Wildcat Fireflies (7 page)

Days and nights of deaths made it unusually hard for me to concentrate. I reached deep and spun a tale of candy lands and tooth fairies.

Sema had lost a baby molar yesterday; when she woke this morning, magic had made it into a quarter. If my name is magic, then magic did it. I didn’t believe in the stuff of fairy tales. Not anymore. But I wanted these kids to have faith in
the invisible good as long as possible. So I played tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa Claus, and birthday queen; I did all the things I had so desperately craved for myself years ago. When I was able to, I picked the brains of the elderly for stories of their families and traditions. I learned a lot by listening. I don’t think most people listen well. At least not the kids I’d watched age and leave ahead of me.

Nicole slept in the attic of kids and took over most of the nighttime mothering duties from me: calming night terrors, changing bedding when wet, administering baths and cleaning teeth. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—manage without her.

The house rules were often handed down with ominous stories.
Never call 911
. Ever. Once, long ago, an inmate fell and broke his leg badly, with bone sticking through skin. The kids didn’t know what to do, so someone called 911. The injured boy was taken away in an ambulance, along with the kid who called. Neither returned. Whispers in the night told that Mistress went to visit the kids and killed them. The broken boy because he’d been stupid and would need months of care, unable to work, and the caller because she’d dared tell strangers that DG was anything other than a loving environment. Kirian said all the kids had been taken to the funeral, to be present at the gravesides. A warning. He’d been here then, but I hadn’t.

I sighed, flexing my hands because my fingers kept cramping up in spasms. “Good night, little ones. I’ll see you in the morning. Remember …”

“We are loved,” they mumbled against their thumbs or nubs of stuffed animals. I wanted them to grow up hoping,
believing, there was a world of good out there. I’d never seen it, except in my vivid dreams, but I knew it had to exist. I tried to create it, make it here. I only had hope to give them. And food, covertly cooked and with shared flavors from all over the world. Flavors that sang of the histories and families of the people who died at DG. I didn’t know if I was talented or obsessed, but I knew techniques and flavor combinations that seemed to belong to the elderly I was in contact with.

Nicole followed me out to the hallway. Her cinnamon-bark eyes and hair reminded me of good fairies, wood sprites. She worked undeniably hard to lighten my load, as if she knew, before I did, what was coming next. “Ingredients?”

“Lemongrass, Thai basil, coconut milk.” I reeled off a list, already tasting the dish, but not sure which form it might ultimately take.

“Curry? Yummy.” She smiled.

“Maybe.” I wasn’t sure. Yet.

I slunk off to find Mistress in her apartments for my nighttime deriding.

Mistress’s bulk seemed to expand with each day. I wondered if a sharp corner might pop her like a balloon. She squinted a glare in my direction. “About time. Why can’t you finish earlier? Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait on you?”

“No, ma’am.” I bit my tongue as I watched her apply bleaching cream to her mustache and the beard along her third chin.

“Why didn’t you leave Mrs. Mahoney to die in peace, and
finish your jobs? Do you think she noticed or cared that you were there? How much of today’s work will you have to do tomorrow?”

I kept my mouth shut; she went right on without noticing. Mistress was a mishmash of features and shapes that made her weight the least of her appearance problems. I had nothing against fat. I loved food, and one tended to go hand in hand with the other. But the sadistic streak that melted Mistress’s humanity into a boiling blob of acid was strikingly visible in her ugly outsides. If she were thin our lives would have been even more hellish because she might move faster or with more agility.

“Have you written all of this down? Do you understand how much I have to do? I can’t help but think you’re not taking your position here seriously. Do I need to ask Ms. Asura to find you a new place? Do I?
Do I?
I hear they just busted a child-trafficking ring in the city. Perhaps you’d like me to inquire into finding you a home that way? There must be upset buyers out there without girls. And your birthday so soon?” She paused to let me think about her threat. “Face it, Juliet, your mother didn’t want you. No one wants you because you’re useless and stupid and aggravating.”

The voice in my head spoke in unison with her pronouncements. They never changed.
Useless. Stupid. Aggravating
. I must have blinked because I caught her attention.

