Dark Witness (2 page)

Me. Hannah Sheraton.

I want to see Hermosa Beach again.

I want to take Max for a walk.

I'm a teenager
.

I want to paint.

I want my hair to be long again.

I want to see Josie and Archer and Faye.

I am frightened
.

I want. . .

"Hannah, what are you waiting for?"

"Nothing," I say.

I push my way out of the booth. Billy bounces from one foot to the other. His arms wrap around himself. I had a chance to pack stuff when we left Hermosa, but he didn't. I had the money I made from selling my paintings; Billy didn't have a dime. The captain on that boat screwed us out of our wages.

"What are you going to do?" he asked when I demanded that he pay us. "Call the cops?"

He was smarter than I gave him credit for which is more than I can say for most adults. When we left Hermosa the idea was to get Billy somewhere safe until the adults figured things out. I didn't think it would take this long or that we would have to go this far. I thought we were safe in Oregon, but when we heard a big man was looking for us I figured it was Gjergy Isai. We never laid eyes on him. We ran with all we had, and at that point we didn't have much. We have less now.

"You need warmer clothes. You need different shoes," I say.

"Yeah. Who knew Alaska would be so cold?"

He laughs at his own joke. It kind of ticks me off that he doesn't complain. I seem to be mad at him a lot. Mostly I'm sorry for it, so I don't say anything. Billy touches my shoulder, and I flinch. He seems sad when he says:

"Come on."

Billy motions toward a bunch of trucks pulled up near the giant gas tanks. Two of the operators are in the shop having coffee. Billy caught the third guy in the john at the back of the building and hit him up for a ride while they stood side-by-side peeing. I can't decide if I don't like the looks of the guy, or I'm just not happy that Billy didn't consult with me before arranging this. Either way I am not happy, and Billy is trying to figure out how to get my rear in gear.

"The shop guy isn't going to let us sleep inside."

He's right. Nobody wants two homeless kids anywhere near their stuff overnight. You never know what we might do. Of course, they never think of it from our perspective. We never know what the adults will do. Still, we can't stay out in the open Even sleeping bags won't be enough to keep us from freezing to death in another few weeks.

"Okay." I say this like I've made a choice even though we don't have one.

"We're coming." Billy waves at the trucker, flashing him a brilliant smile. He's so relieved he glows. Even from this distance I see the trucker glower. Then I make Billy crazy again.

"I've got to use the bathroom." I duck off into the little store while Billy hollers.

"She's got to pee!"

I roll my eyes. It's a good thing I don't embarrass easily. I open the door, and I am in and out in less than five because I didn't really have to pee at all.

"Here."

I give Billy a puffy fleece jacket that is the most god-awful screaming yellow color. It was the only thing they had close to his size. Billy takes it like I just handed him the Golden Fleece. He wants it in the worst way, but says:

"I'm taking it back. We need the money."

I set my jaw, rip off the tags, tear them up, and toss them.

"Now you can't return it. Come on."

Grabbing my duffle, I walk away from the light and through the late afternoon dark of Alaska. It will only get blacker the further north we go and that is perfect for hiding. The bearded guy who's going to give us a hitch stands in a puddle of light cast by a single bulb strung on a wire above him. He wears a hat with earflaps. It takes a certain kind of guy to wear a hat like that the right way. He's not that guy. Billy pulls up beside me. The screaming yellow fleece jacket is even grosser when it's on him. He's got it zipped up to his chin, his hands are buried in his pockets, and there's a bounce in his step. He is so grateful for every little thing – even an ugly jacket.

In the next minute, I flatten my gaze and forget Billy. The trucker is watching us. Only he's not really watching us, he's watching me. I've seen too many men look at my mother like that, and I know it's not nice. The good news is that I'm not my mother. I stop in front of him. His dirty fingers wrap around the door handle.

"There's only room for one up front." His voice is like his beard: stubbly, sketchy and unattractive.

"It's okay. You ride up front, Han–” Billy begins to talk, but I cut him off. He's so clueless.

"We'll both go in back."

