The Story of Beautiful Girl (19 page)

This was his chance, maybe his only one all day. He took a step—

And something brushed the back of his arm. He turned. Behind him was a teenage boy in a wheelchair. Above his navy pants, navy blazer, and untucked white T-shirt, he wore his black hair longer than anyone here and carried a lighthearted smartness in his long-lashed eyes. He was looking up at Homan and moving
his lips, and as he swept his arm up, making the kind of motion hearing folk made while speaking, it was clear his condition affected his arms and hands. No way was Homan going to lose his chance for this kid. He gestured to his ears and shook his head no. The boy widened his eyes, then nodded, and Homan backed away. But the boy reached out again, his wrist a swim stroke in the air. Then he pulled up the bottom of the T-shirt and motioned, and Homan knew: The kid was in the bathroom to drain the bag that helped him do his business, and he couldn’t drain it alone.

Homan shook his head. Not him. Not now. The boy made a hopeful face, and Homan held out his hand to emphasize: No. His chance wouldn’t last long, he saw, shooting a look across the room—Braidy was letting himself into a stall, Scrawny examining a pimple. Homan was already shrugging an apology as his eyes settled back on this kid, but when he saw the hope melt into disappointment, he remembered. He was in the Running, going up to one person after another in a train station, trying to get someone to buy him a ticket. He tried talking, miming, pleading—and each one looked at him in fear or hurried by until he got so mad that he shoved one smirking peewee down and ran out the side door. How could he
not
help? It was just one kid and one time. And Braidy Boy was answering nature’s call, and Scrawny Boy was buffing his shoe, and Homan could move fast—he’d sure emptied enough bags at the Snare. He set down his suitcase and made a hurried gesture toward a urinal. The boy pushed himself across the room and started pulling down his elastic waistband, and when he could do no more, Homan did what he’d done a thousand times: took out the tube, drained it, and arranged the boy’s clothes back to their proper look. The boy peered up with gratitude. Probably Homan was the first Samaritan who’d known what to do.

The deed done, Homan whipped around—just in time to see Braidy step out of the stall and Scrawny turn back from the mir
rors. His neck tightening, Homan spun back to the boy, who was, amazingly, gazing into the room with a wry smile. It made Homan look harder at this kid. The boy had a comic book sticking out from his blazer pocket. Freckles danced across his cheeks. He smelled like mint and chocolate.

Then he turned his face up toward Homan, nodded in the direction of the rest of the room, and quickly, so only Homan could see, rolled his eyes. Homan laughed the first laugh in he didn’t know how long and rolled his eyes, too.

It felt so good meeting a kindred spirit that Homan almost didn’t mind returning to the lobby with his guards, and as they escorted him into the room for the service, he cast his thoughts back to Shortie and Whirly Top. Walking down the aisle toward the Silvers, clutching his getaway suitcase in front of his chest, he remembered how much he’d come to enjoy having friends. The boy—Samaritan Finder, Homan named him—must have felt the same: He’d reached his hand toward Homan before they parted and pressed his fingers into Homan’s for a shake.

The day went on and on.

Sandwiched between Scrawny and Braidy, his suitcase stowed under his chair the same as they’d stowed theirs, Homan imagined the trucks he’d seen when they arrived were long gone. He tried to will more trucks in their place. He tried to will the boys to leave.

Then two muscular men in suits pushed the ramp along the floor to the center of the stage, and as they locked it in place, the boys stood and motioned for Homan to get to his feet. For a moment he debated remaining in his chair, but stubbornness would only create a scene. Besides, the odds of escaping were better if he was standing—even if he had to leave his suitcase behind. Only as they marched him, empty-handed, toward the aisle did he see so many folks already there, with crutches and wheelchairs and canes
and companions of every age and girth. Having no belongings was the least of his worries. There was just so much blocking the way.

The boys exited the row into the long line waiting for the ramp. The other hopefuls parted with friendly nods, and he and the boys took their place only a few heads from the stage.

