Tribe, p.8
Tribe, page 8
Linda shook her head, frowning. “Jesus I know wouldn’t close the door on people like you.”
“I’m not a good person,” Henry said. He didn’t buy it.
“Then he’d open it all the wider. But for folks who don’t help the less fortunate, there will come a day when they stand at a different doorway, begging to be let in, and Jesus will say, ‘I don’t know you or where you came from. Get away from me, all you who do evil.’ That’s a quote from Jesus himself, given to men whose values align with the world, more than with what is holy.”
They approached the building directly behind the church. It was a much more modern, four-story building that might have had apartments above, but was home to Daisy Duck Tours on the first floor. A gaudy logo covered most of the window. It blocked the view of the park from the inside and made it all but impossible to see inside.
“So it’s worse to say you believe and do the wrong thing, than to just do the wrong thing?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Linda said, unlocking the front door, where a handwritten sign hung: Out for lunch. Back in twenty.
“Then I’m good to go,” Henry said, pushing open the door and holding it for the two women. The interior was simple. Chairs to wait in. A counter. A computer.
Linda led the way to the back door. “Only if you believe.” She gave him a wink.
“And do nothing wrong.” He followed her into some kind of employee lounge that was actually bigger than the office space out front. There was a futon, a kitchenette, and a table and chairs. The door to a full bathroom was left open. No windows. A good place to hide.
“Damned if I believe, damned if I don’t,” Henry complained. “Real nice.”
Linda laid Sarah down on the couch. “Just gotta try, Hon. Good Lord doesn’t expect anyone to succeed. That’s what Grace is for.”
“You live here,” Henry declared, looking around the lounge. There was no direct evidence of permanent habitation, but it felt lived in.
“Owner’s letting me stay until I get back on my feet.”
Henry gave a nod. “The kind of guy Jesus would open the door for.”
Linda smiled. “Now you get it.”
“Not even close,” Henry said, stepping into the bathroom. He looked at his face in the mirror. Blood concealed his features. The Poison shirt was toast. “First-aid kit?”
“Next to the towels.”
He found a small first-aid kit right where she said it would be. He popped it open. Antibacterial ointment. A roll of gauze. Tape. Nothing to close the wound. “Have any duct tape?”
“What in the world would I have duct tape for?” Linda soaked a kitchen towel in the sink. Wrung it out.
“Closing the wound,” Henry said. He’d never done it before, but they say duct tape is good for everything.
“I got something better.” She dug into a drawer and took out a small bottle of super glue.
“Cool,” Henry said. “This will be fun.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, but then headed for Sarah. He joined her. Together, they looked at the knife. Henry reached down and rolled Sarah’s shorts up higher, suddenly aware that his hand was rubbing against her inner thigh. He paused. Confused by what he was feeling. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.
“How we gonna do this?” Linda asked, snapping him back. “I mean, do you take it out slow? Should we give her something for the pain? I only have Ibuprofen.”
Linda was too nervous to hold on to a knife in someone’s leg. She was more likely to flinch and carve off a chunk, like Sarah’s leg was a Mother’s Day roast. Henry had never seen someone cut an actual roast, but he’d seen it in a movie once.
He looked at his hands. Steady, as always.
“Sarah,” he said, a bit of sing-song in his voice. “Time to wake up.”
Then he took hold of the knife and yanked it out of her leg.
13
Sarah’s awareness stopped at the police officer rushing toward them on the street and then snapped back to startling vividness when pain exploded from her leg.
She screamed and reached for the wound, but someone held her back.
“Chill,” Henry said. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
Sarah focused. She was in some kind of weird, windowless apartment. Henry was crouched next to her, holding a towel to her leg.
He pushed hard.
Pain ground her teeth together. She was about to slug him when she noticed the towel turning red. There was a knife there before… “What are you doing?”
“You can’t walk around with a hole in your leg,” Henry said.
“I should be in a hospital,” Sarah said. “And so should you! You were shot. Twice!”
