Chapter Five Ren #4
Mama said many things.
Emi must get out, she must get rid of the baby, she must make the man marry her, she must give the baby away, she must find out if the man has a wife and tell her to get revenge, she must seduce another man before she shows so he thinks it’s his and marries her.
At every suggestion, Emi said she’d do only what she wanted, and that Mama didn’t control her.
Which went over about as well as rat poison in a turkey sandwich.
The next morning, though, Mama started crocheting a tiny white baby hat. A bonnet, she called it. It’s here. I saw Mama pack it, right along with her shiny slip dresses and jewelry.
Whatever I do, I’ll make sure Emi and the baby are okay and that the little bonnet is put on its head, no help from Mrs. Ross or the fox needed.
I hear Mama’s footsteps echoing behind me. I slow down so she can catch up.
“You expect too much,” Mama says flatly, gathering her jacket around herself despite the heat and relighting her cigarette.
“The minute I saw her, I knew she wouldn’t help us.
People want to take things away, Ren. Freedom.
Babies. The barracks you’ve already moved into. They don’t give things. Ever.”
“I know.” My jaw is clenched, and it makes my breath come out snarling and harsh. “I know.”
Mama holds out her cigarette. I shake my head.
I hate the things. They remind me of dawns getting ready for work before school and seeing Mama asleep on the couch with an empty wine bottle and an overflowing ashtray on the floor, the room rank with stale wine and old smokes.
I notice her face is drawn. There isn’t exactly a bar or liquor store for her to get booze.
She must be missing it something fierce.
“Go for a walk,” she says. “I’ll sit with Emi.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Hai. Get some fresh air.”
Without waiting for a response, Mama ambles past me.
I know she’s terrified for Emi and probably has a colossal headache she can’t dull with alcohol, but she moves placidly, sunlight streaking brightly across her jacket and necklaces.
She’s right. I need to cool off. Rage courses through me like rainwater surging through the LA drainage canals, threatening to pitch up over the sides at any moment.
If I go to our barrack, I’ll just pace like a maniac, maybe even crack up and become one.
I sigh and pick my way through the dirt, deciding to just take a circuitous route.
The camp layout still confuses me. I keep having to stop to get my bearings.
Doesn’t help that the barracks are all the same brownish gray.
Like someone painted them to match a piece of toast. The barracks are long and low with vertical planks.
Other lines rise into vertexes to form roofs and corners.
The completed watchtower is crisscrossing beams topped with a rectangular lookout.
Just straight lines, everywhere. We’re basically locked inside a geometry problem.
Makes me think about the last time I was locked up.
The night I was arrested, I’d resolved to be a tough guy.
But everything made me jump, from the sizzling flash of the camera taking my mug shot to the screech of the jail-cell door as it slid shut behind me.
I was so jittery, you’d think I was one of Mama’s gelatin desserts, trembling and bobbing all over.
That’s when I first saw it.
A postcard pinned up on a bulletin board.
Some cop must’ve gone on vacation. Santa Fe floated in blocky letters over craggy rock formations and an inky red sunset with adobe-style buildings in the distance, some real rugged cowboy shit.
I stared at it for hours, as though I could use it as a portal.
It was so different from Los Angeles that it made me think I could be different, too, if I just got there.
The notion became a plan as I scrounged money and investigated ranch jobs outside the city.
I could picture it. Me, out there, finally able to hear my own thoughts and maybe not hate them so much.
If I was there long enough, I could build a life and maybe even bring Emi and the baby out.
Mama, too, if she wanted. I’d take care of them.
Every now and then, vague dreams of having a family of my own cross my mind.
Now a face comes with those for the first time.
Violet.
I force the image away, pissed at myself for even letting it appear. Yeah, that’s not happening.
“Ay, Dragon!” A familiar voice bounds across the firebreak. I know immediately who it is, even though I can hardly believe it. Kai. He runs up, grinning, a baseball bat slung over his shoulder like he’s off to practice. We throw an arm around each other to hug, and I almost don’t want to let go.
“Tiger! You’re here, too?” I love the sound of those nicknames. Feels like home, like something that can’t be taken away. He jostles me, notices my sling, and stops.
“How could you?” he asks reproachfully. “How can you pitch with a busted wing?”