Jaden Baker (46 page)

People didn’t know. They built decks for their friends, worked in bakeries selling donuts, manufactured illegal drugs to destroy the lives of others for monetary gain. Wrapped in a cocoon called life, each of them went about their days in a purposeless way, walking mindlessly, waiting to die.

For years all Jaden thought about was escape, of not being in pain. As he crouched into the cushions, the realization that he would never fully escape suffocated him. How was he supposed to forget the cruelness of the past few years, when physical reminders pulled and marred his skin, and memories haunted him?

Two years ago, that silver day when glass splashed to the ground and floated like ice on top of his warm blood, he concluded all of life was meaningless torture. What had been the point of all this, the effort to escape from Joseph and his men, the running and the fear? Consumed with the idea of freedom, he had never contemplated what to do with life. He was so hungry for a meaning and purpose, he’d even imagined himself a friend to comfort him.

No one real had ever truly cared about him. No one had ever put a thought or effort into his happiness.

“You can’t give up,” Seth whispered, his face wet with tears.

Jaden sat up and curled himself into a ball.

“I’m tired,” he said, his raspy and unnatural voice another mark of his slavery. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“You don’t want to end it,” Seth said. “I know you don’t.”

“It would be easy,” Jaden replied. “Killing is easy.”

Seth sat next to Jaden, and he marveled at the detail of him, how the couch caved under Seth’s weight, like he was real.

“They deserved what they got,” Seth said. “This is a war.”

Jaden swallowed. “Yes. I know. All the same, seven people dead, and I don’t feel a thing. Nothing, Seth.”

“That’s okay.”

“Is it?” he asked, eyeing him. “Fifteen years old and I’ve killed seven people. Six in an instant. And I don’t care.”

Seth put his arm around Jaden’s shoulders. “Feeling nothing is better than feeling pleasure from it. They were after you. You shouldn’t feel guilty. It’s a war, you against them. They would not have died if they left you alone. You’re not the aggressor.”

The rain poured outside.

Jaden sighed. “I guess you’re right. What about the people in the meth house?”

Seth made a face. “What about them?”

Jaden laughed under his breath. “I enjoyed beating them. I wanted to kill them, even the woman.”

“It’s because of people like them that you’re here, not living with your mom. You know that.”

“Is that
really
why?” Jaden asked.

Seth nodded. “You didn’t kill them.”

“Why did I like hitting them so much? Why do I want to do it again?”

Seth held his breath and walked off, leaving Jaden alone on the couch with the kitten.

“You need to throw out the crank,” Seth said. “Why didn’t you trash it when you found it?”

Jaden shrugged.

“Throw it away,” Seth said. “Please.”

Jaden summoned his backpack, found the small baggie of crank and held it in his left hand.

“You’ve seen what it does,” Seth said. “They all regret it. Just throw it out.”

Jaden ripped open the bag, poured the crystal powder on the table. The cat was interested, but Jaden pushed him away.

“Don’t,” Seth warned. “Don’t do this.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“No,” Seth answered. “You aren’t either. How will that stuff help you?”

It wouldn’t. Jaden stared at the drugs for a moment before sweeping them into the baggie. He tied it and threw it outside into the rain. If it didn’t get swept away in the streams, a car would run it over, or someone would pick it up for themselves. But it was gone.

The kitten mewed from the table, yellow eyes trained on him. He jumped to the couch and climbed up Jaden’s pant leg, perching himself on his knee, cleaning his little face by licking his paw and wiping his nose. He purred so strongly, Jaden felt it through his knee. He pet the kitten and scratched behind his ears.

“Cat,” Jaden said, as the kitten head-butted him again, then crawled to Jaden’s chest, nuzzling his chin and jaw. “I’ll call him Cat.”

Jaden lay on the couch, tucking his legs into his sleeping bag. Cat lay on his chest, rising and falling as Jaden breathed, kneading and purring, lulling him into a restless sleep.

Though it was mid-July, the morning was brisk, the sky a gray cotton of clouds, and Puget Sound a steely, cold blue. Most of Seattle grumbled, worn with winterish weather, impatient for the elusive summer sun. With umbrellas tucked away in the trunks of cars, sunglasses lost and separated from their original purchasers, the Pacific Northwest was a bastion of misty air and pale, complaining residents.

