Nora & Kettle (21 page)

39. WORK

NORA

What should I be feeling right now? One secret is pinned to the wall like a butterfly wing. The others lay beneath, pulsing with the time I’m going to run out of.

I think of his eyes. Where I expected to see pity, I saw… solidarity, understanding. There was anger there too. A small fire I shouldn’t feed. I see it in my own reflection sometimes, and it can only destroy me. And it won’t touch
him
.

Kettle doesn’t make me wear sunglasses now, and this tells me something has shifted in the way he sees me. That maybe he trusts me. I’m well disguised as a boy wearing Kettle’s shirt, some beat-up sneakers and my mother’s pants, which we roughed up so they wouldn’t look so ‘girly’ as he put it.

We stand on the platform, and I’m reminded of the last time I stood somewhere like this with Frankie’s hand in mine. I was so ready to leave my father and that life behind. I stifle a gasp as I remember the world slanting and then turning black so fast, all my hopes dripping into a puddle that everyone would walk through. It seems like that was years ago.

My feet slip as I step back from the memory and Kettle throws me a concerned glance, but he doesn’t say anything. He is focused, cap low, eyes narrowed.

The train rattles the few occupants in unison like there’s a string running through all of them. The men look up briefly with their darting, suspicious eyes. They yawn and stretch their legs, flex their muscles. Thankfully, their eyes pass quickly over me.

A hand brushes my neck, and I swing around. Kettle’s cheeks flush dark under his eyes as he tucks a loose curl back into my cap. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Your hair fell out.”

I check the back of my neck for any other loose strands and tighten my bun. “Thanks,” I mutter, and he gestures for us to sit down.

We slide onto a bench, our bodies vibrating with the subway car, our shoulders accidentally touching and then drawing away. The scuffed, white linoleum floor is covered in black rubber streaks like someone’s crossed it out and started again, over and over. “So what do the boys do while you’re away working?” I ask quietly, very aware of the men sitting across from us.

Kettle sits up straight, hiding under his hat, hands on knees. “They do their own thing. Run the streets, sneak home to sleep if they can manage it until I get back.”

My voice goes up an octave. “What?” I think of Frankie, roaming the streets, playing with stray dogs and sleeping in the alley, and my heart crushes to dust and clippings in my chest. “Even little Kelpie?”

Kettle laughs, deep and rich. “They’re street kids, Nora. Most of them have been living like this for a long time. They know how to take care of themselves.” He shakes his head and smirks. “For the most part anyway.”

I don’t know anything anymore. “But you help them out?”

He stares through the window at the whooshing lights, his eyes hidden to everyone but me. “I guess so. I try anyway. At least if I feed them, give them clothes, I know they’re not going to get busted for shoplifting.”

“Wouldn’t they be better off in a Home, you know, where they can be properly cared for?” I say, stupidly regurgitating someone else’s opinions.

He snorts. “It doesn’t work like that for everyone. Do you think you would be better off in a home?” he challenges.

I don’t have an answer. Maybe I would. But if I couldn’t be with Frankie, then no. “I don’t really know.”

Kettle shrugs his strong shoulders. “Besides, they make their own choices. Some of them ran away from
Homes
.” He says Home like it’s a nonsense word, made up by Tinkerbell and Peter Pan. “I can’t… no, I
won’t
force them to do anything they don’t want to do.”

I turn to him, our knees knocking. He’s a mystery. What he’s doing is truly admirable. Incredible. And I don’t really understand why he’s doing it. If he kept the money he earned for himself, he could live in a small apartment. Make a life for himself. He’s so young to have so much responsibility. But then I understand that kind of weight.

I tap my finger to my chin. “Kettle, how old are you?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. “Seventeen. Why?”

I gently nudge his shoulder. I want to say,
You’re pretty impressive for a seventeen-year-old
. More than that…

I smirk. “I’m older than you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I’m eighteen,” I say in a teasing tone.

The train slows and he stands, indicating for me to go first. “An older woman,” he whispers with a smile. Then more loudly, “This is our stop.”

