The doorbell rang. C.J. went over to the window. She glanced through, then walked into the foyer, high heels clicking on tile. The door opened. A woman's voice said, “Sorry I'm late. Did Shelby call yet?”
“No, not yet. I just got home.”
“So how was it over at Billy's last night?”
C.J. made some hushing noises as they came around the corner. The other woman was taller and about ten years older, with black hair piled on top of her head and shiny pink lipstick.
“This is Kylie Willis,” C.J. said.
The woman seemed to think that was amusing. “Well, hi there, Kylie. I'm Judy Mazzio, a friend of C.J.'s.”
“Hello,” Kylie said. She was about to ask C.J. if they could finish their conversation when the phone on the end table rang.
C.J. looked at the caller-ID screen. “Why don't you take Kylie over to Edgar's for a while? I have to get this.”
“Sure thing. Come on, Kylie.”
Kylie looked up at her companion as they crossed the yard. She wore a tight purple top and black crop pants. High-heeled sandals showed off her red nail polish. There was a rose tattoo on her ankle.
“So. You're the girl from Pensacola.” A smile crinkled the corners of her brown eyes.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Call me Judy.”
“Are you a lawyer too?”
“No, I'm a private investigator. C.J.'s one of my clients.” She rapped on the screen door. “Edgar? It's me.”
“He might be in the shower.” Kylie added, “I met him before Ms. Dunn got home.”
“Edgar, you have company!” Judy opened the door and motioned for Kylie to follow. “You want something to drink, honey?”
“No, thanks.”
Judy dropped her bag on the dining table and walked into the tiny kitchen as if she owned the place. Kylie glanced around the room, everything neat and tidy, like a dollhouse. She noticed a box sitting open on the floor and looked into it. Photographs. She straightened her glasses and knelt for a closer look. She saw old cars with running boards, a dirt street, a seaplane, men in suits and hats, a woman in a white dress to her ankles.
A door opened, and she stood up. The old man had put on fresh khaki pants and a clean shirt. His gray hair was still damp. “All that stuff's going to the Historical Museum, soon as I finish organizing it, if I live that long.” He looked through the bottom of his glasses to see the photograph she held. “My kid brother took that one with a Brownie. He died in Korea. Our dad was the real photo nut. He photographed everything that didn't jump out of his way. Here. Look at this one.”
Kylie saw an alligator tied up in ropes. Indians stood alongside, dressed in patchwork clothes.
“Are they Seminoles?”
“Miccosukees. They caught that gator for their tourist camp. That picture was taken on the other side of the river from where we lived. My brothers and I used to row over there and watch them wrestle gators. Not much of a show. Cost a dime.” He turned the photograph over. “Go there now, you find a gas station and a Cuban strip mall. Why oh why don't people write down names and dates? That littlest Indian, the boy, his name was
Sam Osceola. Pal of mine. I can't remember the others. You think you'll remember forever, but you don't.”
Judy came back from the kitchen stirring a glass of iced tea with a straw. “Edgar, are you boring that girl with your old photos?”
“They're interesting,” Kylie said. “You were friends with the Indians?”
“Sure. We used to throw rocks across the river at each other. They didn't go to school. I think we were jealous. When was this? Nineteen-thirty? I need to write it all down before it's too late.”
Judy sat in a chair and crossed her legs, swinging her foot. “Edgar thinks he's about to croak. He's been saying that for twenty years.”
“Here I am in my army uniform, W-W-Two, the Stone Age. I used to be a good-looking fella.”
“He still is,” Judy said, and winked at him.
Edgar showed Kylie a photograph of the Orange Bowl Parade. The colors had turned brown, and the faces were fuzzy. “My nephew Elliott was the drum major for the Miami Edison High School marching band. He's dead now. But I told you already. My brain is going.”
Judy laughed. “Ask him how much he took off his poker buddies last night. I'm surprised they didn't shoot you.”