I cut my eyes to the container he's hauling on the flatbed. It reminds me of the place Josie was imprisoned. I flash on doors shutting, chains threading, locks ratcheting, rotten air, isolation, death and madness. I just know all of them are already comfortable in the cave-like corners of that metal box. I look back at the driver. He is just a stupid man, not a crazy maniac. I've seen a lot of crazy people up close and personal. Not everyone is a friggin' crazy person. I have to remember that.

I know that my stare shames him because of what he's thinking. Hitchhikers have to pay: ass, grass or gas. It's not Billy's ass he's after. I pull a twenty from my pocket and hand it to him.

"Gas."

"Suit yourself."

He scowls and leads the way to the back. As he passes, I smell beer on his breath. When we get to the rear he unlocks the container and pushes one tall door back. The metal groans and the inside yawns like the passage way to hell. I feel sick, but I toss the duffle in and then grab the side of the door. If I go in fast it won't be so scary. Then the guy in the dork hat puts his hands on my butt, and his touch is like a cattle prod. I jump down and square off.

"Don't touch me," I growl.

I've got a fist up and my feet planted like I could really take him on. Billy isn't so sure I won't try, so he puts his arm between us. I can feel his whole being begging me not to make trouble. I hate trouble, too, but I didn't start it. Billy should do something so I don't have to. Then again, he's done as much as his good nature will allow. Finally, the driver shakes his head. He spits on the ground.

"I was helping, you little black bitch."

I ignore the slur. It could have been worse. He could have left us there. Instead, he waits until I climb in. Billy scrambles after me. We stand together, seeing our breath blow ice-white in the grey of the interior. The thing is half filled with boxes. The inside smells of something but it isn't food. The metal floor is buckled, and it pops under our weight as we shift to get the feel of our surroundings.

"Don't touch nothin'," The driver warns.

I look back at him. I want to say that we won't. I want to say thanks to make up some. He slams the door before I can. I thought I knew what dark was, but until that second I didn't have a clue how black the world could really be.

When I hear the latches bang and a chain run its course, the crazy-making itch of uncertainty, fear, and despair runs through me. I need a razor blade in the worst way to slice myself and bleed it out. This tight and nasty thing makes me feel like I did when my mother took hold of my shoulders and shook me, her face close to mine as she spit out words that made no sense except to her.

My last chance to have something good . . . you're a good girl

He needs to like you . . . men don't like kids

How can I take care of us. . . I'm saddled with you

"Hannah, I'm here," Billy calls, but I don't pay attention. That's what happens when I think of my mother. I only hear her voice.

The scars on my arms swell as if blood is pumping through them but that's impossible. None of them are new. There is no life in that ugly little map of mutilations on my forearms, but the fear is alive, writhing, and its tentacles are deep. I push out a hand, my fingers crunch into my palm. My nails are short now, but they still bite into my skin as they keep time with the numbers flashing behind my eyes. I am so afraid I can't speak. Funny that a slamming door can do me in when Gjergy Isai and the old judge, Fritz Rayburn, should have been far more frightening. Maybe they weren't as scary as this because I could see them coming. Suddenly, Billy is beside me, a young man wrapped in a ball of yellow fleece.

"I got you, Hannah." It's true. He has my hand. He squeezes it. I'm not real happy he's done this, but for now it's all good. "It's okay. Dude, it's okay."

I laugh because he calls me dude, because he comforts me in the same voice he uses to talk about everything. That voice is tinged with awe and sweet faith. Some things never change. Even though we can't see each other, I know he's smiling because my laugh is a relief to him. It means that I am not mad at him, and I am okay. As long as I'm okay, so is he.

The truck starts up with a deep rumble of an engine that sounds out of whack. We lose our balance, drop to our knees, and crawl to the side of the container. We laugh as the floor pops under us like metallic bubble wrap and then scramble between stacks of boxes to settle in. The cardboard will steady us and help us stay warm. The container lurches and shakes a little. The cargo is strapped; it's the truck that is unsteady. I wonder if the bumper has one of those 'how am I driving?' stickers on the back and if someone will report this guy. I hope not because we are on the road again, and we need to get to the end of the world. I don't know where that is, but I think we're pretty close to it in Alaska.