The men push past me, and I’m affronted by their rudeness.

“Excuse me!” I say, breaking from character and using my own voice. A man grunts and turns to stare at me, but thankfully, he is pushed out the exit by the pressure of several bodies behind him.

I step back from the door until Kettle’s hand is on my shoulder, moving me forward. “Remember what I said?” He guides me through the door. “You can’t let them push you around. If you want to get through the gates, you have to be fast and you have to be aggressive.” There’s a mountain of doubt hidden under his tongue.

I nod, and we start running to the turnstiles.

I start by brushing men’s shoulders and not letting them shove me out the way. As we approach the top of the stairs, it turns to elbows jabbing and swear words uttered. I’m swallowing apprehension by the gallon. I try to reassure myself with the fact that Kettle is right behind me, talking me through the next move.

The men slow when we all have to go through the turnstiles one at a time. I push through, my head swinging back and forth, and search for an opening, a space in the stream of people. Just ahead, I spot a newsstand and a break in the traffic like a bubble. I take quick strides toward it, my elbows out at right angles, and my heart pumping fast.

Until it stops. My heart stops.

It’s my face. My face and my father’s face printed side by side on the front page of the paper. The headline reads: ‘Daughter of JA rights attorney, C. Deere, MISSING.’ In smaller letters beneath, it says, ‘East Coast compensation case on hold until family reunited—Christopher Deere.’ I gasp and turn around.
Kettle can’t see this. He can’t.
I don’t know whether he was put in one of those camps, but it’s definitely a strong possibility.

Kettle slams into my chest, his eyes wide and confused. “What the hell?” he remarks. He gets shoved against me repeatedly as people try to move past us, his chest squashed against mine.

I grab his shoulders and steer him back into the crowd, away from the stand. “I think I know the man at the newsstand,” I lie. “He might recognize me.”

He frowns and I think he might ignore me. I’m sure he doesn’t believe me, but he grabs my arm and pulls me away from the stand. “Come on,” he says through gritted teeth as we move to the opposite side of the road. I sigh in relief with what little breath I have left in me.

Once the street widens, we start jogging to the docks.

I move as fast as I can, praying there will be no papers left when I return in the evening.

***

This is some medieval contest. Teeth gnash, men who smell much too much like men and… fish… grab at each other’s heads and hair, pull each other down and claw at each other’s necks. They are a desperate, scrabbling entity. I stand back from the jostling crowd, wondering whether I can do this. I bite my lip, lock my limbs, and decide it can’t be worse than anything else I’ve experienced. So I take a deep breath and await instruction.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kettle says as he edges into the throng from the western side.

Yes I do.

“I want to,” I say, trying to keep my voice low this time. Kettle chuckles at my attempt to sound like a boy, his blue eyes flashing with excitement.

Over the noise, he yells, ducking when a fist comes flying at his shoulder, “You’re small, fast, try to squeeze your way in.” He shoulders his way in and disappears. I hear him shouting underneath a tangle of arms, “If you don’t make it through, wait for me outside.”

He doesn’t think I’ll make it. It makes me more determined to prove him wrong. I test a foot on the edge. It instantly gets stepped on. I grimace.

Think.

I think about a slap coming toward me, my father’s palm aching to mark my cheek red. If I could have avoided it, ducked out of the way, what would I have done? How would I have done it?

Each man in this throe of clashing bodies becomes my father. And I’m surprised that instead of wanting to hurt them, all I want to do is get through, stand on the inside of the fence where he/they can’t get to me anymore.

There are small shadows of space opening up before my eyes, and I hurl toward them, I stop thinking, stop worrying, and just react. Under elbows, between bodies, over large legs trying to stomp on me. There are no walls to be thrown against. No one to protect. There is an escape, a way through for me to find.

The freedom tastes delicious, salty and hard earned on my tongue.

