“Mmm-hmm,” Mel replied. She recognized him as the guy from down the hall, the one who Cecily had told to shut up. She turned away, looking for more garbage.
“I feel bad for her and everything, stuck in this building with a bunch of college students. This is no place for an old lady.”
Mel threw the bag over her shoulder. The unexpected weight of it made her stumble.
Dave reached out to take the bag. “Here, let me help you,” he offered.
“It’s okay,” Mel answered. “I’ve got it.” With everything
she could muster, she hoisted the bag into the dumpster.
She then picked up the other filled bag, the one with the bottles and cans, and she headed to Frohberger’s store. Altogether the recyclables were worth four dollars and twenty-five cents. Not much pay for an afternoon’s work, but it was better than nothing.
Gladys met Mel at the door when she returned to the apartment. “What did that hoodlum want with you?”
“Oh, he was just thanking me for cleaning up the yard.”
“You need to stay away from those boys. They’re nothing but trouble.”
“I will, Gladys,” Mel answered – not because she knew they were trouble, but because she knew Gladys would not be convinced otherwise.
By the next morning, Mel still hadn’t heard back about an interview, and even though it was Gladys’s day off and she could hang around the apartment, she decided to go to the library and check to make sure she hadn’t missed the call.
It was startling to see police officers in the library. They were standing at the counter and speaking with Marilyn. Mel thought about her dream, the one she had in the car after fleeing from Craig’s, the one about Cecily and the police. Weeks later, it still gave her the shivers.
She surveyed the library, hoping to spot Paul. At almost the same time that she located him, he looked up and smiled at her. He closed the textbook he was reading as Mel approached his table.
“So, is that English homework?” she asked, looking down at the book.
It seemed a little odd that Paul would be reading an English text in the summer.
“Yeah – sort of, anyway – summer school.” There was nothing in the way Paul said the words
summer school
that gave any indication he enjoyed what he was doing.
“Summer school?” Mel lifted her eyebrows.
“Ah, well, let’s just say that English is not my
best
subject.”
“You’d think that with your mom being a librar –”
“I know,” Paul interrupted. “But I suck at English. I’m doing this class for the second time. Anyway, whatever. I’ve got three weeks until I finish this course, and then I can go back to having a life again.”
“Oh, that’ll be good,” Mel said, but she was disappointed. Paul would not be sticking around the library once the course was finished.
“Maybe I can help,” she offered.
“Can you make sense of poetry?”
“Some.” It was a lie. She loved poetry.
“Okay, so what do you figure this means?” Paul opened his textbook and started to read the poem out loud.
Two or three words into the poem, Paul stopped reading and pushed the textbook in her direction. “You should probably just read this yourself.”
Mel turned the book so that it faced her, and set her hand on the page. She read the title, “Flying,” gave it a
momentary thought, and then began reading the poem out loud.
“Okay. I guess I should have known,” Paul told her when she finished.
“Known what?”
“I should have known this would be a breeze for you.”
“Really?”
“Well, for one, you smiled the whole time you read that poem, and two, you do seem to check out more books than anyone else around here.”
“I’ve just always liked books.”
Paul laughed. “I can’t imagine ever liking books. I’ve always hated them. Well, not books, so much. I mean … whatever.”
“I think this poem is about what someone will do to follow their dreams, about overcoming a fear of looking silly or foolish,” Mel said, picking up the book and rereading the poem silently.
“You know what? I don’t need to hand this in until tomorrow,” Paul said.
“I don’t mind helping you with it.”
“No, it’s fine. And anyway – even if I fail the poetry part of this course, I think I’ve passed the rest. After all, this is the second time I’ve done English this year. Besides, there is something I want to show you.” Paul took the
textbook from Mel and motioned for her to follow him.
She noticed the title on his English book and the number eight. Paul must be in eighth grade, going into ninth – a year ahead of her. He stacked his books and put them on the floor beside the table.
“So, what do you want to show me?” Mel asked.
