No Place (13 page)

Meg digs into her pocket and I feel like crap. Her brother’s been nearly beaten to death and now
she’s
got to pay for the ride home?

She counts what she pulls out of her pocket. “I’ve got enough.” We run out into the rain.

The cabby needs to know where we’re going.

“Know Dignityville?” I ask.

“Who doesn’t?” he answers. I expect him to start driving, but he looks over the seat at me. “Sure you got the fare?”

“Yeah.”

In the back of the cab I put my arm around Meg and
she sniffs miserably. Could things be any worse? If I’ve read between the lines correctly, her brother may not even make it through the night. Back “home” in Dignityville her father’s deathly ill. I wish I knew what to say, but anything that comes to mind feels like some movie cliché.

There, there, everything’s going to be okay.

Yeah, right.

“I can’t stop thinking about them hitting him with a baseball bat,” she sniffs.

The cabdriver looks at us in the rearview mirror. “That beating tonight?”

“You know about it?” I ask, surprised.

He holds up something that looks like a walkie-talkie. “Police scanner. He gonna be okay?”

Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I shake my head, not because I know what’s going to happen to Aubrey, but because this isn’t the time to talk about it. He nods back.

Ten minutes later we stop in front of Dignityville. When Meg tries to pay, the driver shakes his head. “Forget it. I was heading in this direction anyway.”

We thank him multiple times and then run down the muddy path in the dark, the rain making
pocking
sounds on the cloth roofs of the tents. When we get to Meg’s she turns to me, her hair plastered to her head and rainwater dripping down her face. “Thank you, Dan. I . . . I don’t know what I would have done . . .” She seems so frail and wounded, and
the next thing I know, even though we’re standing in the rain getting drenched, I take her in my arms and hug her.

*  *  *

Jogging back to my tent through the rain, my feet are soaked and squishy in my shoes. Here and there in the dark bikes are propped against the fence or leaning against tent posts—the results of Aubrey’s bike drive. My phone vibrates again. Talia. That makes seven messages from her, and I’ve got that dismal feeling like when I’ve thrown a bad game and in the locker room the reporters from the local newspaper and radio station are going to ask what happened. As if I ever know how to answer.

Gee, guys, guess I just didn’t have my good stuff today.

According to my horoscope, Venus in Capricorn forms a square to Saturn in Libra, which tends to make my curveball hang.

Our tent is empty. Inside I pull off my soaked jacket and shoes, dry my head with a towel, pull on a fresh hoodie and dry socks.

Then, as much as I dread it, I call Talia back. “Hey.”

“Where are you?” She sounds hurt. “Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

I make up a lie about how I was waiting at the Gerson Street bus stop when Meg passed on her way to the hospital and told me about what had happened to Aubrey. And how I could tell she needed support and I went with her.

“Aubrey?”

“Her brother. The one who’s kind of the leader of Dignityville.”

“Is Meg there?” is all Talia wants to know.

“She’s in her tent. But think about it, Tal. The guys who beat up Aubrey couldn’t have known he lived in Dignityville unless someone told them. It really sounds like they beat him up on purpose.”

As if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said, she says, “Can you still come to the party?”

It’s almost eleven and I’m toast, but that never stopped me from going out before. Sooner or later you catch a second wind. That’s not what’s holding me back. It’s just hard to imagine partying after what happened to Aubrey. “Better not, sorry.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then Talia says, “I have to go,” and hangs up.

She’s never done that before.

*  *  *

The patter of rain against the tent is slowing, and I wonder where my parents are. It’s not like they can afford to go out. Not wanting to be alone, I go over to the dining tent. Mom’s sitting by herself, reading a book. She gives me a puzzled look when I sit down. “Aren’t you supposed to be out with Talia?”

I tell her about Aubrey.

“Oh, God.” She puts down the book. “That’s awful.”

“Dad around?” I ask.

“I think he’s refereeing a softball game.”

They play softball under the lights on Friday nights, but . . . “Mom, it’s been pouring.”

She blinks with slow surprise as if she hadn’t put together the weather and Dad’s plans. “Basketball?”

“I don’t think the season’s started yet. And it’s eleven at night.”

