Compromised (16 page)

W
e huddle in the truck. And wait.

And wait.

Nothing happens. Nobody jumps in and revs it up.

What seems like hours pass. I pull out the envelope and let the dried flower slip into my hands. I understand what Nicole means about having something real. Aunt Sarah sent something to Mom—more than words, more than paychecks—something that meant something to her. That's real.

“Nice, Jeopardy. What do we do now?” Nicole asks, interrupting my thoughts. “I think my ass has frozen to the grooves in this fucking truck bed.”

I put the flower back into the envelope and peer out from under the tarp to see if I can catch a glimpse of
anything. The sun is high above us. It's got to be noon or early afternoon. At least the sun warms up the heavy tarp. It's warmer inside than out. “We can't risk getting out here where other people might see us. What do you want to do?”

“Nice wasted day.” Nicole rubs her arms.

Klondike croaks and cradles his side.

“Are you okay, Klon?” I ask. “Your side's hurting a lot.”

He drums the truck bed with his fingers. “I'm fine. Just tired.”

“Sorry about the truck idea, guys,” I say.

“Well, we're here now,” Nicole says. “At least nobody's messing with us.”

That's true.

Klondike taps me and puts his arm around my shoulder.

“Let's take a nap,” Nicole suggests. “I got first shift if you two want to sleep.”

“That's okay. I got first shift. I owe you guys,” I say. “If nothing happens in half an hour, let's get out and find another ride, okay?”

“Perfect.” Nicole yawns. “A half hour of uninterrupted sleep. A half hour of safe.” She sighs.

Nicole and Klondike lie down. She turns to me before
sleeping. “Just half an hour.”

“Yep. Just half an hour.”

“Don't sleep. Rule two.”

“I won't.”

But I do.

And I don't wake up until I hear the door slam and the tread of heavy boots outside the truck. Somebody opens the bed of the truck—the heavy tailgate thunking down. I pinch Nicole awake and put my fingers to my pursed lips when she looks at me. She motions to Klondike, but I shake my head. The last thing we need is a croak.

“Goddamn tarp keeps coming loose,” a woman grumbles, tightening the ropes from the outside. Instead of getting in the truck and driving away, she walks away, her footsteps growing faint.

I push on the tarp, but it doesn't budge. I feel the closeness of it; the musty air; the stench of gasoline, the sensation of being shut in, trapped. I push harder.

Well, you really only can have one cause of death, but the others would just make things all the more uncomfortable.

I kick on the tarp. “We can't get out.”

Nicole pushes. “Help me out here.” The two of us throw all our weight into the tarp.

I stumble on Klondike and he sits up straight. “Tater,” he says, and croaks.

Again we lean against the tarp trying to loosen the ropes, but nothing moves. I can feel my throat close up, stopping oxygen from getting to my lungs. “I can't breathe,” I say.

Nicole pulls me back. “Just relax, okay? We wanted a ride. We'll get one.”

“We've gotta get out of here.” I claw at the canvas until sweat beads on my forehead and drips down my back. Everything starts to smell like body odor, feet, and exhaust fumes. I pound even harder, my chafed knuckles bleeding against the tarp's taut surface.

Nicole clutches my shoulders. “Relax. We're fine. Nothing's wrong.”

Klondike twitches and taps my shoulder. I push him off. “Don't touch me. Not now. We've gotta get out of here.” My
throat closes, and I can't breathe. I wake up with Nicole shaking my shoulders.

“You totally passed out,” she says. “Are you okay?”

She actually sounds concerned.

“We're stuck,” I whisper. “You know how long it takes to die from hypothermia? The moment our bodies lose heat faster than we can maintain it, everything goes downhill. We shiver. The cold kind of freezes our brains and we can't reason. We won't even
know
we're going to die. Then we'll lose control of our small motor skills, slip into comas, go into organ failure, and die.”

“Well, none of us are shivering. The only one here who has made bad decisions is you making us climb into this stupid truck. So I think we're fine,” Nicole says. “Don't get all unzipped on us now. It's not like we're going down like Giovanni and Pietro Ligammari.”

I lay my head on the cool metal of the truck bed and squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for one of Nicole's twisted mob anecdotes.

“They found them, father and son, hanging from the basement rafters, face-to-face. At first they said it was suicide, but not likely.” Nicole whistles. “Now that's fucking brutal.”

