Three Little Words (9 page)

Amie nods. “This is Sid. Sid, this is Dan.”

Dan raises a fist in greeting and taps Sid on the shoulder. “I hear you lost your baby bro.”

“You could say that,” Sid replies. “Although I've never actually met him, so it's kinda weird to say I've lost him. But yeah, he's missing. Has been for about a week. He's only thirteen.”

“Harsh,” Dan says. “That's young. You got a visual?”

“A what?”

“An image. A picture.”

Sid pulls one of the photographs of Wain out of his backpack and hands it to Dan, who does a double take.

“Dude, he's black,” Dan says, as if it might have escaped Sid's notice.

“Duh,” Amie says. “And your mother's Korean. What's your point?”

“Nothin',” Dan says. “I was surprised, is all. I mean, look at him.” He points at Sid. “Doesn't get much whiter than that.” He jabs a thick finger at the picture of Wain. “Or much blacker than that. I'm just sayin'.”

“Point taken,” Sid says, edging toward the door.

Amie pays Dan and follows Sid out the door. “Sorry about that,” she says. “He's a good guy. Just not all that… subtle.”

“I picked up on that,” Sid says. “Being a subtle guy myself.”

Amie laughs and pulls a black plastic tray of sushi out of the bag. “Can we sit for a minute while I eat?”

“Sure,” Sid says. “Where?”

“Here is good.” Amie says, pointing at a bench outside a Starbucks. “I come here all the time. We should leave a picture with them.”

Sid goes inside while she eats. The kid at the counter takes the picture without looking at it.

He gets a similar response at most of the places they go that afternoon. No one seems very interested, or concerned. “He's only thirteen,” Sid says over and over. “Looks older,” one woman says in an accusatory tone, as if Sid is lying.

“What's wrong with people?” he asks Amie when they stop to get a drink from a street vendor.

She shrugs. “Burnt out maybe. Lots of kids come here when they run away. Get into drugs, hooking, panhandling. Stores get broken into, pissed on, vandalized. The retailers get a bit paranoid. He's just another runaway to them. Potential trouble.”

Sid wonders how bad your home life would have to be to want to sleep on the cold concrete, sell your body, beg. He can't even imagine. But it doesn't change the fact that Wain has disappeared. That he has done so before. Presumably there's somewhere he goes, somewhere nobody knows about. Maybe he has a friend he stays with, a friend no one in his family has ever met.

“My sister Enid's home right now,” Amie says. “I told her we'd come by. She works part-time at a drop-in center for kids, so she might know someone who's seen Wain.”

She tosses her cup in the recycling bin and waits for Sid to do the same. He follows her down an alley and up a steep set of stairs in an old building that smells of cat piss and garbage. When they knock on the door of the apartment at the head of the stairs, it's opened by what appears to be a geisha.

“Hey, Enid,” Amie says. “Cool kimono.”

Enid bows and murmurs, “
Konnichiwa
,” and steps aside to let them enter the tiny apartment. She is wearing white socks with black flip-flops, and her black wig is askew.

“Enid's in the theater program at the university. They're putting on
The Mikado
,” Amie says to Sid. “She's a Method actor. Obviously.”

Enid pulls off the wig and puts it on the futon beside her; it looks like a black spaniel puppy. Her blond hair is French-braided close to her head. “That thing makes my head soooooo itchy,” she says, “especially under the lights.”

She sticks her hand out at Sid. “You must be Sid. I'm Enid, otherwise known as Yum-Yum.”

Sid sings a few bars of “Three Little Maids from School” and Enid's eyes widen. She clutches Amie's arm.

“Where did you find this delicious boy?” she says.

Amie rolls her eyes. “Ignore her, Sid. She's such a drama queen.”

“But seriously, Sid darling, where did you learn to sing?” Enid takes off her kimono to reveal torn jean shorts and a brown short sleeve shirt with the name
Larry
embroidered on the breast pocket.

“At home,” Sid answers. “Lots of Gilbert and Sullivan freaks on the island. Once a year we have a community sing-along. You pick stuff up.”

Enid gives him an appraising look. “And they grow cherubim there too, I see.” Her eyes, the light golden brown of pancake syrup, are amused, but kind.

