The Forgotten Girl Page 4

  Deep, burning breaths. Time ticked unevenly.

  At length, I pushed myself to my knees, and then to my feet. I managed two agonizing steps before the door swung open.

  The spider walked in.

  I collapsed again.

  * * *

  He was stronger. Walked with a silver-tipped cane, but there was no wheelchair, no oxygen mask. His face, though, was the same gray color as the walls.

  The thin smile had returned.

  “Some people,” he said, “find the best way to remember something is to write it down. Others prefer repetition, visualization techniques, or mnemonics.”

  I struggled to one knee and looked up at him, trying not to feel like a serf before his king.

  “I find,” he said, “that creating associations is incredibly effective.”

  He pulled the cluster of red feathers from his lapel, plucked one of them free, twirled it before my eyes.

  “You won’t forget me … will you?”

  I shook my head.

  “No.” That feather was so red. “You won’t.”

  I hated being on one knee, so I fought the pain and struggled to my feet. Our eyes came level. His were penetrating. Mine tear-struck and sore.

  The feather followed me. He blew on it, and it bristled.

  “I don’t think Sally Starling will contact you,” he said. “But if she does, you should alert me immediately. Likewise, if you happen upon information that may be of use, or uncover some deeply buried memory strand…”

  Fuck you, I thought. I didn’t care if he read my mind.

  “The pain. The threat,” he said, and his dark eyebrows took wing. “The humiliation. The violation. I’m sure you’ll do anything to avoid a repeat of what has happened here. Or something worse.”

  The feather rolled between his thumb and forefinger, so bright it could burn.

  “You’re on my radar now. If you try to run away, or even consider keeping information from me … I want you to look at this feather.”

  He took my hand, placed it in my palm.

  “This is how you’ll remember me.”

  * * *

  I kept the red feather. It’s a little worse for wear (we’ve had some adventures, that feather and I), but still bright and remarkable, each filament replete with the memory of what I endured.

  Not that I needed association to help me remember. That particular ordeal runs deep—so deep that I don’t think even Sally could remove it from my brain. Some memories, for better or worse, touch the soul. That’s just the way it is.

  It was the same with Sally. She was a part of me, occupying a place the spider could never reach, and it didn’t take me long to realize that I needed to find her. For the sake of my sanity, of course, but also because—as powerful as she was—I wanted to protect her. That may sound crazy, given what I went through, but hey … she was my girl. I knew this even though I couldn’t remember a damn thing about her.

  So yeah, I kept the feather. Partly to remind me that bad things exist in the periphery, and that sometimes they can spill right in front of your eyes. But mostly to emphasize what Sally would go through if the spider and his hunt dogs ever caught up with her.

  The pain. The threat. The humiliation. The violation.

  I turned the feather from an ugly association to a symbol of justness and determination.

  You’re on my radar now. If you try to run away, or even consider keeping information from me …

  My old man was a Jedi Master when it came to bullshit, but he was right on the money when he said that there were too many supervillains in the world. I’d spent my whole life turning my back on confrontation. But not this time. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them win.

  Not a coward, remember?

  That red feather …

  My tiny superhero cape.

  Moment: Baby-Blue Schwinn

  Cadillac Jack’s is on the corner of Columbus and Main, a shimmering diner that would show up on Google Earth like a uranium spill. It has an over-the-top fifties vibe that you adore: waitresses wearing poodle skirts and bobby socks, swirling between tables. The Wurlitzer is just for show, but the music being pumped through the speakers is pure rock and roll—Danny and the Juniors, Dion and the Belmonts, Bill Haley and His Comets. It’s impossible to sit down to your Blueberry Hill pancakes and not feel like you’ve walked onto the set of Happy Days.

  You used to go there with Mom every Sunday morning. She’d order the Jimmy Durante fruit cup and a lemon tea. You’d mostly go with the pancakes, but sometimes the Brando omelet—all that gooey American cheese—was too tempting to resist. Mom knew the words to all those rock-and-roll classics, and she’d sing along while you ate. Then she’d make a huge fruity grin out of her orange peel and come in for a kiss. Writing this down won’t help you remember everything—time steals as well as it heals—but never forget how much you loved your mom, and how much she loved you.

