Falter (2 page)

The museum, however, was remarkable to me. Funded by the state and free to the public, it supplied displays that ranged from Vincent Van Gogh’s works of art to complete teachings of how the body functioned. I visited their new exhibits every week, and in the last thirteen years, they served as a solid foundation for my education.
 

The back wall of the library butted up against the museum and restaurant, dead-ending the alley. This wonderful building was my other source of education. Since I didn’t get to attend school, I soaked up all the knowledge I could from there. I spent hours hiding in the old, musty books, determined that I wouldn’t allow my mind to wither away because of my situation. The librarians watched me struggle in the beginning and then became quite eager to teach me the necessities of life once they saw my hunger to learn.

I was very fortunate that the workers of those businesses accepted me knowing I lived on the streets. They could have easily turned their heads or removed me, hindering my chance to learn. Luckily, they admired my refusal to be ignorant.

Engines whirred as morning drivers challenged each other in a race to their jobs. I squinted, directing my sleepy eyes toward the busy street-end of the alley. Subtle morning light reflected off the steam escaping the restaurant exhaust. Blurs of color from the passing cars blended with the rainbow of droplets spraying into the air. I stared at the pretty hues through the vapors and let my eyes lose focus.
 

I noticed a plump figure entering the alley on the other side, disrupting my hazy color show. The round man stepped into the warmth spewing from the exhaust and shivered under the abrupt temperature change. He hesitated in the heat for a moment then continued to my side where he plopped down on the ground next to me.
 

“It’s a new day, Nevaeh. Wake up so we can get started. I need to look for a new pair of socks today.” The old man took off one beaten, leather shoe and pointed to the bare pinky toe lodged through a hole in his tube sock.
 

I smiled at George. He seemed almost proud to have worn the pair of socks to smithereens, like it was something he needed to accomplish before feeling good about a newer pair.
 

“First thing’s first, we need food.” George jerked his chin toward the restaurant. “Jenna’s workin’ today, she can probably lift us something for breakfast,” he said, sliding his shoe back over the holey sock.

“First of all, I’ve been awake.” I motioned to my face and opened my eyes as big as possible to exaggerate exactly how awake I was. “Second of all, Jenna shouldn’t risk her job just because we can’t find one.” I always felt guilty having to ask people for food.

I gathered my belongings and hoisted myself off the ground. After shoving the stray hairs from my face and straightening my shirt, I slung my dingy book bag of clothes—enough for two day’s change—over my shoulder. That and the well-used pink blanket my grandmother knitted were about all I had in the world. The only other thing I owned, my most valuable possession, was the one thing I kept on me at all times.
 

My necklace, which once draped loosely onto my chest, pulled taut around the base of my neck now. George laughed and teased me, saying that I might as well use it as an anklet because it had grown so tight, but I refused to take it off. There was still room to breathe and swallow, so what was the big deal? I cherished the fact that I’d grown into it.

My hand found its way to the small, silver pendant, lifted it from the divot between my collarbones, and rubbed the tarnished surface as I often did. The rose engraving was barely detectable under my fingers due to years of sweat and constant fondling. I gripped my mother’s locket and dragged it back and forth across the short chain as I watched George bundle up the pack he’d stowed under a broken crate.
 

The locket protected the last picture my mom and I took together. That day was a faded, almost nonexistent, glimpse of my past. She held me tight as she smiled and kissed a younger, giggling version of me. I stared at it every day and compared myself, as I am today, to the memories of when I was five. I’m a little rougher around the edges than I figured I should be at twenty-three.

“Come on girl!” George yanked my arm and dragged me down the alley to the grand civilization that existed around our small community of vagabonds.
 

I lived in this community, but I tried very hard to avoid the incriminating habits associated with street life. Stealing and lying was mostly against my nature. Unfortunately, some things were unavoidable.
 

George and I worked whenever we could, whether it meant cleaning store windows for a day or doing the dishes at a low-rated restaurant. Restaurants were the best, though. Sometimes they traded food for payment, especially if they were in a pinch. In the end, we always shared whatever earnings we got.
 

George was my only family, and I owed my life to him. He found me beneath a boat dock when I was around ten years old, while he was looking for a hiding place from the winter sting. He stumbled upon a girl under that dock, sopping wet and unaware of the world around her. I had a knot on my head, he says, the size of Texas. That was the beginning of my life as I know it.
 

I have some early recollections of my childhood—my mother before she died, and my grandmother who raised me after her death—but most of my memories from the time I was five until the time George found me were a blank. Five years of my life just missing, as if someone tipped me over like a teapot and poured out what they didn’t want me to remember. I do remember that my father died before I was born; my mom told me stories about him all the time before I lost her too.

The tarnished necklace and a stain-ridden blanket were the only mementos of my past he’d found with me. Being so young in the memories I had, and sustaining a fair amount of trauma to my head, I didn’t remember my address or much about where I came from. There was no way of getting back to where I started. I wasn’t even sure if my grandmother was still alive.
 

Every once in a while, something sparked a flashback to a time or place I couldn’t quite recall, like little breadcrumbs leaving hints about who I was before. However, they are only bits and pieces—never enough to fill in the holes.

“Come on, we’ll be late gettin’ the day started, and all the good work’ll be taken,” George called out. “Bill was talkin’ bout a position opening at Joe’s Café last night. Maybe it’s a waitressin’ job and you’ll get it. You’re pretty enough. You can make some good tips.” I followed as he clumsily weaved his way down the streets.