“Heavens!”
Sarah flinched. She hadn’t seen the woman standing to her side. For a moment, the pain faded, replaced by recognition.
“What is it?” The woman asked, taken aback by Sarah’s intense stare.
A thump of pain radiated from her leg. The woman’s question sifted through. Sarah shook her head, emerging from the past. “You look like my mother.”
“She must be a beauty, then,” the woman said with a broad smile.
Sarah looked to the floor. “She’s dead. Dad, too.”
“Geez,” Henry said. “Buzzkill much?”
“I have a hole in my leg, Henry. What’s there to be buzzed about?”
The woman walked to the kitchenette. Started filling a glass with water from the tap.
Henry maintained pressure. “Dude, we stopped a bank heist. We were chased by a cabal of assassins! We fought for our lives and won. We—”
“Killed a man,” Sarah said.
The woman at the sink went rigid. The water cup overflowed in her hand.
“Two men,” Henry said. “But they were trying to kill us. And for what? Because we took a ride from some rich lady?”
“She’s more than just some rich lady,” Sarah said.
“Well, yeah, obviously.” Henry smiled. “I mean, I don’t think all rich women have assassin cabals hunting them down.”
“Cabals, huh?” The woman’s return was stealthy. She held a closed hand out to Sarah. “For the pain.”
Sarah held out her hand. Four maroon Ibuprofen dropped onto her palm. “Four is a little much.”
“Just drink all the water and don’t do it again any time soon,” the woman said. “I’m Linda, by the way.”
Sarah accepted the glass of water. “Sarah.”
Linda smiled. If she was pretending to be unfazed by the revelation that they’d killed two men, she was doing a good job of it. “Pretty name.”
Sarah looked at the four pills, unsure.
“You’re going to want them for when we glue you back together.” Henry held up a super glue tube with his free hand. “Once the bleeding stops.”
Sarah downed the pills, chasing them with the full glass of water. She handed the glass back to Linda and noticed that the blood from her leg had run down onto the couch. “Sorry about this.”
Linda waved her off. “I marched with Dr. King. Yours isn’t the first bloody wound I’ve tended. Weren’t really cabals back then, though. More like ignorant, frightened mobs.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said.
“Happy to help.”
Sarah motioned to her leg. “Wasn’t talking about this.”
“We do what we can,” Linda said. “Now, about what he said.”
“The men we killed were trying to kill us,” Henry said. “The one I shot was going to stab her with a sword. The guy she threw off the subway—”
“I was talking about you,” Linda said, looking a little green. “You were shot?”
Henry twiddled his wounded ear with a finger. “Not a big deal. My ass hurts, but not as much as my pride.”
Linda looked dumbfounded.
“I shot myself trying to pull a gun out of my pants,” Henry said. Then he reached back and pulled the weapon out. “See?”
Linda reeled away from the gun, true fear in her eyes for the first time.
“You’re scaring her,” Sarah said. Henry’s lack of fear made him oblivious to other people’s, too.
Henry put the gun on the floor. Slid it away. “Sorry. It’s not mine. I took it from—”
“Henry.” Sarah stared into his eyes. “I think you’ve said enough.” She turned to Linda. “We don’t know what’s happening. We were with this rich lady. She was giving us a ride…or something. I don’t know. But these guys—like some kind of cult or something—were after her, and then they were after us. They would have killed us…and I really have no idea why.”
“Sounds horrible,” Linda said. “But…why are you here, instead of out there? Ambulances are here by now.”
Sarah could hear the wail of first responder vehicles outside. Part of her wanted to call them in. To get real medical attention, but that wasn’t possible.
“One of them was a police officer,” Henry said. “He shot my ear. Was going to kill Helen—the rich lady.”
“But…” Linda said.
Henry tilted his head toward Sarah. “She shushed me. You’re going to have to ask her.”
Linda turned her gaze toward Sarah, who sagged in defeat. “Henry shot him.”
