Because It Is My Blood (21 page)

*   *   *

It was my fourth time at Liberty in less than a year and a half. Mrs. Cobrawick was gone, replaced by Miss Harkness, who wore athletic shorts all day long and in all weathers it seemed. Miss Harkness had no interest in celebrity, by which I mean my infamy. This made her an improvement over Mrs. Cobrawick. Mouse had also left—I wondered if she had ever gone to see Simon Green—so I had a bunk to myself and no one to eat with in the cafeteria. The length of my stay was too short to bother with making new friends.

The Thursday before my scheduled release, I was sitting at a half-empty table in the back of the cafeteria when Rinko sat down across from me. Rinko was alone, and sans henchwomen, she looked smaller somehow.

“Anya Balanchine,” Rinko greeted me. “Mind if I join you?”

I shrugged, and she set her tray down.

“Clover and Pelham both left just before you came. I’m outta here next month.”

“What did you do anyway?”

Rinko shrugged. “Nothing worse than you. I got in a fight with some dumb
beyotch
at my school. She started it, but I beat her until she was in a coma. So, like, whatever. I defended myself. I didn’t know she’d end up in a coma.” She paused. “You know, we’re not that different.” She flipped her shiny black hair over her shoulders.

We
were
different. I had never beaten anyone into unconsciousness. “How so?”

She lowered her voice. “I’m from coffee people.”

“Oh.”

“Makes you tough,” she continued. “If someone crosses me, I’m gonna defend myself. You’re the same way.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You shot your cousin, didn’t you?” Rinko asked.

“I had to.”

“And I had to do what I had to do.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “You look all sweet and innocent, but I know it’s just a front. Rumor has it you sliced off someone’s hand with a machete.”

I tried to keep my face neutral. No one in the States knew what had happened in Mexico. “Who told you that?”

Rinko ate a scoop of mashed potatoes. “I know people.”

“What you heard … It isn’t true,” I lied. Part of me wanted to ask who exactly she knew, but I didn’t want to give myself away to a person I had never particularly liked or found trustworthy.

Rinko shrugged. “I’m not gonna tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not my business.”

“Why did you sit here today?”

“I’ve always believed that you and I should be friends. Someday, you might want to know someone who knows something about coffee. And someday, I might want to know someone who knows a thing or two about chocolate.” She waved her hand around the cafeteria. “The rest of these kids … They’ll go home, and maybe they’ll be all reformed and crap. But you and me, we’re stuck in it. We were born in it, and we’re in it for life.”

A bell rang, which meant it was time for us to return to afternoon exercises.

I was about to pick up my tray to put on the conveyor belt when Rinko intercepted it. “I’m going that way anyway,” she said. “Be seeing you, Anya.”

*   *   *

On Saturday morning, I was released. I had worried that something would happen to make our deal go bad, but Mr. Kipling made the campaign contribution and the corrupt Bertha Sinclair kept her word. I took the boat back from Liberty, and Mr. Kipling was waiting for me at the dock. “So you’re prepared, there’s quite a crowd wanting to hear from Bertha Sinclair,” Mr. Kipling informed me.

“Will I need to say anything?”

“Just smile at the appropriate times.”

I took a deep breath and approached Bertha Sinclair, who shook my hand. “Good morning, Anya.” She turned to face the press who had gathered. “As you know, Anya Balanchine surrendered herself to me a week ago. I’ve had these past eight days to reflect on the matter and”—she paused as if she hadn’t known exactly what she would do the whole time—“I don’t wish to cast aspersions on my predecessor but I think the way he handled Ms. Balanchine’s situation was atrocious. Whether the initial sentence she received was just or unjust, my predecessor had no business returning Anya Balanchine to Liberty last fall. That move was politics, pure and simple, and in my opinion, everything that happened after should be forgiven. Unlike my predecessor, I think there is law and then there is justice. I want you to know that your district attorney is more interested in justice. A new administration is a good time for new beginnings. This is why I’ve decided to release Anya Balanchine, this daughter of Mannahatta, from Liberty, time served.”

Bertha Sinclair turned to me and gave me a hug. “Good luck to you, Anya Balanchine. Good luck to you, my friend.” She squeezed my shoulder with a hand that felt like a claw.

