Serendipity's Footsteps Page 15

  An idea zinged through her. Ray had done so much for her. She’d fix her a surprise. She got her backpack ready and put it on, then slid Ray’s duffel over her shoulder. She knew where their money was. She’d seen Ray tuck it inside after they’d bought the crackers at the bus station.

  Ray wouldn’t mind if she used some. She’d sneak out quiet-like and be back before Ray woke up. Ray would be so proud of her, bringing back breakfast! She’d make sure she’d only be gone a few minutes.

  She tiptoed to the door, pushed it open without making a sound, and stepped into the soupy night.

  She glanced around the parking lot, trying to remember the way they’d come here before. Her jitterbugs started up. Everything looked different coated in midnight. Everything felt different without Ray beside her. But she could do this. Horizons Assist…ugh. She didn’t need the “Assist” part. No sirree.

  She hugged her red Mary Janes to her chest and started walking. Sooner or later, she was sure, she’d run across a donut shop, or maybe, if she was lucky, a grocery store where she could buy donuts and more jelly beans.

  RAY

  It was the first time she’d slept since the horrible thing happened. She woke up crying, sweat trickling down her neck. She pressed her palms against her eyes until they hurt, trying to black out the picture of Carter, trying to forget the one horrible instant that had ended their friendship. It was her fault, that instant. Maybe she could’ve done something different. But even now, she didn’t know what. As that stricken look had crossed his face on prom night, her mind had had time to think a thousand thoughts, but her body hadn’t moved. A thousand thoughts, no motion. It all came down to a second of inertia.

  Inertia. It was the one vocab word she’d bothered remembering from sixth-period English. She’d wanted to write a song with that word as the title, and she’d scribbled it on the back of her hand so she wouldn’t forget. She’d never written the song. Instead, when the horrible thing happened, she’d become the word. Now she wondered if she’d ever do anything that mattered again, or if she’d stay stuck in her head, reliving the humiliation.

  She brushed the sweat off her forehead and flipped over, listening for Pinny’s light snore, hoping it would ease her back to sleep. There was nothing but silence.

  She jerked up, staring at the empty cushions. She whispered Pinny’s name, then yelled it. Nothing. Alarm jabbed her insides, and she grabbed at the darkness, frantically searching for her duffel.

  Her duffel was gone, and so was Pinny.

  PINNY

  She had just stepped out of the twenty-four-hour mini-mart when she saw the woman on the corner. Her skirt was caked in mud, and her white hair reminded Pinny of the thistles she’d accidentally stepped on once in the field behind Smokebush. There were enough lines on her face to fit out a road map. But what made Pinny stop was her moaning.

  “Old Mabel’s hurtin’,” she mumbled, rocking back and forth. “Yes, she is. Hurtin’ somethin’ awful.”

  Pinny stepped closer. She might’ve been scared, except the woman’s back was hunched like a turtle’s. Pinny had never been afraid of any turtle in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “Who’s Old Mabel?” she asked.

  “Me, myself, is Mabel,” the woman said. She rocked faster, hugging her knees. “Got me some aches in these bones, I tell you. The grave’s callin’, but I ain’t answerin’ yet.”

  Pinny inched closer. “What…what should I do?” she asked. “To help with the aches, I mean?”

  Old Mabel’s one eye opened wider, its milky-brown eyeball swirling like a marble. It was exactly the way Pinny imagined a witch from a fairy tale looking. She bet Old Mabel could pop that eyeball right out if she had the mind to. Luckily, she didn’t.

  “Could use me some food,” Old Mabel said. Her staring eye stuck fast on Ray’s duffel. “Some money to get me a place to sleep for the night. Soak these bones in a warm bath, maybe.”

  Pinny’s breath caught as a memory hit her square in the face, a memory of her and Mama camping in the grass in Central Park.

  “Spare some change?” Mama’d asked a man in a suit passing by.

  “Trash,” the man had muttered, and kept right on walking.

  Afterward, Mama’d hugged her extra tight. “Never be stingy with your heart, Chopine,” she’d whispered. “You never know when God’s gone undercover.”