The man at the front of the line had draped his arm over a woman’s shoulders and was pulling his leg—fully encased in a cast—up the ramp, and Homan knew he had only so much time to survey his surroundings. He turned to his left, then right, taking in endless rows of filled seats fanning out to the distant walls and side doors. Too bad he was so close to the front, he thought, turning around. As he’d expected, Scrawny was positioned right behind him, with the long line extending as far back as Homan could see. The room was as hard to cross as a river.

Then a motion right behind Scrawny caught his eye—a hand wave at waist level.

Samaritan Finder! Despite his sinking heart, Homan broke into a smile, and Samaritan Finder did the same. But there were hands on Sam’s wheelchair, and when Homan lifted his eyes, he saw two dark-haired women behind Sam, gazing at the stage with expectation. Except for one being heavier than the other, they shared a family resemblance with Sam. Yet Sam was paying them no mind, and when Homan met his eyes again, Sam gestured toward the stage and shook his head.

Homan nodded in agreement. Then he turned and saw that the spotlight on the stage now shone on a blind man. He’d thrown off his glasses and was walking forward with a halting gait, a dead giveaway he couldn’t see better than before. Why would a person put himself through this? Did he really believe he could see? Or did he just want to fake to please his companion?

A man with crutches picked his way up the ramp, with Homan next in line.

He gazed into the huge room, and though he couldn’t find them, he knew the Silvers were watching. He wished he hadn’t stuffed their suitcase with stolen goods. He wished he could repay their hospitality with his cure. Yet he saw now that most people here wanted so hard to be fixed that they’d do anything, and he didn’t want it that hard. Beautiful Girl hadn’t asked for him to be fixed. Her face had lit up whenever she saw him—just the way he was. If she didn’t care about fixing, and he wasn’t sure he wanted fixing, forget faking. When his turn came—on the stage, in the spotlight, on TVs across this land—he’d be the biggest failure of this preacher’s life.

The man unhinged both crutches and tossed them off. One landed on the stage, one down below, at the foot of the ramp.

Homan should have run off from the bathroom. Braidy and Scrawny would have given chase, maybe tackled him by the trucks, but that would have been a happier situation than becoming the fool of the day. Well, only the first. He’d have company when Sam failed, too.

He met Sam’s eyes. Sam was looking hard at him, nostrils round with resentment. He flicked his gaze to Scrawny, who was consulting with the women behind Sam’s chair. Next thing Homan knew, Braidy was yanking him aside, and the women were pushing Sam forward.

It all happened so fast, Homan didn’t have time to ask himself what was going on. He didn’t need to—Sam was looking up at Homan as he passed, his jaw rigid, his eyes wet. Homan reached out his arm in sympathy, and they touched hands.

Then Sam and the women went up the ramp.

The spotlight shone down on the stage as Preacher Bouncing Hair placed his hands on Sam’s head. Homan spun around, searching the crowd, hoping someone was seeing what he saw on Sam’s face. But everyone was praying, and when he realized there was nothing
he could do, he decided that even though he’d never prayed before, he was going to start now. He’d do it with his hands, just talk right out there in the open. So he did, making his signs hard and fast.

Please, Big Artist,
he prayed.
If you even there, that is. Sam just a kid. Get him down from there and put me in his place. So what if I look like the biggest laughingstock in the world. I don’t even care if Bouncing Hair for real and I get something I ain’t sure I want.

The preacher’s hands flew off.

Sam sat there in his chair, staring at the preacher.

One breath. Two breaths. Five.

And then—

The stouter of the two women marched across the stage and stopped right before Sam. He glared, and though she tugged his arms, he didn’t rise to his feet. With an anger in her eyes, she moved her mouth. He did, too, his expression defiant. She lunged, grabbing his shirt as he rolled back, and then he spun his chair so she’d lose her grip. Hands on her hips, she rounded the chair and stepped near—and he slid his arm to the floor, caught it in the cuff of the cast-off crutch, and held it before him like a battering ram. Shocked, she stepped away. The preacher looked confused. Sam turned and locked his eyes on Homan’s.

