Kiki and Jacques (8 page)

“Hey,” Jacques called over. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh hi! The library has free tutors today.” Kiki smiled. “But to tell the truth, they are not as good as you at explaining math.”

“You want something to eat?” Jacques pointed to the pizza place.

Kiki licked her lips as she shook her head. Two Somali girls stood in the doorway behind her, staring.

“What about later?” Jacques asked.

“Mohamed has a job with Mr. Silverstein, and I am supposed to meet him at the mosque when he is done.” She nodded toward a simple storefront on the side street behind them.

“Your brother is working at the Army Navy Store?”

“Only for today,” Kiki replied. “Mr. Silverstein asked him at the church party. He will help move some heavy things. Hooyo has not found work yet, so the pay is good for us.” Kiki motioned toward the Somali girls, who were beginning to giggle between whispers. “The tutor will start again soon. I should go back.”

Jacques shuddered as he turned away. Mohamed
at the Army Navy Store? What if . . . ? He bent over his knees and sucked air. It was a good thing, maybe. There was no way Duane would try anything now. No way at all.

When he walked back into the bridal shop, Jacques was whistling.

“You feelin' better?” Grandmère Jeannette stood at the cash register counting bills.

“I'm sorry. I, um, forgot to eat lunch.”

“Hmmm . . .” Grandmère Jeannette lowered her glasses. “I was wondering if Betty Labelle's pretty niece was the reason you were so shy about coming here today?”

Jacques shrugged.

“You haven't made that girl any promises you can't keep, have you?”

“Grandmère!” Jacques exclaimed. “Lucy is just a friend!”

“Aha, I see. . . .” Grandmère Jeannette's lips curled slightly as she closed the register.

Three or four ladies came in to browse, but there were no more sales. Still, Grandmère Jeannette smiled and hummed as she dusted the counters and fitted plastic covers over the gowns. At exactly four o'clock, she disappeared into the ladies room. When she returned, she was wearing a different blouse and dangling earrings.

“I'm going to the bank now. All you need to do is lock the doors at five, and you can go on home.” Grandmère
Jeannette picked up her purse. “Make sure your father eats somethin' for dinner, okay?”

Jacques nodded. Then his pulse began to race. “Grandmère . . .”

“Yes?” She paused by the door.

Jacques gulped. “Be careful at the speedway, that's all. Lots of creeps hang out there.”

Grandmère Jeannette smiled and blew him a kiss. Her cheeks were rosy, and her lips looked especially pink.

The door closed, and the shop went quiet. Jacques glanced through the windows up and down Main Street, but there was nothing to see. He sighed and wondered whether he could close up early. With a yawn, Jacques turned and squatted next to the pile of half-made boxes on the couch.

The front door jingled, and Monique walked in.

“Oh—it's you.” Blushing, Jacques sprang to his feet.

Monique's hair was pulled back to one side in rows of tiny braids. Her nails were black and shiny. “I figured I'd come find something I like.” She touched the small silver cross around her neck.

“Yeah, sure.” Jacques motioned toward the rack of wedding gowns.

“Maybe more like this one.” Monique pointed to a mannequin wearing a short red cocktail dress. The mannequin's golden hair was twisted in elaborate curls, and her skin was the color of chalk.

“Can I ask you something?” Jacques glanced at Monique.

“I seem kind of young to be getting married, is that it?” Monique didn't look up as she ran her nails over the silky fabric.

“No, of course not! It's just that you're really—I mean, you're pretty and you're smart and everything. . . .”

Monique didn't answer, but her eyes opened wide when Jacques said the word
smart
.

The phone started ringing in the upstairs office.

“I'll be right back.” Jacques bounded up the stairs wondering if Grandmère Jeannette was calling to remind him about something important. He also wondered whether Monique thought he was the stupidest kid in middle school.

There was crackling on the line, and then a strange nasal tone. “This is Maine Premier Bank calling. I must inform you of a serious delinquency on your mortgage.”

Jacques covered the phone with his hand, which was starting to tremble. Before he could think what to say, he heard a sharp rap from the back of the shop.

Monique's voice cut the air: “Duane! What are you doing here?”