“But didn’t kill him,” Henry added.
Linda sat in silence for a moment, digesting everything. Then she said, “Well, if there’s ever a cabal hunting me down, I know who to call for help.”
Henry smiled wide and truly happy. It was enough to make Sarah smile, too, despite the pain.
“Well now, let’s get this over with,” Linda said, and then to Sarah said, “Best hold on to something.”
Sarah barely had time to grip the couch cushion before Linda pulled the towel away. Her leg was a mess, but there wasn’t any fresh blood chugging out. She felt a moment of relief, and then hot lava poured over her leg. In reality, it was a splash of alcohol followed by a quick wipe. The wound wasn’t exactly clean, but the half inch puncture was clearly visible, and somewhat disinfected.
“Now?” Henry asked.
Linda gave a nod and Henry squeezed out a liberal line of superglue over the wound. He then gently pushed the sides of her leg, making sure the cut stayed closed, leaned down, and blew on the glue, drying it with his breath.
She watched him attending to her—this strange kid—and wondered if she’d known him earlier in life. He didn’t care about much, other than his own self-interest, but for some reason, he seemed to care about her.
“Whew,” Henry said, after a few minutes of blowing. “Getting dizzy. How do we know when it’s dry?”
“You put a lot on,” Linda observed.
“Well, there’s one way to know.” Henry pushed his finger against the wound.
“Gah!” Sarah said, wincing. “Your finger’s gonna get stuck to my leg!”
Henry pulled the finger away. Held it up. “Dry. See?”
“Give it a few more minutes,” Linda said, “just to be sure. Then you’re welcome to use the shower. Clean yourself up.”
Sarah became aware of the stink emanating from her. Like she’d gone for a swim in a vat of old pennies and rotten meat—Scrooge McDuck style. Then she felt the tightness of her skin where someone else’s blood had dried. She closed her eyes, trying not to picture the congealed bits of flesh clinging to her, but failed.
How am I going to wash my hair without touching it?
She couldn’t.
Couldn’t touch it. Maybe not ever again.
For a moment, she envied Henry. He could wash it out. He’d experienced the same horrors that she had, but he was still calm. Still happy. Come to think of it, in the short time she’d known him, the crazier things got, the happier he seemed.
“Do you have hair clippers?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, Hon,” Linda said. “Your hair is so nice. Must have taken years to…” She shifted her gaze to Sarah’s pom-pom hair. Lips pursed. Then frowned. “Ain’t nothing wrong with short hair. You hold on.”
As Linda bustled around the make-shift apartment, Sarah and Henry sat in silence.
When she couldn’t take it anymore, Sarah said, “Thanks. Pretty sure you saved my life.”
“More than once.” Henry smiled.
“So modest.”
“We saved each other when other people would have laid down and accepted their fate. I mean, that’s easy for me, but you’re a normal person. You should be proud.”
“I killed someone.” She felt like a scratched CD, repeating herself over and over, but taking a life… She’d never considered it before. Was totally unprepared for the otherworldly sensation that came from knowing another person no longer existed because of her.
“He was a bad man. He would have killed you. And then me. And maybe they killed that Helen lady. But seriously, that was some real Captain America shit, throwing that guy through a subway car window. Not just because you tossed him like a trash bag, but because you saved people doing it. Damn, dude. I wish I was that strong.”
Sarah slid her feet to the floor. Pressed down. Her leg throbbed, but the glue held, and the ibuprofen was doing its job. “Probably good that you’re not, being an aspiring bank robber and all.”
Henry smiled. “Maybe.”
Linda returned with an electric hair clipper and a wad of clothing.
“What’s that for?” Henry asked.
“Can’t have you two traipsing about in those clothes after you wash up. Sorry. I know these aren’t exactly in style…in any generation…but they’re not covered in blood, so I expect no complaints.”
She put down two pairs of khaki shorts that had small Daisy Duck Tours logos on the legs. But it was the two shirts that held Sarah’s attention. They were bright yellow.
