Nora & Kettle (12 page)

All I can say is, “I’ll try.”

***

He walks me back to the building door, but I don’t ask him in. In these walls are my secrets. I don’t want them sinking their claws into him. He tips his hat at me and walks away. If he turns back to look at me one last time, I don’t see it because I can’t return to that life. I keep my eyes forward and twist the doorknob, pushing my way reluctantly back inside like I’m pressing against the side of a balloon.

A solid lump of heavy fabric and bosoms hits me in the chest as I try to push my way in.

Marie’s eyes are wide, her breaths coming fast as she quickly mutters, “I’ve been dismissed early, Miss Nora.” And she shoves me aside and flies down the steps without a backward glance.

Sounds.

I’ve heard that smell is the stronger sense. The one that can coax memories from a hazy brain. For me, it’s sounds. Sounds wrap around my throat and strangle me. Sounds warn like a foghorn in the night. Sounds are all you can sense when your eyes are closed against the fists coming at you and you don’t want to see the malevolent expression hovering over your defenseless body.

A cry full of drawn-in breath and tinged with shocked fear mixes with the heavy, purposeful thud of footsteps storming across the ceiling. My eyes follow the noise. My brain has already forced my body into a straight line across the tiles, and I climb the stairs one, two, three at a time.

I’ll get there. I’ll get there.

I’ll get there in time.

23. BETTER OFF

KETTLE

Mason House looks like a grand old mansion. The windows are set in ancient-looking stones that crumble around the edges, yet they still have a neatness to them. The stairs are swept of leaves and a shiny gold plaque reads—
Mason House, Home for Orphan Girls. Est. 1896.

I pace the sidewalk in front of the brushed steps, not sure whether to knock, to walk away, or just peer in the window. I have no good options, a situation I’m entirely used to. Clenching my fists, I run through the possibilities. If I look in there and see her, what would I do? I can’t just snatch her and run away. And if I just peek in, she might make a break for it when she sees me and be punished.

I follow the neat iron fence around the corner and lean my back against the wall of the building. Memories of a place like this swish and sway against my eyes like broken rice paper.

Sneering faces, benches in lines draped with thin blankets. Skinny boys with towels folded over their arms marching toward a hose blasting cold water. The icy stream punches my stomach like a battering ram. “English!” he screams. “You cry, you beg, in English!”

I don’t even remember what the place was called. It was a home for boys, but that’s all I can recall. And if I could have given it a name, it would have been hell.

I shake my head to rid myself of the darkness and search for my courage behind the trash cans, in the cracks between the walls. I stare at the ivy stains for too long. The plant is gone but the tattoo, the imprint of where it once lived, is still there.

I don’t know what to do.

Girls’ laughter peals from the window above, tittering bells clashing against each together. Picking up a trash can, I place it under the window, quieter than fingers tracing shadows, and carefully climb on to the lid to peer in.

Girls sit in a circle, knee to knee, clothed in simply made, simply cut sundresses. One girl is wearing shorts, one sock pulled up to her knee, the other bunched down at her ankle—Keeper. A stern-looking woman strides in and I lower my head, just my eyes above the sill like a toad. She claps her hands together and they jump up, scrabbling for a place at the long table in the center of the clean but sparsely furnished home.

I scan Keeper for signs of abuse, but her eyes are bright. She laughs and elbows the girl next to her as food that looks warm and filling is slopped into their bowls. My nails dig into the sill, conflicted by what I see. She hasn’t been adopted, but she’s clean, safe, well fed. Part of me wants to hop onto the sill, take her hand, and fly her away from this place. But I don’t. I can’t. I can’t offer her a better life than this.

Sadly, I sink back down, get off the trash can, and place it back where it was, all with a weight in my chest that burrows to my feet. If she gets sick again, she’ll get the help she needs. Maybe for kids like us, that’s all we can hope for. I wipe my eyes, pissed that there’s a tear there. I’ll miss her, but that’s not why I’m crying. I’m jealous. I’m happy for her, but I’m also mourning a childhood I never had and wondering whether things would have been different if I’d been born on this side of the country, if there hadn’t been a war between the races that I’m made of.

There’s always been a war inside me. The Japanese side and the American side can’t be friends, but not because of their skin color, nor their culture. They just know nothing about each other. I clench my teeth. I don’t want to think about this anymore, my kind is a mystery and there’s no solving it.

