Runaway (6 page)

“Oh,” she said, then smiled and took my hand.

         

Sorry. I've been spacing out, watching Louise K. Palmer snore. We are inside the shelter and she's zonked out on the cot next to mine, looking like a big toothless baby.

The cots are just army cots with blankets. No mattress or anything. They're more comfortable than the ground, but not much. What I really don't like about this kind of cot is the metal bars on the sides. They make me claustrophobic.

But the good news is…I'm squeaky! Clean clothes, clean hair, clean teeth, clean body…I feel great!

Louise K. Palmer is also clean, which was no small job. That woman was
caked.
I had to scrub really hard to get the dirt off of her. It was layers of skin deep.

I got her a change of clothes from the donation box, and after she dressed, she asked me to comb out her hair. It's long, almost clear to her waist. So I said, “Sure,” and after a good ten minutes of detangling, I was finally done.

“More,” she whispered.

So I picked up the comb again and worked it a little longer.

“More,” she whispered again after I stopped. Then she turned to me and smiled. “It feels so nice.”

So I combed her hair over and over, from root to tip, just like my mom used to do for me. And you know what? I didn't mind. She didn't say a word, and I didn't say a word. I didn't think bad thoughts, either. Like how she was wasting my time, or how it wasn't fair that my mom would never comb out my hair again. I thought about her. About Louise K. Palmer. And I made up a little story in my head about who she was and where she came from. And while I was making up the story, I pretended that the comb was a magic comb, and that it was untangling all the knots of her life. All the things that had confused her and hurt her and made her crazy, my magic comb was pulling them out.

When I finally put the comb down, her hair was dry.

         

Louise K. Palmer thinks a mountain of white bread with a pound of margarine is supper. Well, I had news for her. I took her tray and said, “Forget it! You're not getting this until you eat some…” And then I remembered that she has no teeth. “Soup!”

“I don't like pea soup,” she said.

“You're eating it,” I told her, and got us two big steaming bowls of it.

Soup at most shelters is watery, but this was homemade split pea with big chunks of tender ham. It was so good. So thick and salty and delicious. I can't remember ever tasting anything quite like it, and Louise K. Palmer must've thought so, too, because she wound up eating three whole bowls.

Crud! They just called lights out and I haven't told you half of what I wanted to.

Plus, I'm not going to be able to sleep a wink tonight.

I hate shelters.

People coughing and snoring and hacking up who-knows-what.

It's a nightmare.

         

But I do have clean teeth.

         

Sunday, June 13th

I wanted to spend the day at the park, but Louise K. Palmer didn't. And since I haven't figured out a travel plan yet, I didn't want to blow it by leaving the shelter without her and not being able to get back inside. And the truth is, I wouldn't mind having some more pea soup tonight.

So we went over to the day center, which is right next door, did some assigned chores (which means I did both of ours) and hung out on the patio and in the yard all morning.

I wish I could see what was going on inside Louise K. Palmer's head because
something
is. Why else would she curtsy? She's a toothless old hag and she
curtsys.
She also says
Adieu!
or
Au revoir!
and gives a regal wave every time she leaves a room.
Every
time, every room.

The manager came up to me and asked me what her story was. Like it's any of her business? So I told her, “Please, I can't bear to talk about it.”

She didn't quit, though. She said, “But you seem so healthy, and she's so—”

“Please!” I cried, doing a pretty good freak-out. “Don't make me talk about it!”

She's been eyeing me ever since. And I've seen her on the phone and at her computer a lot, too, which I keep telling myself is normal, but it doesn't
feel
normal.

Either I'm paranoid, or she's onto me.

         

Still the 13
^th
, 8:30 p.m.

We're back at the night shelter. The manager was only around in the morning, so good riddance to her. And I spent the entire rest of the day out in the yard working on something I'm, as they say,
loath
to tell you about.

It actually started yesterday while I was combing out Louise's hair. Probably because I'd read your handy-dandy poetry sheet and that stupid example of a ballad kept looping through my brain.

I was trying to keep the whole thing in my head, but it got bigger and bigger. So I scrawled sections of it—wait a minute, wait a minute—I scrawled
stanzas
on napkins. (I can't believe I remembered that word! Wash my mouth! I'm learning the language of poetry!)

Anyway, it may be awful, I wouldn't know. (Although could it be any worse than the example on your handout? Who speaks with
'tis
and
thou
and
thee
anymore? Honestly, Ms. Leone, you need to update your sheet.)

But awful or not, here it is:

THE BALLAD OF LADY LOUISE

By a new moon was born a sweet baby, Louise,

So innocent, perfect, and precious was she!

She learned how to curtsy, say thank you and please,

The bonnie young baby Louise.

The girl, she grew quick and so did her hair,

It tumbled in ringlets right down to her chair!

“Oh my, but the lass is so lovely and fair,

We must call her Lady Louise.”

Soon suitors came calling with chocolates so creamy,

She ate sweets and thought each young man was quite dreamy.

But a renegade boy is who made her all steamy,

That naughty young Lady Louise!

She ran off with him and the story turns sad,

For dashing or not, the boy was a cad!

And not at all ready to be a new dad,

He left our poor Lady Louise.

She blossomed into an enormous bouquet,

People gossiped and gasped, “She must be due any day!”

But triplets take room and were still months away,

The babies of Lady Louise.

When her children were born, they were instantly taken,

'Twas best all around, but were they mistaken?

For the void left her lost and terribly shaken,

The heartbroken Lady Louise.

Years wandering streets she would call out their names,

Her efforts were futile, were lost, all in vain.

Still it howls through the night on the wind of her pain,

The voice of poor Lady Louise.

