After a few blocks, I hit Main Street, and the scene changes dramatically. The shops here are clean, and there’s lots of traffic. I’m still not used to the city—the throng of people makes my pulse rise—but at least the crowds lower my chance of being robbed. That doesn’t mean it’s safe, exactly. Walking anywhere downtown after dark is a risk, but I’ll take Main Street over the North End alleyways any day.
As I wait at the light, I steal a glance at the brunette to my left and notice she’s carrying a flute case.
Melody
, I name her.
I peek at the two men on my right. Brothers, judging by their dark hair and identical goatees. One is wearing scrubs, whistling under his breath as he checks out Melody. The other is sporting a shirt that’s unbuttoned to his navel like he’s ready to hit up Republic Nightclub.
Dr. Heckle and Mr. Jive
.
By the time the light changes, I’m breathing more normally. I cross the street and pass the Manitoba Museum. The museum is something I’ve never had the desire, or the money, to go inside, but I’d love to step foot in the domed building next to it—that’s the planetarium. Physics and astronomy were the only classes I did well in, maybe because our science teacher didn’t assign homework, but they were also the subjects that interested me the most.
I keep walking, and soon I see the red street lamps and pagoda-like gates of China Town, reminding me of my first taste of Chinese food, three days ago. The wind teases me with the smell of fried rice and spicy-sweet sauces, but I don’t stop.
I speed up slightly as I pass City Hall. Hiding in the back, behind the flowerbeds and statues, is the police station. My wrists grow moist, and I wipe them against the inside of my sleeves.
I can’t keep doing this
, I think
.
If only I had another choice.
Before long, I reach the heart of downtown Winnipeg. The skyscrapers here aren’t as tall as the ones in Minneapolis or St. Paul, but they’re worlds bigger than anything we have in Williams. My eyes roam up the lofty glass business towers and pillared banks, taking in the lights. Millions of yellow stars against the black sky.
Things grow less glamorous as I near the railway again. The city’s full of tracks, and even Main Street has to give way to the trains’ endless chugging and shaking. The wind picks up, carrying a hint of rain, and I pull the hood of my jacket over my head. The fabric blocks most of my peripheral vision, but it doesn’t matter. There isn’t much to see on this stretch.
I take the two bridges over the Forks—the place where the Assiniboine River meets the Red—and enter an older part of town. A plump woman in a brown coat crosses the street in front of me, keeping a tight grip on her two children and hopping her way around a pile of garbage, like a bird.
Mother Wren
, I decide
.
In her wake, a boy, probably only ten or eleven, struggles to push a stroller, a cowlick on the back of his head bobbing up and down. I look away before I feel the familiar throbbing in my throat, before I think about the twins.
Now I’ve reached our neighborhood, where the streets are lined with giant trees, the swaying silhouettes only hinting at their true size. They block the pale light coming from the tiny windows in the tiny houses. A dog barks in the distance. In someone’s living room, a TV flickers, blue and white.
I turn onto the next block, knowing exactly where to lift my feet so I don’t trip on the large roots that push through the concrete. When I reach the old brick apartment building that I’ve called home for a month, I walk into the dimly lit foyer and press the button for apartment three. After about four seconds, the lock buzzes, and I pull open the door and go inside. Holding my breath out of habit, I walk down the dingy hallway to the last apartment, turn the knob, and enter Joe’s smoke-filled living room.
I flinch, like I always do when I smell smoke, but this is just cigar smoke, so my heartbeat calms down quickly.
“Hey, Joe,” I call into the empty room, throwing the five hundred dollars on the counter and walking toward the stove. I should really hang onto the money, use it as a bargaining chip, but I don’t want to risk making him angry. Not today.
Through the smoke I can detect a hint of baked beans, our typical dinner, and my stomach growls. Joe does well for himself in his line of work, but you’d never know it from the canned cuisine or the outdated apartment—stained orange carpet, pale green countertops, worn brown couch. I wonder again what he does with his money.
Probably all goes to his bookie.
