Anonymity (7 page)

TEXAS HAD four seasons: drought, flood, blizzard and twister. Austin was usually horribly humid, but all of Central Texas had been parched for months and Barbara missed the sticky, moist air. This morning brought more clear skies, but the temperature had finally dropped to nonlethal.

Barbara cranked up the air conditioning in her SUV and blended with the traffic flowing toward downtown. Her phone rang and she could see on her dashboard that it was one of her PR interns from UT. She hit the talk button on her steering column.

“Hey, what's up?”

“Are you on your way in?” the girl asked.

“A few minutes out, but I've got to stop and set up something before I come in. Is everything under control?”

“Yes, but they're driving me nuts dragging ass.”

“Apparently, nonprofits move slow.” Barbara had been hired to manage Keep Austin Cleared, the city's annual litter clean-up program. “How's media looking? This is a one hundred percent positive client. We won't have any protestors or crisis management today, no angry letters to editors tomorrow.”

“No media yet. Shouldn't they be here by now?”

“They'll show. Give them another hour. Then we'll start making calls. How do the shirts look?”

“It's a sea of green around here.”

“I picked up another 10,000 cups. The logos are crisp this time. They look much better. I'm going to make the printer eat the cost for the first batch. Banner for the after-party?”

“Got it.”

“Can you handle things until I get there?”

“No problem. People are trickling in, but it's still early.”

“Call me if you need me.”

Traffic was fierce on the tangled highway system. She cut around slow cars and old trucks filled with produce. As she waited for a light, Barbara couldn't help but read bumper stickers. It seemed the majority of vehicles in Austin were held together by adhesive slogans. There were vegans and soccer moms and alternative bands. Plenty of people wanted peace and many had strong opinions about the former president from Texas. Austin gave new meaning to the term information superhighway.

The city gleamed in the distance. It didn't look in need of a polish. Barbara suspected that Austin's litter problem came from tourists and transplants and the homeless, but that would be a very un-PC thing to express. Truly, she should be thanking whoever was mucking up the city because it meant she had a job.

Since being downsized from a corporate public relations position, Barbara had struck out on her own. Businesses of all types were scrambling for attention in a tight market. Newspapers and television stations had cut nearly half of their reporters. Those who were left were overwhelmed with work, so getting them to appreciate a story was harder than ever. Oddly, being a small, reasonably priced PR firm seemed to be a growth opportunity in a bad economy.

She parked in front of Group Therapy. Inside smelled of sour beer, but the hardwood floors were clean and the tables tidy and ready for the lunch crowd. Emily waved a giant knife in Barbara's direction. Fruit wobbled on a scarred cutting board in front of her daughter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Barbara said as she wiggled onto a barstool.

“Hi.”

“I don't have long. My assistant's taking care of things for me this morning.”

“Can you eat?”

“I'd love some of Angel's beef brisket if he's got any made this early.”

“I'll check.” Emily opened the swinging door to the kitchen, spoke to someone and then came back. “No problem. So what's up? What are you doing downtown today?”

“Working for the big cleanup, you know, Keep Austin Cleared? I did all the media and branding this year. We're handling the closing ceremonies and the party after. Why don't you come on down and help with the clean up efforts?”

Emily gathered her hair behind her, twisted it up and stuck a pencil through the mass of curls. This was her way of thinking before speaking.

“I'd like to, but I can't. One of my bartenders called in sick. I have to pull a double today.”

She was probably lying, but Barbara couldn't blame her. Over the years, Barbara had made her family volunteer to do everything from handing out water at marathons to pretending to be happy customers for commercials. Why would Emily be eager to pick up trash?

“So this is your new client?” Emily asked. “How's it going?”

“Great so far. I did the volunteer media release and we got tons of people. I was surprised. Community organizations, business and social clubs, churches, bowling leagues and softball teams. Lots of UT students. Apparently, sororities and fraternities use Keep Austin Cleared as part of their social service requirements.”

Emily set a Diet Coke in front of her mother and Barbara took a sip.

“Thank you. So, I spent last week shooting b-roll of litter-packed areas of the city. I had that delivered with the media release a couple of days ago to all the TV stations. I'm hoping they'll use it as before and after shots.”

“Smart.”

“Hey, I'd like to hire you to help me. Can you go to the dump with me in the morning and take some shots? I made these bright-green branded garbage bags for the event and I found out where the city is taking them all. I'm hoping to get shots of a mountain of those bags. There will be literally thousands. Pictures like that will help me get the job again next year.”

