Lost (19 page)

He felt a prickly quickening in his groin. Stretching above the top row of tiles, he turned the light off and went out. The pink bedside light was on and his mother sat perched on the side of the bed, legs crossed, pressing a glass of yellow ice cubes against her forehead. “I hope you're proud of yourself,” she said. “Couldn't quite reach the light switch, huh? C'mere.” She had on her high-heeled slippers with the puff feathers on the toes, and by swinging her leg and flexing her toes, the slipper swung and clapped against her heel. Next to her on the bed was the razor strap.

“It wasn't any nightmares,” he said, his voice fluting. “You lied.” He looked toward the hall again; the bedroom door was standing open and empty. “Where'd Patsy go to?”

“C'mere, Walter.” Her voice was low and steady. “If I have to come get you, it'll be twice as bad. You've been asking for this for a long time.”

Now the man was slouched against the door frame with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and she was off the bed, her robe falling loose and open, the dark taper of hair and the rosettes of her ponderous breasts rushing toward him. She grabbed his arm as he ran, threw him over the bed, and pushed his head down with her hand between his shoulder blades. She didn't take time to lower his pajama pants, but it didn't matter. The razor strap sizzled as it flew and struck. The sharp pain slashed into his clenched buttocks again and again.

When she let him up, he stood away from her slowly, choking to find his voice. “I don't like you no more,” he told her. “You lied to me, you killed my fish. We can't ever go to the Turnbulls' again.”

“I never said that,” she said, returning from hanging up the razor strap, her robe shifting apart, her thighs and stomach and breasts blotchy with dark bruises.

He let loose with all his venom. “They did, though. They said we couldn't. Cause their mom don't think highly of you and she don't want them and us to
adsoserate
together with each other cause you've got
sex
and that's
why!
” He choked and pointed at the bruises. “See,” he said, “you've got it.”

She stopped in midstride, pulled her robe shut, her face awry. “Well, that old windbag. If that's what they talk about, it's a damned good riddance. But who taught you to talk to your mother like that? Suzie? Talking about things you don't know a damn thing about.” She shoved him toward the door. “Now go back to bed, and leave me be.” He started to go, but the truth of it struck him and he turned, lifting his hands up in supplication. “Now I can't never go with 'em to the picture show no more.” But she pushed him—“Get going”—and he fell, scrambled up, and ran past to their room, where Patsy was hiding under the covers.

He climbed in beside her and lay there, crying, the tears running into the pillow. He cried about the letters that didn't come and the goldfish in the trash and the hundreds upon hundreds of cheering people in the newsreels he couldn't go see. And when he couldn't breathe from crying, he sat up and wiped his face and wept noisily.

Suddenly the ceiling light was on and Patsy was screaming, “Go hide! Walter, go hide!” jumping up herself and running from the bed, but the man was bending over him. “Puttin' up quite a little ruckus in here, ain't ya?” There was a strange smile on his face. “Sounds like to me you like to cry. Enjoy it. Keeping people up all night. How'd you like something to really cry about?” Quick as lightning, the man boxed his ears, first on one side, then on the other, box, box, that quick and hard, hands like iron, and it happened so fast there was no pain at first, just a drumming sound in his ears, and then the pain flowed into his head and everything blurred. His mouth sprang open, but nothing came from his lips and the room was turning dark, the light going out in dim washes, and his mother was in the room. He barely heard her say, “You've really hurt him,” but the man took her by the arm and turned off the light, drawing her away, and the scream grew out of him, riding out of his body on the waves of his pain.

Walter stayed in bed most of the next morning, holding his hand on his left ear that wouldn't stop hurting. Patsy didn't go to school, but stayed with him in their room, trying to get him to play. That's when she told him, “We have to find Daddy.” And they made their secret plan.

Their mother was talking on the telephone. When he went to the bathroom, he found a drying rack in front of the door to her bedroom, so he had to go in from the hall. And she told them not to come to her room any more at night unless they knocked. She didn't go to the Capri that evening, but the next day, in the afternoon, she told them to stay in the house, in their room, and behave themselves, she wouldn't be gone long.