“Why do you even
care
about how those people
died?” I ask, then say, “I don't think Klon should hear those things.”

Nicole sighs. “Ah. He's heard worse. You know, there's an Italian mob boss who's in jail now who some people think should be made a saint. His name is Bernardo Provenzano. They're big on the religion thing, the mob. Big-time Catholics. The Italians, I mean. And the Chinese, the Triad, are into Guan Yu, the Taoist God of brotherhood. The Reds, the Russians, I'm not so sure about. Are they commies or something?

“Anyway, all these mobs are into religion. Like that Bernardo Provenzano. He could say all this Bible shit,” she whispers, “kind of like Klondike does. You know, I've been kind of wondering what he meant when he said miracles were just people doing what they should do in the first place.”

I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, trying to get the vision of two Mafia guys with bulging eyes hanging from a basement ceiling out of my head. I curl up tighter. “I haven't thought about it,” I say.

“You don't listen good, Jeopardy.”

“How do you know all this stuff about the mob anyway?”

“True Crime Channel. In one foster home I had a TV
in my room and watched it twenty-four/seven. It was pretty great until they decided to move to Africa or someplace to start up an orphanage there. Real hippies, give-back-to-the-world shit. They shipped off to Africa and I was shipped back to Kids Place. Not cool. Sure kids in Africa need help, but so did I.”

“So all these Mafia facts have their own personalities in your nineteen-twenties bar?” I ask.

“Yep. But that's not too hard. They're people. You just have to put the actual person there. It's the Darwin's friendship theory shit that needs extra work.”

I sigh and start to recite the periodic table to myself.

Nicole keeps talking. And talking. Her words filling up the tarp. With all her hot air we should take off any second and float away. She goes on and on, her words running together like one endless sticky strand of glue. She taps me on the shoulder. “Or what?”

“Or what, what?” I ask.

“It's not like we've got anywhere to go. Or is Auntie Em expecting you for dinner?”

“Be quiet,” I say, and try to pretend we're outside. Free. “Please. Just. Be. Quiet.”

“It's nice here,” Klondike says. “Cozy and warm.” Then
he croaks, rubbing his side, blowing on his fingers.

Nicole huffs, “Nice fucking road trip.”

“This is not a road trip,” I mumble. I want to ring her neck but don't have the energy. Plus, if I open my eyes, I might lose it again. “Everything sucks right now,” I mutter.

“This is not a road trip,” Nicole mimics. “Of course not according to your scientific definition of a road trip. What is it? Roadeth Trippeth: The act of going in a car to a specific destination with a cooler of Coke. Whoopeee. Fun. Get over the pity party, Jeopardy. Christ.” She gnaws on a nail.

Klondike croaks again and says, “The sun don't shine up one dog's ass all the time.” He turns to Nicole. “Stop stirring the turd. I'm tired.” He lies back down.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's forget about it.”

We sit in silence in the truck for a while until I ask, “Why did you want to leave Kids Place with me anyway?”

“We already used up our theme of the day.”

“It's been a long day.” I can feel it's already evening. A long, wasted day.

“Same twenty-four hours.”

“It's not a theme, Cappy. It's just a question,” I say.

She lies down and closes her eyes. “No questions.”

“Whatever,” I sigh, and I lie back down. I curl up in a ball and hold my stomach. I picture the acids working their way through my gastrointestinal tract, eroding part of my small intestine. The hole will be small at first; then it'll grow. Perhaps later I'll develop an ulcer in the lining of my stomach. It might bleed and I'll get iron-deficiency anemia. Then, over time, it will turn into cancer. And I'll die a lingering, excruciating death.

“Charles Carneglia,” she says, just as I'm drifting off to sleep.

“Huh?” I say.

“Charles Carneglia—the go-to guy for the mob when they wanted to dissolve hits in acid. You listened to my stories at Kids Place. It's like I'd been talking for nine years, but you
heard
me.” She pauses. “With you, I'm real.”

I swallow back the knot that forms in my throat. I'm either getting really sentimental or sick. My throat just hurts all the time. “It's hard
not
to hear you with how much you talk,” I mutter.

“Yeah,” whispers Nicole. “I didn't talk the one time it counted, and I've been talking stupid shit ever since.”

After a bit I say, “They count.”

“What count?” she asks.

“Your stories.”