She shrugs. “Well, whatever.”

Because of the damp chill inside the Grand Ballroom, they’ve turned on the heaters. The radiated warmth provides a tiny bit of comfort in an otherwise seriously uncomfortable situation. I’ve managed to reach seventeen years old without ever knowing anyone around my age who’s died. Not that I didn’t think it could happen, but until it becomes a real possibility for someone you know, I’m not sure you truly believe it.

As if she’s read my mind, Mom presses her lips together sympathetically. “People recover from comas all the time.”

We talk about Meg and what it must be like for her and her mother with Mr. Fine already sick and Aubrey now in the hospital. Just when I feel like I’ve gotten out most of what’s on my mind, I realize there’s still one more thing: “Talia’s mad because I didn’t go to the party. But after what happened to Aubrey, how could anyone feel like partying?”

“Do you know what that’s called?” Mom asks.

There’s a
name
for it? “Partyitis?”

“Social conscience. The injustices of life bother you.”

I raise my hands in a gesture of wonder. Like, what did I do to get stuck with a social conscience?

“I know,” Mom agrees. “It’s not always fun, but it’s good. The world could use more of it.”

Her comment makes me think back to the night my friends and I made chili in the basement at Saint Stephen’s, and how Tory and Ben, two of my least favorite people, were the ones who showed the most concern for the folks in Dignityville. I think of how Mom is trying to get some of the residents of Dignityville involved in gardening instead of spending all day watching TV, and I tell her I’m proud of what she’s doing.

She nods, but not with great enthusiasm. “Now, if only you and your father were happier.”

“Why doesn’t Dad take a job? I mean, any job? Even pumping gas?”

“I think he’s depressed, sweetheart. It’s hard for him to find the motivation.”

He’s given up.

 23 

A phone vibrating somewhere in the tent wakes us the next morning. Mom and I search through our things until she finds it and squints. “ ‘C U in 5?’ ”

“It’s Noah,” I groan. “Sorry.”

I drag my butt out of my sleeping bag and start to pull on some running clothes. Dad came back late last night, but now his sleeping bag is empty, which means he must’ve gotten up early and left.
What’s he up to?

I trudge toward the entrance where Noah’s waiting, and we start to jog. The rains have mostly passed, but the sky is still overcast and the ground is wet, so we stick to sidewalks. “What happened last night? Tory said Talia was really upset.”

I tell him about Aubrey.

“Holy crap,” he mutters. “But wait, how would beating up one guy change anything about Dignityville?”

I tell him how—despite what Mayor George said about
Dignityville being temporary—Aubrey was working toward making it permanent. “A lot of people are convinced the value of their homes will go down if the town is crawling with homeless people. It’s all about money.”

“So you kill the beast by cutting off its head,” Noah says.

“Exactly.”

“Shouldn’t be that hard to figure out who’s behind it,” he adds, almost offhandedly.

As we continue to jog, I stare at him, dumbfounded. “How?”

“It’s a seriously desperate act, right?” he replies as if the answer is obvious. “Something only someone who had an awful lot to lose would even consider. So you start with those who have the most to lose.”

He’s right. It’s a shockingly simple deduction. Except there could still be so many possible suspects—including those I don’t know and may have never heard of—that trying to figure it out feels futile.

We jog through town. A light drizzle begins to filter out of the clouds, but it doesn’t bother us. My thoughts drift back to Talia. What if, by tonight, she and I still haven’t spoken? The idea of spending another Saturday night hanging around Dignityville is seriously less than appealing.

I ask Noah if he’s got plans.

He shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye. “Tyler, Zach, and I are going to see Narconna.”

That catches me by surprise. He knows they’re one of my favorite bands.

“The tickets are, like, pretty expensive,” he adds.

Ouch! How sucky is this?

“Yeah, I probably couldn’t have gone anyway,” I agree, trying to smooth it over.

