Kindred (16 page)

I sleep fitfully—first I’m hot, then cold, waking up chilled or in a sweat. The covers tangle around me and I can’t settle down. My dreams are restless, uncomfortable. I wake up for what must be the fifth time of the night and nearly shriek in fright.

It takes my sluggish brain a second to realize the dark shape of a man in the corner is Mo. Headlights from a passing car momentarily illuminate the room and catch the whites of his eyes, lighting them silver.

“You scared me,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest, as if to still my leaping heart. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline rush and I feel slightly nauseous.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice low and quiet. As if there is someone left to be careful of, as if there is someone still sleeping.

“Are you okay?” How long had he been there, watching me sleep?

“I’m fine,” he says, not moving from his low slouch in the chair. “Go back to sleep, everything’s fine.”

“Mo,” I say, pushing away sleep-crazy hair, trying to see his features in the dim room. “What’s going on? Why are you sitting there?”

“I had a bad dream,” he says. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wanted to make sure you were breathing.”

When we were little, we used to have nightmares about each other. And when we woke up, we’d creep into the other’s bed to make sure everything was okay, that he and I were still alive.

“You’re too old to come into bed with me,” I say, profoundly uneasy. For some reason, my heart rate kicks back up. “It was just a bad dream.”

“I know.” He sounds so sad. “I know.”

“Go back to sleep,” I insist. “It’s late.”

He sits there for a moment longer, so still that I’m not sure he’s breathing. Then, with a sigh, he rises slowly. Something about the way he’s holding himself, so carefully, worries me.

“Are you okay?” I ask again.

He doesn’t answer.

Then, in the dark, sleep-heavy room, I ask what I’ve been scared to ask all day. “Mo,” I say softly. “Did he come back? Does he want more from you?” I don’t say the name. I’m scared to at night. I’m scared to when Mo is acting so strangely.

But he doesn’t answer, shuffling out of my bedroom as if he’s sapped of all his strength, like someone at the end of his rope.

I’m wide-awake now and worried, though not about
myself this time. It doesn’t add up—this visit from Mo, his odd behavior. Maybe he didn’t hear my question. Maybe he doesn’t want to answer. I fret in bed, annoyed by the hot pillow, the smothering blankets, my aching joints. I try to pretend Emmett is here, but this time the image doesn’t come. Maybe he’s confused by all this too.

No sounds come from the living room. I wonder if Mo fell back asleep or if he’s lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling like me.

With Mo, you have to give him the space to come to you on his own. He knows I care, that I love him. That must be why he’s here in my apartment in the first place. He needs my help.

Decision reached, I feel a warm peace slip its way into my chest and glide down, warming and relaxing all my limbs. I quickly fall asleep.

I
N THE MORNING
, I wonder if I dreamt the whole encounter. Mo is jumpy with excess energy, pulling my hair, pinching my arm and dancing away from my flung-out smacks.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.

“Like the dead.” His eyes roll to the back of his head and he makes a horrid face at me, tongue hanging out. Then he turns to fix a bowl of cereal.

It’s hard to talk to him when he’s in this mood, and with his back to me, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. But I try again. “I mean, after we talked, you slept okay?”

As if he has read my mind, he turns to me and rolls his eyes, face slack. There’s no point asking him anything right now.

He barely eats breakfast before heading out, leaving a
nearly full bowl of cereal in the sink and mumbling something about setting up job interviews and making contacts.

I linger over my cup of tea. At ten, I walk to Emmett’s shop. It’s time to end the nightly fantasies and see the man in person again. I have the built-in excuse of bringing his jacket back, and as I carry it folded over my arm, I resist the temptation to smell it. It’s hard to believe it was cold enough for me to wear this a few weeks ago. It’s hot and muggy now, more like summer than spring. The unseasonable heat is continuing, and the sun feels hard and heavy. I break out in an unfortunate sweat and sneak sniffs at my armpits, but I can’t tell how well my deodorant is holding up.

I approach the shop with a surge of happiness and excitement. It’s hardly a cute or inviting place. The walkway is swept clean, but the plain cement is cracked. The front door is solid black. The windows on either side are tinted and impossible to see through, and the neon sign above simply says
TATTOOS
.

I push open the door and the bell tinkles. The cool air feels wonderful on my damp skin.

