Sketches (21 page)

“You think you and a few officers and a bunch of rent-a-cops can move us?” the Mayor asked. “There are close to two hundred of us. You gonna arrest us all?”

The crowd started to yell and scream support again. I saw two men right in front of us reach into their
pockets and pull out their knives. Another man bent down and picked up a broken-off piece of cinder block.

“He's right!” the Sergeant yelled, and the crowd suddenly got a lot quieter, as though they were shocked by his reply.

“We can't arrest all of you,” he continued. “Just some. Just those who are the leaders. Those are the people we're going to charge with instigating a riot. And we're also going to check everybody here and see if anybody has any outstanding warrants or charges and we're going to arrest those people, too.”

Even the mumbling in the crowd now stopped.

“I don't want to arrest anybody,” the Sergeant continued. “That's why I'm giving everybody a chance to just move on.”

The bullhorn man stepped forward and brought the bullhorn up to his mouth. “We have also provided a meal for you. Just outside the fence you will see a large catering truck, the shiny silver vehicle. Once you have packed up your possessions you are welcome to have some breakfast.”

Despite everything I burst out laughing. Ashley and Brent stared at me like I was crazy. I just couldn't help myself. It was like we were some sort of stupid animals and we could be tricked into leaving our homes by the promise of a little bit of food.

“We need people to start gathering up their things,” the bullhorn man said. “In one hour the construction
crew will be arriving to start preparing the site . . . in one hour.”

“Take as much time as you need!” the Sergeant called out. “If you need a few hours, take it, and remember we're here to make sure that everybody follows the law . . .
everybody
.” I knew he wasn't just talking to us but to the bullhorn man and the security guards as well.

We were going to have to leave. What choice did we have? What choice did we ever have?

I SAT ON THE GROUND
, my back against the bridge abutment. A paper plate, now half emptied of the gigantic second helping of bacon and eggs I'd gotten, was balanced on my lap. It had been almost two hours since they'd first arrived, and the last few stragglers were being herded out of the gate. In the end, most were leaving quietly. A few—the Mayor and some men like him—had put up some resistance, but even they realized there was no point in fighting. A couple of men, drunk or stoned, were too out of it to either co-operate or resist and they were taken away. One woman, ranting and raving and screaming about the CIA and aliens, was removed as well. They said they were going to take her to the hospital. Somebody should have taken her there a long time ago.

A second bulldozer and three large trucks, filled with construction workers, had appeared on the scene.
Many of the workers were busy with the fence that surrounded the property. They were mending holes and fixing the gate, smashed open by the bulldozer first thing that morning. In addition they were stringing up more barbed wire along the top of the tall fence. It was obvious that once we were all on the outside they were going to try to keep us from getting back in.

There was a loud crash, and a puff of dirt and dust flew up into the air. Brent jumped to his feet to see the source of the sound.

“It's the Mayor's place,” he said. “They just ran it over. It's gone, flattened by the bulldozer.”

Ashley got to her feet to look as well.

I didn't get up. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see.

“
HOME SWEET HOME
,” Brent said as he kicked in the board that was blocking the window. He reached down and wiggled it until the nails came free and he pulled it off the window frame, tossing it across the alley.

He reached into his pack and pulled something out. It was a flashlight . . . a long, black flashlight like the ones all of those security guards had.

“Do you like it?” Brent asked. “I
found
it this morning . . . I don't know where it came from,” he said, and started to laugh.

He aimed the light into the building and the powerful beam cut through the deep darkness, creating a path for us to follow. He climbed in through the
window and I followed. It was awkward to manoeuvre through the small opening with my pack still on my back. It was filled with all my things, including two blankets and a small pillow—things we'd accumulated at Tent Town. The tent was now gone. Brent had sold it for thirty-five bucks to a couple of guys whose shack had been flattened by the bulldozers. They said there was a spot down by the river where they were going to set it up. We wished them luck and pocketed the money.

Some of our Tent Town neighbours were in motels tonight, courtesy of Social Services, but we figured they'd have taken one look at us and started checking us against their list of runaways, and we didn't need that. Better to just slip away quietly and make our own plans, as usual.

“Have we been here before?” Ashley asked as we moved slowly across the floor of the deserted warehouse.

“I've been here before. Maybe before your time,” he said. “There's a good place to sleep in the corner. It's sort of protected and nobody comes here . . . at least not very often . . . so we won't be bothered.”

I hadn't even thought about that. In Tent Town we were safe. There were rules. There was the Mayor. Here we were on our own again. I reached down and felt the knife in my pocket. Maybe I really did need to have a weapon.

“This place really smells bad,” Ashley said.

“Squats don't usually have air-fresheners. You just got used to the fresh air coming off the lake.”

“It was nice. Maybe we shouldn't have sold our tent,” I suggested.

“A tent is no good unless you have a place to pitch it. A safe place,” Brent said.

“Some people said they were going to try to set up another Tent Town, make it even bigger and call it Tent
City
,” I said. “When that happens, maybe we can buy another tent and—”

“
If
that happens,” Brent said, cutting me off, “it's not going to be for a long time, and by that time we'll be in our apartment.”

“I like it when you talk that way . . . like there's no doubt,” I said.

“There is no doubt. It's happening,” he said. “And it's happening because of you.”

“Me? We've all been working, and saving.”

“But it was your idea, and without that idea nothing would have happened.”

“He's right, Dana,” Ashley agreed.

“So remember, this is just temporary. We'll only be here or someplace else for a few more nights . . . a week . . . maybe two at most.”

“I'd rather it was someplace else,” Ashley said. “This place really does stink!”
I didn't think any squat smelled nice, but I had to agree. There really was a thick, foul stench in the air.

“You've both been spoiled,” Brent said.

