Stand by Me (27 page)

“Iffen you lookin' fer somethin' ta eat”—Kat jumped. Where was that voice coming from?—“change-over ain't till Thursday midnight. Purty good pickin's Wednesday night an' Thursday.”

Kat peered around the second Dumpster. A street bum—well, he looked like someone who lived on the street to her—in grease-stained trousers, dirty gym shoes with no socks, a wool sweater that had seen better days pulled over a shirt of indeterminate color, and a gray knit hat pulled down to his eyebrows, sat on a piece of cardboard, his back against the brick wall of the big store.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Kat felt slightly embarrassed to have a homeless man who looked as if he could use a good meal telling her when “the pickin's” would be good. She started to leave and then remembered the apple she had in her backpack, left over from her lunch. Slinging the pack off her back, she unzipped it and dug around until she found the apple. “Here.” She held it out. “Would you like this?”

The man's eyes, sagging under folds of pale skin, glittered, and his mouth broke into a grin, showing a mouth full of gaps and bad teeth. He nodded, took the apple, and arranged his bite to take advantage of the teeth he did have.

Feeling awkward, she nodded at him and backed away.

But what the old man had said stuck in Kat's mind all the next day. If he
was
old. Hard to tell. But he looked like he'd been out on the street for eons. She wondered what he'd look like if he got cleaned up, shaved, his teeth fixed . . .

When she met her housemates at The Chip for a late lunch, she told them she needed to study in the library until late, so go on home without her, she'd come later. When they parted ways, Olivia worried about her taking the bus and El alone. But Kat just waved them off. “I'll be home before dark, Livie. I promise.” She started for the library, then turned and yelled, “Nick, it's your turn to cook! Save some supper for me!”

Well, she did have a lot of homework and the library was as good a place as any. She spent the afternoon translating a passage from a Spanish novel and working on a take-home midterm, then finally headed for the bus at six o'clock. The air was a good ten degrees warmer than yesterday, maybe in the sixties, and Kat got off the bus a couple of stops before Broadway, feeling like stretching her legs with a good walk. The wind off the lake half a mile ahead ruffled her hair, and she loosened the clip that usually held it at the back of her neck and shook it out, frizzy waves falling past her shoulders and lifting in the breeze. Ah, felt good.

Crossing Sheridan Road, she headed directly for the back of the Dominick's store, though she slowed her pace. She wasn't sure she wanted to run into the same homeless guy again. But all she saw were two big semis backed up to the loading docks and men going in and out, pushing dollies piled high with boxes.
Drat
. The place was too busy. Maybe she should wait awhile . . . or come back? No, too far to come back. She'd wait awhile, see what happened.

Walking north on Sheridan to kill time, she saw a paved path leading to a park beyond some high-rise apartment buildings. Wandering through the park, she followed the path through an underpass beneath Lake Shore Drive and came out on one of Chicago's many beaches. And there was the majestic lake, its surface ruffled with whitecaps by the constant wind. Kat grinned, shaking her hair in the wind.

But she shouldn't stay too long. Walking quickly back to the store, she saw first one truck pull out of the alley into the street, and right on its tailgate another one. Maybe the coast was clear. Grinning, she headed once more for the back of the store.

But even before she got to the Dumpsters, Kat saw a slight figure standing on a wooden crate, holding open the lid of the far Dumpster and leaning over the side, head hidden. She hesitated . . . but it was obviously a girl or woman, not the old guy. And there was another Dumpster. She was not going to leave without seeing what “the pickin's” were today.

Kat walked quietly up to the closest Dumpster, set down her backpack, and lifted the lid.
Gold mine!
Plastic-wrapped six-packs of snack yogurts, sell-by date only yesterday . . . a box with tomatoes and green peppers, slightly bruised or overripe . . . a whole box of cauliflower, just a tad brown on the florets . . . a bag of apples, condition unknown. Grinning, Kat dragged out the box, added some of the yogurts, a few heads of cauliflower, and the bag of apples. Squatting down, she unzipped her backpack to stuff as much in as it would hold. She'd carry the rest in the—

“You! What are you doing, stealing food other folks need?!”

Kat was so startled, she nearly lost her balance. But she quickly stood up to face her challenger—and realized she was face-to-face with the young woman she'd seen in the foyer of the three-flat, the same woman in the photo of the apartment upstairs.

Avis Douglass's daughter.

Kat steadied herself. “I . . . I'm not stealing. They just throw this stuff away.”
And why are
you
here helping yourself, if it's stealing?
she wanted to add.

The young woman's eyes narrowed. “You're that girl I saw in my mom's building. Moving in, you said. Which means
you
aren't living in the street like some. I bet you've got money. Why don't you just . . . just go in the store and buy what you want, and leave this stuff for folks that really need it?” She flipped a hand toward the store.

Kat's mind raced. What was this about? The young woman had on a pair of jeans, a hoodie with the hood loosely covering her raven-black tresses, and scuffed gym shoes. A bit disheveled, but she was still an attractive young woman, with smooth honey-brown skin and long strands of tightly coiled waves straggling out of the hood around her face.