“They were too drunk to hit the side of a house.”
Kylie put the photograph back into the box. “These are really good. You ought to scan the color ones before they're totally gone.”
“How's that?”
“You could make digital images and correct the color, not perfectly but a lot better. There are programs for that. But you'd need a computer,” she said.
“I have a computer.” He pointed at a desk across the room. “I use email and go online. I'm not your typical old fart.”
Kylie went over to look. The boxy beige monitor had a twelve-inch screen, and the computer was a kind she'd never heard of. “It's kind of old. If you had a new one, you could make a DVD slide show for your family and friends. You could put your photos online.”
He sucked on his upper lip, biting his mustache. “I don't know. Seems like a lot of trouble for something I won't be around to enjoy.”
“Why not do it?” said Judy. “It sounds like fun. I'd look at your damned pictures.”
The old man looked at Kylie. “How much?”
She shrugged. “Computer, scanner, DVD burner, a printer . . . two thousand?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
A cell phone chimed, and Judy pulled hers from a pocket and put it to her ear. She listened, then said, “Kylie, I'm going to hang with this old fart a little longer. C.J. wants you to go on back to her place.”
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Kylie hadn't slept at all last night after her mother called. She had sat on her bed staring through the tenth-floor window at the dark water of Biscayne Bay. She had seen the streetlights go out and the sky turn pink, then silver blue as the sun rose over the hotels and condos on Miami Beach. She had pictured herself back in Pensacola, wearing a red smock at that part-time job at the Dollar Store, or dating some asshole whose idea of fun was smoking a joint and getting laid, or hearing her father, who was a good man basically, say he wouldn't go to France if you paid him. These thoughts had pulled like weights on her heart, and she wanted to scream and grab her stuff and run somewhere, anywhere. And then what?
She had to admit she'd been stupid. Skipping work, drinking till she puked, borrowing money from Alana because hers always ran out so fast. Last night Kylie's mother had said no sane person would want to live in Miami, but it wasn't Miami that was so bad; people in general were fucked up. If it was bad everywhere, you might as well pick a place that didn't make you want to shoot yourself. There were times when you had to take a chance, and if you didn't, it would be too late. You wouldn't even have a box of fading memories, because you never did anything worth remembering.
“What I have decided to do,” she told C.J. Dunn, “is get my GED this fall, then register at Miami-Dade College in January. If I get good grades my first two years, and I will, then I can apply for a scholarship or a loan and transfer to the University of Miami. They have a program in journalism, and I could intern at
The Miami Herald.
My goal is to work at a newspaper or magazine where they cover political issues. I plan to learn Spanish, of course, which is extremely useful in Miami, and I also want to
study Mandarin Chinese. In fact, I've already bought some tapes at a used book store. China will surpass the United States in fifty years, and that's not just my opinion.”
They sat at the dining room table. C.J. had shoved aside some of her files and papers to make room. She had her forehead in the palm of her hand. Her eyes shifted to Kylie, and she stared at her a long time before she said, “A journalist. Have you ever written anything?”
“Not for a newspaper. I'm still in high school.”
“What kind of grades do you get in English?”
“I
know
I can do it. I have a plan.” Sliding forward on her chair, Kylie said, “First thing, you need a budget. Miami's expensive, but if you rent a room instead of an apartment, and you don't eat out, and you shop at thrift stores, you can survive. A lot of people are so into, like, buying
things
and having the perfect shoes or an expensive car . . . I don't mean you, of course, but some people. I'm just not into that.”
C.J. kept staring at her. Kylie heard the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the dining room and felt the moment slipping away.
“Okay. My budget. I can work part-time and go to school, but there's a shortfall of five hundred dollars a month. Tuition and books are about four thousand dollars for one semester. If you could lend me enough for my first year, I think I could get a school loan after that. I'll pay you back when I graduate, with interest, of course, more than you would earn from your savings account.”