  You dined there every now and then after Mom died, but it wasn’t the same. It felt lonely, even with the bouncy, bubblegum vibe. So you found a new breakfast joint at the other end of town: Marzipan’s Kitchen—a different dining experience, to say the least. Where Cadillac Jack’s has neon and polished chrome, Marzipan’s has faux wood paneling and checkered tablecloths. There are pictures on one wall of spooky dudes from the Civil War era, and another wall is decorated, floor to ceiling, with Beanie Babies, each nailed into place through their little heart tags. It has quirk, like Marzipan herself—a sixty-something widow with Smurf-blue hair and coprolalia. “White or whole wheat, fuck-Jesus-fucking-whore-fuck?” she will ask, and you’ll coolly reply that whole wheat is preferable. Her profane outbursts—a somewhat rare symptom of Tourette’s—ensure the characterful little restaurant is always busy. People love to be entertained.

  You’d never have set foot in Marzipan’s Kitchen if Mom hadn’t died and you’d continued breakfasting at Cadillac Jack’s. Mom’s death came with many silver linings, which shouldn’t surprise you at all, given her glimmering and selfless nature. The quirk of Marzipan’s Kitchen is one. Sally is another.

  She’s the new waitress. Yin-yang earrings. Beads in her hair. An adorable belly accentuating the front of her T-shirt: the female form at Her loveliest. The first thing she says to you, utterly un-waitresslike, is: “You’d look good with long hair. You have the perfect face shape—beautiful cheekbones. Also, we’re out of whole-grain bagels.”

  “Re: the bagels,” you reply with the slightest of smiles, “don’t sweat it; I was considering an English muffin. Re: the hair, my eyelashes are too long; I’d look like a Las Vegas lion tamer.”

  “Maybe dreadlocks?” she ventures.

  “It’s a consideration,” you say.

  One other thing about Marzipan’s Kitchen, real sweet: For those dining alone, Marzipan will often bring out a mannequin and sit it across the table from them. Conversation is encouraged, and sometimes, if Marzipan is in a good mood, the mannequin will foot the bill. It’s quite common to see diners getting into the zany spirit of things, discussing a cornucopia of topics with their fiberglass friends. Nobody blinks an eye, either. Marzipan’s is liberating like that. Good for the soul, as well as the belly.

  “Is this your girlfriend?” Sally asks.

  Your mannequin has cracked blue eyes and sultry lips. She wears a paisley headscarf and has two left hands.

  “My sister,” you say. “We were just discussing Britain’s appointment of the first female poet laureate. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  Sally slides into the booth, bumping your mannequin across the seat. She tilts stiffly, head resting against the wall.

  “I listened to you play yesterday at Green River Park.” Color has bloomed in Sally’s cheeks, red as the checks in the tablecloth. “You were playing to the birds. I wanted to hug you.”

  “Sometimes they sing along,” you say, and there’s a quaver to your voice; your heart is tripping. “It’s better than money.”

  “I’m new in town,�
� Sally says. She licks her lips. “I don’t know many people. Do you know what you’re having?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” you reply. “I don’t know many people, either. I’ll take the American cheese omelet.”

  “Did I mention the bagel situation?”

  You want to kiss her right there, right then.

  You eat at Marzipan’s Kitchen more frequently—three, four times a week—until you finally pluck up the courage to ask Sally on a date. Even then, you can’t really do it. You say, “I don’t have a car,” in the most arbitrary manner, but she knows what you’re trying to say, and she says, “That’s okay; I have a bicycle,” and your voice quavers, “Where shall we go?” and she says, “As far as I can pedal.”

  That evening, she screeches to a halt outside your apartment on a baby-blue Schwinn, bubbly wine and a punnet of strawberries in the basket. You climb on behind her with your guitar strapped to your back, and she pedals to Buttermilk Falls. You drink the wine and get giggly. You eat the strawberries and get sticky.