“And you're Mrs. Douglass's daughter. I saw your picture in her apartment.”

The woman tensed, her eyes suddenly fearful.

Kat picked up the box and held it out. “Are you saying you need this? Take it. And here . . .” She set the box down, dumped the food out of her backpack into the box, and straightened. “It's yours.”

Kat's words hung in the air as the young woman stared at the box for a long moment. Then she darted forward, grabbed the bag of apples and a six-pack of yogurt, and stuffed them into an already-bulging black plastic trash bag she was carrying. Starting toward the street, she suddenly stopped and turned back. “Don't tell my mother you saw me here.”

“But I don't even—”

“Promise me!”

Kat hesitated, and the woman seemed to panic.
“Promise me!
”

“O-
kay
, I promise. Just tell me your name. I'm—”

But the woman turned and fled.

Chapter 25

T
he nine-year-old slumped in the chair in Avis's office the next day, arms crossed defiantly across his rumpled T-shirt. She watched him for a few moments, not saying anything. Shaggy brown hair that needed a haircut—a wash wouldn't hurt either. Pasty skin. Tall for his age, thick in the neck and shoulders.
They'll snatch this kid up for football in
high school and not give two cents whether he's got passing grades or
whether he's learned to get along with other people
.

“Derrick. Tell me about your family.”

His pale eyes jerked up. This was obviously not what he expected when he'd been called into the principal's office. The eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why you wanna know?”

“Just getting to know you. Who lives at your house?”

“Just . . . my mom and dad. He drives a truck so he ain't around too much. An' me and my brother.”

“Is your brother older or younger?”

“Older. What's it to you?”

Avis decided to ignore the surly tone. “So what kind of things does your family like to do together?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably. The arms uncrossed, and he sat on his hands. “I dunno. Watch TV, I guess.” Avis said nothing. He shrugged. “My mom works late, so mostly it's just me an' my brother.”

“So your brother takes care of you?”

Derrick scowled. “S'posed to. But he an' his friends are always pushin' me around. So mostly I just stay outta their way.”

Avis's spirit sagged. What she had on her hands was a neglected kid with absentee parents and a bully big brother.

“Tell me about your friends.”

Another shrug. “My dad don't want me to play with the kids in my neighborhood. Says there's too many gooks an' spics an' nig—uh, blacks.”

Avis pressed her lips together.
I'll bet
. So much for calling in the parents. She forced herself to keep her voice friendly. “Do you like Sammy Blumenthal in your class?”

A sneer lifted one side of his mouth. “That beanie-boy? Why would I like
him
?”

“Why not?”

“ 'Cause he's a wuss. All ya gotta do is look at 'im an' he goes cryin' to the teacher.”

“But I understand you do more than just look at him.”

The boy hunched and stared at the floor.

Avis watched him sadly. No wonder Derrick picked on other kids. The proverbial pecking order.

Finally she got up from her chair, walked around her desk, and pulled up a second chair next to Derrick. He cringed slightly away from her. She didn't touch him, just sat close. “Derrick, would you like to carry the flag into the auditorium and lead the Pledge of Allegiance when we have our final assembly in a couple weeks?”

Now he stared at her, mouth open. Then the eyes narrowed again. “You messin' with me?”

“No. What do you think?”

Was that a smile at the corners of his mouth? “Well, yeah.

Sure. That'd be cool.”

“Just one thing. Sammy Blumenthal will be carrying the Illinois flag at the same time. I need to see that you two can get along if this is going to work. If I hear otherwise”—she shrugged—“I'll need to get someone else.”

The boy's pasty face seemed to brighten. “Okay. No problem.”

“Good.” She stood up. “I'll walk you back to Mrs. Baxter's class.” And tell Jodi to get Sammy Blumenthal into her office on the sly so she could ask
him
.

Estelle Bentley's bosom heaved as she chuckled. “Avis Douglass, you sure do have an odd way of dealing with school bullies. Puttin' the bully an' the bull-
ee
on flag duty together. Now that takes the cake!”

Her husband, Harry, wagged his shaved head. “Wish we could do somethin' like that with rival gang kids. Woo-eee.” He whistled through his teeth.

Jodi Baxter appeared in the archway of the living room carrying a tray with a coffeepot, a pitcher of iced tea, mugs, glasses, milk, and sugar. “Some like it hot, some like it cold,” she sing-songed.

“And
nobody
likes it in the pot, nine days old.” Denny Baxter took the tray from his wife and set it on the sturdy wooden coffee table. “When Jodi starts reciting Mother Goose, I know it's time for a looong summer vacation. Harry, you want coffee?”

Harry and Estelle Bentley had shown up at the front door of the Baxters' two-flat at the same time as Avis and Peter Wednesday evening and settled into the comfy living room. Seated in an overstuffed chair, Avis drank in the familiar room. Plants in the bay windows overlooking the street, no curtains. A well-used but still serviceable sofa with matching chair, a recliner, and a hassock provided seats for the six of them. At Yada Yada meetings, they had to import dining room chairs.