XII

I AM CONFINED; REFLECT ON THE CURIOUS NATURE OF THE HUMAN HEART

T
HE MORNING OF MY RELEASE
coincided with Imogen’s funeral. We drove straight from the pier to Riverside Church, where Mr. Kipling and I were to meet Simon Green and Natty. Immediately after the funeral, I was to begin my month of house arrest. I was wearing a black dress of Nana’s that Mr. Kipling had sent to Liberty for me. The dress was uncomfortably tight across my shoulders. All that machete wielding had bulked me up, I guess.

Riverside Church was about a mile north of the Pool, which was where the New York branch of the Balanchine Crime Family conducted its business. As we drove past the Pool, I gripped the car door handle and wondered if the people in there—my relatives—were the ones responsible for Imogen’s and Leo’s deaths.

The church was next to the river (hence the name Riverside), and the late January wind was sharp and brutal. When we got there, a cadre of press stood shivering on the steps.

“Anya, where have you been all these months?”
a photographer yelled at me.

“Here and there,” I replied. I would never implicate my friends in Mexico.

“Who do you think killed Imogen Goodfellow?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I said.

“Please, folks,” Mr. Kipling said. “This is a very sad day, and Anya and I just want to go inside to pay our respects to a beloved colleague and friend.”

Inside, there were only about fifty people, even though the venue probably seated fifteen hundred or more. Natty and Simon Green were in the back. I wedged myself between them, and Natty squeezed my hand. Natty had a coat draped over her shoulders. The coat wasn’t hers but I knew that coat all the same. I knew what it felt like to have my face pressed up against it. I knew what it smelled like—smoke and pine trees—and what it looked like when it hung on the shoulders of the boy I loved.

I looked down the row. On the other side of Natty sat Scarlet, with a slightly rounded belly and rosy cheeks. “Scarlet!” I whispered. Scarlet waved to me. I reached over Natty to set my hand on Scarlet’s abdomen. “Oh, Scarlet,” I said. “You’re…”

“I know. I’m enormous,” Scarlet replied.

“No, you’re lovely.”

“Well, I feel enormous.”

“You’re lovely,” I repeated.

Scarlet’s blue eyes grew glassy as a lake. “I’m so glad you’re home and safe.” She stood up and kissed me on the mouth. “My dear and best friend.”

Scarlet leaned her head back so that I could see the person on the other side of her: Win. Natty hadn’t just borrowed the coat.

I had known I would have to see him again, but I hadn’t known it would be so soon. I hadn’t had time to steel myself against him. My cheeks burned and I couldn’t think. I leaned over Natty and Scarlet and found myself stupidly holding out my hand to Win.

“You want me to shake your hand?” Win whispered.

“Yes.” I wanted to start the business of touching him. I wanted to touch his hand, then other things, too. But I figured we’d start with hands. “I … Thank you for coming.”

He grabbed my hand and we shook. When he tried to let go, I didn’t want to release him but I did.

During our separation, I had wondered if I even still liked him. This now seemed like little more than a pathetic coping mechanism. Of course I still liked Win. I more than liked him. The question was, could he possibly still like me? After all these things I’d done, I mean.

It was deeply wrong to have such concerns at a funeral, I know.

Win looked at me—his gaze was steady, if not overly warm—and he nodded formally. “Natty wanted us here,” he whispered.

My heart started to pound in my chest. The
thrum
was so hard and loud that I wondered if Natty and Scarlet could hear it.

At that moment, the funeral began, and we had to rise, and I reminded myself that Imogen, my friend, was dead, and that she had died saving my sister.

After the service, we went to the front of the church to pay our respects. “I’m so sorry,” I said to Imogen’s mother and sister. “Natty and I are both so sorry. Imogen took such good care of my grandmother and my sister. We’ll miss her more than we can even say.”

“I will always remember her books and how funny she was,” Natty piped up in a soft but strong voice. “I loved her and I’ll miss her so much.”

Imogen’s mother began to weep. Her sister pointed a finger straight at Natty and said, “You shouldn’t be here, girly. You got Imogen killed.”

At that point, Natty started to cry, too.