It’s time to head back to Dignityville, and we talk about the World Series for the rest of the way. Neither Noah nor I care much for either team, but at least it’s something safe to discuss. At a stoplight I look to my right. About a block away a guy with a big plastic bag is going through garbage cans. He’s wearing a hat and sunglasses, which is strange because it’s overcast and misty, and besides, when was the last time you saw a bum wearing sungla—

Wait a minute. . . . There’s something disturbingly familiar . . .
Is that . . . No . . . no way . . .

I turn away before Noah notices what I’m looking at. The light changes. We start to jog again. Inside, my stomach twists and churns.

Couldn’t it be someone who just looks like him?

With those sunglasses you can’t really be sure, right?

Things can’t be
THAT
bad, can they?

A block later I realize my hands are clenched so tight the fingernails are digging into my palms.

Face it, Dan. It was Dad.

*  *  *

At the entrance to Dignityville I tell Noah to have fun at the concert and we say good-bye. I’m still in shock over what I just saw. Why
shouldn’t
things be that bad? Dad’s
unemployment has run out. He mentioned food stamps and TANF.

Should I tell Mom what he’s been up to? Or let Dad know I know? I need to think about this. Meanwhile, stepping back into Dignityville is such a weird, jarring experience, like passing through a Stargate wormhole and coming out in some Third World refugee camp where people live in tents and the sidewalks are muddy.

It really is
The Grapes of Wrath
all over again.

 24 

The Fines live in a tan army surplus tent with plastic rollup windows. I stop outside for a moment, uncertain how to proceed. Tents don’t have doorbells, and I don’t want to track mud in. Finally I go to the front flap and clear my throat. “Uh, excuse me?”

“Dan?” Meg’s voice darts out from inside. “Just a minute.”

When the flap opens I catch a glimpse of a hospital bed. Just like that old lady in the ER last night, Meg’s dad has a greenish breathing mask over his face. He’s pale and bony with a smattering of uncombed white hair, and looks like he’s asleep.

Meg quickly closes the flap behind her, then gestures to me to walk. “We don’t want him to know,” she whispers. “He thinks Aubrey has a job out of town.”

“How is he?”

“He made it through the night.” As she walks, Meg hugs herself like she’s trying to hold it together. “The doctor said
if he continues to improve they could move him out of the ICU in a day or two.”

“Great!”

She nods halfheartedly.

Thinking back to my conversation with Noah, I ask, “Has anyone been able to talk to him about what happened?”

Meg shakes her head. “He’s still in a coma.”

We walk around to the back of the park, where Mom and about half a dozen others are turning over soil with shovels and rakes. She sees us, smiles, and waves. Still picturing Dad and his big plastic bag, I force a smile and wave back. Does she know what he’s been doing? I bet she doesn’t.

A tree-lined stream runs through the back of the park, and Meg and I head that way. We settle down on some rocks beside the bank. “And your dad?” I ask.

Meg shrugs. “The same. There’s nothing anyone can do. We’re just waiting for him, too.”

Only he’s headed in the opposite direction.

“Isn’t there someplace he can go?” I ask. “What do they call those places?”

“A hospice? He’s not ready. They don’t want you until . . . the end.” Her voice cracks. I put my arm around her and she leans close. Dead leaves drift past on the muddy water.

“I keep thinking about
The Grapes of Wrath
,” I tell her. “And we’re the Okies.”

“What about your scholarship?”

“I could get hurt, or just not be good enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

I brush some curls away from her face. “And what about you?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Aubrey took out all those college loans to get a degree in political science and the only job he could find was bartending. And he still has to pay the loans back. You really have to wonder if college is worth it. I mean, if I graduate with tons of loans and can’t get a decent job? I could be in debt for years. Might be better off getting a job right after high school.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking:
Sure, you could get some crap job after high school, but if you don’t go to college you’ll be stuck in crap jobs for the rest of your life.

But these days even some people who go to college get stuck in crap jobs.

Or no jobs at all.

I don’t say it . . . because I’m pretty sure I don’t have to. Meg already knows. Meanwhile, other thoughts plague me. I wish Noah hadn’t made that connection to who would have wanted Aubrey out of the picture. I wish I knew what to do about Dad. Could I sell my laptop? Bad idea. It’s four years old and probably not worth the price of a good family meal. And then what would I do for homework and college next year?