  Pinny smiled at that Mama in her mind. She turned to Old Mabel. “I can help you.” She unzipped Ray’s duffel and reached inside.

  RAY

  She heard the security guard at the exact moment he saw her. He started whistling when he rounded the corner to the artists’ lounge. By the second note, a flat G, Ray was throwing open the exit door.

  She barreled down the sidewalk, slamming straight into Pinny, nearly knocking her over.

  “Where have you been?” she cried, yanking Pinny toward the parking lot.

  Pinny opened her mouth, but the security guard gave a shout before she could say anything, and Ray pulled her into a run. “Never mind. We’re leaving…now.”

  For once, Pinny didn’t argue. Ray took off, willing her screaming feet to move faster, while Pinny brought up the rear. The guard gave it a good effort for a block or so, pouring out a string of curses. Pinny couldn’t run as fast as Ray, but even so, they left the guard bent over in front of a bluegrass bar, puffing and red-cheeked.

  As soon as he was out of sight, she spun on Pinny, who was looking back the way they’d come, bewildered.

  “Where were you?” She shook Pinny’s shoulders. “You took my duffel!”

  “I bought us breakfast,” Pinny said. “But then I met Old Mabel. She was hungry. Way more than us. So I gave her the food.”

  Ray stared at her, too astounded at the pride she heard in Pinny’s voice to speak. Then panic gripped her. “Pinny. Where’s the rest of the money?”

  There was danger in her voice now, and Pinny heard it, too, because her eyes skittered apprehensively.

  “She didn’t have any place to sleep.” She raised her palms helplessly. “She said so!”

  Ray ripped the duffel from Pinny’s shoulder and tore it open. The pocket where the money had been was empty. So this was her payback for sticking her neck out….Crap! She threw the duffel on the ground, fury coursing through her veins. “You gave it away!”

  “She needed it.” Pinny’s cheeks purpled.

  “We needed it!” Her ears rang, her pulse bellowed. “How are we supposed to get to New York? What are we supposed to eat?”

  “I…I…” Pinny’s lower lip quivered, but she raised her chin stubbornly. “I thought…”

  “No, you didn’t.” She spat the words. It was only when she heard their venom and saw Pinny’s face crater that she felt shame. But by then, she couldn’t stop. “I can’t believe I felt sorry enough for you to bring you along.”

  She’d wanted it to hurt, but she couldn’t look at Pinny again to see if it’d worked. Voice hoarse, throat burning, she picked up her things and walked away. She wanted Pinny to give up, to leave her alone for good. But she heard shuffling feet behind her and, finally, a loud sniffle.

  “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that last thing.” Pinny’s voice was muffled, like she might be wiping her face on her sleeve. “ ’Cause pity is the only thing I hate.”

  They walked in silence after that. It should’ve made Ray happy. But instead, queasiness cramped her stomach, the kind that comes from having said something beyond hurtful—something truly cruel.

  DALYA

  The day the war came to New York City was the day Henry kissed her for the first and last time. At school that morning, perspiration staled the hallways, and the students’ chatter was hushed and frantic. Then came the crackling of the loudspeakers in her classroom as President Roosevelt announced the declaration of war, and the sober, helpless silence that followed. Dalya had seen it all before, and even though it was a familiar scene, the fear still felt as raw.

  A f
ew girls began to cry in their seats, and probably because some of the teachers felt like crying themselves, school was dismissed minutes later. Afterward, Dalya wouldn’t remember her walk home, the way her feet plodded through the streets to the Ashburys’ like they had hundreds of times before. But she would always remember how Henry’s pale face looked when she walked into the parlor.

  “Did you hear?” she asked, even though she could tell that he had.

  “The whole world heard,” he said.

  “What about your class at Columbia?”

  “The other professors canceled their lectures,” he said. “But not Dr. Vanson. He didn’t think the president’s speech was as important as economics. He said as much. So I told him to kiss my ass.”