I’m nearly there. The fence vibrates, ringing for me. Calling—
You’re close, so close.
My hand stretches to the wire and I grab at it, missing as my head suddenly jerks back. Someone’s fingers dig into my collar and pull me backward. The top button on my shirt presses into my neck and I can’t breathe, a strange cacking, gurgling noise coming from the back of my throat. I turn around to meet the owner of the hand. A small, twisted man, a skeleton almost. My cap tips back and he sees my face clearly, suddenly releasing me. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says. Then he’s scattered behind me like a spilled bag of bones, and I’m thrust forward.

The gate slides open and my feet don’t feel like they’re connected to the ground. I’m carried along, through the gap by a sea of muscled, grunting flesh and thrown into the clear, sea air.

The guard at the gate claps it shut and shouts at me, “Lucky last, eh?”

I made it. Me.

40. MEMORIES

KETTLE

I get through easily. The men seem tired and lacking the will today. When I’ve cleared the gate, I turn around to check for Nora’s defeated face on the other side of the fence. I scan disappointed, exhausted expressions, a heat haze already warping the view. Shielding my eyes from the morning sun, I curse when I can’t find her. My heartbeat picks up a little at the thought that maybe she was hurt.

Or worse? Ran away in fear.

I take a few steps closer to the fence and suddenly, I’m walking in Kin’s footsteps. My skin prickles, and I’m burning beneath what’s left of his shadow. I look to the water, the sun bouncing off in diamonds of white light.

Where are you?
The break inside me teases open…
Are you?

Someone tugs at my sleeve, softly pulling my arm down. And for one moment, I think,
maybe it’s
… But I know it can’t be.

I stare at the cracked concrete, and an all-too-feminine shadow joins me. “I did it! Did you see me? I got through!” she says, all breathless and excited. I almost pat her on the head, but stop myself.

“Calm down,” I say, trying to contain my surprise.
I can’t believe she got through.

She wipes sweat from her forehead and smiles at me, a little unsure. “It smells like the sea,” she exclaims. “So refreshing and… fishy!”

“Your voice,” I mutter, turning and heading into the sign-in station.

She skips to catch up with me, saying, “Oh right, sorry,” in a low voice.

I smile despite myself. “This is going to be more difficult than I thought,” I say, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with her now. “Stop skipping,” I warn under my breath, this unwanted grin inserting itself on my face.

She stops and tries to walk in a more manly fashion, swinging her arms and parting her legs. I just sigh and let her. It’s better than skipping and rocking her hips. No one’s watching her anyway. At least not yet.

***

I scan the area and am relieved to find that the men who beat up Kin are not here today. I crunch down on those feelings. Of anger and worry. I need to focus today.

Black stands impatiently at the station, arms crossed, foot slapping against the concrete like a paddle bat. “Mornin’ Kettle. Who’s yer friend?” he asks, eyeing Nora appraisingly as she stands there, clueless. I know what he’s thinking, but she’s not ready. I curse myself for not planning out what I would do if she got through. I just didn’t think it was possible.

I shift awkwardly, realizing we haven’t come up with a boy’s name for her. “Um…”

Nora steps forward and offers her hand. “Kite, sir,” she says quietly but confidently.

Kite.

Kite.

God, it suits her so well that I have to stop myself from puffing out my chest with pride.

Black takes a step closer, his eyes running from her feet to her oversized shirt, which is hiding things I shouldn’t be thinking about, and up to her bruised face. I snap out of my moment of pride and step in front of Nora, bumping her backward and out from under his intense gaze.

“This is his first time, so I was thinking shoveling scrap and cleaning containers might be best,” I say quickly and with too much anxiety in my voice.

Black leans up on his one good foot and peers over my shoulder. “A cherry, huh? Yes, that would be best but, well, sorry Kettle, the easy jobs have all bin signed for,” he says with a devil’s smile and then throws at Nora, “Kite!” She glances up at him, eyes popped full of innocence. “You look light on yer feet. You look like one of them…” He musses his hands in the air. “Err… acrobats or somethin’. You’ll go up like Kettle.”

My heart sinks.

Her golden eyes follow his pointed finger, aglow as she watches a container sailing through the sky, eclipsing the sun.

