The sad thing, Tommy tells me, is that the Chinese man knows that he'll never be able to get back home, but he's going to stay faithful to his family anyway.
"Where'd you get that story?" I ask Tommy.
He just shrugs, then he says, "I really miss you, Maisie."
How can I keep leaving him?
I feel like a real shit. I know it's not my fault, I know I'm trying to do my best for all of us, for our future, but Tommy's mind doesn't work very well considering the long term and my explanations don't really register. It's just me going out all the time, and not taking him or the dogs with me.
There's a knock on the door. Jimmie gets laboriously to his feet and moves aside as Aunt Hilary comes in. She gives her wristwatch an obvious look.
"You're going to be late for school," she says, not really nagging, she just knows me too well.
I feel like saying, Fuck school, but I put Rexy down, shift Chuckie from my feet and stand up. Six dogs and Tommy all give me a hopeful look, like we're going out for a walk, faces all dropping when I pick up my knapsack, heavy with school books.
I give Tommy a hug and kiss then make the goodbye rounds of the dogs. They're like Tommy; long term means nothing to them. All they know is I'm going out and they can't, come. Rexy takes a few hopeful steps in the direction of the door, but Aunt Hilary scoops him up.
"Now, now, Rexy?" she tells him. "You know Margaret's got to go to school and she can't take you."
Margaret. She's the one who goes to school and works at QMS and deserts her family five days and four nights a week. She's the traitor.
I'm Maisie, but I'm Margaret, too.
I say goodbye, trying not to look anyone in the eye, and head for the subway. My eyes are pretty well dry by the time I get there. I pause on the platform. When the southbound train comes, I don't get off at the stop for my school, but ride it all the way downtown. I walk the six blocks to the bus depot.
I get a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of my sneaker while I'm waiting in line at the ticket counter. I'm still trying to get it off with an old piece of tissue I find in my pocket— not the most useful tool for the job— when the guy behind the counter says, "Next," in this really tired voice.
Who's he got waiting at home for him? I wonder as I move toward the counter, sort of shuffling the foot with the gum stuck on it so it doesn't trap me to another spot.
"How much for a ticket?" I ask him.
"Depends where you're going."
He's got thinning hair lying fiat against his head, parted way over on the left side. Just a skinny little guy in a faded shirt and pants that are too baggy for him, trying to do his job. He's got a tic one eye and I keep thinking that he's giving me a wink.
"Right," I say.
My mind's out of sync. Of course he needs the destination. I let my thoughts head back into the past, looking for the name of the place I want, trying to avoid the bad times that are hiding there in my memories, just waiting to jump me, but it's impossible to do.
That's another thing about street people, whether they put the street behind them or not: The past holds pain. The present may not be all that great, but it's usually, better than what went before. That goes for me, for Shirley, for pretty well everybody I know. You try to live here and now, like the people who go through twelve-step, taking it day by day.
Mostly, you try not to think at all.
"Rockcastle," I tell the guy behind the counter.
He does something mysterious with his computer before he looks up.
"Return or one-way?"
"One-way."
More fiddling with the computer before he tells me the price. I pay him and a couple of minutes later I'm hop-stepping my way out of the depot with a one-way ticket to Rockcastle in my pocket. I sit on a bench outside and scrape off the gum with a popsicle stick I find on the sidewalk, and then I'm ready.
I don't go to my class; I don't go home, either. Instead I take the subway up to Gracie Street. When I come up the steps from the station I stand on the pavement for a long time before I finally cross over and walk into the Tombs.
9
The moon seems smaller tonight. It's not just that it's had a few slivers shaved off one side because its waning; it's like it got tamed somehow.
I can't say the same for the Tombs. I see kids sniffing glue, shooting up, some just sprawled with their backs against a pile of rubble, legs splayed out in front of them, eyes staring into nothing. I pass a few 'bos cooking God-knows-what over a fire they've got rigged up in an old jerry can. A bag-lady comes lurching out between the sagging doors of an old office building and starts to yell at me. Her voice follows me as I pick a way through the litter and abandoned cars.
The bikers down the street are having a party. The buckling pavement in front of their building has got about thirty-five chopped-down street hogs parked in front of it. The place is lit up with Coleman lights and I can hear the music and laughter from where I'm sitting in the bay window of my old squat in the Clark Building.
They don't bother me; I never exactly hung out with them or anything, but they used to consider me a kind of mascot after Shirley died and let the word get out that I was under their protection. It's not the kind of thing that means a lot everywhere, but it helped me more than once.
No one's taken over the old squat yet, but after five months it's already got the same dead feel to it that hits you anywhere in the Tombs. It's not exactly dirty, but it's dusty and the wind's been blowing crap in off, the street. There's a smell in the air; though it's not quite musty, it's getting there.
But I'm not really thinking about any of that. I'm just passing time. Sitting here, waiting for a piece of the past to catch up to me.
I used to sit here all the time once I'd put Tommy to bed, looking out the window when I wasn't reading, Rexy snuggled close, the other dogs sprawled around the room, a comforting presence of soft snores and twitching bodies as they chased dream-rabbits in their sleep.
There's no comfort here now.
I look back out the window and see a figure coming up the street, but it's not who I was expecting. It's Angel, with Chuckie on a leash, his black shadow shape stepping out front, leading the way. As I watch them approach, some guy moves from out of the shadows that've collected around the building across the street and Chuckie, worn out and old though he is, lunges at him. The guy makes a fast fade.
I listen to them come into the building, Chuckie's claws clicking on the scratched marble, the leather soles of Angel's shoes making a scuffley sound as she comes up the stairs. I turn around when they come into the squat.
"I thought I'd find you here," Angel says.
"I didn't know you were looking."
I don't mean to sound put off, but I can't keep the punkiness out of my voice.
"I'm not checking up on you, Maisie. I was just worried."
"Well, here I am."
She undoes the lead from Chuckie's collar and he comes across the room and sticks his face up against my knees. The feel of his fur under my hand is comforting.
"You really shouldn't be out here," I tell Angel. "It's not safe."
"But it's okay for you?"
I shrug. "This was my home."
She crosses the room as well. The window sill's big enough to hold us both. She scoots up and then sits across from me, arms wrapped around her legs.
"After you came by the office, I went by your work to see you, then to your apartment, then to the school."
I shrug again.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.
"What's to say?"
"Whatever's in your heart. I'm here to listen. Or I can just go away, if that's what you prefer, but I don't really want to do that."