“Cherubim?” he asks.

She frowns. “No, that's not right. You look like a Caravaggio cupid. The eyes, the curls, the lips. Innocence wronged.” She turns to Amie. “Am I right?”

“Art history class,” Amie says to Sid. “Pay no attention. Show her the picture, Sid.”

Sid pulls a picture out of his pack and hands it to Enid, who stares at it for a long moment before putting it down on a coffee table covered with musical scores and dirty dishes.

“The Green Knight,” she says. “He's missing?”

No Such Luck

“Y
ou know him?”

Enid nods. “He comes in to the center sometimes.”

“But he's not a street kid,” Sid says. “Not really. He lives with his mom in Oak Bay. At least he did until a week ago.”

“We don't ask too many questions,” Enid says. “If a kid wants to talk, that's great. We've got a whole team of people—nurses, counselors, even a couple of lawyers who work for free. Most of the time, kids come in for a shower and a meal and somewhere safe to relax for a while. The Green Knight never said much. I never even knew his real name or how old he is.”

“It's Wain—Gawain, actually. And he's thirteen.”

“Thirteen. I would have said fifteen, at least. And his mom is…where?”

“She took off a couple of weeks ago,” Sid says. “She's bipolar. Off her meds.”

“Are you close to your mom?”

Sid ponders the question for a moment before replying. He's not sure how much of his history he wants to reveal to her—a complete stranger. This isn't about him anyway—it's about Wain.

“No,” he says. “I'm not close to my birth mother.” When Enid raises an eyebrow at him, he adds, “I've been living with my parents—my foster parents—since I was two. I'm real close to them. I never even knew Wain existed until a few days ago.”

“And you came looking for him?”

Sid nods. “It seemed like the right thing to do. I have a grandmother too. Elizabeth. I wanted to meet her.”

Enid gets up off the futon and hoists an enormous satchel over one shoulder. She looks like a hipster Mary Poppins. She could have anything in that bag: a lava lamp, a bottle of Jägermeister, a Bowie knife, a wedding dress, a six-course meal.

“Let's go then,” she says. Sid and Amie follow her out the door and down the filthy stairs.

“Where are we going?” Amie asks.

“To the center. Maybe someone else has seen him. You got more of those pictures?” she asks Sid.

Sid hands her half a dozen photos, which she stuffs into the giant bag.

Enid moves like a race walker—arms pumping, hips swiveling, sandals slapping the pavement, heel, toe, heel, toe—and Sid has to almost run to keep up. Soon they are in a part of the harbor Sid hasn't yet explored, where the buildings are more industrial, less tarted up for tourists. They pass a shelter where a group of men have congregated on the sidewalk, smoking and panhandling. A couple of them greet Enid, and she hands them Wain's picture and asks them to look for him.

“Sure thing, Enid,” they say. “We'll keep an eye out.”

“He looks real young,” a toothless man with long filthy gray hair says. “Too young for this life.”

Enid nods and puts her hand on the man's sleeve. “You're right, Milo. He looks older than he is. So if you see him, don't spook him. Just call me at the center, okay? Or call the number on the back of the picture.” She hands him a business card, which he stuffs into his jacket pocket.

“Will do, Enid,” he says.

As they walk away, Enid asks Sid how old he thinks Milo is.

“Seventy?” Sid suggests.

“He's forty-five,” Enid replies. “Been on the street for years. Used to be a stockbroker. Got into cocaine. Lost everything. Started smoking crack and drinking a lot. He's a good guy though. Looks out for the younger kids. Sends them to the center.”

Sid doesn't know what to say. Enid was right—he is an innocent. What else did she call him? A cherubim? He isn't sure what that is, exactly—something to do with angels. He'll have to find out. All he knows is that he is out of his element here, although he's not as anxious as he expected to be. More like unnerved. Nothing he has experienced on the island has prepared him for any of this. He feels like apologizing for his innocence, his stupidity, his ignorance, although he knows it's hardly his fault. Enid and Amie swerve suddenly into a small brick building, and Sid almost misses the turn. A hand-painted sign above the door says
StreetSafe Center
. On the dirty wall inside the door is another sign:
If you're
high or holding, come back when you're not.