I swear, kick stones across the dribbling alley, and storm out into the street. The sun is high in the sky now, and I know Kin’s going to be angry that I didn’t show up at the docks.

As I wander the streets, hands shoved in pockets, I look exactly like the angry youth people expect me to be. I stomp to the corner and my feet turn into the well-lit entrance of a department store, the coolness of the air beckoning me inside. Taking off my cap, I stare at the glossy floor. I know my hair is probably sticking up straight like a toilet brush and I try to smooth it as I walk.

Without really thinking, I head straight through the perfume section, women with pinched, powdered noses giving me strange looks as I pass them, and enter the elevator. The attendant doesn’t even look at me, just stares at the buttons and murmurs in a detached, bored voice, “Which floor?”

“Four,” I mutter, anger and purpose grinding against each other. I fold my cap in half and shove it in my back pocket, watching the lights shine golden and ding like good ideas as we move upwards.

“Fourth Floor, Children’s department, toys, clothing, and baby accessories,” the old man’s words slide out of his mouth slowly. I shuffle from side to side, waiting for him to finish, and then the doors slide open. I want to ask him how you accessorize a baby, since all that comes to mind is earrings and scarves, but I hold my tongue. “Er, thanks,” I say, holding out a coin to the man.

His eyebrows rise gradually in surprise, one then the other, and he holds out his gloved hand. “Thank you, sir,” he says, staring at the coin like it may disappear. My chest expands for a moment at the fact that he called me sir, but then it shrinks because it’s just about money. I roll my eyes.
It’s always about money.

I enter a room packed with colors and sounds that would delight any child. Cymbals clapping, miniature trains tooting their horns, children giggling at the toys and whining to their parents. Head down, I march straight to the doll section.

I’m slightly overwhelmed by the range. The hair colors, eye colors. Frilly skirts clutched in porcelain hands seem so unlike Keeps. I trawl my eyes over them for a long time, groan, and move down the next aisle with the cashier’s gaze pinned to me like I’m the most interesting thing in this place. Trucks and building blocks in bright primary colors catch my attention, then, down on the bottom shelf, I see something I’ve not seen before called a ‘Slinky.’

I count the cash in my pocket and grab a handful of Slinkys, several toy cars, and a large box of Meccano. We had one small box of mismatched, donated Meccano at the Home. One box to share between twenty kids.

I dump the toys on the counter to the surprise of the cashier. She gives me doubtful looks as she adds up the price. When the register dings, I proudly, and with a wink, hand over the cash. She doesn’t even try to cover her astonishment when she drops my change into my hands, from a height like she doesn’t want to touch my skin. I give her a smile. “Thank you, Marla,” I say, glancing at her shiny, gold name tag. “Can you direct me to where I can buy toothbrushes and toothpaste, please?” I’m putting on my ‘proper’ voice, which she seems to find unnerving. Flustered, she nods and replies, “Second floor, near the hair products,” as she thrusts the bags of toys at me.

***

Leaving the store with two paper bags full of toys and toothbrushes for the Kings, I feel like Santa. I snort at the idea of a half-Japanese, half-white Santa delivering presents on Christmas day.

I make my way back to Mason house, my mood lightening. Despite what I was told, threatened, and warned, I’ve managed to make a life for myself. I don’t steal. I go where I please. I can buy gifts for orphan girls.
I
can do that.

I stop at the corner and put the bags down, pulling one of the Slinkys out of the paper bag and putting it in my own satchel. With a pen from my shirt pocket, I scrawl
For the Girls of Mason House
on the outside of the bags
.
I underline the word ‘girls’ twice so they don’t think the gifts are meant for boy orphans. I run up the stairs, ring the bell, drop the bags, and run down the street with a big grin on my face. I hope she will suspect it was me, but it doesn’t matter. She’s alive and she’s safe. I can release some of the guilt I’ve felt about leaving her at the hospital. I can try to convince myself that I did the right thing.

I jog to the alley, sometimes skipping, and people don’t even try not to stare. The slinky, my ‘I’m sorry’ gift to Kin, bounces around in its box as I run.

