The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (12 page)

“The last I heard was the gunshot,” I said. “I thought you were dead. I thought it was all my fault. I've been so worried, you can't even imagine. How long was I away?”

“Away?” He cocked his head to the side. “You mean asleep? You blacked out after you tackled Teeth. You've been out like a light ever since. I bet you're starving. Come in and have a seat. I'm making soup.”

He motioned for me to follow him into the sunlit room. It was a small kitchen awash with soft yellow light reaching lazily through white lace curtains. A large soup pot sat on top of an ornate green and white gas stove that stood on spindly legs. It was just like the one Gran and Pops had at their old farm. A porcelain-topped table stood in the center, surrounded by four white chairs. Blue pulled one out for me, and I sat down, tugging the hem of my night gown out from under my foot. It was too long for me. I guessed it was Blue's mother's. She must be tall, like my mom.

“Hey, I got you a present,” he said, reaching for something off the counter and tossing it onto the table.

A newspaper. All shiny and new and ready to turn my fingertips black.

I grinned. “Did you pay for it?”

“Naturally,” he said with a bow of his head.

I shook my head, smiling. As I watched him tend his soup at the stove, I got lost in the sight of him. I'd forgotten how handsome he was. He wore dark slacks, the kind men wore every day back then. His feet were bare, like mine. A soft, white undershirt and dark suspenders stretched across his muscular shoulders. I imagined this was the sort of thing Pops wore when he was a teenager. If so, I could see why Gran fell for him. There was something about a young man in that classic, old fashioned style that made a girl's heart flutter. For one, the shirt sleeves were shorter, showing off a lot more bicep than modern T-shirts. I thought about how Jensen's short sleeves came almost all the way down to his elbows.

Not that Jensen had much to show off in the bicep category.

But Blue…

The fingers of a blush stroked the back of my neck. Before it spread to my ears and cheeks, and before Blue turned around to see it, I snapped my attention to my hands.

Hands were so much more interesting than biceps, right?

That's when I noticed my fingernails were filthy. Outlined in grime like I just came in from gardening with Gran. Only I never bloodied my knuckles planting hostas.

I scrubbed my nails clean at the sink with a nail brush. The soap was harsh and made my skin squeak, but it did the trick.

“So what happened last night?” I asked, joining him at the stove. “After I blacked out? I heard the gun go off. That's the last thing I remember.”

With a large knife, Blue scraped a mound of freshly chopped dill from a cutting board into the steaming pot. “After you tackled Teeth, I knocked the gun out of Loogie's hand. It went off when it hit the ground. No one got hurt, if that's what you were thinking.”

“What happened then? How did we get here?”

“Mr Clemens – he owns the hardware store on the corner – he heard you shouting, so he knew something was going on. Came out with his shotgun.” Blue smiled at the memory and gave his soup a good stir. “Cafferellis' guys hit the bricks, and Mr Clemens helped me carry you home. We'll be safe here; this is Fifth Street territory.” He rapped his long wooden spoon on the side of the pot and set it down. “Ma patched you up the best she could and got you dressed and in bed. I told her not to bother curling your hair, but she did it anyway. Made it easier for her to look at that knot at the back of your head.” He reached up and flipped one of my striped cotton curlers with his fingers. “Looks cute, though. Very John Philip Sousa.”

At first I thought he meant I looked like the heavily bearded composer on the cover of one of Pops' old records, the guy who wrote all those patriotic marches the marching bands play during parades, but I shot him a playful glare when I got the reference. The red, white, and blue rag curlers. “Oh yes, I know, very Stars and Stripes Forever.”

We laughed as he ladled soup into two bowls. “Hungry?”

We sat down, and I leaned over my soup. The hearty smell filled my nose. My stomach growled.

