A part of Naomi pinged. She remembered only too well thinking they wouldn’t notice you hiding behind the dirt. But it never worked that way.
The girl glanced at Naomi, then quickly looked down. She slid the book back over the desk. Naomi caught a glimpse of the title, something about butterflies, and saw how the pages were stuffed with pieces of scrap paper. She thought of her own fascination with the wilderness after escaping captivity. The outdoors represented more than nature. It represented freedom.
The librarian smiled gently at the girl. “Thank you, Celia. See you tomorrow?” The girl nodded shyly. The librarian reached under the desk and, with a conspiratorial wink, passed the girl a small jar of nuts. Blushing with pleasure, the girl took it.
The girl cast a green-eyed glance in Naomi’s direction that was hard to read, and then hurried for the big black doors. The librarian watched her leave. She sighed. “I wish I could take her home,” she said. “I wish I could take them all home.”
Naomi remembered the man on the steps. “Excuse me,” she told the librarian, leaving the flyer on the desk to go after the girl.
Outside the mist was catching the streetlights, flickering with reflected colors. Shadows marched up and down the empty streets like the legs of monsters. The girl was at the bottom step, moving fast, with the energy of youth.
The scar-faced man had left the stoop. He was trailing her.
* * *
Celia, unable to contain the excitement of a world that brought butterflies and rain, almost danced in her movement. She raced towards a group of pigeons, waving her arms and sending them to flight: gray and magenta, tipped with a green so brilliant she couldn’t help but smile. The pigeons made a sound like the best of mothers, cooing, and in Celia’s mind they were cooing at her.
The man behind her melted into the shadows so easily that even Naomi, an expert tracker in her own right, was impressed. Impressed and more than a little scared. Not for herself but for the girl.
Naomi was aware of how empty the streets were here. A child could be grabbed, easily, and hustled into a dozen hiding places. The girl was about a block away, the man still trailing her. At any moment they might turn a corner and disappear.
Naomi began to run.
At the very last moment the man heard Naomi and spun around, light flashing on his scarred knuckles. The expression registering on his broad, pebbled face was one of consternation. His mouth opened, but then closed. Backing up quickly, he moved with surprising grace and ducked into an alley. He was gone.
Breathing heavily, Naomi stopped. The girl had whipped around, too, backing up a couple of steps while taking everything in. She quickly covered her fear with a protective sneer. The streets were silent.
“Your name is Celia, isn’t it?” Naomi asked.
“How did you know?”
“The librarian. She said, ‘Thank you, Celia.’”
“I remember you from the row,” the girl said. “The church lady.”
“What makes you think I’m a church lady?” Naomi asked, catching her breath. She smiled now, at ease.
“I saw you down there. You don’t belong.”
“Belong here, or there?”
“Anywhere.”
Taken aback, Naomi thought: She’s like a messenger. A messenger from my past, speaking my own sins, my fears. The girl was staring at Naomi with the kind of hate that comes from envy. Just for a moment Naomi saw it: she wants to be like me, but she’s afraid she never will be. The night had come up behind the girl, darkening her ears, catching the copper of her hair. Soon it would be pitch black, and a girl like this—well, she could disappear.
“I was worried for you, with that scary man following you,” Naomi said. “I’m an investigator. I specialize in finding missing children.”
A blink. No response. Naomi was close enough to see the lines of dirt on her grimy neck. She wondered when this kid last had a bath.
“How old are you?” she asked. “What’s—”
The street boy Naomi had seen earlier had reappeared down the street. The little girl turned and saw him, and her whole face collapsed in relief. She’s afraid, Naomi thought. She doesn’t know who to trust. I don’t blame her.
I know what her life has been like.
Chapter 11
“I’m glad I came back for you,” Rich said to Celia.
They were on the row, in the circus of lights. A bunch of frat boys were downtown, and the air was sharp with them. Celia preferred old men, for the times she had to. Old men were soft and called her “darling” and “little baby.” They wanted to pretend she was their daughter. It was gross, but something Celia told herself she knew.
Young men—they were made of blades. They liked to hurt, and skid row turned into a bloodbath when they were downtown.
“Thank you.” Celia came forward and leaned her face against his chest. Rich froze. In his wildest dreams Celia was doing exactly this. He lifted up his arms, slowly, to capture her, but she moved away. The moment was gone, stolen by the night. It was almost like it had never happened. Rich felt sick with despair. Nothing in this life was made for him.
“Hey, ya fat fag,” a frat boy called out of a car, as if to prove the point. The other frat boys hung out of the windows, faces wet with drink. Rich imagined scythes cutting close to the car, taking them all off at the waist, their bodies falling with a clunk, lips and blinking eyes able to say no more.
“You’re not gay, are you, Rich?” Celia asked, curious.
No, he shook his head, and his very soul ached with loneliness.
That night it was like a party on the streets. Rich and Stoner were there, of course, but so was everyone else and more. Bags filled with glue, to be huffed in the dark alley shadows. Someone carrying a gas can up a street clogged with cars. A junkie falling in a fit, drunks with wet groins, one of the frat boys vomiting against the wall while his friends, all in polo shirts, pitched bets and urged more.
Sometimes Celia hated life. She hated it even as it unfolded, even when it seemed so wondrous. The night sparkled and showed her more:
A man saying “Touch this” and “You get a dollar, my sweet,” and looking down to see the bulge of his groin, hearing his manic giggle. Dancers swaying with arms around trannies and slim-hipped boys in the night. Wondering what was in her drink, the soda someone—was it a friend?—had passed her. Black cherry cream, her favorite.
Sometimes the streets felt like acid. You didn’t need to drop it to know this. You could crawl in the gutter, taste the same dank butts as anyone else, marvel at the view. You could stand below strip club lights, seeing the whirl of a dozen lovely girls—and hear the catcalls of the men outside. Their voices were rich with want, heady with sweat and something she could not name but hoped was love. That’s all she wanted.
She felt hands grabbing her, pushing her towards the entrance, saw the security man at the door, smirking. He was large and had a greasy smile like Teddy, and this set off alarm bells in her. Celia jerked back, trying to get away. The men outside, drunk on lust, swung her around, catching her in their tangled arms and rude laughing faces, ugly teeth yellow and crooked, until suddenly she felt a hand on her and—
Everything stopped.