We're quiet. Klon croaks. I rub my arms and find a comfortable spot. “You know, even if I feel bad about that Martin kid, it doesn't mean I wouldn't do it again, okay? Just conflicting emotions, I guess.”

Klondike quietly taps on the truck bed, croaking softly. Nicole finally says, “Let's do short-a words until I fall asleep. When I do, you get first shift, Jeopardy.”

“That's fair.”

“Don't fall asleep,” she says.

“I won't,” I say.

“Bat—b a t, cat—c a t, fat—f a t…,” she begins. She's a fast learner and continues with “an,” “am,” “ad” words until her voice gets heavy with sleep and she drifts off. Her last word, “dad.”

I try to stay awake. Really. But I end up breaking rule number two…again. I don't even feel the rumble of the truck on the highway. I am so, so tired. We jump awake when the flashlight shines on us. I hold my hands to my eyes to block the glaring light.

“Get the hell out of my truck,” she says.

“W
ell, don't just sit there staring at me like some dumb deer on the road. Get out of my truck.”

We stumble out of her truck, stiff from so many hours curled under the tarp. Our breath comes out in silvery puffs. We stand in the driveway of a country home—soft yellow light filters through the windows.

“You fell asleep,” Nicole says through her teeth. “Again.”

I rub my eyes. It's so hard to stay awake. “Well, we got a ride, didn't we?” I say under my breath. It's not like staying awake would've changed anything.

“So? You runaways?” The lady stands with hands on hips. She wears a heavy flannel jacket and wranglers—
worn cowboy boots peeking out from under the jeans.

“No!” I say—too loud. I step forward. “We're, um, on a road trip.” I glance at Nicole. “And we're trying to go cross-country on our own for our senior project.” Yeah. That sounds good. “So we, um, hitch rides and—”

“And hide out in the back of people's trucks,” the lady finishes. “You're a bad liar, kid. Real bad.”

“Asswipe,” Klondike croaks, then says a slew of obscenities. He taps the lady's shoulder and croaks. “Sorry,” he says. “We just needed a ride.”

I blush. Nicole tugs on Klondike's elbow, which only makes his tics worse. It's hard to remember that it's better to ignore him.

“We're sorry,” I say. “He can't help the stuff he does and says. We're just looking for my aunt. Sarah Jones. She lives in Boise. Really. That's the truth.”

The lady gnaws on her lower lip. “I must've picked you three up in Jackpot. And the last thing I need is to get busted for toting around runaways—no matter what you're doing.” She looks the three of us up and down. “So either I call the cops or you head along your own way. Your business is none of mine.”

We nod. That's a good thing about people—a total lack
of interest in anything not directly related to them. Think about it. AIDS, hunger, global warming, genocide—this happens daily. And we don't care. Apathy is the disease of the developed world. The more bad stuff happens, the less people care. And that works for us.

“Well,” she says. “Get going. I don't want to see hide nor hair of any of you by the time I'm done unloading the truck.”

We turn to go when Klondike doubles over in a coughing fit, holding tight onto his side. I rub his back and Nicole tries to keep him still. The coughing must be killing his ribs and bruised side.

When the coughing stops, Klondike sits. “I just need to rest. Just a minute,” he says before letting out a soft, low croak. He leans his head on Nicole's bony knees.

The lady eyes us over the bulky boxes she heaves to the edge of the truck. I go to her. “Um, can we have a couple of minutes? To rest?”

The lady nods.

“And just something hot for him. It can be hot water.”

“This isn't a twenty-four-hour truck stop, honey, and I don't need trouble,” the lady says with lips pursed. But her eyes aren't cold.

“Please,” I say. I look back at Klon, eyes closed, resting against Nicole. Nicole motions for me to join her. Move on. But Klon needs something warm.

The lady nods. “You are a sorry-looking bunch. When's the last time you had anything decent to eat?”

I can't remember.

She gnaws on a toothpick. “I need help with these boxes. You pull a muscle or throw out your back, I will deny you were ever here, okay? I can't afford a nasty lawsuit by some snots like you.”

I cringe. Dad's done that. His idol for a time was the McDonald's hot-coffee lady, though he did concede that the finger those people found in Wendy's chili was going a bit far. There are limits. Even for Dad. Or at least there used to be. My stomach tightens. I hate missing him. He doesn't deserve it.

Nicole pulls Klon up. Everyone stares at me. The lady says, “You the head of this gang?”