Emily pondered the offer, then she said, “Sure. Why not?”

“I'll pay.”

“Even better.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Angel came out with a basket of food.

“Hola, Senora Barbara.”

“How you doing, Angel?”

“Can't complain, but I still do.”

Barbara had always liked Angel. She could felt his protectiveness toward Emily, which gave her some comfort about her daughter working in a bar.

Barbara's iPhone chirped.

“My assistant,” she said. Then, “Hey, what's going on?”

“Where are you?”

“I'm downtown. Just a few minutes away. Why? You need me?”

“I think so. I've got some reporter being an asshole.”

“Really? What's his deal?”

“Apparently there's some standoff between gutter punks and frat boys down here in the alley by the drop-in. Students say the area is theirs to clean. Youth ministries had some of the street kids cleaning it. They got into a disagreement and wouldn't you know it, some reporter shows up right when things start to go down. Can you come?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

So much for no drama. Crisis management first thing. Damn.

Barbara looked longingly at Angel's glorious sandwich.

“Could you?” she asked.

He smiled. “No hay problema. I wrap it up for you.” He took the basket back to the kitchen.

Barbara parked in a no parking zone and attached a media pass to the rearview mirror. She didn't qualify for a media pass, but she had managed to pinch one from a political campaign she was involved in once. It always worked. People never messed with reporters.

Down the urine-tinged alley behind a church she found the unhappy standoff. On one side of the alley, young men wore the bright-green protective gloves Barbara had ordered for the event. A couple had on her T-shirts. On the other side, boys were dressed in drab sweatshirts and pants. They seemed overly dressed for the warm weather.

Barbara's fidgety assistant was standing next to a guy with a skinny notebook in his hand, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder—obviously the reporter.

As Barbara approached, she heard the reporter say, “I heard that one of the street kids was assaulted by a student last week. You know anything about that?”

“That's not really why we are here today,” Barbara interjected. “Hi, I'm Barbara Bryce. I'm helping with this event.”

He looked perturbed. He didn't bother to shake her offered hand.

“And can I ask your name?” She smiled her most sincere smile.

“Travis Roberts. I'm with
Be Here Now.
”

Great. The town's liberal rag would usually be a big supporter of this event. Were they suddenly hostile?

“Let's focus on the positive aspect of this, shall we?” Barbara said.

“I'm not here to report on the litter event,” he said. “I'm following up on a report that one of the street kids got punched in the nose. I just stumbled up on this fresh conflict.”

“They're harshing our vibe.” This boy had black disks the size of quarters in his ears. Emily called those ugly things
gauges
, but Barbara always thought of them as tiny hockey pucks. His friends had hardware in their eyebrows and various orifices. “We're just trying to help and these dudes come along and move in on our territory.”

“It's not like we want to be in this piss-soaked shit hole,” one of the students said.

When she spoke, Barbara directed her words toward the frat boys, thinking it more likely she could reason with the students.

“Hey, guys. What's the problem? There's more than enough trash to go around.”

“Huh, I'll say,” remarked the student who seemed to be the leader. Like his friends, he had gelled hair and perfect white teeth.

“Why don't you just pick another spot?” she suggested.

“We were told to clean up this area. This particular spot is ours every year. Why can't they move?” the student asked.

“Why can't you work together? Look, you guys take this side of the alley.” Barbara swept her arm past the street kids and then in the other direction past the students. “And you guys take this side. It's half the work for both of you.”

Less work seemed to strike an acceptable accord with both sides. As they thought it over, a disheveled man in his thirties sauntered up the alley, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his camo pants.

He stopped and took in the situation.

“Hey, David Simpson,” he said. “I'm the director at the Tumbleweed Center. Is there something I can do to help here?”

The angry demeanor of the street kids immediately cooled.

“Are you in charge of these boys?” Barbara asked.

“Not for this event,” he said. “That would be the Street Youth Ministry. Is there a problem?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Is there a problem here, boys?”

They all shook their heads and mumbled.

“Great. Then let's all get back to doing our thing. How about it? We're all happy, right? Can't wait for the big party tonight, right?” she said.

“Like we'd be welcome at your stupid party,” one of the punks said under his breath.

“Of course you guys are welcome to come. We'll have hot dogs and popcorn and all sorts of goodies. I'll give you some shirts.”