I am so deep in thought that I jump when Billy touches my head. Being touched gently in the dark like that always feels creepy. Someday, maybe, there will be someone I love and I'll welcome the touch that comes out of nowhere, but now I duck away. Billy doesn't take offense. He just stays on his own track.

"Cutting your hair was massive, Hannah. Really. It was awesome."

I smile even though I've heard this almost every night before he sleeps. What he really means is that he misses the Hannah he knew. The one with style, with a diamond pierced through her nose and a stutter of gold rings through her ears. He doesn't know this Hannah, the girl with the halo of kink and curls, dyed blond with a box of Clairol swiped from a sale table in front of a beauty supply shop back in Sanger. It was too dangerous to go in to pay for it when we were that close to home. I left a few dollars. I hope the girl from the counter found it. I touch the scrub of hair on my head and say the same thing I say every night:

"Yeah, I guess."

I don't point out that we've both changed. Billy's hair has grown past his shoulders and he parts it in the middle or pulls it back in a ponytail. It is beautiful, straight and sandy brown instead of beach-bleached white. I don't think he misses the beach after what he's been through but strangely I do. It was never the ocean that bugged me anyway; it was the people living near it who made me crazy. They were so happy. I've never been real comfortable with happy when it skims the top of a person and doesn't sink further than a white-toothed smile. That kind of happy is like the froth on a latte; deceptively sweet and easily overpowered by the bitter drink beneath.

Thinking of Hermosa brings hot tears to my eyes, but I'm more angry than sad. Life isn't fair, and I'm so done with that. It's time for life to at least give me and Billy an honest-to-God break. I put my head on the floor, curl into the boxes on my side, and close my eyes.

"We should try to get some rest," I say.

"You look more like a black chick now." I hear him settling in against the boxes on his side. He's sleepy, but he keeps talking. I found that out about him early on. He talks himself to sleep. "Even if your hair's blond, you still look like a black chick. When your hair was long you looked Indian. From India, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." I truly do know, but he's not talking about what I look like. He wants to know if I will stay with him. I wish he'd just ask straight out, but he doesn't. It doesn't matter, really. I don't have the energy to reassure him when he never can be reassured. I can't even be truly honest with myself. Maybe some of my mother is in me – the part that eventually bolts for greener pastures.

"Do you miss it, Hannah?" he asks dreamily. "Your hair? Do you miss it?"

I shake my head. No, I don't miss my hair as much as I miss what might have been if I was still in Hermosa with Josie.

"You okay, Hannah?"

"I'm good. It's nice to ride. I was tired of walking. I didn't like the boat."

"It is nice to ride." Billy echoes me. Then there's a minute and he adds: "Yeah, you look more like a black chick now."

Billy Zuni stops talking. He sleeps. My eyes are open, and I stare straight ahead seeing nothing. His words echo in my head.
Black chick
. That's what I am. I am getting darker by the minute. But this black has nothing to do with the color of my skin and everything to do with my heart and my mind.

I am afraid of myself just a little bit.

CHAPTER 2

The truck is sliding. Skating. Sledding over the road. I reach for Billy. He has slipped down and is lying on the cold floor of the container with his back to me.

"Billy?"

The truck lurches, scrapes, and brakes.

"Billy!"

I bolt upright and scoot past him on my butt, but he sleeps like the dead. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor with my hands flat on the buckled metal to see if I'm being paranoid. The truck is moving the right way again. My heart beats a little more slowly. I was dreaming. Having a nightmare. Maybe we're almost there. Maybe we'll get out of here soon. I convince myself that we will.

As I'm thinking this good thought, the container sways to the right and then left again. I slide backward. The boxes shift, straining against ropes that tie them into towers. A second later the container swings once more, and my stomach drops like it does when a Ferris wheel stops your car at the very top on a windy day. The car swings, the guy at the controls stares up. You don't know if he will let you down, and he's the only one who can. You don't know if he's a crazy person.