“You people!” Imogen’s sister spat the words at us. “
You people
are criminals! I told Imogen about
you people
, but she would never listen. ‘This family is a plague,’ I said. ‘It isn’t safe. There are other jobs.’ And look how she ended up!” the sister continued. “
You people
are the lowest, the worst.”

“Hey, that’s not called for,” Win defended us.

The sister turned to Win. “You’d be wise to run, young man. Run as fast as your legs will take you. Or you’ll end up just like Imogen.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said, in order to draw the focus away from Natty and Win.

The sister turned toward me. “There’s a circus out there, thanks to you! Go now, and take your filthy circus with you.”

I hustled Natty out of the church. Win put his arm around her. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You were very brave to come here. No matter what that woman said. It was the right thing to do.”

*   *   *

The apartment was not altered in any material respect from how it had been the morning I had left it, and yet it wore its difference like a widow wears a veil. Imogen was gone, and Leo would never return. As for me, I felt years older, though not particularly wiser.

“Remember, Annie, you can’t leave the apartment until February twenty-eighth without clearing it with me,” Mr. Kipling said.

As if I could forget. A tracker had been injected into my lower calf just north of my tattoo that morning, and the area was swollen and pink, like overly kissed lips. Still, there was a relief to being confined. I had time to contemplate my next move.

Simon Green told me that security had been hired to stand guard outside the apartment (just in case anyone tried to finish off Natty and me) and then both he and Mr. Kipling left. Scarlet and Win had gone straight home after the funeral.

“Isn’t it weird how quiet it is?” Natty asked.

I nodded. But it was also rather peaceful.

*   *   *

Early Sunday morning, before we even would have been up to dress for Mass had I not been confined, the doorbell rang.

Still drowsy, I stumbled down the hallway. I looked through the peephole. It was Win’s mother of all people, and behind her, Win. I was about to open the door when I stopped. Maybe this will seem strange to you, but I wanted to watch him without him knowing I was watching him. I hadn’t had the chance to really look at him at the funeral. He was still so handsome. His hair had grown out from the summer and he was wearing hats again—a red plaid wool hunting cap with furry earflaps! His coat was the same one from the funeral and from Fall Formal 2082. I loved that coat. I loved him in that coat. I wanted to unbutton it and crawl under the flap and button myself in and forget everything that had happened.

They rang the bell again, and I jumped back at the sound.

Natty came into the hallway. “Annie, what are you doing? Open the door!” She pushed past me and did just that.

Win and his mother were both carrying sacks. “Anya, hello!” Jane Delacroix said. “I hope you’ll forgive me but I’ve brought you and Natty some groceries and other things. I know it’s a difficult time for your family. And, in my small way, I wanted to help.”

“Please,” I said, “come in.” I looked at the plump bags. “And thank you for this.”

“It isn’t much,” Win’s mother said. “The least I could do.”

Natty took Win’s bag, then she led Win’s mother into our kitchen.

Win hung back, as if he didn’t want to get too close to me. Maybe I was being paranoid though, maybe he was allowing me a respectful space. “I’m so sorry about your brother, and Imogen, too,” he said.

I nodded. I kept my gaze directed at his shoulder. Now that I wasn’t safely behind the door, I was almost scared to look into his eyes.

“My mother, she really did insist,” Win said. “I wasn’t planning to come until the afternoon.”

“I…” I felt sure I was about to say something really incisive, but nothing came. I giggled—yes, giggled—and I put my other hand over my chest in an attempt to muffle the sound of my stupid, dogged heart. “Win,” I said, “your father lost the election.”

He smiled, and I could see his pretty, pretty teeth. “I know.”

“Well, tell him when you see him that I’m not—” I giggled again; this giggling was getting embarrassing; I can only account for it by saying I was still not quite awake. “Say that Anya Balanchine isn’t at all sorry!”

Win laughed, and his eyes softened a bit around the corners. He took the hand that was over my heart and he pulled me in close to him until my face was up against that wool coat I knew so well. “I’ve missed you so long, Annie. You barely seem real to me. I’m worried I’ll turn around and you’ll disappear.”

“I’m not going anywhere for a while,” I told him. “House arrest.”

“Good. I’ll like knowing where you are. I like this new DA already.”