Sighing, London turned over in her cot in an attempt to help the girl put Rose to sleep.
She now looked directly into the wall under the window. If she looked up, she could see the very tops of trees waving in the evening breeze. It looked a little cold out there, and it was still raining, which was far from swell because London would soon be out there, and the sleeping clothes they’d given her were worn thin and she had no shoes. No matter. As soon as it was dark, she was blowing this joint.
She closed her eyes. A weariness came over her. She’d felt it before—it was part of her condition—as if the day’s events had been thrown over her like a heavy blanket pinning her to the sagging mattress. She wouldn’t allow herself to sleep, because she might be jumped—or, worse, wake up in the morning still locked up in this hole.
The old woman’s bloodied face appeared in her mind. She put it out. Thelma Dumas could take care of herself.
London rolled onto her back, careful not to place her hands anywhere near her stomach. She refused to acknowledge her situation yet. It wasn’t time.
But now Alby’s face came to her, hovering over her as it had that night in the basement of his father’s shop, staring into her face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. She wondered why she’d let him. But she knew it was that interested look in his eyes.
When they’d finished, he’d nestled warmly against her on top of a pile of clean aprons, and together they’d watched through the tiny basement window the foot traffic tramping down Decatur Street. It was then that she’d told him about her name. So many people had asked her why a little Italian girl from south in the boot had been named “London.”
Her answer had always been that her grandmother was English, and had been born in London, and thus her parents had named her for her grandmother’s birthplace. London was too dark-skinned to say her father was English, and she also didn’t like creating a picture of her father that wasn’t true, since the only picture she had of him was blurry enough. But an English grandmother, this seemed reasonable.
In any case, it was a lie. And that night, lying next to Alby with his eyes staring brightly into hers, she’d told him the truth—that she’d been named for the street they’d found her wandering on in East Boston.
London Street. Only a few blocks away from the old woman’s house.
Of course, London didn’t remember it. Any of it. Unlocking the door, walking down the three flights of stairs, stepping out into the cold winter day, leaving her mother lying alone, dead in a rented room so very far away from everyone she’d ever known. London almost never thought about it more than to know she’d most likely been hungry, that it probably had been a while since she’d eaten. She’d left her mother to find food. Anyone would do this, whether they were four years old or fourteen. And so instead of “Angeline” or “Simone” or “Filomena,” a little Italian orphan had become “London.”
Alby had kissed her then. Hard. And they’d done it again.
Afterward, lying there, sweaty and tangled in butcher aprons, he’d wondered aloud what her real name was. This was something London never did.
Now she glanced to her right. Rose was sound asleep, the tip of her stick poking her gently in the cheek. London stared at the back of the girl next to Rose. After a few moments London could detect the slight movement of her steady breath. She was also asleep. Slowly, slowly, London sat up on her cot. It wasn’t until she was fully upright that she scanned the room.
It was dark now, finally. Although, there was still a twinge of light around the edges of the world. As her eyes adjusted, London could make out the sleeping forms of the girls tossed every which way across their cots. She knew exactly where the girl with the bangs slept, next to her ghostly friend, and London took her time watching them until she was sure they were asleep.
It had only been an hour or so since the lights had gone out, but London understood the strong effect of routine. Many of these girls had likely lived here most of their lives, and so falling asleep on demand was something they’d grown used to. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
Barefooted, she stood up and rolled her blanket up as tightly as she could, and then stuffed it under her nightdress. It would come in handy out there in the cold, rainy night. Leaning close to the large window, she attempted to ease it open, needing to use all her might to move it just an inch. Damn, she thought. This wasn’t going to be so easy.
She turned toward the door, scanning the many beds. No one moved. But the door was locked. She was sure the attendant was not sitting behind it, but probably smoking or bumping somewhere, since she hadn’t struck London as the nurturing type, to stick around to be sure the girls slept safely and soundly. Still, busting the door open would bring people running, like the bitch with the bangs and her ghoul.
London turned back to the window and tried again. She got it open another inch. At this rate, she could probably squeeze through in another hour or so. She softly sat down on the bed.
Feeling a tiny tug on her shirt, London swung round, fists up. But it was Rose, peering with wide eyes from under her covers.
London quickly put her finger to her lips to shush her. She saw instantly that the girl wasn’t going to make a sound. Instead Rose pointed a finger to her own chest, and then pointed the same finger at the window.
London sucked in a quick breath. The girl wanted to help.
London glanced over at the sleeping body next to Rose. She replayed the memory of this girl gently putting Rose to sleep. It was her sister lying next to her. London knew that if she allowed Rose to help, she’d be putting the girl in danger. That is, if Rose could even climb out of bed without waking her sister, which London doubted.
Rose opened her eyes a tiny bit wider, asking again to help London.
Anger wrapped itself around London’s heart like a cold fist and squeezed. She didn’t want help. She didn’t want kindness. Life was crap and she liked it that way. It was easier.
She pursed her lips at Rose and shook her head, causing the girl to frown.
Shit.
London quickly pointed to her arm and made a muscle, showing Rose how strong she was, and the girl smiled. Damn it if that girl’s grin wasn’t kippy, and though London embraced the anger humming through her body, she couldn’t stop her mouth from curling slightly up at its corners.
Rose then removed her arm from her covers and pointed across the room.
London turned to look at—the moon? She turned back, a questioning look on her face.
Rose pointed behind London at the window she’d just tried to open, followed by a thumbs-down. She then pointed again across the room and gave a thumbs-up.
Now London understood. Rose was telling her the window across the room opened more easily. Without thinking, London reached out, grabbed Rose’s small hand, and squeezed it in her larger one. Besides Alby, she’d never willingly touched anyone before in her life. The strangeness shocked her, and she quickly let the girl go and started for the window.
It opened as easily as if it’d been greased. London was out, down the gas pipe, and running across the cold, wet grass in a flash. She never looked back at Rose, just as she’d never looked back at the old woman. It didn’t matter. In the next two days she’d be home.
And Rose, with her pretty grin, would be a memory.