“Like those?” One of the street kids pointed to the frat boys in Barbara's bright-green creations. “No thanks.” His group snickered and the students bristled.

“Guys, stop it,” David said. He had a strong masculine voice that got their attention. Trash bags rustled open and both sides turned to their tasks.

“Barbara Bryce, and this is,” she said, motioning to Travis.

“We know each other,” Travis said. “What's up, David? I guess you're the person I really should ask about this. I heard about an altercation between some UT students and a Drag kid last week. Said a boy ended up with a bloody nose. You know anything about that?”

“It was no big deal. We diffused the situation.”

“Was it students bum hunting?”

“No. That's not the case and don't write that.”

“Look, man. We're on the same side here. People should know what it's like to live like these kids do. Face the things they have to face every day just to survive.”

“I'll let you two talk,” Barbara said. She handed the reporter her card. “If you want to discuss the cleanup, give me a call.”

“Yeah, okay. I got all your releases and stuff already,” he said, dismissing her. Sometimes it was easy to hate reporters.

“Great, then,” she chirped. “Maybe I'll see you at the afterparty.”

EXHAUSTION OVERTOOK Lorelei just after daybreak, so weary she forgot her fear of giant insects. She had crawled back into her sleeping bag and cinched the opening around her face.

The voices started far away. Was she dreaming? She could hear people stomping through the underbrush like awkward animals. Without warning, three adults, all in the same DayGlo shirts and gloves, stepped into her fuzzy vision.

“Oh,” one of the women said. “People are living here.”

“This must be a hobo camp,” another said. No apology. They just stood and stared, obviously unsure how to react.

They held garish green garbage bags and sticks with metal ends for collecting trash. The man gripped his stick tightly, but the women held theirs loosely at their sides.

Lorelei's head felt as if it would split down the middle, and she pulled her hood tightly around her face. She longed for dark glasses to cut the flash of sun through the trees. She could hear other people moving through the woods, apparently stumbling upon other camps. She heard Mook.

“Hey folks. How y'all doing?” he drawled cordially.

“Oh.” They were startled and obviously a little frightened.

“This must be cleanup day, huh?” Mook said.

“That's right,” the man said.

“That's so nice of y'all to help keep the city clean. How about we take care of this spot right here and you can find somewhere else to clean up? As you can see, some of us are still sleeping.”

Lorelei moved to get up, but when she pushed up on her arm, pain seared her right side. She collapsed to the ground in a whimper.

“What's wrong with her?” one of the women asked. “Is she drunk?”

“Centipede sting,” Mook said.

They looked as if they didn't believe him. He crouched next to Lorelei.

“Let's see that hand,” he said.

She could barley move her arm away from her body. Mook pushed up her sweatshirt sleeve and there was a collective gasp.

He gave a concerned whistle. “Man, her arm is hot.”

Red streaks ran the length of her arm and a stab of pain coursed through her each time she moved.

“Child, you need to go to the doctor,” one woman said.

The woman bent down and slowly pushed back Lorelei's hood. She caught her breath when she saw the tattoos. She hesitated, and then laid her hand against Lorelei's cheek the way mothers check their babies for fever.

“This child is burning up. She needs to see a doctor right now.”

“We could take her to the clinic,” Elda said from somewhere behind them. “I think they're open on Saturday.”

“Lorelei, can you walk?” Mook asked.

“I think so.” He helped her to her feet, but Lorelei's head felt stuffed with cotton and her balance was off. She bent double and again collapsed to the ground. She began to cry and rock, cradling her arm against her chest.

“I'll take her,” the man said. “My car is up by the bridge. Can you help get her to my car?”

“I can carry her,” Mook said. “She can't weigh anything.”

He worked his arms underneath her legs, stood and clutched her to him. She whimpered, then put her head on his shoulder.

“Lead the way,” Mook said.

“My stuff,” Lorelei mumbled. “My things.”

“We'll keep it, Lorelei. I'll keep it all safe for you,” Elda said.

“No,” Lorelei said. “No. I need it.”

“We should go. Why can't she leave her things?” the man said.

“You wouldn't understand,” Elda said as she rolled up the sleeping bag with all of Lorelei's pack inside. “Go on. I'll carry this.”

Mook followed the man, picking his way through the underbrush. The women held branches out of the way. Mook struggled to climb an embankment and the women both grabbed one of his arms and helped. He recovered, and soon he eased Lorelei into the backseat of a sedan. The man got behind the wheel and one woman got into the front.