I grab a spoon from a rickety drawer and scoop some beans from the pot.
“Thief,” Joe mumbles around the cigar in his mouth as he walks out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.
“Whatever,” I say, carefully holding the hot beans on my tongue so I don’t burn the roof of my mouth. I swallow and take another spoonful.
“The deal came off?” Joe asks, taking a long drag.
“Yep.” I point to the cash on the counter.
Joe sits down heavily on a stool and counts the money, like he always does. A short man, with oversized ears and a tuft of white hair on the back of his head, Joe looks harmless, but there’s a calculating brain inside that head. And a lot of fight. Some of his clients have made the mistake of thinking they can push him around. It’s a mistake I wouldn’t recommend.
Joe found me on my tenth day in Winnipeg, huddled on a park bench, half-crazy with starvation. He didn’t ask me if I had a place to go. He didn’t ask if there was someone looking for me either. He just said he could give me room and board and a job to boot. I told him to bug off, but he said he wasn’t interested in taking advantage of hungry girls. His work was legitimate. More or less.
As it turns out, Joe’s been true to his word: he’s fed me, given me a place to sleep, and put me to work. He just hasn’t been so great about paying me.
“So,” I begin, hesitating a moment, “today’s pay day, right?”
Joe looks up sharply then barks his hoarse laugh. “I guess you’re right, doll. What did we say? Fifty bones a drop. So that’s what, three hundred?”
Don’t react
, I think, picking up a shoelace on the counter and casually tying a square knot, imagining all the things I could do if I had a full length of rope—lasso him maybe, tie him up, leave him like that until he agreed to pay me what he owed.
“I think it’s more like six.”
He coughs. “You hosing me?” He takes another puff then leans forward, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
I don’t say anything, just stare back at him and grip the shoelace, trying not to choke on the fumes. Finally, he sighs. “All right. I’ll cut you a check.”
“No checks, Joe. I need cash.”
“Babe, I don’t keep my paper here, you know that.”
Liar.
But I can’t say I didn’t see this coming.
“Well, I can take this five hundred now, and you can pay me the difference later.”
Suddenly, the door bursts open, and the unnaturally blond hair and gangly arms of Joe’s assistant Troy fill the entryway. “Cops,” he pants. “Outside.” He darts back into the hall.
Joe knocks over the stool as he runs for the bedroom where he keeps his equipment. “Ball out, Kit!” he growls.
For a full three heartbeats, I don’t move. Then his words sink in, and I spin around. The back door is right in front of me. I turn the knob, yank the door open. But then I pause and look back at the five hundred dollars still sitting on the counter, not six feet away. I can’t leave without it.
As I take a step toward the money, the front door flies open again and five uniformed officers storm into the room. “Police!” one of them yells.
I turn around and leap out the open door, crossing the tiny patio in two steps before dashing across the lawn. I know they’ll probably call other cops on their radios—there may even be someone stationed outside the building—so I don’t go toward the street. Instead, I jump over a hedge and cut through the backyards behind us.
My heart rocks in my chest as I run close to the fence lines, keeping away from the windows and porch lights of the small houses. I imagine I can hear the police calling after me. Dogs barking. Sirens shrieking. I knock over a trash can, stumble, and keep running.
When I reach the end of the backyards, I sprint across the street and head east, away from the river. I’m a fast runner, and it doesn’t take me long to leave the residential area. Once I get to the main road, I race across the lanes, narrowly avoiding a car. The driver honks, but I don’t stop until I reach the other side of the street and cross into the next neighborhood.
I survey the unfamiliar homes around me and try to calm my rough panting so I can listen. No cops, no dogs, no sirens, just the sound of chirping crickets. I’m out of danger, for now. I fight the urge to start running again, my feet shuffling quickly forward, involuntary bursts of speed making my pace jerky and erratic.
As I move from shadow to shadow, I try to think of a plan—I can’t work without a plan—but I have absolutely no idea what to do. I have no money, no job, no place to live, and, to top it off, the police are after me. They saw my face, they’ll get my fingerprints from the apartment, and if they catch me and find out I’m in the country illegally …
Why wasn’t I faster?