***

The sun slips between the buildings and then out of sight. It gives little relief from the heat. You can see it rising from the stones in the street, snaking to the sky in plumes like cobras being charmed from a wicker basket. I watch them melt into the air, staring at the atmosphere that’s turned murky with pollution and humidity. I slow to a walk when I reach the street Kin and I have been sleeping near. Men in aprons are pulling their fruit and vegetable carts back inside their shops. The noise of packing in and up fills the air, wood on stone, squeaking wheels, over-tired, over-worked voices building in irritation. I stand over a subway grate before crossing the street. Cooler air surges over my skin, making me shiver, making me miss the cool stones of home.

A man knocks into my back, slurring his words as he says, “Scooze me.” It’s only midweek but some have started celebrating the weekend a little early. I nod and step aside before he knocks me over.

I buy empanadas from a vendor, slip into the alley, and wait for darkness.

It’s late but still warm when Kin kicks my leg. The empanadas have gone cold and slimy in my lap. I wipe at my pants, only making the grease stain they’ve left worse.

He snatches the food and collapses next to me. “What happened to you today?” he asks between mouthfuls. “I fought off five guys waiting for you to fill the space, but you never showed up. I could’ve used your help today.”

I knock his knee with my own. “You stink.”

“Yeah. Tends to happen when someone pours fish guts on you,” he says indifferently, like it’s something that happens to him every day.

“What? What happened?” I say, shuffling a few feet away from him as the smell starts to make its way over to me.

He laughs sourly. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

I pause for a few beats. Usually, when he’s like this, he just needs a few moments to get his head straight and then he tells me what’s bugging him. I wait until he’s finished eating, but he still doesn’t say a word.

I lean over and elbow him in the ribs, and he winces like I hurt him. In the dark, I can only see movements, shapes, hear his jaw clicking. “Kin…” I start, thinking it’s usually the other way round. He’s always trying to pry the words from my clamped-shut lips. If
he
won’t talk to
me,
it must be bad.

“So you didn’t answer my question. Where were you today?” he asks, and then coughs, thumping his chest like something’s stuck there.

I turn the slinky box over in my hand, thinking now’s not the time to give it to him. I tuck it into my bag. “I went looking for Keeps.”

Silence. A wrapper being scrunched in a hand and then tossed across the alley.

“She’s okay, Kin, she’s in an orphanage downtown. She looked… happy,” I blurt.

I see his shadow straighten; his head roll back to the sky. A sigh that pulls his ribs too far apart emits from his mouth. “I’m glad she’s okay, but that was a stupid thing to do. If they caught you…”

“They didn’t,” I cut him off.

“You’re not eighteen yet; they’ll take you back to
that
place.” His worried tone is more familiar than the grumpy one of a few minutes ago.

Together, we gaze up at the sky, our heads leaned way back. There are no stars tonight, just a yellowing light behind a curtain of murky green haze. It moves across the alley like a river. “I’m fine, Kin. Nothing happened.”

“Yes, despite your best efforts. You’re fine,” he snaps.

It goes quiet, well, as quiet as the city can be. There are still traffic noises, sirens, drunken men shouting at each other because apparently, when you’re drunk, you lose the ability to hear. But it feels eerily quiet to me because Kin isn’t speaking. I know he’s awake. He shuffles his feet every now and then, humphs and blows air slowly between his lips with nervousness or frustration or something.

After about half an hour, he speaks. I snort to waking, my eyes shooting open. “Do you think about it?” I can hear him scratching the paint from the dumpster. I can smell him from a mile away.

“Think about what?” I ask, suspecting I know where this is going.

He stops scratching and leans his head against the cool metal. It dimples with the pressure he’s putting on it. “I try not to think about it but, sometimes, it just pops into my head. Small things, you know, like finding long, dark hairs on the floor. The smell of the powder she used on her face. Then there are other memories I want to forget but can’t.” He tenses beside me. “Just can’t. I know we ran away, but what about everyone else? Where are they now? I want to and don’t want to know what happened to them.”

“I do think about it, Kin. I wonder about the others. I wonder where my mother is, if she’s even alive… Where they all are. Do they think about us? But you know—we’re doing okay—you, me, and the other kids.”

He’s not really listening to me; I see the shadow of his hand winding round and round in circles as he whispers, “Her hair was so thick and black, like silk thread. You could’ve sewn clothes with it.”

I shake with the tiniest giggle. “That’s pretty disgusting Kin.”

He slaps at my head, and I duck. “Shut up! I’m having a moment here. Don’t you miss our mother?” he asks with a challenge in his voice. He’s dangling an idea in front of my face that I can’t believe in.