  “You didn’t.” She flinched. It wasn’t the first time that Henry’d gotten careless with his misery. He’d pushed the limits with professors before, even openly cheating on exams. He’d hoped one of them would have the courage to fail him. None of them did.

  “Your father won’t be happy.”

  “No,” Henry said. “And I don’t care.” He grabbed his crutches and made his way over to his father’s liquor cabinet, where he poured himself a tumbler of amber liquid, then drained it.

  “Don’t do that.” She watched him fumble with the bottle again.

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do today.” He smiled, and it was so close to a leer that Dalya shuddered. “Guess where my friends went after class? Downtown to enlist.” He finished his second drink in one swallow. “They’ll all be deployed soon, off to do heroic deeds on the front lines.” He stared into his empty glass. “And I’ll be here…counting Father’s money.”

  He pulled something round and gold out of his pocket and tossed it to her. It was a watch. “Father gave that to me when I started at Columbia. It has our family creed on it. Take a look.”

  Dalya read the inscription: TIME WASTED IS MONEY LOST.

  “Words my father lives by.” Henry snatched it back. “How’s that for heroic?”

  Dalya frowned. “You sound hateful. I don’t like it.”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s what they’ve made me.”

  “No,” Dalya said. “No one can make you hate like that unless you want to.”

  He looked at her, his eyes pools of bitterness. Then his glance softened. “I wish I could be like you. You have better reasons for hate than me, but you can’t. You’re not capable of it.”

  She hesitated at his words. The night her father’s shop was destroyed, the freezing nights she’d spent huddled with her dying family at Sachsenhausen…there had been moments when she’d felt the thorns of hatred. But she’d never given herself over to it. “I’m capable of more than you know,” she said now. “But I don’t let it consume me. And you don’t have to either.”

  Faster than she’d thought possible, he crossed the room until he stood so near she could feel the heat of rage coming off his body.

  “Don’t you see what I am?” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and she lost her breath. “Look at me! I’m only nineteen and I’m half a man! What do I have to look forward to? I’ll never be able to do what I want. Or have what I want.”

  “You have your family,” she blurted. “They can give you everything.”

  His eyes bored into hers. In them, something unexpected flickered. Longing. “Not…everything.”

  His kiss was sudden and harsh, with anguish behind it. It felt dangerous, like he was pulling her toward a darker place. But her body responded, wanting more, her arms sliding around his waist, her face lifting to meet his.

  Then he pulled away, so abruptly that she stumbled backward.

  She didn’t understand why until he said, “Hello, Mother.”

  Mrs. Ashbury stood in the doorway, her mouth taut, her eyes flitting from Henry’s face to hers.

  “We’re at war,” she said flatly, and then disappeared up the stairs.

  Dalya sank into the nearest chair, trembling.

  “Don’t worry.” Henry broke into a triumphant smile. “I’ll talk to her.”

  Dalya nodded as he left the room, her mind spiraling, her body still liquid and tremulous from his kiss. She thought back to Mrs. Ashbury’s words, and she had the unsettling feeling that they were meant entirely for her.

  —

  Mrs. Ashbury made sure Henry was out of the house when she did it. Of that much, Dalya was certain. She came home from school the next afternoon to find Mrs. Ashbury sipping tea in the parlor. The house was so quiet Dalya could hear the clock ticking in the dining room.

  Mrs. Ashbury smiled, but her eyes had a catlike glint that made Dalya uneasy.

  “Dalya,” she said. “Join me?”

  It was made to sound like a question, but Dalya knew better. She sat down across from Mrs. Ashbury, shaking her head at the tea she was offered.

  Mrs. Ashbury draped her arms across her lap. “It’s time we talk about your future.”

  “Yes,” Dalya said, hanging on Mrs. Ashbury’s words, wondering what was coming next.

  “We’ve loved having you with us.” Mrs. Ashbury’s voice was a model in sincerity. “And I’m so grateful for your help with the refugee relief efforts. Your story made an enormous impact. You should be proud. Your family would be proud.”

  “Thank you.” Dalya nodded as nausea crept over her.