But on Harbor Island, once the largest man-made island in the world, and an industrial giant to this day, laborers were glad for the cool atmosphere and sunless sky. Forklift operators loaded cargo, massive orange cranes lifted containers from the ground and gently deposited them on freighters, and tug boats set out, pulling colossal ships behind them.

The caws of gulls were drowned by the engines of countless machines operating on the island: the soft-booming clank of containers dropping on ships and tracks, the tightening strains of heavy cables, and the good cheer of work done.

Gray and orange starfish clung to the pillars of piers, hoping the changing tides would not leave them high and dry, prey to hungry birds.

Elliot Samuel Fain, manager of Noble International, a cargo shipping company on Harbor Island, watched from his office window as gulls fought over a clam, pecking at each other on a dock. The scene amused him, as the shores were littered with clams. Birds liked to squabble. Though he could not hear the shrieking of the gulls, his imagination replaced the sound with the dialogue of two men standing behind him.

One spoke Russian, a rough language. Based on his harsh gesticulating, Mr. Fain surmised the Russian (was his name Danislav Nikolaevich?), was not pleased.

The second was Drew, his usually helpful assistant, who held a Russian/English dictionary in one hand, while the other made various movements through the air in attempts to slow Nikolaevich’s speech so he could translate.

Mr. Fain turned from the window and sipped his coffee. The gulls had flown away, taking the entertainment with them. The furious argument on the other side of his desk was escalating, and poor Drew, a fresh-out-of-college grad hoping to put something on his resume, was out of his comfort zone. It was ten in the morning, and he had a long day ahead of him. Six cups of coffee, three cigarettes, and a migraine—enough was enough.

“Okay, okay,” said Mr. Fain, holding up his hands. Nikolaevich crossed his arms and muttered under his breath, his eyes darting around the room as if deciding what to smash first. Drew smiled apologetically to his boss and slid his glasses up his sweaty nose.

Mr. Fain picked up his phone and called the warehouse. He muttered a few words then hung up. Groaning, he pulled his thinning leather wallet from his back pocket to count his cash. About to part from him forever was today’s lunch, a tank of gas, and flowers for his wife. If only Drew spoke Russian.

Five minutes after making the call, the office door opened, revealing the humble translator.

He was a young man, just under six feet tall, with a thin but muscular physique. His black hair was pulled behind him in a short ponytail, his beard brushed the collar of his denim jacket. Upon entering, he politely removed his cap and held it in his gloved hands. He approached the desk cautiously, his footsteps soft on the floor.

“Oh good,” Mr. Fain said, beckoning the young man closer. “We have a situation here. This guy’s name is Danislav Nikolaevich and I have no idea what he wants. Do you speak Russian?”

Tucking his cap under his arm, he nodded, his gray eyes focused on the cash on the table.

“I’ve got one hundred and forty two,” Mr. Fain said, hoping it was enough. “Just please translate for me, Joel.”

Joel nodded again and faced Nikolaevich, saying something in Russian. Nikolaevich responded, his tongue afire with sounds Mr. Fain didn’t know were vocally possible. He continued ranting for a few minutes, waving his hands in the air as Joel listened. Nikolaevich pointed every few words at Mr. Fain, then shook his fists.

Joel nodded along until Nikolaevich stopped talking, then he took the money and pocketed it.

“He says,” Joel said, his voice harsh and raspy, but his tone subdued, “that you lost a container that held the belongings of his grandparents, along with their urns and ashes.”

Mr. Fain frowned. “That’s all he said?”

“No,” Joel replied, shrugging. “I omitted the colorful commentary and threats. I can tell you if you want to know.”

Mr. Fain pointed at Drew. “Check the manifests for all the containers coming from...?” he looked at Joel.

“Magadan,” Joel answered.

“Maybe it got mixed up with the commercial containers.” Drew left, so Mr. Fain said to Joel, “Tell him we’re looking into it and it’s probably just a mix up.”

Joel spoke to Nikolaevich in what sounded like perfect Russian. Based on Nikolaevich’s reaction, the message got through. He nodded curtly then sat in a chair, his arms still crossed. From his seated position he started a more casual conversation with Joel. Mr. Fain recognized a few words like “Moscow” and “Seattle,” but nothing else. When Nikolaevich chuckled heartily at something Joel said, Mr. Fain smiled.

