Finding Noel (5 page)

“Great.” I waved to Victor and he drove off. “So what was wrong?”

“Timing belt busted. And your battery was dead.”

I remembered enough from the auto shop to know this was expensive news. “How much do I owe you?”

“You got lucky; I found a belt at the junkyard. Fifty bucks for parts and seventy for my time. I didn't charge you for charging your battery.”

“Thanks,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I've got cash.” I paid him six twenties. It should have been double that. Still it was almost all I had. I'd be eating peanut butter sandwiches and breakfast cereal for the next week.

“Your keys are under the seat. Door's not locked.”

“Thanks. Have a good night.”

“Yeah.” He shut the door.

I started my car and drove home.

Jam yesterday and Jam tomorrow.
What can I do to hide my sorrow?
Wonderland is gone,
somehow Alice went wrong…

SONG LYRICS FROM MARK SMART'S DIARY

The place I lived was an old two-story Tudor that had been converted into rental units. I lived in the smallest apartment: a studio with a shower-bath with a plastic curtain (illustrated with toaster-sized cartoon goldfish) and a kitchen with a tile sink and counter and a small hot plate. There was no oven, but I didn't care since I wasn't really keen on cooking anyway. Rent was only $175 a month, which was good since I didn't earn much. Even though it was almost midnight, I sat down with my guitar, running my fingers up the smooth back of its varnished neck. I gently strummed it, tuned the third string, then began playing a song I had started writing right after learning my mother had died. I softly sang,

Alice never went back through the looking glass
,

And Wonderland never was the same.

I think back on memories of my childhood years
,

But I never can go back again.

If I could take all the hopes of childhood
,

The wishes and dreams I once knew
,

I'd gather them all if I had the chance
,

And trade them back for you.

And Wonderland is gone
,

Somehow Alice went wrong
,

I think I could find her if I really tried
,

But maybe I just don't belong…

I finished strumming mid-chord, letting the guitar's echo die in the room. I don't know why I was torturing myself. Thinking about my mother was hard enough, let alone singing about her.
Therapy
, I told myself.

Just then there was a knock on my door. I grimaced.
Landlord
, I thought. My landlord was a peculiar duck. He was in his late seventies, and he lived alone in the apartment directly above me. When I was still deciding on the apartment, he had generously offered me the use of his telephone, an offer he conveniently forgot the first time I asked to use it.

Also, he went to bed early, usually around eight, and was a light sleeper. He hated that I worked late; claiming I always woke him, no matter how quiet I tried to be. If he heard anything from me past ten o'clock, he was down, red-faced and ranting. I laid my guitar next to the couch, then unlocked the dead bolt, bracing for his tirade. I pulled open the door. Macy stood in the dark hallway. For a moment we just stared at each other.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

“No, I just got home. Come in.”

“Thanks.” She stepped inside, casually surveying the room. Her gaze stopped on my guitar. “Was that you singing?”

“It's just a song I've been working on.”

“You wrote that?” she asked, sounding impressed.

“Yes.”

“You're very good.”

Her praise pleased me. I walked over to my couch and moved my guitar case. “Have a seat.”

She came over and sat back into my couch. “Nice place. Cozy.” She reached over and touched my guitar. “Do you teach guitar?”

“I used to, back in Alabama. I've thought of getting started here, but my life has been so disjointed lately… it's hard to find students.”

“I've always wanted to take lessons,” she said. She looked back at me. “Sorry to come by so late. I just got off work and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I'm doing okay.”

“Really?”

“Really. Thanks to you. I've felt like a madman this past week. You breathed sanity back into me.”

She smiled. “Good.”

“I'm surprised you found my place. It was midnight in the middle of a blizzard when you dropped me off.”

“I got a little lost. But just for a moment.”

“Were you at the…coffee shop?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I'm not really sure what your coffee shop is called.”

“That's okay, no one does.”

“What do you mean?”

“When it first opened, it was called the Java Hut. Then, like five years ago, Jeff, the owner's son, took over. He's all into science fiction and
Star Wars
and he thought it would be cool to change the name around to Java the Hut; you know, like Jabba the Hut, that big lizard guy in the
Star Wars
movie. I don't think people even make the connection anymore, but most people just call it the Hut anyway.”

“Jeff would like Victor,” I said.

“Who?”

“No one,” I said quickly. “I came by…
the Hut
…when I got my car this morning. I wanted to see if you were there.”

“I only work the night shift.”