Linda unfurled one of the shirts. It had a large Daisy Duck Tours logo along with the image of a poorly drawn duck dressed as the famous Gloucester Fisherman clutching a ship’s wheel, as waves splashed around it.
It was hideous.
“O.M.G. Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse,” Henry said, managing to get a laugh out of Sarah.
Her good humor faded when Linda flicked on the clipper. She turned it back off, and handed the device to Sarah. “Can you handle doing it yourself, while I look at his wounds?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said. “Of course.”
She was a little embarrassed that she’d thought more about the fate of her hair than she had Henry’s injuries. He was just so good at hiding the pain.
“I got you,” Henry said, offering his hand and then helping Sarah to her feet. She put weight on the leg, and then hobbled to the bathroom, taking a pair of shorts and one of the T-shirts with her. She paused at the door. Glanced back.
“You want to see the ear or the butt first?” Henry asked.
“Whichever is worse,” Linda said.
Without warning or hesitation, Henry dropped his shorts to the floor.
“Oh God.” Sarah spun away, closing the door behind her. She leaned against it, and started to laugh.
But then the laughter turned to tears. She stepped in front of the mirror. Watched the tears clear brown paths on her red-stained face. She looked at her hair. What was in her hair. With a flick of her thumb, the clipper buzzed to life.
As the first bits of hair fell to the sink, Sarah realized that her life would never be the same again. This new hell she’d found herself in was just getting started. She’d killed a man. Henry had, too. And they nearly killed a cop. Cabal or not, they were screwed.
“Well,” she said to herself, “Your life kind of sucked anyway. Might as well lean into whatever the hell this is.” With every stroke of the clipper, hair dropping into the old sink, she felt the burden of what she’d done fall away. She was becoming someone new. She just didn’t know who yet.
14
“Gonna hurt to sit,” Linda said.
Henry shrugged and sat anyway, wincing in pain as his wounded butt pressed down on the hard wood. The chair, like everything else in the apartment, was old. Probably a yard sale find. Whoever had designed the seat hadn’t put much thought into comfort, never mind people with ass-gouges. And that’s all that it was. A two inch gash, carved by a bullet.
It had bled a lot, probably because it couldn’t clot while Henry was running around, but it wasn’t deep. After Sarah went into the bathroom, Linda had tended to the wound, her only words during the three-minute clean-and-bandage were, “This has got to be the whitest butt I have seen my whole life.”
Henry liked Linda. Not only was she kind to strangers—in Boston—but she spoke her mind, and honestly. And she didn’t mind when he did the same.
She’d scolded him for dropping his shorts without warning, mostly for Sarah’s sake, who was apparently embarrassed, but she did so with a smile.
“These shirts are God-awful,” Henry said, looking down. The yellow was as bright as his Poison shirt, but the graphic was cringey. He’d put it on without hesitation, but felt no pride in wearing it.
Linda tossed Henry’s old clothes in the trash. “I know.”
“Who the hell did the art?”
Linda smiled. Raised her hand.
“Well, you did a shit job.”
Linda barked a laugh. “Know that, too. The owner heard I had a background in art, back in the day. He was trying to help me out, hiring me to draw that…abomination. I told him it was bad, but he insisted on using it. I think he’s waiting for me to die before changing it. Bad news for him, I got longevity in my family. I’m pushing seventy, and my mother is still living, out in Lynn.”
“Lynn, Lynn, city of sin. You never come out, the way you went in.”
“Except for my mother. She’ll give you a hug, and give you a grin.”
“Ohh,” Henry said, exaggerating pain. “Bad at drawing and poetry.”
“You are a strange child.” Linda opened a cupboard. Took out a box of chocolate chip cookies. Dropped them on the table in front of Henry. “You know that, right?”
“Yep.” Henry tore into the cookies. Eating with abandon. He offered a food-stuffed, “Thank you,” when Linda put a cup of milk down in front of him.