Black turns away from us, his dark, curly hair pulled into a loose ponytail that trails down his back like bunch of rotten grapes. “Show Kite what to do and then get on with yer work,” he snaps, toddling away like a lame penguin.

Nora’s eyes are still pinned to the sky when I grab her arm and take her to the loading area.

She’s nodding like she understands me as I talk her through the safety procedures, of which there are few, but I’m unsure. Her eyes keep wandering to the clouds in this dreamy kind of way, and it worries me. I gently put my hand to her face and steer her gaze back to me. Her skin doesn’t feel as soft as I would have expected, maybe because it’s pulled so tight over her bones. “Nora,” I whisper, trying to catch her eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

She straightens, takes a step back, and steel works its way over her features. “I want to.” And I know she’s made up her mind.

I make her watch me first. Her eyes shadow me up the side and onto the roof, and as I lift off from the ground, I feel uneasy, strange. The sense of freedom doesn’t come. It’s replaced with fear and a stretching feeling as she becomes smaller and I rise higher. This seems like a bad idea and I regret bringing her here. But right now, there’s nothing I can do. She’s down there and I’m in the sky, unable to reach her.

My eyes are on Nora instead of the horizon and I watch Black slap a hard hat on her head and push her toward the next container. She looks up at me, but I can’t make out her expression. From here, she is thin, pale, and dwarfed by the giant container she is climbing.

I track her fast movements, the way she agilely scales the side and then presses flat to the roof like I told her. My fingers grip tightly around the rusty chains as I lean dangerously close to the edge to see her more clearly. She lifts off the ground and her body startles. She looks like a spider clinging to the side of a spoon, unsure of whether to make a jump for it or stay put.

My container starts to sink below the others on the ship, but I manage to see that she’s decided to stay put before she completely disappears from view.

When my container sets down, I climb off and wait for her in a narrow gap underneath. Hers crashes down soon after, a wavering “oh!” pours down the side and hits my ears and I find myself scrambling up to meet her.

I climb up and come around the side just as she’s scaling down. She turns around, swipes the stray hairs from her face, and tucks them under her hat, exclaiming, “Goodness! That was fun.” Her teeth break her face into two halves of an openmouthed smile. It’s infectious and I smile back, though it feels a little like a grimace.

“Just be careful,” I say, shaking a finger at her.

She touches her chest with her palm, pats it once, and nods. “Always.” It sounds like a lie. Then she stands on her tiptoes and whispers, “Race you to the bottom?” as the shadow of the next container bears down on us from above.

Before I can answer, she’s darting down the giant steps toward the deck and I’m struggling to keep up.

***

I beat her to the bottom… just. And take my ticket. She follows behind and we fall into a rhythm. After a while, I stop waiting for her at the ship end because she seems like she’s got it covered.

As I’m stepping off my container, I hear the siren blare for break time. Nora is riding the container right behind me, so I wait, climbing up and to the side so I can see her flight over.

She’s doing the right thing, staying flat, giant smile reflecting the sunlight, white as the foam cresting the surf. I blink. I’m blinded. But then she looks up, sees me, and stands. She waves and my stomach becomes my feet and my feet become the seafloor. She holds onto the chain with only one hand, her face fronting the sea in some defiant, lungs-full-of-fresh-air moment. I wonder if this is what she’s been doing this whole time or if it’s just for me. Either way, I’m going to kill her. Then she starts walking across the moving container and I realize I won’t have to.

I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Get down!” to which she just grins and waves again, sheer delight plastered all over her pretty, stupid face. My heart rams my chest in a punch made of stone.
She’s going to fall.

I dance from foot to foot, helpless. The shadow of the container reaches me before she does and I hold my hands out like I could catch her, let them fall just as quickly and run to where I know they’ll set it down.

She’s still standing, swinging from the chain like she’s dancing around a maypole. She’s so reckless. A giddy giggle showers my panicked ears. I climb up to the container that’s next to where she’s going to set down and crouch low, bracing for the impact.

“Nora,” I try again. “Get down low!”

She’s not even looking at the ship and the ground approaching fast. She’s still looking out to sea when the container drops down suddenly with a loud clang.