When the front door closed and the house was quiet, Patsy wanted to leave right away, but Walter went to his mother's bedroom. He looked in all the bureau drawers, then went to the closet, which was full of a dry, woolly smell. “Come on,” Patsy said. On the floor in the corner he found the picture with the dusty black ribbon and the faded red cord. Heavy as it was, he managed to get it up in his arms and was turning to bring it out when his shoe snagged on a fallen coat hanger and sent him sprawling. The picture flew out of his arms as he fell—flew out into the room and crashed. Patsy went to it and turned it over. The glass that had protected the picture was now broken in chunks and pieces.

“Uhhh,” Walter moaned. “Oh, no,” Patsy murmured, and they sat down, feeling across the splintered, jagged surface. All he had wanted to do was take it with him so they could pick the right face.

The picture had buckled forward on one side and he thought he could get it out, but when he tried to, he cut three of his fingers and blood drops fell on the picture. His fingers didn't hurt, just stung, thin white cuts oozing his blood. “Now you've done it,” Patsy said. Walter let out a long sigh, reached in, and pulled the picture out. The jagged edges of the glass scraped white grooves diagonally across the pictured face. He wiped the blood off the picture with his shirt, but now there was blood on its back. Patsy ran to the bathroom and got the Band-Aids. She put one on each of his three cut fingers and one on his forehead like the prizefighter in the newsreel. Walter folded the picture small and put it in his back pocket. Then they went to get their coats.

Bracing one foot against the wall, turning and pulling the big brass doorknob, they got the heavy door open and ran out into the cold afternoon, then fled down the sidewalk, the icy snow catching in their eyelashes.

At the intersection, they swung across the street in a slant and ran along the outer fringe of parked cars where the slush had been packed down by traffic. Up ahead, they could see the waterfall of the marquee lights. As he ran, Walter took the picture out, unfolded it, and then ran harder to catch up, following Patsy down the gritty brick alley beside the theater until they reached the exit door in back. “What if they won't let us in?” Walter asked her. “We forgot to get money.”

“The other kids do it,” Patsy told him. “Now, be quiet. Be real quiet. You go first.”

“No, you go,” Walter said. “I'm too scared.” So while Walter studied the photograph once more, trying to memorize it, Patsy forced her fingers into the crack beside the door and got it open. Suddenly, she pushed him into the warm dark and stepped in herself, drawing the door shut behind them.

The movie cast a strange glow like moonlight on all the seats and faces. Patsy clutched at the stitch in her side while Walter held the picture, looking everywhere to see if anybody matched it, because Patsy said their father would be sitting in the audience. She had laughed at him and called him “cuckoo” when he had told her what he believed—that this was where the train would arrive, that the hundreds upon hundreds of cheering people came down from the newsreel and went out with the happy crowd. Trying to look at all the moonstruck faces, they went up the aisle and heard the woman speak to them. But the movie was ending; the people were standing up, putting on their coats, and if everybody left how would he ever match the faces? They darted across the inner lobby to the door on the other aisle, only to find themselves in a sea of legs.

In minutes, the crowd trickled to a few stragglers. They were too late. Walter slumped against the water fountain and covered his eyes, sobbing with defeat.

9

Most of the crowd had left before Leona stood up, feeling restored. It was quarter of five. Momentarily she scanned the gaudy trappings of the large sloping room; as the movie ended, she had lost sight of the two children, and she wondered what had become of them, if the ushers had caught them and run them off. I could have paid their way, she thought, sorry that she hadn't realized it sooner. She adjusted her coat around her, took Mamie's hand, and headed up the ramp. As they entered the lobby on their way out, they saw the children again—the little girl and boy standing together near the water fountain. The boy was crying and the girl appeared to be trying to comfort him. Still refusing to speak, Mamie nonetheless looked at Leona and tugged at her hand, pulling her toward the children. The little boy was holding a large creased photograph in his hand. When Leona asked them what was wrong, they said they were looking for their daddy.

“Where is your daddy?”