“Well, did you see the cops when you came in?” Paul asked as he started to walk.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, we found a homeless guy half dead on the steps when we got here this morning.”
“So, you called the cops?”
“Well, first my mom called the ambulance, but the cops came, too.”
Mel wondered what it was that Paul was planning to show her as they entered a long, narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway, there was an exit light, with glowing red letters, hanging over the door.
“The fire department arrived first,” Paul said as he looked back at her. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure the guy we found on the steps lives here in the alley. I see him every day. He lines up at the soup kitchen and then walks back into the alley when he’s done.”
Mel felt uneasy; Paul was definitely the person she’d seen in the window.
“I’m just kind of curious. Aren’t you?”
Mel didn’t answer.
When they got to the end of the hall, Paul pushed on the door and held it for Mel to walk through. He then picked up a small stone from the ground, and lodged it in the hinge of the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Mel said as she looked down the alley.
It was narrow and shadowed by the brick building that towered next to it. Mel knew from experience that this type of alley was not the kind you explored for fun.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Paul said as he set off at a brisk pace. “Come on. It’s daylight. We’re fine.”
Yeah, right
, Mel thought as she followed him.
What would you know about alleys and whether or not they’re safe?
She was definitely going against her better judgment.
“You see all this stuff?” Paul asked her.
“Yeah, so?” Mel said nonchalantly.
She wondered if Paul was planning on ransacking the makeshift lean- to that was built against the chain-link fence – even though it soon became clear that someone had already done that. All the contents of a shopping cart were strewn into the adjacent empty parking spot, including collections of cans in large plastic onion sacks. The whole scene gave Mel an uneasy feeling. A blackened
aluminum pot, a makeshift fire pit, bits and pieces of garbage, and an old sleeping bag on top of three or four layers of flattened cardboard were in a disheveled heap next to the fence. The only thing left intact seemed to be the newspaper and some plastic florescent pink flagging woven into the small diamonds of the chain link. The dark stains on the concrete nearby were most likely from the shattered green bottle – most of its contents mixed with dirt in a dried puddle. Paper napkins, stained with what Mel imagined was blood, sat among various empty brown paper bags.
Paul moved the bottles, papers, and clothes around with his foot. “I’ve watched him wander in and out of this alley tons of times. See that window?”
Mel looked in the direction of the window.
“It looks directly into the alleyway.” Paul pointed down the alley toward the street.
It reminded Mel of that first time she and Cecily had lined up at the soup kitchen.
“Man, I can’t believe people can live like this,” Paul said as he kicked around the cup and pot. He righted the beaten-up shopping cart and raised his foot to the handle.
“Don’t do that!” Mel shouted at Paul.
“Do what?”
“Don’t trash that cart!
“Whoa! Sorry! You don’t need to get all excited. I was just going to give it a little push.” Paul cast a surprised look at Mel.
“These are someone’s things,” Mel said as she bent down. She was annoyed with his arrogance and she meant for him to know it.
What had caught her eye was a small purple sack with the words “Crown Royal” embroidered into the fabric. It was poking out from the sleeping bag. Mel knew that it had to be important if it was being stowed in the worn sleeping bag. She moved in closer and picked it up. She loosened the drawstring. Inside was a collection of shells. Most were broken, as was the plastic face of the Westclox pocket watch. There was also a set of playing cards wrapped together with a bunch of rubber bands, and part of a photograph tucked in on top of the cards. Mel knew that what she was doing was, in some ways, snooping. But she also knew that if there was any chance of finding out who these things belonged to, she would need to look; a part of her wondered if maybe these things belonged to Gus.
“What’s that?” Paul asked.
“Just some shells, a watch, an old photograph and …”
“What kind of shells?”
“Seashells,” Mel said.
“So, what are you going to do with all that stuff?” Paul asked in a conciliatory manner.
“Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking that I should take it to the police station.” What she actually planned to do was take the small bag to Rose; she might know to whom it belonged.