“Kylie.” Now C.J. was making little squares in the dust on the table. “You go home, you finish high school, and you attend a local college like other girls your age. It's going to take commitment and patience, which I think you're lacking. There are no shortcuts. I wouldn't be doing you a favor toâ”
“It's an investment. You've given money to my mother, and she never paid you back. I will.”
“I can't go against what your parents want. They love you. They miss you.”
“I know that, butâ”
“I'm sorry. This is not open for discussion.” She held up her hands. “I promised Fran I would send you home. You have to go.”
As the words went on, Kylie felt the weight in her chest again, worse than before. She said, “I will kill myself if I have to live in Pensacola. You don't know how it is up there.”
Blue eyes fixed on her. “Yes, Kylie, I do. I was born in Mayo, one traffic light and a water tower. My father couldn't keep a job, and my mother didn't even graduate from high school. Nobody gave me a damned thing. I worked my way through college. I got scholarships. I did it
alone.
” She let out a breath. “All right, I'll make a deal with you. When you have your high school diploma, I will pay your first two years at . . . whatever college they have in Pensacola. Then, if you do well, we can talk about the University of Florida. It's a wonderful school.”
Kylie said, “But if you're going to help me, why can't I stay
here?
”
“It's not up to me. It isn't my decision!”
“What if my parents say it's all right?”
“They won't.”
“They would if you talked to them.”
“I can't do that.”
“Well, I'm not going back to Pensacola.”
“Don't be such a whiny brat. What made you so entitled?”
“That is so hateful!” Kylie stood up so fast her chair nearly tipped. “And you call yourself our
friend.
”
C.J. followed her out of the dining room. “I know the publisher of the magazine where you work. You will be out of a job on Monday.”
“Too late. They already fired me.” She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Goodbye. Thank you for caring whether I live or die. I guess I'll just hitch a ride back downtown.”
“Wait.” Heels tapped on the wood floor and went silent on the carpet in the living room. “I'll have Judy take you.”
“No, don't worry about me. It's easy to get rides, especially from men. They think I'm cute.”
“Kylie, stop.”
“Why? I have to start looking for another job, don't I?”
“Go ahead, do what you want, but I'm not letting you leave this house and accept a ride from a stranger!”
Kylie went into the foyer and stopped at the door, staring at the dark, heavy wood. It was curved at the top, with a crystal hanging in the fan-shaped window, catching the sun. Kylie bowed her head. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain. “Actually, I drove here.”
“Drove what?”
“A friend's car.” She stared at the floor. “I'm sorry I said you were hateful. I didn't mean it.”
“We were both upset,” C.J. said.
“Can't I stay another week? It won't make any difference.”
“What about Wednesday? That gives you time to say good-bye to your friends. It's not the end of the world, you know. You can always come back. Miami will still be here.” C.J. had a smile so phony that Kylie wanted to shove her. “Well. Is there anything you need? Do you have enough cash to last until then?”
“Actually, no.” Kylie put on her own smile. “I need some gas for the car. It's running on empty. And I have to drop it off on South Beach. Could you lend me enough for a taxi?”
“Of course. I'll just get my purse.” She went over to the sofa. “You do have a valid driver's license, don't you?” When Kylie said she did, C.J. nodded. She took a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet, then another one, then all of them, including a fifty. She tossed the wallet back into her bag. “Be careful, borrowing somebody else's car. If you get into an accident, and you're under eighteen, the owner could sue your parents for the damage.”
“I doubt it. The owner's been gone for a week, and I don't think she's coming back.”
Blue eyes opened wide, and the hand with the money froze as Kylie reached for it.
Kylie tugged it away. “Thank you very much, Ms. Dunn. I really appreciate this.”
“What are you talking about, the owner is gone?”
She slid the money into her shorts pocket. “The car belongs to Alana Martin. Nobody can find her. It's been on TV. She and I were friends, and I think . . . well, I'm pretty sure she went to Hollywood. She told me she had a friend out there or something.”