“When I asked about you, they said there wasn't a Macy Wood working there.”

“That's because everyone thinks my name is Mary Hummel.”

“Why would they think that?”

“It's what's on my Social Security card and that's what my boss put on the work schedule when I first started…It doesn't matter, I answer to about anything.”

“How do you go from Macy Wood to Mary Hummel?”

“I have kind of a”—she hesitated—”interesting life.”

“Interesting as in fascinating or interesting as in a nightmare?”

“Yes.”

I nodded slowly. “Last night, when I told you I felt like
an orphan, you said you knew what I meant. Did you also lose your parents?” She looked away from me, seemingly uncomfortable with my question. “If you don't want to talk about it…”

“No, it's all right.” She looked back up and smiled sadly. “Actually it's more like they lost me.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was seven, I was given up for adoption.”

I wasn't sure how to respond. Finally I said, “I'm sorry.”

“It was pretty tough, but I was a pretty tough kid by then. My parents were alcoholics and drug addicts. I had been in and out of foster homes and drug rehabilitation centers so many times the only constant in my life was change. When I was seven, the state intervened and I was adopted by the Hummels. Mrs. Hummel didn't like the name Macy, so she changed the
c
to an
r
. Mrs. Hummel wasn't a very nice lady. I ran away from home at fifteen and haven't been back since. Mary Hummel is my legal name, but my real name is Macy Wood.”

“Where did you live after you ran away?”

“Mostly at friends' homes. I just kind of sofa-hopped for a year or so. Then when my friends started leaving home themselves, I spent a few months on the street. Those were the worst days. But like they say, it's always darkest before dawn. That's when I met Jo.”

Revealingly, my heart sank. “Joe's your boyfriend?”

She smiled. “No. Jo's a woman. Actually her real name is Joette.”

“Joette?”

“It's what happens when your parents are named Joe and Yvette and they only have one child. I was busing tables at a Denny's and she was a waitress there. She said she was looking for a roommate to help with expenses. She only charged me twenty-five dollars a month. It wasn't until I was older that I figured out she was really just trying to get me off the street. I eventually quit Denny's and came to the Hut, but I still live with Jo. She's looked after me ever since.”

“I never would have guessed your life had been that hard.”

“Why?”

“Because you're so…”

“Normal?” she offered.

“I was going to say
nice.
”

“Just too many scars to jest at wounds.” She sighed. “Well, that was a lot more of my history than I planned to share. So I guess we're even.”

“It happens.” After a moment I asked, “Is there anyone else in your family?”

“A little sister,” she said softly.

“How has she fared?”

“I don't know. I haven't seen her since I was adopted.”

After a minute I asked. “Have you ever thought of trying to find her?”

“A few times. Especially recently. I've been having these dreams. I'm at a public swimming pool and I hear a little girl calling for me like she's drowning. I go to help her when Mrs. Hummel grabs me and carries me away.” She looked at me. “I don't know why I've been having them.”

“Maybe it's a sign.”

“I've wondered that. The thing is I don't really know where I'd start. Or maybe I'm just afraid of what I might find. Or not find.” She sighed again then looked down at her watch. “I better go.”

We got up together and she stopped at my doorway. “I'm glad you're doing better.”

“Thanks for checking up on me. Could I have your phone number?”

“Sure.”

I grabbed the first piece of paper I could find—I think it was a tract from the Watchtower Society—and she wrote her number down on the back of it.

“I'll walk you out,” I said.

Outside, Macy lingered at her car, searching through her purse for her keys. When she found them, she looked back up, leaned forward and hugged me. When we parted, she looked into my face.

“I'd like to hear you play your guitar sometime.”

“Are you busy tomorrow night?”

She frowned. “I'm working.”

“How about Friday?”

“I have to work every night this week. Actually, all I do is work.” Then her face lit. “I have an idea. Every Thursday night we have live entertainment. It's usually Carlos, this old hippie guy who plays the guitar. But the last couple of weeks he's been out with bronchitis or something. You should come play. We'll hang out afterwards.”

“I've never really performed in public,” I said. “Outside of my sophomore talent show. But it sounds fun. I don't get off work until seven. Would seven-thirty be okay?”

“That's perfect. We have a sound system. So you just need to bring your guitar. And it pays ten dollars an hour plus tips.”

“I'll see you there.”

“Good night.” She climbed into her car and I stood there until she had driven away. Then I walked back inside amazed at how happy this girl made me.