Mook gave directions to the clinic. Elda shoved the sleeping bag bundle into the floorboard of the backseat.

The kind woman got into the back and nestled Lorelei's head on her lap. “Poor child,” she said as she brushed stray hair from the girl's face.

The woman's soft touch made Lorelei long for her mother. Lorelei's thoughts roamed and merged—children on the bus ride into Austin, their sweaty curls and slack lips. A centipede, black and menacing. Her mother, worried, always so worried. A boy she knew once, a dark boy with kind eyes that felt like love. She needed to sleep. If only she could sleep. It felt so good to lie down, to be comforted.

“Why?” the woman asked her friends as they wove through Austin's flurry of traffic. “She's such a lovely girl. Why would she mark herself up like this?”

Lorelei wanted to reiterate Elda's words, but she couldn't force them from her mouth.
You wouldn't understand.

They parked outside a nondescript brick building tucked away on a side street. The man came around and opened the back door.

“Do you think you can walk now?” he asked gently. She could hear the hope in his voice. The old fellow couldn't carry her the way Mook had. She mustered strength and wobbled her way in the front door with their assistance.

They entered a waiting room filled with wan people and Lorelei's heart sank. She knew it could be hours before she was seen. The kind woman rapped lightly on the intake window.

Taped to the sliding glass was a poster that listed all the tests the clinic provided including HEP and HIV screenings. They offered safe sex kits and needle cleaning bleach kits. There was a poster about unwanted pregnancy and another about lice and scabies.

A nurse with an irritated look came to the window, but as soon as she saw Lorelei her expression changed. She slid the window open quickly.

“What's wrong with her?” the nurse asked.

“She was apparently stung by a centipede. I think she's having an allergic reaction.”

“Is she having trouble breathing?”

Lorelei recognized this as a sure way to the front of the line. She nodded and grasped her throat.

The nurse jumped to action. “Meet me at the door. Bring her on back.”

In the exam room, the nurse helped ease her up onto a bed with a crackly green mattress that reminded Lorelei of fracturing ice on frozen puddles. She closed her eyes against the droning fluorescents. The florid disinfectant smell increased her headache.

“Open up,” the nurse commanded. She stuck a thermometer under Lorelei's tongue. She slid a blood pressure cuff up on her good arm. The thermometer beeped and the nurse removed it.

“One hundred,” she said with clipped efficiency.

Lorelei was familiar with the white pulse ox clip with the red light that the nurse clipped to her finger.

“This is to check your oxygen level,” the nurse said.

Lorelei nodded.

“Did you really get stung by a centipede or is this a track mark infection?”

“Bug bite,” Lorelei said.

“Okay.” The nurse crinkled her nose, then scribbled on a chart. When the oxygen results started to register she said, “You're doing okay. High nineties. You say you're having trouble breathing?”

“I feel better now,” Lorelei said.

“Right. You been smoking anything? Weed, crack, meth?”

“I don't smoke.”

The nurse looked doubtful again, but she secured an oxygen mask over Lorelei's nose.

“A man brought this,” someone standing outside the curtain said. “I think it belongs to your patient.”

“Is this your stuff?” the nurse asked.

Lorelei nodded. She scanned the room for the kind woman who had helped her, but she was gone. Lorelei knew she would never see her again.

A jagged pain raced through her when the nurse straightened her arm. She touched the inside of Lorelei's elbow, looking for track marks. Her arm and her shoulder crawled with fire, but she didn't dare ask for pain meds.

“What sort of drugs do you take?” the nurse asked.

“Nothing.” The mask muffled her voice, but her frustration with the line of questioning communicated well enough.

“Look, no judgment here. I just need to know so I can help you.” The nurse looked tired. She had gentle brown eyes and a wig that was much too shiny and straight to be her own hair. She wore a pilled sweater over a smiley face smock that looked so soft it must have been washed a thousand times.

A doctor came in, and the nurse reeled off all the symptoms she had collected on her chart—trouble breathing, slight temp, headache, nausea, swelling and redness in the arm.

“How long ago did you get these stings?” the doctor asked.

“I don't know. Early this morning, I guess.”