  “Pretend I’m a bird,” she says.

  You play. She sings.

  The waterfall turns from white to pink in the setting sun.

  “I have something for you,” she says. “Shhhh … don’t tell Marzipan.” And she takes from the pocket of her skirt a long chestnut-colored wig. “It belonged to your sister. Try it on.”

  You smile and tug the wig onto your head. Sally helps straighten it, her face alive and as full of color as the waterfall. She brushes errant strands from your face, tucks them behind your ears.

  “I was right,” she says.

  “Lion tamer?” you say.

  “You’re beautiful,” she says.

  Her lips glisten, moist with strawberry juice and wine, and you want to kiss it all away. Instead you run a hand through your chestnut hair, pick up your guitar, and play Van Morrison’s “Someone Like You.”

  The birds settle around you.

  Four

  I’ve always been resilient. I’m not sure if that’s much of a superpower—Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s RESILIENT MAN!—but it got me through some scrapes in high school, and it got me out of that cold cinderblock room, where I’d spilled mind and blood in ample measures. I first crawled, then staggered, then limped, but I got out … found myself in an industrial wasteland; the rusted skeletons of factories, derelict warehouses, piles of reinforced concrete. Beyond overgrown railroad tracks and a sagging chain link fence, I discovered a narrow stream clogged with faded trash. I stripped, washed my clothes, washed my body, then lay in the brown grass until everything dried. Bullfrogs droned around me. I slept, and awoke to the singed light of an August evening. Distantly—across the stream and a near-apocalyptic expanse of low-income housing—I watched Newark’s bulky skyline wink with light.

  I was forty miles from home.

  * * *

  My wallet was intact. Not exactly bursting at the seams, but the seventy-three dollars I’d earned from average Tuesday’s busking was still there. I caught a bus to Parsippany, then the last bus to Green Ridge. I’d cleaned myself up the best I could, but I was still bedraggled and bloodstained. That said, neither driver had any problem letting me ride. Hey, this is Jersey.

  The second bus was nearly empty. I sat with my head resting against the window, feeling every bump in the road. There was a copy of the Star-Ledger on the seat across from me and I was tempted to snag it, see what the date was, but realized I didn’t actually care. I was in pieces. I’d worry about the date after I’d been picked up and put back together.

  Westbound on I-80, toward Green Ridge. I wished for the next stop to be a place without pain. It was dull and constant. I took the red feather from my pocket and studied it.

  This is how you’ll remember me.

  I wiped moisture from my swollen eye, then blew on the feather. It swayed left and right. I thought not of the spider, but of the dancing girl. Sky-blue dress, hips ticking. I bastardized the partial memory—pulled her into my arms as the Atlantic boomed and the three-piece silently played. I turned her invisible face to mine and kissed where I thought her lips would be.

  The bus rumbled. I smelled exhaust through a half open window. The headlights of oncoming vehicles passed across my face like thoughts. East of Green Ridge a nondescript black car pulled into the lane beside the bus. Brickhead was in the passenger seat. He looked at me and nodded, as if we had an agreement.

  I flipped him the bird.

  Fuck him.

  * * *

  It was almost midnight by the time I made it back to my apartment. It was anarchy, of course, everything flipped inside out, turned over. I didn’t correct a single thing, or even tend my wounds. I fell deathlike across my sofa cushions and slept for eighteen hours.

  * * *

  Dull thumping on the door, like someone beating it with a Christmas ham. I rose groggily, tripping over shit on my way to the hallway, slurring, “I’m coming, already,” as the door bounced in its frame. I braved the peephole, thinking it might be the hunt dogs, but it was only Mr. Bauman, my landlord. I breathed a sigh of relief, threw the lock, popped the door.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “What happened to you?”

