and then there was water running.

Gerald pushed up the volume on the television. News reports from the coast were better than expected. Offshore oil refineries that were slammed during previous hurricanes were spared this time. Residential damage was bad but not insurmountable. People were already trickling back to their homes and businesses. There were shots of residents taking plywood down and stripping the giant X marks of tape from windows.

“It seems Gordon decided to hold most of its water until South Central Texas and then unload on us,” Gerald said.

“We always get that. We needed rain, but this is ridiculous.”

Emily plopped on the sofa next to her mother.

“She's asleep,” Emily said, looking back up the stairs as if to make sure of this.

“I don't like the tattoos,” Barbara said.

“I know. It takes some getting used to.”

“It's sick. Nobody should have their face tattooed.”

“Maybe the tattoos were to make her look tough, less approachable, if you know what I mean.”

“Nobody is ever going to hire her with a face like that. She's going to have to get those removed before she'll get anywhere in life.”

Barbara recognized the defiant flash in her daughter's eyes and braced for impact.

“So,” Emily snapped, “let me get this straight. It's fine for you and your friends to get Botox injections and facelifts and have eyebrows and lips permanently tattooed on. It's okay to get the fat sucked out of your hips and injected into your cheeks and have your eyelids sliced off and bags of silicon stuffed under your chest muscles, but a pretty design on somebody's face makes them a horrible person?”

“Tattoos aren't pretty. They're a distasteful sign of lower class.”

“Other cultures find them beautiful.”

“But honey, this isn't other cultures.”

“She's right, you know,” Gerald said. “It's not just bikers and criminals and military anymore. Lots of people get them now.”

“I can't believe you're taking Emily's side. Thank you very much, Gerald. How about I just run right out and get one? How'd you like it if I had a big old dragon tattooed up my arm?”

“I don't know, hon. Seems kind of kinky to me.”

Emily laughed.

“Very funny,” Barbara said.

“You don't have any tattoos, do you?” he asked Emily.

“No.”

“Okay,” he said.

“But I was thinking about getting one. A great big bird on my lower back.”

“What the kids call a
tramp stamp?”
Gerald laughed and turned back to the weather.

“Gerald, this isn't funny. Do you want your beautiful daughter to have a tramp stamp?”

“Leave me out of this.”

“Would you think of me any differently if I had artwork on my back?” Emily asked.

“I don't know,” Barbara said, but her thoughts were more truthful. She knew that she wouldn't be as eager to claim Emily if she marked herself that way. Piercings could close; crazy-colored hair grew out. But tattoos were a commitment.

Still, she dared not protest too much.

THE WHINE of the treadmill carried up the stairs and through Emily's old bedroom door. Her mother's steps a soft punctuating rhythm, Emily listened as her mother ran and ran and ran.

“That woman needs a bike,” Emily said out loud to the room.

Emily switched on the tiny television on the bureau. She twisted her hair up. The polished local newscaster said Austin was in shambles and Emily stopped, toothbrush in mouth, to watch brown churning ribbons of water pushed high against the banks of an unidentified river. A house was wedged under a bridge. Parking lots were lakes of mud. People cried. A man waded into a flooded area to rescue a dog on a floating pile of wreckage.

Downstairs, her father was watching the same thing on the plasma while he flipped pancakes. He had bacon and eggs already arranged on a platter and orange juice on the table.

“Smells good, I'm so hungry,” she said, filching a piece of bacon. She wandered over to the coffeepot.

“Emily,” Dad said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, Dad. What's up?”

“Not now. I thought maybe we could go to lunch. You know, just you and me.”

Emily's phone beeped. It was a text from Travis.

Need photographer 4 BHN flood story. Interested? Will pay.

“Hold that thought, Dad.”

She texted back.

Yes. In burbs. When? Where?

Another beep.

ASAP. Come to the office w camera.

K. Meet you at noon?

Beep.

K.

Emily went to the laundry room to fold the rest of Lorelei's clothes. The sleeping bag came out clean with the scent of fresh linen fabric softener that was the smell of Emily's childhood. She stuck her head into the garage where her mother was pounding out three miles on her gerbil wheel.

“Morning,” Emily said.

“Tell your father not to eat eggs,” Barbara said as she huffed along. “His cholesterol is sky high.”

“Okay. I will.” She hesitated. “I need to ask a favor.”

“Ask away.”

“Can I borrow your SUV?”

“Why?”

“I need to go downtown.”

“Why? It looks like a war zone. You probably shouldn't go home for a couple of days.”

“It's a job.”

She paused the treadmill.

“Okay. I'm all ears.”

“So, I know this reporter, and he works for
Be Here Now
, and he asked me to shoot a story he's working on.”

“Which reporter?”

“Travis Roberts.”

“Ugh. He's an asshole.”

“No he's not. Anyway, I have to go right now.”

“Do they pay?”

“Yes. So, can I borrow your vehicle?”

“For how long?”

“I don't know. A day or two.”

“And I'd have to drive the MINI?”

“I guess. Unless you could get Gerald to drive it. The tires are kind of bald.”

Her mother considered this, then said, “There's a press pass in the glove compartment. Hang it on the rearview and you can park anywhere.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“Wait. There's a condition.”

There was always a condition with Barbara.

“You have to take that girl with you. No leaving her here.”

“I wasn't going to leave her.”

