Kids of Appetite (5 page)

“What.
Here?
”

The Stoic Beauty pulled a key from her back pocket. “Please,” she said. “I wouldn't wish an overnight in the Chute on my worst enemy. No, you're just inside.”

It was dark out, the only light coming from a distant streetlamp reflected off the snow. I reached for my pocket to use the flashlight on my phone before remembering I had left it at home. As she fumbled with the lock, I pretended to watch the fumbling.

What I actually watched:

1. Her yellow hair dripping out from under her hat like a leaky sun.
   
2. Her pale cheeks, red from the cold.
   
3. The outline of her shoulders under her coat.
   
4. The outline of her waist under her coat.
   
5. The outline of her ass under her coat.
   
6. Her legs.
   
7. Her inked-up Nikes.
   

I was a mess.

“It's not the Hilton,” she said, opening the door and flipping on a light. “But it's warmer than crashing down by the river if that sweetens the deal at all, which, you know, it should.”

I took in the stench of the room as we stepped inside. It was no big mystery why the place smelled the way it did, thick and substantial and rotten. Six swine carcasses dangled from the ceiling like used piñatas. On the floor, little pools of watery blood gathered in tiny red reservoirs. It was all quite good and gross. I pulled the collar of my shirt up over my nose.

“This
has
to be against some sort of FDA regulation or something.”

“Oh, it is,” said the Stoic Beauty, slipping the key back into her pocket. “It gets cleaned up before inspections, then falls back into . . . well, what you see here. But again.
No
hypothermia. So, you know. Win.”

In addition to dead hanging pigs, the room had an industrial oven, a dishwasher, and a large desk with papers and work orders strewn across it.

“All right then,” she said, turning for the door. “We'll be back in the morning.”

“We?”

“Don't worry. Norm doesn't usually show up for work till midmorning.”

Suddenly things made sense. “This is the back of Babushka's.”

The Stoic Beauty nodded. “Sleep tight.”

“Wait a second.”

I had serious questions. Big burning-a-hole-in-my-brain type questions. I started with the one that seemed most important.

“What's your name?”

. . .

“That's against the rules,” she said.

“What rules? There were no rules.”

“The rules of questioning. The rules we set forth during our prior conversation.”

I couldn't tell if she was half joking or what. If yes, it was about the cutest thing I'd ever seen. If not—shit, it was cute anyway.

“I'm Madeline. I go by Mad.”

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and lit up.

“I'm Vic,” I said.
That's good. Keep that going.
“People call me Vic, I mean.”
Okay, that's enough.
“Which is to say, my name is Victor.”
You're done.
“But, um. No one calls me Victor, really.”
Abort! Abort!
“Yeah, just Vic is good.”

I was quickly becoming an absolute ace at face-palming myself. But then, miracle of miracles: Mad smiled a little.

And I died a little.

And she left.

* * *

The slaughtered pigs of the alleged KGB let loose an army of stink.

I left on my coat and boots, tucked my backpack under the metal desk, and slid in after it. In the world of backroom butcher shops, the corner farthest removed from dripping swine carcasses was prime real estate. More cramped than cozy, I pulled four things from my bag:

1. My Visine, which I applied and replaced.
   
2. My earbuds, which I inserted.
   
3. My iPod, which I turned on, turned up, and flipped to “The Flower Duet.”
   
4. My dad. In an urn.
   

I kicked myself for leaving my phone at home, though I'm not sure who I would call, or for what reason exactly. There was a measure of comfort in knowing you were only a phone call away, exponentially true given my current locale. But I'd left in a hurry—according to the clock on my iPod, less than an hour ago if that was even possible—with only one idea in mind: get Dad out of that house. This
turned into quite the Shakespearean notion of me tossing his remains into the Hackensack River, where he would rest with the
Ling
forever and ever, sparing him whatever catastrophic events were sure to occur during the coming months (and years?) within the tragic remnants of the Benucci residence. But then, on the banks of the river, the soaring sopranos in my head, I opened the urn. And I saw things I had not expected to see.