“Why’s he laughing?” he asked.

“Just a joke,” Joel replied, and before Mr. Fain could ask for the joke, Nikolaevich reengaged the conversation until Drew came bustling in the room, holding a shipping manifest notebook.

“We found it! You were right, it was cataloged wrong and put with the commercial imports.”

Joel must have relayed the news, as Nikolaevich jumped out of his chair, suddenly aglow, all hostility forgotten. He shook Mr. Fain’s hand then put his hand out to Joel, who hesitated before giving his gloved hand in return.

Nikolaevich left with Drew to get his grandparent’s belongings.

“Where did you learn Russian?” Mr. Fain asked, fascinated by the undistinguished man in front of him, oil stains on his trousers, scuffs on his work boots.

Joel shrugged the question. “I like languages.” Without another word, Joel backed away then spun on one heel and left the office.

Jaden put his cap back on his head as he stepped into the expansive warehouse. He did not hold the railing as he jogged down a flight of aluminum steps to the floor, where forklifts beeped as they backed out with heavy loads.

He stayed within the yellow and black striped tape on the floor, a safety path for foot workers, winding his way to a truck filled with heavy boxes. Three other workers were there now, having taken Jaden’s place while he was away. He vaulted into the truck and picked up a box, carrying it with feigned difficulty as two other men shared the burden of an identical box. They scuffled their boots to the edge of the truck, then hopped down before taking the load to a pallet, so a forklift could move it. They glared at Jaden as he unloaded five boxes to their two in the same amount of time.

He unloaded two more trucks before the union workers took a lunch break. He was not part of the union, but he was hungry enough to take a break of his own. Taking his sack lunch from his locker, along with a paperback novel, Jaden walked to a cleared dock and sat cross-legged at the end, the Sound in front of him, putting the book on his thigh so he could read while eating three sandwiches, a can of peaches, and a bag of animal cookies. A few of the cookies he tossed to hopeful ravens, who watched him as he read.

When thirty minutes had passed, Jaden shoved the novel in his back pocket, threw his trash in a nearby bin, and headed back to the warehouse to finish his shift. A group of six workers fell silent when Jaden came toward them, but he was neither bothered nor offended. Wherever Jaden went to pick up work, the hired staff discussed him in whispers. He was neither the tallest nor the bulkiest of them, yet he was stronger than men twice his size. It took Jaden—“Joel” to them—a fraction of the time to load and unload cargo compared to the average laborer.

Noble International used multiple unions; Jaden wasn’t a member of any of them. To please the unions, the manager lied, saying Jaden earned less than the union workers. Jaden often worked ten or eleven hours; he worked faster and more efficiently than three men combined. Mr. Fain paid him under the table.

He rarely talked with his coworkers. When he did, the topics were limited to offering help or asking where something was supposed to go. Being mysterious was advantageous. Everyone wondered who he was but no one investigated. Because Jaden spoke little, no one had a beef with him. Helpful, quiet, “Joel” was just the warehouse extra, he posed no threat.

An eighteen wheeler arrived at the warehouse full of unmarked boxes headed to South America. One of the union workers held a shipping invoice and checked off the boxes as Jaden unloaded them onto a pallet, stacking them four high, four across: a perfect square. A forklift came and whisked it away, taking it to a container for a freighter heading south.

At two o’clock, Jaden unloaded what he assumed to be electronics from Singapore. Three o’clock found him stacking crates in the warehouse, making sure everything lined up properly.

The afternoon shift came on at three, but Jaden didn’t clock out with the morning crew. He continued to load and unload until five that evening. Mr. Fain requested he checkout like the other workers, using discretion. Once he was off the job, Jaden put his steel-toed boots in his locker, and pulled out his running shoes for the long walk home. He set his gloves on top of his boots and shut the door, securing the lock.

The sun was playing hide-and-seek. Jaden carried his denim coat as he headed south toward the bridge and off Harbor Island. Overpasses crossed above his head, the evening traffic a chaotic, rumbling song. He passed old school busses and mobile homes, flatbed trucks parked on gravel lots, and semis without their trailers parallel parked on the side of the road. He usually walked straight home but today he took a detour.