Mel looked down the alley. “You know, we should probably get out of here.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“Those guys,” Mel said. She gestured with her head, toward the street. It was the way that one of the guys moved as he walked; it reminded her of Craig’s walk. Fear raced down her limbs, telling her to get out of here. It made no sense. Mel was sure Craig didn’t know about Gladys. Cecily always told people that it was just her and Mel.
“Ah, good idea,” Paul said.
When Mel and Paul reached the door into the library, they found it locked. Either someone had discovered it open, or the rock that Paul had set in the hinge had become dislodged. Paul pulled on the door again, hoping it would open. Mel looked back down the alley, then quickly headed into the street and around the corner to the front of the library.
“Do you know those guys?” Paul asked, chasing after her.
“No,” Mel answered, “I don’t, but I’ve gotta go. My grandmother is expecting me.”
Mel left Paul standing on the library steps and ran as fast as she could. She sped down four blocks and then circled back to the alley behind the soup kitchen to be sure there was some distance between her and the guy who reminded her of Craig.
Cecily would be back in fifteen days
.
Rose was surprised, but glad, to see Mel again so soon.
“You look like you just bumped into death or something. What’s going on?” Rose asked.
“No, I’m fine. I just found this by the library. I think it belongs to a guy that was beaten up last night. He’s in the hospital. I thought you might know him. I’m hoping that it wasn’t Gus.”
Rose looked at the small purple bag, pulled the top open, and nodded. “Gus is here; you don’t need to worry about him. But I’ll check with him,” she said. “If it’s Carl’s, Gus will return it to him.”
“Thanks, Rose. I’ve gotta go.”
“Hey, what about that job?” Rose called out as Mel turned to leave.
“No interview yet, but cross your fingers!”
“Okay, but take some of these with you,” Rose said as she reached for a couple of homemade cookies and handed them to Mel.
“Thanks, Rose.” Mel took a bite of one, and headed back out the door to the alley.
As she walked to Gladys’s, Mel tried not to think about the guy that had walked like Craig. But the more she tried not to, the more she started to believe that it was Craig. She decided that from now on, she would catch her bus at the next stop, a block and a bit away from the library and the soup kitchen.
“Where have you been?” Gladys asked sternly from the kitchen when Mel opened the apartment door. It was unusual for Gladys to say anything when Mel arrived.
“At the library,” Mel said, catching her breath.
“So, where are your books?”
“Ah – I didn’t check anything out. I still have something I’m reading.”
“I don’t see any reason for you to be going to the library if you don’t need any books. You better not be getting into trouble. Your supper is cold and you’ll have to eat it that way; I waited forty-five minutes for you to get here.”
Mel was shocked. Gladys never waited for her.
“What? You’re standing there like some stone statue. Sit down.”
Gladys also never planned dinner. Usually she left a
small plate of food on the coffee table if Mel wasn’t home when Gladys made dinner. It wasn’t as if meals arrived at any particular time. From what Mel could tell, food arrived when Gladys was hungry, or felt like cooking. There didn’t seem to be any rule about having to eat at the table, or against eating in front of the TV – or while sitting on the couch, for that matter.
On the few occasions she had taken her plate from the coffee table and walked into the kitchen where Gladys was, Gladys’s eyes had remained glued to the TV. But tonight Mel sat at the little red arborite table and Gladys sat across from her. The TV was off, and the key sat in the center of the table between them. Mel noticed Gladys shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
Finally, when Mel had almost finished eating, Gladys spoke up. “So, I heard some bum was found bleeding all over the front steps of the library this morning.”
Mel looked up from her plate.
“I guess for once I’m not wondering if it’s you or Cecily.”
“Cecily and I were never bums,” Mel said as she picked up her plate and went to the sink, purposely turning away from Gladys.
“I didn’t mean that,” Gladys answered back. “I just meant …” Gladys stopped.
Mel turned on the water in the sink, washed her plate, and stacked the dish, leaving what Gladys had to say unspoken.
After Mel dried her hands, she returned to the living room and curled up under her blanket. She looked around at the walls, the small woven carpet under the coffee table, and the locks on the doors. Then she opened her book and began to read.