  “Bar fight,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Bauman was small and ropy, third-generation English, but fancied himself Italian—a forty-year-old guido wannabe with blown-out hair and a spray-on tan. He wore too much gold and had his teeth bleached every three months. The tattoo on the inside of his forearm read GIUDO 4EVR.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Bauman?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other, trying to get a look over my shoulder. I rolled my eyes, held the door wide, showed him the mayhem.

  “Those guys you let into my apartment,” I said. “They had a party.”

  “They were looking for your girlfriend,” he explained. “Concerned family members, they said.”

  “Yeah, they were all heart.”

  “Jesus, what a goddamn mess.” He ran the tip of one forefinger across his eyebrows. “Hey, any damage is your responsibility. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “So about the girl,” he continued, puffing out his chest. “I figure she was the breadwinner, with you being, you know, like a bum.”

  They see the dreadlocks and baggy clothes, the guitar case open for loose change and dollar bills. They don’t see the craft, the commitment, the clean teeth and fingernails.

  “A street performer,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anyways, she used to pay in cash, first of every month. I know she ain’t around anymore, so I’m just checking you’re good for it.”

  The rent—$860 a month—was the last thing on my mind. I could probably cover it with my busking, but I had savings (actually, a generous inheritance, courtesy of Mom) in the bank, unless Sally had wiped me of that, too.

  “I’m good for it,” I said.

  “Music to my ears,” he said, pointing at his temples. “You’re late once, I put you out on your ass. Capisce?”

  “I’m good for it,” I repeated.

  “Well okay.” Bauman puffed out his chest again, then waved a hand at the mess behind me. “And clean that shit up. Jesus.”

  He swaggered away. I called his name.

  “Mr. Bauman…”

  He stopped, looked over one shoulder, eyebrow cocked.

  In an ideal world, I would never discuss personal matters with my idiotic landlord. But I was confused, upset. All I had was a partial memory and something inside—an emotion—that I couldn’t pin down. I wasn’t leaving my apartment anytime soon, and I knew my old man wouldn’t answer the phone, so right then, Ralph “GIUDO 4EVR” Bauman was my only option.

  “You saw us together, right?” I asked. “Me and Sally?”

  He regarded me suspiciously, as if I was trying to trick him. He made a gesture with his upper body—almost a shrug, not quite a nod—that I couldn’t read.

  “It’s just�
��” I stepped toward him, lowering my voice. “We broke up, you know? It was kind of sudden, and I’m still trying to get my head around it. But maybe I wasn’t as happy as I thought I was. Now, I respect you, Mr. Bauman. You’re a man of the world—a man who knows a thing or two about the fairer sex. Capisce?”

  I wanted to shoot myself in the face for saying that, but Bauman nodded, groomed his eyebrows again.

  “So I’m wondering—from your point of view—how we looked together…”

  “Looked?”

  “You know … did we look happy?” I took a deep breath. It hurt my bruised ribs. “You think we were in love?”

  He stepped back quickly, as if I’d set fire to his sneakers.

  “What? I look like Dr. frickin’ Phil to you now?”

  “C’mon, man. I’ve been to hell and back.” My swollen face was evidence of that. “I just want to know if she was worth it.”

  He set his jaw and nodded, responding to the bitterness in my tone, as I knew he would.

  “I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors,” he said. “I ain’t no snooper, but I guess, to me…” He made a “more or less” gesture with his hand, his rings winking in the overhead light. “… To me, you looked pretty good. Cut from the same cloth, my ma would say.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I don’t know … when I saw you together, you were always smiling, I guess.” He rubbed his chin and shrugged. “She must’ve been doing something right.”

  I hooked a thumb into my pocket, brushed the red feather.

  “You think I should go after her?” I asked.

  “I think you should fix your face,” he said. “Then I think you should clean your apartment. After that, it’s your call. All’s I care about is eight-sixty a month.”

  She swirled in my mind again and I reached for her. Bauman said that we were cut from same cloth, and that I was always smiling when he saw me with her. There had to be something there—something worth chasing, protecting. That strange emotion deepened. The thought of her alone and scared didn’t sit comfortably with me.

  I pulled my shoulders square—felt a little of my strength return.