chapter five #2
Cuff links. A nice belt. A box with a silk scarf, clearly meant as a present, as well as a kid-size T-shirt from the San Diego
Zoo with a picture of a fuzzy bear on it. It reminds me of the girl with the teddy bear, the knife, and the empty eyes. I
stuff all four items into my purse. I’m ready.
This could be a mistake. But the alternative is to keep walking until I die like my car did inside the dust storm that seems to separate this place from the rest of the world. I have to head back into town. It’s the only practical option.
I compliment myself on being practical and hope I’m not being stupid.
Shouldering my purse, I lock the car and head down the road toward town. I have time for second thoughts, third thoughts,
and fourth thoughts, but then I’m there.
A lost red balloon drifts over the post office. And then back. And then over again. There isn’t any wind.
Keeping to the opposite side of the street from the diner, I walk briskly toward the motel lobby. I see the same former CEO
picking his way through the gutter. The woman in the pink tracksuit lies on the front stoop of a house with peeling white
paint. She’s counting her fingers over and over. Neither notices me. I don’t make eye contact with anyone.
As I enter the hotel lobby, the chimes ring discordantly. I call out, “Hello? Anyone here? Tiffany?”
A sweet, Southern voice answers, “At your beck and call . . .” Tiffany sweeps into the lobby in a frothy pink dress. Her hair
is blond now and done up in a twist. She wears demure gold earrings and an oversize pearl necklace. “You.” She halts and drops
the fake smile.
I hold up the granola bar. “I’d like to make a trade.”
“Folks at the diner said you ran the Missing Man out of town.” She also drops the accent.
“He left on his own,” I say. “All I did was tell him my name.”
“Powerful name,” she says. “Are you Voldemort?”
“Lauren Chase.”
She gasps . . . and then she shrugs. “Don’t know you.”
“Then you’ll trade?” My mouth salivates. I can almost taste breakfast. I wonder how much she’ll trade for the granola bar
she wanted. I’d like a shower in the motel room, too.
“No way,” Tiffany says. “Victoria runs the only diner in town, and Sean’s a kick-ass cook.
His meatloaf is to die for—not literally, unless you want to go ‘on’ instead of home—so if Victoria says no dealing with you, then I’m not dealing with you.
Sorry. You seem nice, if insufferably boring, but I’m not risking access to the only decently cooked meal in this hellhole. ”
“I also have these.” I pull out the cuff links. “And this.” I show her the belt.
“Not interested.” She looks beyond me, out the lobby window. Her face pales. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
I feel my heart drop. Slowly, I turn.
A pack of kids has plastered themselves to the window. They don’t speak. They merely watch. Beyond them, adults draw closer.
Some of them whisper to each other. Most are silent. Gathering together, they press shoulder to shoulder in a line, as if
they are a human net intent on tightening around me.
My knees feel loose, threatening to cave in underneath me. I feel my palms sweat. “Is there a back door I can use?”
“I can’t help you.” She’s backing toward the supply closet.
“Please! They . . . they don’t look friendly.”
“Just don’t make eye contact. Don’t talk to anyone,” she says. “Walk out of town without stopping or even hesitating. Don’t
look back.”
“I’ll die out there! I don’t have water or food. I’ll dehydrate and die, and it will be your fault for not helping me when
you could. You’ll be responsible for my death.”
“If you’re meant to be saved, then you’ll be saved. If you aren’t . . . don’t take me down with you. Please.” She begs on
the last word, and for the first time, she sounds like a kid. Before I can think how to respond, she bolts into the supply
closet and shuts the door. I am alone in the lobby with only a door between me and the townspeople.
Someone throws a rock. It crashes into the window, and the glass shatters. Screaming, I dive behind the lobby counter. I crouch and wait to hear more glass shatter and the mob shout. But it’s silent. There are no more rocks.
Time passes, and I feel my legs cramp from crouching for too long. Slowly, I straighten and peek over the top. The crowd waits.
“What do you want?” I shout at them.
“He isn’t back,” a woman says.
“Look, this is obviously all a mistake! I didn’t do or say anything wrong.” I hold up my hands in surrender to show I’m harmless.
The townspeople murmur to each other. I wish that woman Merry were here. She’d seemed at least friendly.
“He’s never refused us before,” the same woman says. She has once-dyed-red hair that is only red for the last five inches;
the rest is gray. She wears a polka-dot dress, five-inch heels, and smeared makeup. She looks as if she stayed at a cocktail
party too long.
“Who is he?” I ask. “Why does he matter so much to you?”