Emmett glances over his shoulder at the sound. He nods as I come in, his usual laconic self, but I can tell he’s glad to see me. I head to the back and place the jacket on an empty chair, then watch as he finishes up a dragonfly tattoo. It’s small, with light and delicate lines. He’s drawn it up high, near the girl’s shoulder blade, and if I look quickly, it seems like a real insect is resting there for a moment.

“It looks really good,” I tell her.

She smiles. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, with blond-streaked hair tousled around her pixieish face.

“Is this your first tattoo?” I ask.

“No, I have one on my hip.”

“What is it?”

Emmett’s finished, so after a quick glance at him to make sure it’s okay to move, she shifts to her side and slides down her pants. There’s a small four-leaf clover. To my untutored eye, it doesn’t look as well inked as the dragonfly.

“It’s for good luck,” she says. “I’m Irish.”

“How’s that worked out for you?”

“Being Irish or my shamrock?”

“I don’t know—both.”

Emmett rolls his lips inward, as if trying to keep from smiling. In the meanwhile, he helps her to the long mirror so she can see the tattoo for herself. After her happy exclamations, he slathers her dragonfly in Vaseline, and then carefully tapes gauze over it. He gives her detailed instructions on how to care for the tattoo until the skin heals. She listens gravely and nods.

“I like my shamrock,” she says, turning to me. “It keeps me grounded. But I needed another tattoo to remind me that sometimes I need to fly.”

I really don’t know what to say to this, so I smile and nod. I still don’t understand how people believe that the drawing itself carries power. She pays for the tattoo, thanks Emmett again and leaves.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says.

“Oh, come on, that wasn’t bad. I was just being friendly.”

He wipes down the chair and starts cleaning his station, throwing away the used inks, putting the nondisposable equipment into the autoclave for sterilization.

“You throw all this stuff away? You barely used some of it.”

“Great way to transmit disease,” he says. “It’s why some cities near naval bases banned tattoo parlors for a long time. Too many sailors catching too many things.”

“That’s gross.”

“And the reason I’m throwing all these perfectly good inks away.”

“So maybe it’s not so wasteful.”

He grunts slightly, acknowledging my concession.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods?” he says. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Thought you moved on to another story.”

“Missed me?”

“Yeah, I did,” he says.

I pause for a second.

“I missed you too,” I say softly, and take a deep breath. “It was kind of nice having your jacket; it reminded me of you.”

He looks up from his cleaning, as though waiting for something.

But there’s nothing else I’m ready to share. So after a moment, he nods and we share a smile.

“You are right, though,” I say briskly, breaking up the suddenly intense atmosphere. “I have moved on to another story. It comes out next week; it’s about this organic farm outside of town. It’s also kind of my baby, since it’s my own story idea.”

“Congratulations,” he says. Emmett has a way of lending
the simplest words a richness and depth they don’t usually have. I squirm with pleasure at his simple felicitation.

“But don’t worry,” I say. “Just ’cause I have a new story doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore.” I need to get back to my more important project. “I still think you’d make a great personality profile, but Frank says we already have enough features for the next three months.”

He gives me one of his searing, searching looks, then nods.

“So you’re here for a tattoo?” he asks.

“No,” I laugh. “Not yet.” I deliberately look around the shop. We’re the only ones in it. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?”

He thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s quiet today. And what’s the point of owning my own business if I can’t take off every once in a while?”

I grin widely and we set off into the heavy heat.

At the café, we settle at a small side table with our drinks, chatting about the Blank Pages—they have an album coming out. But then, as the small talk winds down, I take a deep breath and ease into the subject I’ve been waiting to touch on.

“I was wondering if you wanted to visit the office sometime,” I say.

“At the newspaper?”

“Yeah. You know, I’m always hanging where you work; I thought you might want to see where I earn my honest wages.”

He looks at me for a moment. “You are a strange one, Miriam.”

“What?”

“You don’t think that’s kind of a weird thing to ask?”

“Well, first of all, no. I don’t think so. I’m a naturally curious person; forgive me for assuming you were as well. But if you want to know the rest of the story, there’s someone there I want you to meet.”

“Trying to set me up?”

“No!” I’m ridiculously insulted and stung. Doesn’t he remember that
I
like him?

He relaxes a fraction at my response.