“In the picture,” the little boy said.

“You mean here in the picture show? Where is he now?”

“Right here,” the girl said, and showed her the man's face in the photograph.

The lobby had emptied to three teenage girls buying licorice at the candy counter, and the few uniformed employees. Mamie pointed at the little boy's hurt fingers and the Band-Aids, then grasped Leona's coat sleeve and pointed to the bloody places on the boy's shirt. Leona thought, he must remind her of someone in her own family.

“Did he hurt himself?” she asked the little girl.

“Uh-huh,” the child replied. “Taking the picture.”

Talking to them—children who were lost and hurt—came to her so naturally that Leona didn't realize at first she could be risking everything. The sense of possible danger came only when she noticed they were making themselves conspicuous simply by remaining in the deserted lobby; the ushers were looking at them. And yet these children were so pitiful and helpless, how could she deny them a moment's kindness? She asked the little boy about the blue welt she could see under his hair; with a pang, she thought, He's really been hurt. His ear looks bruised. “Did you hurt your head?”

“No,” he said. “Davy hit me.”

“Who's Davy? Is he your daddy?”

He held his breath, then let it go all at once. “Nahh … he's just this guy.” Looking at his feet. “He comes to our house sometimes. He comes to our house to sleep.”

“But why'd he hit you?”

“Don't know.” The little boy shrugged. “He said I keeped him awake. That's what he said.”

“Now, tell me the truth,” Leona said. “Does your ear hurt?”

“No,” he said, and shook his head. “It don't hurt any more.”

Leona looked through the glass front of the lobby. Low in the evening sky, the sun going down behind clouds created long, deep shadows; the angle of the light magnified the falling snow into fluttering white ribbons. It was time to take Mamie and go. She knew she couldn't get any more involved with these children; there was too much at stake. “Do you live nearby?” she asked them, and they nodded. “Then you should go on home.” They looked at her doubtfully. “Really you should. Your mother and father will be worried about you. Mamie, come with me.” She didn't wait for the children to reply; she had to remove her concern for them from her mind. “Go on home, now. That's the best thing to do.”

She started to take Mamie's hand, but all of a sudden Mamie turned and put her arms around the little boy. “Why, Mamie,” Leona said, “what're you doing?” And Mamie said, “No, they can't go. There's no more home.”

It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was small and rich. A thrill went through Leona.
That's Mamie's voice
. “Oh, Mamie,” she said gently, taking her in her arms, “we can't stay here.”

Once more, looking back at the children, Mamie said, “But there's no more home.” She's thinking of that terrible fire, Leona thought, and she felt the depth of Mamie's loss.

She carried her down the sidewalk toward the Buick, parked five or six cars away. It was almost five o'clock, almost suppertime. In another half hour, the sky would be completely dark; in four hours, she would have to start looking for a place to spend the night. Leona dreaded getting back in the car, setting off again in the snow with night coming on. Across the street next to the corner, she saw a neon sign blink and softly begin to glow;
SUGAR BOWL CAFE
, it said.
FAMOUS ICE CREAM
.

Determined to keep the two children out of her mind, she fixed her concentration on the sign. I should at least get a cup of coffee, she thought. And Mamie needs something. “Umm,” she said. “Ice cream. Doesn't that sound good? Let's get some before we go.” Mamie looked up at her but otherwise didn't respond. There was no one in sight, nothing really to worry about. They crossed the street, the wet snow blowing around them.

The restaurant was in its late-afternoon lull. Two waitresses in red-and-white checked uniforms lolled against the cabinet behind the counter, chatting and painting their fingernails. Leona steered Mamie in front of her to the second table back in the long L of booths. She helped Mamie up in her seat and sat down across from her. It was chilly in the room and they would be here such a short while Leona decided they should unbutton their coats but leave them on.

“Well, Mamie,” she said softly. “I know you can talk, because you just did. So you really will have to tell me what kind of ice cream you like.” The gray-green eyes remained passive, looking away somewhere. “Which do you like best, chocolate or strawberry? I think I'd rather have chocolate myself.”