If I hadn’t hesitated, I could have grabbed the money and gotten out of there before they arrived.
If only I had that fake I.D. Joe kept promising me. I’d borrow bus fare from one of his friends, get out of Winnipeg—maybe go to Calgary or Edmonton—and start over. But without it, without money, I’m screwed.
It’s mid-September now, and it won’t be long before the snow comes. The winter doesn’t really bother me, but even I can’t sleep outside in one of the coldest countries in the world. If I don’t figure something out soon, I might be forced to turn myself in and go back to Williams.
I’ve come to a dead end. An imposing country club blocks the street and continues south for what looks like a long way. To get around it, I’ll need to backtrack and go north, unless …
Looking around to make sure no one’s watching, I cross the parking lot. There’s a wrought iron fence, but it only takes me five seconds to climb it and disappear into the hundreds of trees surrounding the green. I walk through the man-made forest and plop to the ground under the protective branches of a willow.
Leaning my head against the knobby trunk, I reach under my shirt and pull out the necklace my parents gave me when I was a baby. The pendant is made of some kind of animal bone, polished as smooth as glass and carved into an indistinct pattern of swirling lines. I used to try to follow the twists and turns to see how they all connected, but I’ve long given that up. I still don’t know what it is. Whenever I asked my father, he would only say, “Yours.”
Maybe I should sell it.
No, it wouldn’t be worth anything.
I tuck it back under my shirt.
Just then, a crack of thunder announces the storm has finally arrived, and in moments the rain is cascading on my head. Cursing, I rise to my feet. I’ll have to look for shelter.
I run out into the torrent, dodging trees and sloshing through mud puddles. When I reach the other side of the green, I clamber up the iron fence, but I lose my footing on the wet metal and fall to the ground. Grimacing, I stand up and stumble forward, slipping on the wet grass, searching for something that will keep me dry. I continue to lurch through the neighborhoods until at last I stagger into a train yard.
I baulk at the sight of the tracks but force myself to keep going.
This isn’t the North End
, I remind myself.
Even if it were, no one’s going to be out in this rain.
And there’s something else that makes me feel better. Boxcars. Lots and lots of boxcars.
I walk toward the first car and pull the handle, but it doesn’t move. I try another one. Also locked. I move toward the third, wondering if I’ll actually have to sleep under the train. I tug on the door. It slides open easily—too easily—and I slip on the wet rocks. Only my grip on the handle keeps me from falling.
I pull myself up and look at the bolt. Apparently, someone had the same idea and busted the lock. I push the door the rest of the way open.
“Hello?” I call warily, not eager to deal with a bum. But no one answers. Deciding to risk it, I climb inside and close the door behind me, wedging myself against the hard planks, wrapping my arms around my chest.
I pull the switchblade out of my pocket, thumb poised on the button, ready to flip the knife out if anyone opens the door. I try to think clearly, but my skin and clothes are caked in mud, my empty stomach gnaws on its own lining, and my head thrums as if someone were keeping time for a marching band inside my brain. Shivering, I hug myself more tightly and press my other hand against my temple.
What do I do now?
Above my head, the wind slips through a crack in the wood and hisses in my ear. I stare at the boards in front of me, barely making out the shape of the warped planks in the darkness.
Why can’t I think of a plan? I need a plan, need a plan, a plan
…
My body tenses when I wake, slits of light bearing down on me like prison bars, the air too musty. Then I remember where I am, and I groan and sit up, feeling the ache in my back. My clothes are still damp, and I’m shaking. I run my fingers through my hair, snarled hopelessly by the wind and rain. It takes me a minute to work the elastic out of the knots. Then I do what I can to keep the mess pulled away from my face.
My belly throbs, and I remember that I haven’t eaten anything since lunch the day before except for that spoonful of beans. I need a plan, or I’m a goner.
Start with something simple: food.
Maybe I can beg a free breakfast at Joe’s favorite diner. The owner is a friend of ours. He might help me.