“How many times do I have to tell you to use your words? Will I see you working an hour earlier in the morning to make this up to me?” She huffed out of the room without waiting to hear any answers. It was never about the answers
I gave, just the impenetrable questions and judgments that she yelled.

At least she hadn’t hit me tonight. I usually knew to be up and toiling by five. Tomorrow, four.
As if she’d really get up that early and make sure I was working
. But I couldn’t risk her punishing the other kids to make an example for me.

I glanced at the clock. Eleven p.m.
Crap. Another day almost over
.

I made my last rounds to check on all the guests, the kids too. There was a night nurse who never asked questions, never really spoke to any of us. The face changed, but for the past few years the “no see, no hear, no speak” attitude had been the same. One time, seven years ago, right before Fourth of July, the night nurse reported our sleeping arrangements to the state. She tried to get me to tell her what really happened here, but even at age eight I knew better than to answer truthfully. No one came to investigate.

There was no use in hoping for rescue. In real life, no one ever swooped in. In my life, no one ever noticed the need.

Finally, dragging every exhausted cell, I opened my little door under the main stairs. I had hidden a blow-up mattress behind the cleaning supplies and paper towels in the storage crawl space. A square foot or two all my own was a slice of paradise. It was quite comfortable, all things considered. My only complaint—I was rarely there and was never awake long enough to relish my few moments of solitude.

I snuck in and maneuvered between the stacks of toilet paper to the far corner.

Mini was already there, waiting for me, purring. I collapsed
onto the deflating air mattress, making a mental note to check it for leaks. A few hours of compression and it was flat on the ground. Tonight, too tired to care, I rolled onto my side. Mini watched me with her steady blink. Her tail flicked like a metronome feather duster. When I finished squirming, trying to find a comfortable position for my throbbing joints, she minced her way over to me.

Mini appeared not only for the deaths. Each night for over a year she showed up to cuddle against my sleeping self. If I believed in magic she would be evidence to support its existence. The rest of the time I assumed she hunted in the fields and forests around DG. But when someone neared death, or I dragged myself to bed, it seemed as if she was summoned by an unseen force to my side.

At night, she wrapped herself in my arms as naturally as my own skin clung to the muscles beneath. Her heartbeat mirrored mine, as steady as a water drip. Her head tucked neatly under my chin and she draped her upper body along my inner arm.

On my side, I folded my legs up under her tail and laid my hand between her forelegs, my fingers curled right beneath her chin. I held on to her like a teddy bear.

I slept easier with her next to me. My dreams became softer, fuzzier, lighter than they were before she arrived. This was the only time when my fingers and toes didn’t ache with piercing cold. By nightfall my knuckles were usually so swollen and stiff I didn’t want to use my hands, but petting Mini helped the swelling decrease.

Sighing, I poured my breath, my aching loneliness into
her multihued fur. I inhaled the mushroomy earth and pine sap of the outdoors, the warm sunlight and the silvery moonlight, the licorice darkness and the sugary light that clung to her.

Once again, I fell toward sleep wondering what I’d done to deserve this life.

Karma? Was I a serial ax murderer or slave owner in a previous life? Did I drown my children and thus have to live a lifetime as one of those unwanted children? When does life even out injustice and bring fairness?

At twelve, I’d opened DG’s front door to missionaries who told me to know God loved me and thought me perfect.
Did I believe in God? Where was he? How did he let this happen? How could he not intervene?
Mistress beat me until I’d bled for opening the door to those people. She made me repeat, over and over again,
There is no God. No prayers. No Santa Claus or Easter bunny. No rest for the wicked or stupid
.

I’d tried to hope, for so long I’d held out for a sign to believe. In something, someone who looked down and knew how my story ended and why it was written this way.

Tears wet the holey wool blanket I pushed into a pillow shape beneath my head. Purring, Mini licked my face, scratching my cheeks with her claws in her haste to comfort me.

There simply can’t be a God. Or destiny. Or magic
.

When I woke, Mini was gone, as she always was, until someone else labored toward death in one of the rooms above my head.