Consider this: among the billions of people on Earth, there is one you care about, live with, and love; that one person dies and is burned into billions of microscopic pieces; those billions of pieces are placed in one receptacle. Billions to one, one to billions, billions to one. Sometimes I think love really is bound by numbers.

Now, in the shadows of dangling pig carcasses, I stared at Dad's urn, pulled back the tape, lifted the lid, and went to my Land of Nothingness . . .

Hey, Dad. You need anything in there?

No, V
, my father's ashes would say.

You good?

Yeah, V
.

All right then. Good night
.

Night, V
.

As far as I knew, the average urn contained only ashes, nothing more. By those standards, this was no average urn. Because: in addition to ashes, my father's urn contained a Ziploc bag, and in that bag, a photograph. An old Polaroid of my parents, fresh-faced, eager, young. They were high up somewhere, on the rooftop of a skyscraper, the New York City skyline behind them. Young Doris smiled at the camera. Young Bruno smiled at Young Doris.

Young Parents in young love.

It was the kind of happiness I barely remembered, the kind that felt foreign and far away, like Singapore. I knew people traveled to Singapore, and lots of people lived there. I'd seen Singapore on maps and globes and TV. I took this to mean that Singapore actually existed, even though I'd never been and had no idea how to get there.

This happiness was like Singapore.

In addition to the photo, there was one other thing that separated this urn from all the others. An open, blank envelope. It had no address, and no markings of any kind. From inside, I pulled out a single sheet of notebook paper, unfolded it, and read . . .

My Doris,

lt hardly seems fair that the only ones expected to leave notes are those who end things themselves. l haven't chosen to die; death has been thrust upon me. As such, consider this my Terminal Note.

l think most people only have the capacity for one Great Thing in their lifetime. From the moment you and l jumped in that pool with all our clothes on (Emily Edwards's house, 11th grade, you'd had a few too many—l know you remember even though you always pretend not to) to five minutes ago, when you kissed my forehead, promised to bring Vic by on Saturday, then, in true Doris fashion,
tripped on your way out the door (and thought l didn't see you, but l totally did)—and every flawed, real moment in between—you have been my Great Thing.

So many memories.

By the time you read this, will there be more? Are you smiling now, thinking of some hilarious or awkward or sad thing that happened between your tripping out my hospital door and my dying? l hope so. l really do. But l feel it, Doris. l feel it coming. l'm not afraid. l may wish for more time, more memories, but l have no regrets. You and Victor are my North, South, East, and West. You are my Due Everywhere.

How could l ever be lost?

You know the places on this list. Take me there, won't you?

Till we're old-new,

—B

1. Hang me from the Parlour

2. Toss me off the Palisades

3. Bury me in the smoking bricks of our first kiss

4. Drown me in our wishing well

5. Drop me from the top of our rock

The soaring sopranos filled my head, and I knew what needed to be done.

And I would not return home until it was finished.

Interrogation Room #2

Madeline Falco & Detective H. Bundle

December 19 // 3:53 p.m.

Detective Bundle is an atomic cloud personified. His feet are narrow, his ankles twiggy, his legs skinny; he wears a belt at the waist, and then—
BOOM
—stomach explosion like a mushroom cloud pouring over his belt so you can hardly see the buckle. His barrel chest, stubby neck, and sweaty red face only perpetuate the comparison.

“You left him where?” he asks.

“In Babushka's. Well, the back of Babushka's.”

“Via this, what's it called . . .” Bundle shuffles through the files in front of him. “Chute.”

I shift gently in my chair. The bruises on my back, hip, left arm, and face make themselves known way down deep, like my actual bones got tattooed.

“You're sure Jamma's okay?” I ask.

“Madeline, we've been through this.”

“I know, but she gets confused.”

“As we speak, your grandmother is receiving the best possible care over at Bergen Regional, okay?”