“I guess,” I say.

“Well, are you three going to help or not?” she asks.

“We just need something hot for him, ma'am,” I say. “If we help, will you get him something?”

“I'm Jan, not ma'am. If you're going to haul my boxes,
you'd better know my name.”

I begin to introduce us when she holds up her hand. “And I sure as hell don't want to know your names.”

“Go sit over there, Klon,” I say, and motion to a place next to the garage. “We'll take care of the boxes.” Nicole and I unload the truck and set the boxes in the garage. Then we sit next to Klon, waiting for Jan to bring him a hot drink.

She comes out with a cup of steaming liquid and hands it to Klon. He looks at Nicole and me.

“Go ahead,” I urge. “You need it.”

Klon sips at the liquid and cups his cold hands around the mug. His twitches subside for just a moment. I exhale. It's like I haven't taken a breath since we left Jackpot.

“Do you even know where you are?” Jan finally asks.

“No,” Nicole says. “But it won't be long until we figure that out.”

Jan shakes her head. “Lord help me. Come inside.” She takes the empty mug from Klon and turns toward the door.

We stare at her.

“I'm not going to ask again.” She turns and walks up the porch, leaving the front door open.

Nicole glares at me. “You've definitely gotta have some
kind of sleeping disorder. Jesus, Jeops, we could be on the moon for all we know.”

“I can assure you we're
not
on the moon,” I say.

Nicole rolls her eyes. “C'mon.” We trip up the crooked steps of the old ranch house. Smoke spills from underneath a door in the entryway.

“What the hell are you doing up? Do you have any idea what time it is?” Jan barks at a closed door. “And put out that Goddamned cigar. You're gonna set the house on fire!”

A door opens. It's a coat closet. A tiny woman half the size of Jan peeks her head out. Her wiry gray hair is pulled back taut in a barrette. A thick cigar dangles from her lips and she has a monstrous can of Lysol clutched in one hand. She nods at us and shuts the door again.

“No wonder she likes us,” Nicole whispers. “They're just as nutty as Klon.”

I look over at Klon. I can tell he's relaxed. His croaks got quieter as soon as he saw the lady in the closet.

Jan walks ahead of us. “Follow me,” she says, pushing through the cluttered hallway. “Watch out for Ganesh.”

We walk by an elephant statue covered with candle wax. It teeters on the edge of a wooden table with three legs, the fourth made of old magazines. The living room
isn't much more organized. Every inch of wood-paneled wall space is covered with trinkets from all over the world. Nicole picks up a dusty yellow box and opens the lid. Twelve tiny dolls fall into the palm of her hand. I try not to groan, sure she's going to steal them when Jan turns back. “Guatemalan worry dolls.”

“What?” says Nicole.

“Asswipes,” Klondike croaks and taps on the yellow box.

“Worry dolls. You tell them your problems before going to bed, and they help take care of them while you sleep.”

“Tallywhacker,” he says, and holds his side.

Nicole smiles. “That's nice.” She looks at the room, her eyes scanning all the exotic contents.

“Looks like you kids have a lot of worries of your own.”

I clear my throat, not looking up.

Tap tap tap tap
. Klondike plays on my shoulder. I try to shrug him off but he taps harder.

“Some,” says Nicole. She stares at the dolls in her hand. “Where did you say they were from?” she asks. “The dolls?”

“Guatemala. Central America.”

Nicole holds the dolls in her hand. She clasps it shut. It would be so easy for her to steal them, but I watch as she
lets them fall back into the tiny box and puts it back on the shelf. I sigh, relieved, trying to ignore Klondike's loudening croaks. The good thing is that Jan doesn't seem to care about what Klondike does and says.

“Wait here,” she says. When she leaves the room, Nicole turns to me. “You thought I'd take them, didn't you?”

I shrug.

“I don't steal what I don't need. That's not cool.”

“Okay. Sorry. It's just—”

“I'm not your dad,” Nicole says.

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

Jan comes into the room with a pile of blankets, three mugs of hot chocolate, and a box of graham crackers. “Like I said, this is no luxury hotel. You'll have a good breakfast and baths in the morning. Good night.”

The next morning Jan wakes us up before the sun has risen. We rub sleep from our eyes. I pull the blankets tight around me. She hands us three threadbare towels. “You can stay the day and one more night. I need help unpacking those boxes. You'll get your three meals. But tomorrow you're out at sunrise.” She sniffs. “From the smell of things, you all need to shower and wash those clothes. You know how to wash clothes, don't you?”