Jacques dropped the phone and raced down the steps, but it was too late. Monique had already opened the alley door.

Duane stood inside the doorway grinning, a wild look in his eyes. His hair was slick with sweat, and his arms were wrapped around a camouflage backpack.

Garth stood behind him panting and cradling one fist. Jacques could see that his knuckles were bruised red and purple.

“Anyone else in here?” Duane's grin hardened into a sneer as he pushed Jacques aside.

Jacques shook his head. “You need to go! You have to leave
right now
.”

“We'll be gone soon enough.” Duane motioned for Jacques and Monique to stay quiet. After checking that the dressing room was empty, he crept into the showroom and crouched by the front door.

Jacques tried to follow Duane, but Garth's good hand landed squarely on his shoulder. Jacques and
Monique stood back with Garth, a few feet behind Duane. They could see through the display windows to the street.

“What's going on?” Monique glanced sideways at Jacques's flushed face.

There was some kind of commotion outside. A policeman ran by with his radio flashing, and people were gathering in a circle on the sidewalk.

Duane reached up and cracked the front door open. Suddenly, a muffled scream rose from the crowd: “Call an ambulance! He's hurt bad!”

Jacques could barely breathe; his heart was pounding
think! think! think!
Maybe he could bust out and yell for the police, but Garth's fingers were deep in his shoulder, pressing to the bone. If only he had closed the shop early, turned Monique away . . . or warned poor Mr. Silverstein that Duane was planning something terrible.

“Do you hear an ambulance?” Monique whispered. The sirens were faint at first, but getting louder.

Duane took a stained envelope from the backpack and tossed it on the couch. “We're outta here.” He grabbed Monique by the wrist.

Garth smacked the side of Jacques's head before slipping out the door. “You keep your trap shut, understand?”

“Leave him alone!” Monique exclaimed as Duane pulled her into the road. Her face was pale and her blue eyes were fluttering, scared. They disappeared down Main Street, away from the crowd.

As soon as they were gone, Jacques stuffed the envelope in his jeans and ran outside.

A man was lying on the sidewalk, blood pooling beneath his head.

Jacques cut through the huddle and fell to his knees beside Mr. Silverstein. His head was matted and swollen, but at least Jacques could see that he was breathing.

Mr. Silverstein's eyes opened slowly, watery and bloodshot. “Jacques . . . would you tell Jeannette that I'm sorry?” he whispered.

“It's gonna be okay!” But Jacques had no idea how badly Mr. Silverstein was hurt and whether it would ever be all right.

The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics jumped out. “Stand back! Give us room.”

As Jacques rose, he noticed Mohamed in front of the Army Navy Store, shaking his head wildly. Two police officers were with him. A block away, from the direction of the library, Kiki was coming toward them. She was walking fast, her long skirt swinging. Then she broke into a dead run.

Jacques felt someone behind him. He turned and swallowed hard when he saw Grandmère Jeannette's stricken face.

“You go ahead home now. Lock the shop and go home.”

“I don't know what happened,” Jacques began. “I heard the sirens and . . .”

“I've got to get to the hospital. You go back home to your father.” Grandmère Jeannette hurried to where the
paramedics were preparing to load Mr. Silverstein into the ambulance. She bent forward and smoothed his lips with her fingertips.

So there it was. Grandmère Jeannette and Mr. Silverstein.

Jacques's hands were shaking as he locked the door of the bridal shop. A police van pulled up, and he watched as Kiki and Mohamed climbed in.

Jacques jammed the key in his pocket and ran as fast as he could toward home.

“Dad! Dad . . . ! Quick!” Jacques burst into the apartment yelling.

Dad sat at the dining room table, holding a can of beer. A pile of bills lay scattered in front of him. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Mr. Silverstein was robbed and hurt bad! Grandmère Jeannette went with him to the hospital. We gotta go right away.” Jacques's limbs were shaking.

“Sit down.” Dad motioned to the table. “Take a seat and tell it to me straight.”

Jacques gasped for air, but stayed on his feet. “We have to help! The police might have arrested Mohamed.”

“Whoa—what? Who are you talking about?” Dad's eyes narrowed. “Do you mean the Somali kid from the soccer team?”