I watch her hand part with the chain, her pale freckled fingers releasing their grasp. She doesn’t have time to scream, if she was even going to. She stumbles forward, her legs slipping out from under her, and falls forward. Her chin makes a teeth-gritting clunk as it connects with the corner of the container. Her legs spin over the edge and I jump, catching the top of her torso before she slides off the edge and into the dark water.

Panting breath mixed together, our heads hang down as we stare at the narrow gap between the ship and the dock, the beaded, green seaweed slapping the sleepers of the pier, the rusted pillars that would have torn her body to pieces.

I swing her back onto the roof and check that there are no other containers coming. A puff of smoke billowing from the crane cab tells me the driver is on break.

I roll her onto her back and pull her head into my lap, staring at her upside-down face and her chest rising and falling fast. I want to scream at her for being so goddamn stupid! And I will, when she opens her eyes.

I pat her cheek gently. It’s hot and crusted with salt. “Nora, open your eyes. We have to get off the ship.”

Her eyes flutter open, showing me honey and light. I frown.

She sits up suddenly, turns to face me, and coughs.

Blood sprays from her mouth, painting my shirt, her shirt, and the metal space between us. And from beneath the memory I’m slowly getting buried under, I think I hear her say, “I think I bit my tongue.”

I press my small, needle-pricked fingers to my cotton shirt. They come back printed with bloodstains, thin, blackened like cherry juice. I show her my hand and sh
e
slowly shakes her head. It’s too hard for her. This isn’t fair.

Maybe I should touch her, but I don’t want to. She doesn’t look the same anymore. Her face is too pale for the desert now. She’s the creamy clay that lies deep below the red surface.

Her dark, silken hair hangs over her shoulders like a shawl, but it won’t warm her. I want her to be warm. Warmer.

“I’m sorry, little one,” she whispers, reaching out to my face with a cool, damp rag. I lean away, and she tsks. “Don’t be scared.” Her coal-colored eyes flick to my big brother, standing beside me like a statue, his arm around my shoulders. He eases me forward, and I let her clean my face of her blood.

My chest hurts. It’s like something’s stuck in there. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like what’s happening to his mother.

Her touch is so light as she gently wipes away what’s left of her. She is good. This shouldn’t happen to a good person.

She gazes at me with what he tells me is love. But her eyes seem smaller, like they’re resting back in her head. She smiles at me and says, “Chisana ichi…” then starts coughing, pressing the rag to her mouth.

Pink.

The men in khaki clothes lean in, masks over their mouths. A muffled word from the one holding a stethoscope to her chest, presses deep into my heart and stays there. “Soon.”

Soon.

My tears are hot and messy, and I wipe my nose with my sleeve. My brother’s hand grips tighter around my shoulder.

“It says here she has one son, husband is serving in the 522nd. Who is this little one?” A pen taps on a clipboard.

Little one. I want to kick him in the shins. I don’t want to be called that by anyone but her and… soon… no one.

Another voice, all high over my head. “Orphan, sir.”

Another cough pulls their attention away from my brother and me. This one doesn’t stop. It doesn’t ever stop. Wet, rasping coughing over and over and over with no break to breathe in.

We are pushed into the night, canvas flaps hitting our backs on the way out. A kinder voice that doesn’t understand says, “Why don’t you go kick a ball around for a while, boys? You don’t need to see this.” His hand shoos us away like we’re stray cats begging for food.

We don’t want to go anywhere. We sit on the edge of the rough wood floor that sticks out from beneath the tar-paper walls and listen. The tower lights scan the desert, sweeping dust into piles that will only be carried by the wind back under the door. We sigh in unison. The dust entering our lungs.

Coughing, men muttering, coughing, a flutter, a sharp bang, a glass knocks over and water splashes on the floor.

Silence.

The door flaps open. A man approaches. He doesn’t lean down; I don’t think he wants to look us in the eyes. I watch the man’s chest move as he talks. He is a greenish shadow beneath the moonlight, his medals jingle and shine as he says, “I’m sorry.”