“He’s the Missing Man.” It’s the woman in the pink tracksuit from the diner. “He helps us find what we lost, if we can’t find
it ourselves, and then he sends us home. Without him, we can never leave.”
Her words don’t make sense. “But I haven’t lost anything.” Yes, I’ve lost socks and earrings. I’ve left a book on the bus
and an umbrella in a restaurant. I’ve lost track of friends. But I’ve lost no more than anyone else in the world. Less than
many.
“Everyone says that at first,” the pink woman says. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t lost.” Everyone else mutters in agreement.
“I wouldn’t have gotten lost if it hadn’t been for that damn dust storm,” I say, though I think of how I hadn’t seen a sign
or another vehicle for miles before that. I feel cold. This is all so unbelievable, yet no one cracks a smile. It isn’t a
joke, at least not to them. “You can’t tell me that everyone who is directionally challenged ends up here.”
“Not that kind of lost,” the woman in the polka-dot dress says, “or at least those kind don’t stay for long. All they need is a map or a sign or a clue. The Missing Man sends them back right away.”
One of the kids, a boy with a baseball cap low over his eyes, says, “But he didn’t send you back. He left you. He left us.” The crowd inches closer until they press against the broken glass. I back up and hit the wall. Turning, I try the door
to the supply closet. Locked. I knock on the door. “Tiffany? Please, let me in.” I can hear the panic infuse my voice, and
I can’t stop it. I feel like a rabbit, cornered by a pack of wolves. I turn back to the mob. “It’s only been a day,” I say
to them. “Give him longer. Me longer. Please, leave me alone!”
A small figure pushes her way through the crowd.
It’s the freaky girl. She still holds the teddy bear in one hand. Her princess dress is torn and stained. Her hair sticks
out at odd angles and is clipped with at least twelve different clips, which only makes it jut out more. She steps through
the broken window. Shards of glass crunch under her red sequin Mary Jane shoes.
The girl holds out her hand. It’s empty.
I stare at her hand. She wants me to take it. She waits, little hand out. At last, I reach out my hand and clasp hers. I hear
an intake of breath from the mob, amplified by the number of people.
Without a word, she pulls me across the lobby and through the broken window. Confused, the crowd parts. The girl marches through
without looking right or left. I imitate her and don’t make eye contact. When we pass the mob, I don’t look back. We pass
the bookstore and then the post office and then the barber shop. I am trying hard not to panic. I am not succeeding. “I need
to get out of sight,” I say.
She keeps pulling me down the street.
I wonder if she intends to march me out of town, in which case what I told Tiffany will come true. I am already hungry and thirsty. I can’t live out in the desert. “Is there anyone friendly here? Someone who can help me?”
The girl doesn’t answer.
“I’m Lauren,” I say, trying for a friendly tone. “What’s your name?”
Still no answer.
Glancing back, I see the mob has spilled back onto the street. They are watching me. So far, they aren’t following, but that
could change. “If you know a place to hide . . .”
The girl switches direction, pulling me into the alley between the barber shop and a decrepit triple-decker house. She still
doesn’t speak.
I don’t know why I’m trusting her. “Are you helping me, or dragging me someplace private to cut me to pieces and feed me to
your teddy bear? Just curious.”
The girl looks at me with her wide eyes. “My name is Claire. And my teddy bear is not hungry today.”
“That’s . . . good?”
Claire skips over rotted cardboard boxes and sashays around sodden trash. I hesitate, weighing my options: follow the little
knife girl or break out on my own. I think I can outrun her, but so far she’s done nothing but help. She beckons me. I’ll trust her, I decide. The decision makes my head feel light and dizzy. Or maybe that’s the stench. The alley stinks as if a dozen cats
have died underneath the piles of junk. Following Claire, I hold my sleeve over my mouth and breathe through it. It doesn’t
help. The stench makes my eyes water. Worse, the ground squishes underneath my feet. I feel as though the smell is clinging
to me. After a while, I stop looking down. I don’t want to know what I’m stepping in.
The alley stretches for far longer than should be possible, given the size of the town.
A town this size shouldn’t have an alley at all.
As we turn a corner, Claire puts her fingers to her lips.
We creep past an open door. I hear voices, loud male voices, but I can’t distinguish the words. They may not be English.
I follow the little girl in silence as the alley twists and winds. Oddly, there are no intersecting streets. Only narrow,
trash-choked alleys. We’re hemmed in by apartment buildings, each ten and fifteen stories tall. Some are brick and have balconies