“So about six hours ago? Well, that's actually good news young lady. If you were going to go into anaphylactic shock you would have already done it. Still,” he whistled, “this is one of the nastiest centipede attacks I've ever seen.” To the nurse he said, “She's definitely sensitive. Let's hook her up with an IV just to be safe. Let's give her epinephrine and a steroid to calm her skin reaction. Put her in a bed and let her sleep it off.”

Within minutes of the shots, Lorelei was feeling better, and she drifted off into a black and dreamless sleep. When she awoke it was dark outside, and she heard coughing and a faint cry from a distant bed.

“About time you woke up. I've been waiting for somebody to talk to all day.”

She looked over at the next bed to see a cute boy about her age. His hair was bright orange. His clothes said
street.
He rolled his eyes toward a pregnant girl in the next bed, crying into a pillow. Behind her, a guy was passed out and snoring loudly. Even from three beds away, Lorelei could smell the sickly-sweet stench of alcohol. At the end of the long room a woman rocked a child in her arms.

“They're not much for conversation, if you know what I mean,” he said.

A smile crossed her lips, and she realized that she felt better.

The boy said, “My friends call me Cargo. What's your name?”

She tried to say Lorelei, but her mouth was too dry to form words.

“Here.” He reached a plastic pitcher on the table between them and poured her a cup of water. She sipped the tepid water slowly.

“Lorelei,” she finally croaked.

Another nurse, in another pilled sweater, came by to hand him a tiny white cup with a couple of pills rattling around in it.

Cargo held it out to the nurse as if giving her a toast. “Bottoms up,” he said, and threw back the pills. He washed them down with water and opened his mouth for her to check inside. Satisfied, she moved on.

“You here for meds?” she asked him.

“Yeah. Had to get back on them. I was getting a little crazy, you know?” He wiggled his fingers by his face and rolled his eyes and whistled two notes. “Manic shit. Haven't slept in days. What about you?”

“Centipede bite.” She held up her hand, happy to see that no pain shot through her this time.

“Gnarly.”

“What do you take? I mean for manic stage?” she asked.

“Lamictal.”

“That one make you itch?”

“Like little squiggly creatures crawling under my skin. How'd you know?”

“My brother used to take that. He'd scratch like he was going to tear his arm off. They're probably giving you generic. You've got to take the brand name. It won't make you itch so much.”

“Like I have a choice.” He smiled. “What all stuff did your brother take?”

“All kinds—Lithium, Seroquel. Stuff that made his muscles spasm. Some that made him lose his appetite. He got really skinny.”

“Fun with side effects, huh? How's your brother now?”

“I don't know. I haven't seen him in a while.”

“Did he get better?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Like I said, haven't seen him.”

The nurse returned.

“How you feeling?” she asked Lorelei.

“Better.”

“That's good. Those steroids will fix you right up. Here, let me take your pulse.” The woman went through the routine of checking vitals. It was amazing how much attention doctors and nurses gave when they could see a physical problem—how little when they could not. It was the things people couldn't see or touch that made them turn away. Cargo was lucky to get any help since his problems were inside his head.

“I'm hungry,” Lorelei said.

“Well, honey, food is scarce around here. I can bring you some Nabs and a soda. That's about all you're going to get this late. We don't generally feed folks and I hate to tell you this, but nobody stays overnight.”

“I have to leave?”

“Everybody does.”

She noticed the pregnant girl gathering her things.

“You got somewhere to go?” the nurse asked hopefully.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

The woman looked at her as if she knew the truth, but didn't push the subject. She had her own problems, probably a hungry family waiting at home.

With the help of her orange-haired new friend, Lorelei loaded her pack. He tethered her sleeping bag to the pack for her, but she decided it was easier to balance the load if she carried it. The nurse had warned her that it had turned unusually cold, so she wore all her warm clothes, the most obvious sign of homelessness. Outside, the temperature was dropping. She got her bearings. She was a long way from the park, too far to walk in her condition.

Cargo suggested that she come with him, but the last thing she wanted was to hang around with some guy who would talk her ear off all night.

She considered her plight. Even if she made it back to Shoal Creek, the probability was high that her group had been run out of camp like everybody else. Of course, they would come back. They always did. Still, she wasn't going to walk all that way to find nobody there. It was too late to get into a shelter. She'd have to find somewhere to sleep, a cemetery or school grounds.

But first she had to get something to eat and she wasn't going to spange tonight. It was too cold, and she still felt weak. She walked toward South Congress, the area the town called SoCo. It was a long shot, but with her bandaged hand she was more likely to solicit some serious sympathy.