“A
re you Good Death? A Window Light?” Rumi repeated with shining eyes.

Tens and I glanced at each other while Rumi’s question hung in the air between us, a tangible thing. This was new territory.
Do we tell him? Do we trust him? Could we let anyone in on this conspiracy of silence? Certainly not in the first few minutes of meeting a person. Right? If only the world were different
.

Rumi waved his hands, then folded them beseechingly, “Wait, forget I asked. Why would you tell me? Maybe
someday you’ll tell me, you’ll trust me and the hope of that will sate. That’s the
juste milieu.
” He inhaled, paused, exhaled, and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“What do you mean?” Tens asked.

“I take these matters seriously. By making the Spirit Stones, these precious handles, and by hanging them, I signaled my willingness to help the unseen. The inexplicable. I opened myself to the knowable, the whispered, the Good with a capital
G
. I proclaimed my devotion to the gods and goddesses, to creators and enlightenment.” He entreated both of us with his eyes, his expression. His entire being radiated sincerity. “So what can I do? What do you need?”

“Um, well—” I didn’t know how to reply.
Maybe he knows more about the town than we did
. I believed I needed to find a ready soul to make contact with Auntie again. “Do you know where the closest hospital is? Trauma center? Cancer ward?”

“Are you sick? Shall I call nine-one-one? Where did I put the phone? I had it this morning. Didn’t I?” He jumped up and started lifting cushions, opening drawers.

Tens joined him, lightly touching Rumi’s shoulder to get his attention. “No, no, we’re looking for someone.”

He quieted, thoughtful. “Well, of course there’s the big complex downtown, but there’s also a smaller sufficient hospital here in Carmel. Let me write down directions. Where is that pad of paper? A pen?” He patted his pockets, until Tens handed him a pen and a napkin to write on. “Thank you.”

I walked over to where he scribbled. Risking exposing more than I maybe should, I asked, “We’re also looking for a girl and a cat in a nursing home? They seem to predict death? Does that ring any bells?”

He studied my face and finally announced dejectedly, “They foretell death? I don’t think so. It sounds like something I’d remember.” He dimmed like a cloud blowing across the sun, but soon brightened. “Let me put the word out and see if my circle of friends know anything.”

Tens cautioned him, “We need to do it quietly.”

“Got it. Discreetly, of course.” Rumi nodded, handing Tens the napkin with directions on it.

“Thank you.”

“Sure. I will find you at Helios with any information. Or you can come here anytime, day or night. My living quarters are back behind the studio. I’m up all hours. I’ll help you. Whatever you need.”

I stiffened.
How does he know about Helios?

He must have read my panic. “Don’t worry, Joi is a friend. She knows I keep an eye on the place at night and didn’t want me to worry when I saw lights tonight. Nothing sinister. She takes in strays, and has a good heart. Most of this town has Lightened souls.” He patted my hand without stopping.

“Do you think we could take a look at your family’s papers sometime?” Tens asked, gliding toward the door, tugging me with him.

Delight splashed across Rumi’s face. “I was hoping you’d ask. Absolutely. Let me know if you need me. Anything.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I extracted my hand from his with one final squeeze.

When we walked outside, the cool night air tickled my nose and a breeze played with my hair.

“He reminds me of Señora Portalso.” I broke our silence as we walked back to Helios and the truck. Señora had called me “pretty light” and seemed to see my Fenestra form before I even knew it myself. She’d turned out to be a friend, someone who followed the signs and let the Divine guide her.
Maybe Rumi is too? Can there be a type of human who shelters our secrets and helps us with the mundane?
I shivered at the feeling of déjà vu. “Was that whole conversation surreal, or was it me?”

“Rumi’s definitely not what I anticipated. I don’t know how he stacks up against Señora because I wasn’t conscious for much of Señora and her doctor daughter’s visit.” Tens’s cruel bout with Rocky Mountain spotted fever and the attempt Nocti made on his life to get to me, to make me choose between doing the right thing and losing Tens forever, was seared into my brain. With every detail so fresh in my head, I often forget he barely remembered anything from that time.