“So what are you going to do with her? You just going to let her out downtown and say ‘see ya later, have a nice life?’”

Emily hadn't thought that far ahead.

Barbara moved to the heavy bag. Before she landed her first punch she said, “She's not all together, all together, if you catch my drift.”

“I know she's damaged.”

“And there's another condition.”

“What?”

“You can't let her live with you. I mean, what do you know about this girl? If you let her live with you she's going to need her drugs one day and just take your purse or your television or something.”

“I'm not going to let her live with me.”

“Promise me.”

“Okay. I promise.”

An hour later Emily and Lorelei were in Barbara's Acadia on their way downtown. Like the majority of cars in Austin, her mother's vehicle was bright white. There was no telling what color it would be after today.

“You don't look like you come from a place like this,” Lorelei said as she watched the commercial signage whip by.

“Everybody's got to be from somewhere. Where are you from?”

She didn't answer, so Emily just left that line of thought open. “You're right. My parents belonged to the country club, but I never liked the plaid polo crowd.”

“Yeah. I knew some of those kids.”

“How about alternative rockers? The ones around here are pretty sad,” Emily said, trying to connect. “Posers.” She'd hung around with a few of those types in high school, but most of them never got past the first few riffs of
Smells Like Teen Spirit
on their thousand-dollar Fender birthday presents.

Lorelei stared out the window and chewed a fingernail.

After a few minutes of lull, Emily said, “So, I got a photography job today for a newspaper. You ever read
Be Here Now?
”

“Sure. You can get it all over the place for free.”

“Do you read the column by Travis Roberts?”

“Yeah. I read the whole paper. That guy, he's pretty smart.”

“Yeah. He is smart. That's what I like about him.”

A pause.

“Do you
like
like him?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Does he like you back?”

Emily shrugged. “I don't know. I'm betting he'll come around.”

“You have a lot of boyfriends?”

“I wouldn't say that. I date a lot.”

“So you have sex a lot.”

“Well.” Why did this embarrass her? “Well, I guess that's true.”

“God, don't wig out. I've had sex.”

“Really.”

“Everybody my age has had sex. Especially gutter punks.”

“Why?”

“That's just how things roll. I used to do it with a guy who was like, thirty or thirty-five.”

“That's gross.”

“Why? Because you think I'm jailbait?”

“There's no way you're eighteen.”

“Maybe I am, maybe not.”

She jiggled her foot. She seemed eager to get back into town. Maybe she had taken something that had her jacked up. If she'd smoked crack in her parents’ bathroom, Emily would never hear the end of it.

The southern part of town was a mess. Stalled cars were abandoned in giant pools of water right in the road. Gutters were clogged with fast-food cups and plastic toys. One intake drain was clogged with a Virgin Mary and a tiny donkey cart filled with flowers, popular Austin lawn ornaments.

Every so often, Lorelei would whisper, “Wow. Look at that.”

The SUV plowed through standing pools and rubble, water raking the undercarriage, monster sprays of water pluming from both sides. There was no way the MINI would have made it.

As the road gradually descended toward the river, the drama increased. Downtown damage would be worse around the creeks and the low-lying parks. There would be nowhere for the homeless to camp and all the shelters would be filled. Emily knew when she promised her mother that Lorelei wouldn't stay that it was probably a lie.

Still, her mother's warnings rang in Emily's head. It was true. Lorelei could take advantage of her, but if Emily wanted to gain her trust she would have to trust first. But even with this thought, when they pulled up outside of her house, Emily chose to leave her important things in the vehicle. No need to unpack just yet.

The yard was a pit. The front porch stained clay-red. All around her house was a ring of sienna about a foot high. The first few steps leading to the back door were slimed.

“Just grab what you need and leave the rest here. I'll be back later.”

Lorelei had only two things, and she took them both. She slipped her boots off when she reached the top step and left them outside.

“I have some house shoes you can wear. You can sleep on the futon in the spare room.” Emily pointed down the short hall. “Just throw your stuff in there.”

She went to the spare room. Water came on in the bathroom.

Emily tried the television. It was dead. When Lorelei came back, Emily said, “Sorry to tell you this, but there's no TV. I don't have a house phone and I'm taking my computer with me, so you don't have much to entertain you here.”

Lorelei looked at Emily's bookshelf. “Are you kidding? You have all these books.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Sweet,” she said absentmindedly, already absorbed in the titles on the spines. Emily suddenly realized that Lorelei always lived without phones and televisions and computers. A book was most likely the height of entertainment to her.

“There's not much food. I'll bring a pizza when I come back, but I have no idea when that will be. You can eat anything you can find.”

“Whatever. I'm not hungry.”

Back in her mother's vehicle, Emily slowly picked her way downtown toward her meeting with Travis. He was a mystery. He seemed indifferent to her charms, but she was determined she'd get his attention.

She cut through her neighborhood over to the Congress Street Bridge, a strong high structure that was a main artery into the city. If any of the bridges into downtown were open, this would be the one.

As she drove it occurred to her that there was beer in the fridge and a cheap bottle of wine already open on the counter. If Lorelei took a mind to get drunk there was plenty of alcohol around. She could have a cell phone tucked away somewhere. What if she called some of her friends and invited them over to the house? Maybe her mother was right. What did Emily really know about this girl? And why did she feel compelled to help her?

Maybe she did have a crummy people filter. This could really come back to bite her in the ass.