And Homan suddenly knew what to do.

Shoving Braidy out of the way, Homan hurtled up the ramp, seized the chair, and rolled Sam down. Scrawny tried to grab Homan as they hit bottom, but Homan pushed him off, snatched up the other crutch, wedged it by the armrest, swerved Sam around the family behind him, and then they were off, charging down the aisle, passing others waiting in line, hurtling beyond the gapes of the audience, using their double-barreled crutches to make anyone who wanted to stop them jump aside. It was a thrill, dodging the crowd, making their way to the lobby, flying outside, racing toward the van Sam pointed to.

Homan didn’t know why Sam was leaving or where he wanted to go. He just knew he’d found his way out and Sam had, too, because when they reached the van, Sam pushed a purse on his side toward Homan, and Homan reached in, and there was a key ring—with the van key.

You caught my prayer—and you did me even better!
he thought, looking back at the church after he got Sam in the van and slid himself behind the wheel. He could see Scrawny and Braidy and Sam’s womenfolk bursting out of the church and pointing toward the van. But Sam was already motioning for them to go
now
, even as the boys and the ladies came running. Homan hit the gas, and Sam opened his mouth with joy, and they shot out onto the road.

1969

L
ook, Ju-Ju,” Martha said. “The ducklings have gotten so big!”

She gazed into the stroller and stroked the tawny curls. Julia, seeing the pond ahead, kicked her ten-month-old feet in excitement. “Remember when we first found this park? The ducklings hadn’t even been born. Goodness. Can it possibly be September already?”

Julia couldn’t reply, though it hardly mattered; Martha loved speaking to her. She was an unfussy child, smart and gorgeous; her face was heart-shaped and broad, eyes dark and lively, curls as merry as cursive writing. Julia wasn’t always merry: Her expression was often serious, and she was less prone to laughter than many children. But whenever Martha spoke to her, Julia broke into a smile so sweet and trusting, Martha felt light in her chest. This was not, however, the only reason she talked a lot to Julia. It was because talking, along with their daily routine of park walking, block stacking, bubble blowing, and hand clapping, made them appear like any happy grandmother and granddaughter. Despite their still-unusual living arrangements, house-sitting for her student Landon in Maplewood, New Jersey, Martha felt sure that as long as they continued living in an inconspicuous—and, as had already proven necessary, elusive—manner, no one would suspect the truth.

At the edge of the duck pond, Martha sat on their regular
bench. For the first time, she’d reached this park before Ivamae and Betty. She’d been so worried about what might happen later today, when Landon finally returned home from his summer house, that she’d driven here from Maplewood too quickly. She checked her watch. Only ten forty. Martha looked toward the edge of the park for her friends.
Her friends.
She smiled to herself. Her students had loved learning the history of words—how, if you traced the origin of “pajamas,” you’d walk back in time and across the sea to India and Persia. Or how “hello” was invented by Alexander Graham Bell so people had something to say when answering a phone. “The language you use,” she’d pointed out to them, “shows us history.” And when she cast her gaze back to the Martha of last September, there was no hint of the word “friends” in that land.

“Matilda!” she heard.

She spun around. Ivamae and Betty were coming toward her, pushing the strollers with the children they looked after. Martha waved.

“I knew you’d be here early,” Ivamae said, her voice as deep as the gospel she sang on Sundays. The four-year-old she looked after, Audrey, jumped from the stroller and ran to Martha, calling, “Miss Matilda!” Betty followed, three-year-old Lawrence sucking his thumb.

“Of course,” Betty said, her Irish youth still broguing her words. “She’s nervous.”

Martha hugged Audrey. “Did you bring your bread today?” the preschooler asked.

“I did.”

“Can I have some for the ducks?”

“Yes.” Martha reached into the bag hanging from Julia’s stroller and removed a loaf of fresh bread. She said to her friends, “Well, it’s a big day, but I’m hopeful it will work out.”

“I’d be a mess,” Betty said. “When husbands come back after working overseas all summer, they can get strange ideas in their heads.”