“You have a head cold or you'd smell it too,” Ashley countered.

“Quit complaining. It's through this way.” Brent pushed open a door and we were greeted by a wave of foul-smelling odour that practically threw me backwards.

“Whoa, now even I smell it!” Brent agreed.

“What could possibly smell that bad?” I asked. Brent started to shine the flashlight around the room. Slowly the beam revealed garbage and bits of wood and broken concrete, and then it stopped moving. There was something on the floor in the corner. It was a lump, a mound, a person-sized object beneath an old tattered blanket.

“Somebody's here,” I whispered. How could he stand the smell?

“Hello!” Brent called out.

There was no answer. No movement.

“Must be sleeping,” Brent said.

“Or stoned,” Ashley added.

“Hello!” Brent yelled, and I practically jumped off the ground, startled by his voice. There was no response.

Brent edged forward. I wanted to stay put or even run in the opposite direction but I found myself moving
with him, unable to resist, maybe too frightened to separate from him even a few feet.

“Hello!” Brent called. “Are you okay, buddy?”

Still no response. We continued to move forward. It was definitely a man, a person, lying beneath the blankets right at our feet. The smell was overpowering; my eyes started to tear up.

“Hey, buddy,” Brent said. No answer.

Brent reached out a foot and gently nudged the man. Nothing. He put his foot against the man's side and pushed. The man rolled over and the light revealed a rotting, insect-infested face with empty eye sockets staring up at us! I screamed and felt myself starting to faint, and then Brent's strong arms wrapped around me and I stumbled away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“
DANA
,
IT
'
S OKAY
,” Ashley said as she squeezed me even tighter in her arms.

I continued to sob. Loud, deep sobs that started in my chest and worked their way up my throat and out. I'd tried to stop crying but I couldn't. I'd tried to stop shaking but I couldn't do that either. At least I'd stopped throwing up. Three times between leaving the warehouse and reaching the coffee shop I'd had to double over and puke.

“You've got to stop,” Brent hissed. “People are staring.”

I raised my head from Ashley's shoulder and gazed around. There were about two dozen people sitting on the stools at the counter or clustered around the little tables. Some were staring at their coffees. Others were looking directly at us.

“Just take a sip of coffee,” Brent suggested as he pushed a paper cup across the table toward me.

Ashley loosened her grip and I reached for the steaming cup of coffee. My hand was shaking badly. I used both hands to pick up the cup and brought it slowly to my mouth. Before I took a sip I inhaled deeply the strong aroma of the coffee, hoping to replace that awful stench that seemed to cling to me still.

I took a sip. It was hot and sweet. Usually I didn't drink coffee this late at night—it was after midnight— because it kept me awake. Tonight it didn't matter because whatever I did or didn't do, I wasn't going to sleep. I didn't even want to close my eyes, because every time I shut them I saw that face. I shuddered and started to shake again. I took a deep breath to suppress the sobs.

“How old do you think he was?” Ashley asked.

Brent shrugged. “Hard to say, you know, because of what his face looked like, but I think he was old . . . maybe thirty or even forty or fifty. I would have a better guess if I'd had more time.”

We'd rushed out—a mad run with me screaming and tripping and falling down and getting back up and tearing through the dark warehouse. Ashley had finally grabbed me, and then she and Brent had walked me out, one on each side, supporting me so I wouldn't
topple over, my legs weak and wobbly and unable to hold me up.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“Finish our coffee and find some place to crash for what's left of the night,” Brent said.

“I meant about him, about the man.”

“I don't think there's anything we can do for him.”

“But we have to do something,” I pleaded.

“There's nothing we can do that'll make any difference for him. He's dead and he's going to stay dead,” Brent said, his voice barely a whisper.

“How long you figure he's been dead?” Ashley asked.

I looked around again, hoping nobody could hear what we were saying. They'd all gone back to their coffee and doughnuts and weren't even looking at us now.

“Don't know. A while. A couple of days . . . maybe a week.”

“But shouldn't we call the police?” I suggested.

“That won't make him any less dead. All it can do is get us in trouble.”

“How will it get us in trouble?”

“Think about it. We live on the streets, and you're underage. You don't think the police are going to ask some questions that we can't answer? Maybe even think that it was us that did it?”

“We didn't do anything except find him. We didn't do anything wrong!”

“Of course we did. First off, we were trespassing on private property. Second, we're kids living on the street, so as far as everybody in the whole world is concerned we're
always
doing something wrong. The cops would probably hold us, you know, put me in jail and hand you two over to Social Services, until they sorted out the whole thing . . . how he died.”

I hadn't even thought of that. “How
do
you think he died?”

Brent shrugged. “Could have been anything. Maybe he overdosed, maybe he was sick. Maybe somebody stuck a knife into him. I don't know, and I don't want to find out. I just want to keep some distance between that body and us.”

“I understand,” I said. “It's just . . . it's just that it doesn't seem right to leave him there.”

“Somebody else will find him, I'm sure, eventually.”

“Maybe other people have found him before and just left him,” I said.

“She's right,” Ashley said. “It seems wrong not to do something. Poor guy deserves something more.”

“At least if they found him they could tell his family what happened to him,” I added.

“Maybe he doesn't even have a family,” Brent said.

“Everybody has a family,” Ashley said.

“Maybe he doesn't have a family that gives a damn about him,” Brent said. “Maybe nobody cares if he's
dead or alive. You know what it's like to have a family like that!”

Ashley looked hurt, like Brent had reached out and struck her. I guess in a way he had.

“Maybe nobody does care,” I agreed. “But maybe they do. Either way, I'd want my family to know.”

Brent got up abruptly from the table. “We have to get out of here,” he said, as he took his cup and paper plate and stuffed them in a garbage can.