George was right. I was pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way. Smart enough, too. It’s just very difficult to convince someone to hire a young woman with no past, no social security number, and no address.

“Let’s make a stop at the Banquet Hall. They have nice bathrooms and those soaps that make me smell like lavender.” I smiled with delight. I almost caught a whiff of the sudsy perfume just talking about it.
 

He looked back at me, rolled his tired eyes, and chuckled. “I really don’t think it matters how you smell as long as you don’t stink like ya do now, kid!”
 

George winced when I skipped to his side and playfully punched his arm.
 

“Man, I don’t understand how a small little thang like you can punch like the back end of a mule.” He rubbed circles over his shoulder and cowered away from my reach.
 

“Aw, it didn’t hurt that bad. I guess I’ll have to take it easier on you from now on, old man.” I grinned and jogged past him backwards, provoking a race.
 

George’s pout curved into a sly smile, then his still-spry bones kicked into gear, pounding the sidewalk in an attempt to catch up. I led us farther into the city, turning this corner and that along the way. Heavy breathing and an occasional raspy cough warned me that George wasn’t too far behind.
 

We reached the Banquet Hall minutes later and stopped at its steep steps to take in the impressive facade. Tall, stark white pillars stood in regal contrast to the classic, red brick building. White shutters and baskets of red and blue pansies decorated each large window. To most, the Hall was the epitome of old, southern charm, and what it held within only supported those feelings.

Then, there were the signs. The Hall prohibited us from entering. It banned beggars. No Loitering signs were stationed at every corner of the building’s lot. They were not so close to the entrance that it would offend those who belonged there, or appear uncouth to the true lady, but not so far away that the homeless might think we were welcome. Over the years, George and I made friends with a sympathetic guard who allowed us to bypass the Hall’s policy. When he worked, we had a free pass to the spare employee bathrooms at the back entryway.
 

I moved to a side window out of the public’s view and peered in on tip toes to search inside for our man. Through the glass, a few seconds later, I caught his eye with a small wave and smile. The guard, Dan, gave a once-down nod that meant it was safe to sneak in. I passed the message along to George using a similar nod. We hugged the wall as we crept to the back door and then waited. Our covert operation had begun.

Soon after, Dan swung the door open, placed a stick between the door and its jamb to prop it open, and stepped out onto the concrete landing. He inhaled deeply and blew a loud breath out as if it was the first fresh breath he’d had in a while.
 

The guard pushed one of his thumbs under the edge of his belt and let his hand rest anchored at his waist. He strolled to the opposite end of the landing, acting unaware that we were crouched just behind him, waiting for him to signal.
 

With his other hand, he retrieved a soft pack of cigarettes from his pant pocket. He shook the nearly empty pack until one of the last sticks poked out of the hole and then pulled it free with his lips. After placing the crumpled package back into his pants, he dug a lighter out of his shirt pocket. Dan sparked the end of the cigarette and took a long draw while scanning the back lot for other employees. Once satisfied, his hand left the heavy utility belt and tapped the brim of his black baseball cap which read SECURITY on the front.
 

This was our gesture that the coast was clear.
 

George climbed up the stairs, opened the door, and handed me the stick. He entered before me, ducking and scoping the area with narrowed eyes like we were robbing a bank. I never liked this part of the plan, but both men agreed—against my arguing—that George always lead in case someone caught us. He and Dan wanted to give me a chance to escape.
 

While I waited for George to let me in, I watched Dan’s back. He smoked and continued pretending not to notice the charade occurring behind him. I felt a sudden need to say thank you. There was rarely time to tell him how much we appreciated what he did while we skulked around the building.
 

As if reading my mind, Dan glanced at me over his shoulder and smiled before returning to take another puff from his cigarette. It was a quick gesture, but meaningful just the same. When we initially devised this plan, George and I insisted that Dan never look directly at us. We wanted him to be able to say he never saw us enter the building if questioned. Technically, it wouldn’t be lying. Somehow it made me feel a little better about the whole thing.
 

A tug at my arm indicated it was time to move. I stepped into the hall, held the stick against the door jamb, and let the door slowly close onto the wedge of wood.

The inside of the historical building reminded me of my grandmother’s home, where I lived as a child. I couldn’t recall where it was exactly, but I could picture the rich surroundings of her old, colonial-style house with clarity. The aroma of history drifted from every artifact and saturated the building; the scent was a bit musty, but welcoming all the same.

The lavish adornments sprinkled around the Hall resembled the antique keepsakes my grandmother had collected over the years.
 

As we lurked toward the bathroom, my attention was drawn to the row of small, glass boxes sitting atop the mahogany pedestals that lined a path to the lobby. They displayed ribbons and buttons that decorated generals from battles long ago. In other cases, beautifully embellished mementos, such as hand-held mirrors and matching hair brushes, rested on burgundy, velvet pillows and gleamed under the spot lights pointed down at them.
 

I lifted my gaze to the shadow boxes hanging on the gray walls behind the cases and admired the dozens of recovered silver and copper coins; the light caught every pit and imperfection the little disks of metal had sustained during their years of trade and travel.
 

George and I eased farther along the rounded corridor, careful to stay behind the towering, gold pillars. The massive structures braced the edges of the circular lobby and did a fine job of blocking us from the view of passing employees as we headed to our destination.
 

A loud clamor from across the room echoed off the high ceiling. We halted mid-step, pressing our bodies against one of the giant pillars. I leaned out as far as I could without being seen and checked if it was okay to continue. No one seemed to notice, so I lingered, letting my curious eyes roam over the extravagant lobby I didn’t get to see very often.