Now the moon is half full and so is her head,

And many believe she'd be better off dead.

But she waits at the station and hopes to be fed,

The homeless old lady, Louise.

Well, I just read that over and you know what? You may hate it, but I kind of like it. Except that it's sad. And I can't believe I used 'Twas. I had to, though. Nothing else fit.

Funny thing, too: I don't know what Louise K. Palmer's real story is, but in my mind now, that's it.

I hope no one ever writes “The Ballad of Holly Janquell.”

Or if they do, that it's funny. And full of sass.

Hey! “The Ballad of Gypsy Janquell”…that would be good!

There once was a gypsy so clever and spry

Your pockets she'd pick in the wink of an eye

And if asked the truth, she surely would lie,

The Gypsy of…

Well, crud. I can't think of a rhyme. And double crud because I can't believe I'm wasting my time
trying.
Like I haven't spent the whole day doing this? I'd better not start thinking in stanzas, you hear me? I would be really, really ticked off if I started thinking in stanzas.

         

Monday, June 14
^th
, 5:00 a.m.

I can't sleep. This place is a nightmare. No one's allowed to smoke inside the shelter, but they all smoke
outside
all day, then hack up their smoky lungs all night. The air reeks. I feel like I'm breathing in death and disease.

So I've decided: I'm taking a shower, I'm packing my stuff, and after breakfast, Louise or not, I'm out of here. I probably won't be able to come back, but so what? I'll be good for another week. Maybe two. And Louise won't miss me. She doesn't even seem to know who I am half the time. Besides, that day-shelter manager's definitely got a bee in her britches where I'm concerned, and I don't want to push my luck.

         

7:30 a.m.

Diversionary tactic. Write in the journal. Look calm. Act normal. Don't make eye contact….

Why?

There are cops here! They're cruising through the tables looking for someone.

Please not me, please not me, please not me…

         

7:45 a.m.

They just left. All they did was look and leave.

“Adieu! Au revoir!”
Loony Louise croaked after them.

I'm not delaying this any longer. I'm grabbing some supplies and I'm out of here.

         

Tuesday, June 22nd

It's been over a week? Well, I guess I'm bored again, is why I'm writing. Not that I haven't
been
bored during the week, but I scored some books at the library, so that's been a lot more entertaining than writing in this thing.

I guess I'm also writing because I need to bounce some ideas around. Life in the park isn't as peachy as it was a week ago. I've been getting The Look from people who've seen me more than once, and they've stopped letting me near their dogs. Not that I've been hanging out in the same spot every day, but the park seems to be getting smaller by the minute.

I've also noticed cops cruising by a
lot.

I keep having to hide.

It makes me very, very nervous.

So what am I going to do? I can't go back to the shelter, and I can't stay here much longer. I've either got to find someplace else to hang out or move on.

         

See? Just talking about it makes me know what I should do.

It's time to move on.

         

Wednesday morning (the 23
^rd
)

So here I am at the bus depot, waiting. And you know what? I am totally freaked out. I was in the middle of figuring out the Greyhound schedule, because I've got a great plan to get a free ride and I wanted to make sure I stowed away on the right bus, when this guy came up to me and said, “Real sorry about your mother.”

It was like a slug to the gut by a ghost. It hurt bad, but it also didn't feel real.

Nobody had to tell me this guy was homeless. Scraggly beard, hunched posture, missing teeth, sun-baked face—he had homeless written all over him.

But how could he know my mother? How could he be this far from home in the same bus station as me? How could he even recognize me? I'd changed a lot since my mom had died.

“She looked so peaceful,” he said. “Like an angel.”

She
had
looked peaceful.

Just like an angel.

Which had made it torture to let go of her. The police had had to pry me away.

So while I was thinking about that, the man pressed four dollars on me and whispered, “It ain't much, but I hope it helps.”

I think I was in shock, but as he walked away it dawned on me that he wasn't talking about my mother.

He was talking about Louise.

I wanted to call out, “Wait! Are you
sure
? What happened?”

But I didn't.

I couldn't take knowing.

When he'd gone around the corner, I told myself, Get a grip, Holly! The guy's just demented. A schizo. An old meth-head. An Ecstasy casualty.

But in my gut I know that isn't so.

         

You know what? When I started writing this entry, I was totally freaked out. But right now I'm doing okay because I've decided that if Louise did die, she died happy. Clean hair, clean clothes, warm soup…And I can just picture her arriving at the pearly gates, curtsying for Saint Peter and saying,
Bonjour, monsieur!

How could he refuse to let her in?

And you know what else? I've come up with a final stanza to her poem. Working on it felt better than crying. It felt…nice.

Are you ready?

Here it is:

So comb out the knots of this tangly tale,

For the angels have come and their ship's set to sail.

They've got her on board looking peaceful and pale,

Adieu, au revoir,
sweet Louise.

Now if that lousy bus would show up, I might be able to blow this joint.

         

Wednesday night

Well, crud. I didn't have a prayer of a chance on the first westbound bus. And I got thrown off the second one. It was so comfy inside, too! Tall, soft seats, plenty of room to stretch out…talk about the lap of luxury! Man, I wish I could buy a ticket.

But forget that. I bought a one-dollar double cheese-burger instead. And even though this McDonald's where I am is open 24 hours, I'm beat. I need to get some sleep.

But where?

I'm afraid to go back to the park because I'm sure the cops are on the lookout for me. Especially if Louise really is dead. I can just hear the conversation:

Cops:
I was told she had next of kin. A daughter?

Day Manager:
That girl wasn't her daughter. She just latched on to her for a free meal. I did some checking and found the girl's picture in the runaway database. Here's a copy.