We nod.

“Breakfast will be ready at seven thirty.”

I look around for a clock, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Jan shakes her head. “An hour and a half. So there's the bathroom, here are the towels, and here's some laundry soap. Hot water's expensive. So keep the showers under five. The dryer beeps when the clothes are done.” She points to a door. “There's the kitchen. Don't be late.” She hollers down the hall. “Did you hear that, Nancy? And put out that Goddamned cigar!”

Nancy peeks from the closet and sprays her Lysol can in Jan's direction. I wonder if she sleeps there. I stare at the rotary phone and worry if she'll call the police.

Jan says, “Your business is none of my own.” She looks us over head to toe. “I can see you're not bad kids. But you're not taking the right road, that's for damned sure.”

The three of us stare down at our toes. Klondike whispers, “Tallywhacker, asswipe,” then taps my arm.

“One more night.” Then she turns on her heel and goes into the kitchen while we get washed up.

The hot water trickles out of a rusty showerhead and I jump away to turn up the cold.

I don't want the shower to end. I scrub my hair and use her conditioner, my curls coming unknotted. Nicole pounds on the door, “Five minutes! Switch!”

I stand and look at the filthy water that swirls around my feet and splashes up my ankles. Just one more minute, I think. Just one.

Nicole pounds again and I step into the steamy bathroom, the mirror fogged up. My skin is itchy and red.

Nicole gets into the shower. “Klon's sleeping again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What's with that?” Nicole asks.

“You know. On average a person will spend a third of his life asleep.”

“That explains why you can't seem to keep your eyes open. Ever.” Nicole shouts above the spatter of water. “Christ, what a lot of wasted time.”

“Nah. It'd only be a major evolutionary glitch if sleep didn't serve some purpose—memory, learning, rest, who knows? All animals sleep. Scientists study it all the time. Humans need at least seven hours a night to be fully rested. And Jan probably woke the roosters up.”

After a while the water turns off and Nicole steps into the bathroom, wrapping her body in the towel. “Well?”

I'm sitting on the woven rug on the bathroom floor. “Well what?”

“Aren't you gonna go get Klon? It's his turn.”

Our clothes are in the dryer, so I tiptoe around the house in a damp towel, leaving little puddles wherever I go. Klon is sound asleep, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, curled up against one of Jan's bookshelves. I shake him awake and steer him to the shower. When he's done, the three of us sit in the steamy bathroom, listening for the beep of the dryer.

When we're cleaned and dressed, it feels like heaven—our clothes soft and warm against our skin.

Jan bangs some pots in the kitchen and whistles a tuneless song. She dumps piles of steaming porridge on our plates.

We spend the day organizing boxes of trinkets so Jan can take pictures to sell on eBay. Klon sleeps most of the day.

At dinner we sit around the table. I lean in and jerk my head back. It smells like burning socks.

“Potato, kale, soysage casserole,” Jan says. “Our favorite.”

The lady from the hallway leans her bony elbows on the table and stoops over her plate, plunging her spoon into the casserole. She finishes everything on her plate
and creeps off down the hall.

I crane my neck to see where she's going.

“Back to the closet,” says Jan between mouthfuls.

“Of course,” says Nicole.

Klondike smiles.

They say hunger is the best sauce. Not tonight. The pasty casserole sticks in my throat and I drink several glasses of water to keep it down. Still, bite by bite, I eat until my plate is clean. Klon and Nicole are on second and third helpings. Jan offers, and I accept more, refilling my water glass. Food is food. No matter how bad it tastes.

Klon's head nods and he jerks it up, his eyes wide. It's early, but Jan ushers us to the den where we slept last night. “You three need to sleep. Good night.”

“You gonna look at your letters again?” Nicole asks.

“Maybe,” I say.

She nods. “I look at my postcards lots.”

“I understand.” I pull out the letters and we both look at the faded flower. “I like this one the most. It feels more—”

“Real.” Nicole finishes my sentence. “What's the letter say?”

I read:

Reading Mom's name aloud is weird to me and I pause. Michelle. Michelle Brandt. Then Michelle Aguirre. Then Michelle Brandt Aguirre—loving daughter, wife, and mother. Dead. I clear my throat and read on.