  “You’ll be graduating this spring.” Mrs. Ashbury patted her hands lightly in her lap. “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do afterward? Where you’ll go? With your English so improved, I’m sure you could find work easily. You’re eighteen now, and I suspect more than ready to be living on your own. We’ll continue paying your tuition at Dalton, of course, but perhaps we can start looking for an apartment share for you right away, if you’d like….”

  Dalya stared at her. There they were. The words she’d known were coming. Mrs. Ashbury made them sound so sweet, too, as if Dalya would be a fool not to see the appeal of it. As if it were Dalya’s choice to make.

  “I understand,” she said. “You don’t want me around Henry. I see what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, please don’t misinterpret,” Mrs. Ashbury said in a wounded tone. “This is my fault, really. It never occurred to me that this could happen.” She sighed. “I only want what’s best for you. I don’t want you to get hurt in one of Henry’s childish games.”

  The lie sounded empty and absurd.

  “What about Henry?” she asked.

  “Henry knows what’s best for him. He just hasn’t accepted it yet.”

  “Maybe he never will,” Dalya countered. She hoped saying it might make it true, but Mrs. Ashbury shook her head.

  “If you keep believing that, you’ll be heartbroken,” she said. “None of us want to see that after what you’ve already been through. Wouldn’t it be better to find someone who can share your history and understand? Someone like you, who knows what it’s like…”

  “Someone Jewish,” Dalya finished. The word tasted bitter on her tongue. It was a word that used to taste sweetly of family, of comforts and pride. Now it tasted only of loss. When her manicured politeness was stripped away, Mrs. Ashbury disliked the word, too. For Mrs. Ashbury, “Jewish” wasn’t a faith or a culture. It was a label. One she didn’t want sticking with her family.

  Dalya could’ve screamed, or fought. She could’ve spit in her face. But her marble heart didn’t flare as it might’ve years before. It didn’t see the point. She stood quietly, and said simply, “Goodbye.”

  She gathered her schoolbag from the foyer and walked out the door.

  For a moment, standing in the doorway, she couldn’t think where to go. Then she remembered Ruth Schwarz and the Blumbergs. She dug Ruth’s address out of her schoolbag, where she kept it, mostly out of guilt that she’d never used it, and started walking downtown.

  She imagined Henry coming home from his lectures for dinner, and Mrs. Ashbury coolly explaining what had happened.

  She wanted to be with her own peo
ple, Dalya could hear her saying. We’ll miss her terribly.

  Henry wouldn’t believe it, and it would only make him hate them more.

  That caused her the most pain…knowing what it would do to him. And something else, too. Something she didn’t realize until later, as she lay under a blanket on the Blumbergs’ couch after an exhausting night of fielding worried glances and giving awkward explanations.

  She’d left her father’s bag of tools behind, tucked in the back of the Ashburys’ closet, unwanted and abandoned.

  Only then did she feel truly sick. Sick of everyone, sick of the world and its traitorous promises of human kindness and love that, in the end, amounted to nothing.

  PINNY

  Pity. It tasted sour in her mouth, and she bit into a black jelly bean to wash it away. Forget, forget, forget, her head chanted in time with her steps. Ray was a speeding train in front of her, and Pinny panted to stay close. Not too close, though, not with Ray steaming the way she was.

  Pity made Pinny’s heart black-and-blue. It made her think of her birthday party, ’cause that was when she saw it scribbled across Mrs. Baddour’s face. Her real birthday was in the middle of summer, but she’d wanted her party to be in August after school started, hoping more kids would come then.

  “Twenty-one is a big birthday,” Mrs. Danvers had told her. “We can’t afford much, but you can invite a few kids over for the party, if you want.”

  “Careena Baddour!” she’d blurted, not even needing time to think about it. “I’m inviting Careena and the dance team!”

  “Careena’s a busy girl,” Mrs. Danvers said. “She’s got dance competitions, and her boyfriend….”

  “But I’m her best girl. She said so,” Pinny said. “Plus, she’s the dance-team captain, and captains support their team.”