“Yes . . . Mohamed was working for Mr. Silverstein today. Someone broke into the Army Navy Store, and Mohamed didn't have anything to do with it, but
Mr. Silverstein got hit in the head, and now he's in the hospital.” Jacques's eyes were beginning to swell.

“Slow down a minute.” Dad grabbed Jacques by the arm and pulled him into the chair. He wiped his lips with the back of one hand. “Listen buddy, I'd go over to the hospital right now if I could. But I don't suppose I'm in any shape for driving.”

Jacques glanced behind his father to the wastebasket in the corner. It was full of empties.

“There's no reason to be worrying. Your grandmother can always get a cab home.” Dad paused and took a long swig of beer.

“What about Mohamed?” Jacques demanded, but didn't wait for an answer. He ran into his room and buried his face on the bed.

“Come on back here!” Dad hollered, but Jacques ignored him.

Jacques pounded the pillow with his fists, then pulled the dirty envelope from his pocket and peered inside: there were five crumpled twenty-dollar bills. He felt the tears come in waves, over and over, until he fell into a fitful sleep.

In the middle of the night, Jacques thought he heard the front door open. Turning onto his back, he listened, but the air was silent; maybe it was only a dream. Jacques squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of soccer combinations, his favorite players—anything,
anything
besides the terrible thing he'd let happen.

And then he prayed. A short, raspy whisper that
drifted softly above his head to the ceiling: “Please God—it was all my fault. I should have warned Mr. Silverstein! Please don't let him die.”

When Jacques woke, he was lying on top of the bed, still wearing his clothes from the day before. The shades were high, and sunlight streamed through the windows. For a split second, he thought about the first soccer match, and whether he could pull out from his slump. But when Jacques lifted his eyelids, the dirty envelope was still there, laying on the pillow next to him.

An ocean of nausea rolled over him. He stuffed the envelope under the bed, took a deep breath and went into the living room.

Grandmère Jeannette was settled in a lounge chair, fast asleep. The dining table had been cleared and the wastebasket emptied.

Jacques touched her arm gently.

“What? Oh
cher
!” Grandmère Jeannette blinked and sat upright.

“Mr. Silverstein, is he . . . ?” Jacques lost the words. Every limb was shaking.

“He's going to be okay.” Grandmère Jeannette rose and gave Jacques a quick hug. “He has a concussion, but thank God, the wound wasn't deep.”

“Do the cops know who did it?” Jacques dug his fingernails into his palms.

She shook her head. “Someone hit him from behind. He didn't see anything.”

“The policemen took Mohamed in their van!” Jacques exclaimed.

Grandmère Jeannette sighed. “Louis—Mr. Silverstein—has a heart of gold, God bless him. He was kind to that Somali boy and was trying to help him.”

“But Mohamed didn't have anything to do with it!” Jacques pounded one fist into the other.

Grandmère Jeannette looked into Jacques's eyes. “You have a good heart too,
mon cher
—but what do you know about this boy? You've already told me that he stays to himself, and that he gets real angry sometimes.”

“He didn't do this! He couldn't have! He was just working there today because he needed money for his family.”

“How bad did he need the money, I wonder?”

“No!” Jacques shouted. “It isn't like that!” He saw the surprise on his grandmother's face and lowered his voice. “We've
got
to help him.”

“I'm going back to see Louis after church this morning.” Grandmère Jeannette stretched and rubbed her cheeks. “Maybe he'll remember something more. In the meantime—you keep your distance from Mohamed. I don't need two of my fellows in the hospital.” She smiled weakly. “There, my secret is out.”

“Mohamed is innocent,” Jacques whispered as Grandmère Jeannette headed to her room.

Jacques wiped his eyes and went over to the picture of Mom on the dining room hutch. Looking at her picture made his stomach hurt even more. After slowly tracing her lips with his fingertips, he placed the photograph face down in the bottom of the drawer and closed it tight.

Pelé's hind foot was thumping hard against the rabbit hutch. Jacques lifted him from the cage and rocked him in his lap as he sat on the bed, trying to think. Did the policemen take Mohamed and Kiki to the station? Had they been there all night? In a cell?