“There’s this kid, okay? An intern. I think he’s got some issues—maybe his home life, maybe something at school. I don’t know. I want to help him, but I can’t get through to him. We started off on the wrong foot, and I think no matter what I do, I’m not ‘cool enough,’ ” I say, making air quotes. “And … not to give you a big head, but you’re the coolest person I know. In Hamilton.”

He snorts at the qualification.

“I thought if I brought you in, maybe the three of us could hang out for a bit, get to know each other, and then maybe he’d loosen up around me.”

“Why do you even care about this dude? He sounds like a loser.”

I shrug. It’s hard to put into words. “It’s just this feeling that I’m supposed to help him. He acts like he’s all bad, but I think there’s something else going on underneath.” At least there’d better be.

Emmett tips back his cup and finishes the last of his coffee.

“I need to get back to the shop.” He puts down his mug
and rises. I stay in my seat, waiting for the rest of it. “Call me,” he says. “I’ll meet your boy.”

“Sweet,” I say, grinning up from my seat. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t expect too much,” he says darkly. “People have to want to be helped before you can help them.”

He walks out and the door jangles loudly behind him.

The next day, I waste no time. As soon as I know for sure Jason’s at the office, I call Emmett. He has a buddy visiting who can mind the shop while he takes off.

“I can give you an hour,” he says. “But that’s all.”

We agree to meet at the coffee shop.

Getting Jason there is not easy.

He’s hunched over the conference room table, his arm curved around a notebook as he furiously writes. His hair looks greasy, like he hasn’t bathed in a while, but he doesn’t smell bad. I wonder if he’s using a weird kind of hair gel.

“Hey,” I say casually. “I’m heading out to Higher Grounds for a break. You want to come?”

Warily, he looks up from his notebook.

“I’m Miriam,” I remind him, but his closed expression doesn’t change. “My treat,” I offer.

Talking to him is like holding a tidbit of fish out to a feral cat, trying to lure him closer. As he shifts, I see a little of the notebook and realize he’s been sketching, not writing. “You draw?” I ask, motioning toward the paper.

“No,” he says flatly, closing the book.

I want to walk away so badly. He’s rude; he’s not interested.
It feels masochistic to keep pounding my head against the wall.

“Come on,” I wheedle. “First of all, it’s a free drink. Second, I’ve got someone I want you to meet. And third, besides the fact that it’s totally rude to turn down a co-worker who asks you out for a coffee, it looks like there’s nothing for you to do here today.”

He sighs deeply. “Fine,” he says.

“A man of few words. You’re going to have to work on that if you want to be a reporter.”

“I don’t.”

I stop for a second, but he brushes past me out the door. I follow, more perplexed than ever about what I’m supposed to do for him. And why him?

Jason perks up a bit at the sight of Emmett’s tattoos and black motorcycle boots. But I don’t know why I imagined the three of us chatting away and having a great ol’ time. In fact, it’s incredibly awkward as Emmett and I try to ask Jason about himself and he answers in monosyllables.

I’m about to write off this whole experiment as a total loss when I hear my name called. I turn and see Mo striding toward us.

“This is my brother.” I introduce him all around, and without even waiting for an invitation, Mo pulls up an extra chair and joins us. He had seemed depressed when I went for work this morning, like a puppy getting left at home. He looks so happy to see me now that I don’t have the heart to kick him under the table and tell him to leave.

He doesn’t even bother ordering a drink at the counter.
At first I’m annoyed because, in typical Mo fashion, he completely takes over the conversation. Emmett glances at me once, then keeps his eyes on Mo and Jason. I wonder what he thinks of Mo. My brother is talking so fast that the words meld into each other as he tells all of us about his lousy interviews at a couple of attorney’s offices he thought might be interested in a paid student intern position. Not surprisingly, they weren’t receptive. I’m trying to think of ways to take back the conversation—questions to ask Jason to crack through that sullen grunt he prefers—when I finally realize that Mo’s good-natured foul mouth is loosening up Jason. He smiles at Mo’s self-deprecating humor and actually laughs when Mo turns his insults toward the firms he interviewed with. There’s a gleam in Mo’s eyes that tells me he’s enjoying his own performance. He always appreciates a receptive audience. His laughter is sharp, almost a cackle. His words come fast, running into one another.