Enid waves at a woman sitting at a desk in the hallway.

“Back so soon?” the woman says.

“Yeah. Can't stay away.” Enid laughs. “This is Sid. His brother's missing. The Green Knight. You remember him?”

“Sure,” the woman says. “Hard to forget the Green Knight. How long has he been missing?”

“About a week,” Enid says.

The woman frowns. “Where's his mom and dad?”

“His mom's
AWOL
,” Enid says. “No dad. Can you ask around, put up his picture?”

“Sure thing,” the woman says. “I'll call you if I hear anything. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Barb,” Enid says.

Amie and Enid chatter as they all walk back toward downtown. So and so is an asshole,
The Mikado
's costume is too small, the guy playing Nanki-Poo is hot, gargling with salt water helps a sore throat, the wrap party is going to be at a wicked club. Sid lets their words wash over him—a wave of meaningless, harmless sound. He realizes how much he misses Chloe's babble, although he often tunes her out too. As they near the blue bridge, Sid makes a sudden decision to go to Elizabeth's. Even if she isn't home, he can sit in the sun by the walkway for a while.

“I'm going this way,” he says, pointing across the bridge.

“Not for a while you're not,” Amie says.

“What?” Sid hasn't expected resistance. After all, he's been with Amie and Enid for hours. They must have other, more interesting, things to do than hang out with him.

“Watch,” Amie says as the bridge deck slowly lifts to allow a sailboat to pass underneath it. “Awesome, right? I never get tired of watching it. You'll be stuck here for a while though. It's not exactly fast.” Sid nods as the bridge finishes its slow ascent. He's not in a rush.

“Call me if you hear anything,” Amie says.

Enid is already striding across the street. “You coming, Amie?” she yells.

“See ya, Sid,” Amie says. “Gotta run. I'm helping out at the theater tonight. Dress rehearsal. I'm doing hair and makeup. It's not exactly a high-budget production. But you should come. You and your grandma. I'll text you the info.”

“Sounds good,” Sid says as she runs after Enid. He waits for the bridge deck to come back down and then he heads across, just as a tugboat passes underneath. A man in a yellow jacket looks up from the tug's deck and waves at him. Sid waves back and continues across the bridge. When he gets to Elizabeth's condo, there is no one home, so he finds a bench and gets out his sketchbook and colored pens. He wants to record everything he has seen today: Enid in her geisha costume, Milo's battered face, the sign at the drop-in center, the sailboat gliding under the raised bridge. He is so intent on his work that he jumps when he hears his name. Elizabeth is standing in front of him, a full bag of groceries in each hand.

“Want to do your good deed for the day?” she asks.

He leaps up, knocking his sketchbook and pens to the ground. He scrambles to pick them up; then he stuffs them in his backpack and takes the bags from Elizabeth.

She rolls her shoulders and sighs. “I always swear I'm only going for a few things and then”—she gestures at the bags—“this is what happens. Something's on sale, something else looks too delicious to pass up. What can you do?”

The handles of the cloth bags cut into Sid's palms. “How far away is the store?” he asks.

“Oh, a mile or so,” Elizabeth says. “Not far. Taking the car is too much bother. And I need the exercise.”

She opens the front door of the condo building, and they ride the elevator in silence. As they unpack the groceries, Elizabeth asks, “Any progress?”

“Sort of,” Sid replies. He tells her about Enid and the drop-in center.

“That's good, dear,” Elizabeth says. She sounds exhausted, but Sid can't tell if it's from her shopping expedition or from her family situation. Probably both.

“I can make tea, if you like,” Sid says. “I'm good at it.”

“I'm sure you are, dear,” Elizabeth says. “That would be lovely. I'll just go put my old feet up, if you don't mind. The tea things are in that cupboard, and the kettle's on the stove.”

When Sid comes into the living room with the tea tray, Elizabeth is stretched out on the red couch, swaddled in a plaid mohair blanket. Sid pours her a cup of tea—milk in first, please—and hands it to her. Her hand shakes slightly as she raises the cup to her lips.

“What were you drawing?” she asks. “I'd love to see.”

Sid squirms. He's not comfortable talking about his drawing, let alone showing it to people. But it would be rude not to tell her something.