Blue's soup was an old Polish recipe called Zupa Ogórkowa, which I tried to pronounce and failed. He said it meant pickled cucumber soup, which didn't sound appetizing in the least. Who was the genius who thought putting pickles in soup was a good idea? I prepared myself for something truly disgusting, but it so wasn't. It was steaming hot chicken broth seasoned with dill, with sour cream stirred in to make it creamy and silky smooth. The few slices of pickles floating beside tender potatoes and carrots made it a bit salty and sour, tart on my tongue. I supposed it was the same idea as Gran adding lemon juice to her chicken noodle soup. Either way, it was glorious, and I loved every bite of it. I devoured two bowls and half of a third before my stomach felt content.

Blue pushed his bowl aside and folded his arms on the table. “There's something I've been dying to ask you.” Suspicion sat on his right shoulder. Intrigue sat on his left.

I raised my eyebrows as an invitation for him to ask away. I didn't want to stop slurping down my soup just to say shoot.

“When Ma gathered your clothes up… She took them to the laundry, by the way. She wanted to get the blood out and mend a few tears for you.” He shook his head and waved that trail of thought away. “Anyway, she found something in your coat. In the hidden pocket on the inside.”

Hidden pocket? Intrigue sat up straighter. So did I. “What was it?”

He hesitated, looking a bit surprised that I didn't know what was in my own pocket.

“You still don't remember anything, do you?” he asked.

I shook my head and touched the bruised knot for good measure. It wasn't exactly a lie when I truly didn't remember who I was in that past life, was it?

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That must be awful. Your aunt must be worried sick about you.”

It took me a moment to remember the story I'd made up about visiting my aunt. I supposed it was awful, in a way. I probably did have an aunt back in 1927, one I'd never get to know because I couldn't remember anything from my past fifty-six lives.

“I guess you won't know what all the money's for then, huh?” Blue said.

“What money?”

His cute lips curved into a grin. “The fat roll of twenties you had stashed in your coat pocket.”

 

 

Back in Blue's mom's room, the one I spent the night in, he and I sat cross-legged on her bed and counted the money. There were five hundred dollars in all, the twenty-dollar notes laid out evenly on the blanket between our knees like floor tiles. There was a hunger in Blue's eyes. He couldn't look away.

The old bills were larger than the ones I was used to, and instead of a portrait of Andrew Jackson, Grover Cleveland was on the front. A steam train and a steam ship faced each other on the back. I wondered what each bill would be worth today if I took them back home, but how would I travel with them? It seemed all I knew how to transport through time were injuries.

“What could I buy with this much money?” I asked.

Blue whistled and scratched the shadow of stubble on his cheek. “That's half my year's wages.”

“Could I buy a Model T?”

He nodded, the green ink from the bills reflected in his eyes. I stared down at the money. I so wanted to buy a Model T. But I thought of a better use for it.

“How much does Frank owe for all his debts?”

Blue tore his eyes from the cash. “Don't even think about it.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head and climbed off the bed. “You're not giving it to Frank.”

“But it would solve everything. It would get the Cafferellis off your backs.”

He paced the room, still shaking his head. “No way. I got a bad feeling about that money. It's meant for something. No one carries around that kind of cabbage unless it's dirty. I mean, you don't even remember who you are. You could be some gangster's squeeze for all we know. With my luck, the moment you hand it over, you'll remember what it's for and want it back. Besides, I won't take money from a girl.”

“Now hold on right there,” I said, standing up. I could always argue better on my feet. “I bet you take money from your mom.”

“That's different.”

“How so?”

“She's my mom.”

“She's still a girl.”

Blue groaned up at the ceiling and clasped his hands behind his head.

“And what about Sloan?” I said. “You won't take money from a girl, but from a bootlegger, sure, why not?”

He froze for a moment, then slowly turned around to face me. “How did you figure out I was working for Sloan?”

“When Loogie asked why you were hanging around the bakery, you said you were making a delivery.” I frowned. Blue hadn't been wearing a uniform. He didn't have a delivery truck. “You weren't, were you?”

He looked down at his feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “No.”

The front door opened and closed, and a friendly voice called hello up the stairs. Blue and I looked at each other.

Helena was home.

 

 

Blue's mom was a gust of summer wind. A smile in heels and flesh-colored stockings. She made a fuss over you and hugged you like you were a toddler with a skinned knee. She was tall and fashionable, looking like the quintessential Twenties woman with a dark bob and cloche hat. Her cheerful presence in the apartment sent shadows scurrying in every direction. They hid under doors and behind curtains. It was as if the sun only shined on Helena Piasecki. It went with her everywhere, tucked in her pocketbook.

She had already worked a full day at a shop down the street, taking in the neighborhood wash and repairing garments. She took my clothes in with her that morning, and since they wouldn't be cleaned and mended for a few more days, she brought back a few things for me to wear – items women had dropped off at the shop but for some reason or another never came back to pick up.

“Unclaimed garments,” she said, laying them out on the bed. Her Polish accent was faint, like Blue's. “A seamstress' treasure trove.”

The first item was a grass-green trench coat, soft to the touch with a tweed lining. Lighter than the heavy woolen thing I wore the day before, but the lining was thick enough to keep out cool breezes.

“I'll trust you not to scuffle in back alleys while wearing this coat, missy,” Helena said when I tried it on. She poked me in the ribs with a wink.

No, this was not the sort of coat I would “scuffle” in. It was the sort of coat I'd wear downtown, to the theater or a soda shoppe.

Just thinking about going to a soda shoppe made me giggle to myself.

“Watch out, Sousa. She's trying to turn you into a lady,” Blue said, leaning against the doorframe and watching my reflection in the oval mirror.

“Pfft,” said Helena. “She doesn't have to be a lady. She can be whatever she wants.” She tapped me gently on the cheek. “So long as it doesn't get her killed.”

The second thing she brought from the laundry was a pair of gleaming white gloves. She stroked them with her fingertips, admiring them. “These belonged to a French woman who didn't speak a bit of English. She wore white from head to toe, from the tall white feather on her hat all the way down to her pointed white heels. She even kept a tiny white mouse in her breast pocket for company.”

Blue and I exchanged a glance and laughed.

The final item Helena brought for me was a dress, but she wouldn't let me see it until after my bath.

“Then Nicky will take you downtown for the evening,” she said. She sat on the edge of the claw foot bathtub, still in her stockings and heels, running the water. There was something lovely about the sound her heels made on the pale green tile floor. “I want you both to stay as far away from Cafferelli territory as possible. At least until your memory comes back, or all this business with the bakery blows over.”

An entire evening with Blue in 1927 Chicago?

Yes, please.

 

 

While I soaked my aching body in the bath, looking forward to my night out with Blue, I felt a pang of guilt for leaving Porter behind. It all happened so fast. Once the soulmark yanked me in, there was no way I could have pulled away. It would've been like trying to swim up a waterfall. All I remembered was Porter shouting for me to stop, then waking up in Helena's bed. I hoped he wasn't angry with me. I hadn't meant to touch it. Then again, if he was angry, did I really care? Chicago was where I wanted to be. Not Limbo. Not Ristorante Cafferelli. Not Mr Draper's class. Chicago, where no one knew about my “seizures” and no one called me Freak or Wayspaz. It was a clean slate. A chance to be normal.

I sank lower in the steaming water and let it slip over my shoulders. I closed my eyes and tried to let my muscles fully relax.

Alex.

Porter's voice was so loud in my ear, it was like he was right beside me. I jumped, and my bottom slipped on the porcelain, plunging me all the way under the water. I grappled for the sides of the tub and pulled myself up, gasping for breath and swiping water from my eyes.

I looked left and right, my heart in my throat, but Porter wasn't there.

You need to come back now.

His words resonated inside my skull like the gong of a bell. His voice filled every inch of it and set my teeth on edge, making me wince. I pressed the heels of my palms to my temples and told him to get out of my head. The intrusion, the overwhelming pressure, was unbearable.