“And you promise it's not a complete shit hole?”

Bundle raises a hand as if swearing an oath. “Took my own mother there when she got shingles. Okay? Now. Tell me about the Chute.”

“Honestly, how do you
not
know about the Chute?”

Detective Bundle eyes the digital recorder. “Well, how do
you
know about it, then?”

“I'm telling you, man, everyone knows about the Chute. Wait, did . . . did you just move here, or something?”

“Madeline.”

“What?”

“Why even bother coming in if you're just gonna jerk us around?”

By now Baz is most likely praying in a nearby cell, his only hope resting on our ability to tell our story truthfully, while Zuz and Coco and Jamma are depending on our ability to tell our story slowly. Here's the thing: in a Venn diagram where set A = {Tell the Truth}, and set B = {Stall for Time}, the intersection is awfully cramped. But if things go according to plan, this is where Vic and I will live for much of the day.

“You're right,” I say, sighing dramatically, regurgitating clichéd elements of suspects under harsh bare lightbulbs. “God, this is hard. Okay. The reason I'm here is . . .”

Detective Bundle folds his hands on the table and shifts to the edge of his seat, his chair creaking under such tremendous mass.

I lean in close to the recorder. “I wanted to see if you had any gum.”

Bundle lets loose a roaring sigh, his face cherry red. “Madeline, this afternoon you and Victor walked in here with Baz Kabongo, the three of you smelling for all the world like you just stepped out of a shit tornado—”

“I told you, there's a good reason for that.”

“—insistent on Kabongo's innocence, a man with means, motive, a history of violence, a man whose DNA was found
on
the murder weapon. Clearly, you feel some allegiance to
him, and I can respect that, misguided though it is. We know your uncle was abusive. You've got abrasions up and down your face, you've been squirming in pain since you sat down, so what was it—self-defense? Kabongo tried to stop your uncle from hitting you, they fought, and Baz killed the guy. Just say the word
self-defense
, and Kabongo will get a deal, I promise.”

“Is
self-defense
one word, though?”

Bundle shakes his head. “You know what? I don't give a shit. If it were up to me, we'd have kicked the two of you kids out on your asses from the get-go. Sergeant Mendes tells me your boy Vic claims the two of you were there, in the house when Kabongo did the deed. Now if that's true, Madeline, you witnessed one of the grisliest murders I've ever heard of, read about, or seen the aftermath of. Not to mention it happened to your own uncle.”

“I'm glad he's dead.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“That may be,” says Bundle. “But if Vic is telling the truth—if you saw it happen, and you don't tell us
exactly
what you saw—you're not facing a world of trouble, Madeline, you're facing a whole universe of it.” He leans back in his chair, sticks his hand into his pocket, pulls something out, and tosses it across the table. “There's your fucking stick of gum.”

I stare at the gum on the table for a full ten seconds. During that time it occurs to me that, until a few minutes ago, I'd been throwing the punches of the interview, little jabs here and there, either dodging or absorbing the meager returns of my opponent. But I'd misjudged him. Detective Bundle wasn't weak. He'd been biding his time, waiting for his moment to land the knockout punch.

I reach my hand around the stick of gum, pick up the glass of water I've ignored thus far. The liquid feels good against the cut on my lip, clean and soothing. I lower the glass and clear my throat gingerly. “What time is it?”

Bundle checks his watch. “A little after four.”

In my head, Baz's voice has the same effect as the water on my lips: clean and soothing.
Let them think what they want. But do not lie
.

It's time to tell my story, cramped Venn diagram or no.

“The reason I took Vic to Babushka's is because the owner is an early Chapter.”

(SEVEN days ago)

The late morning sun shone through the back door of Babushka's, its rays stretching like tentacles across the room. It could not reach underneath the table, however, where Vic lay fast asleep in the fetal position, curled around his backpack as if protecting it from a tidal wave.

“Is he dead?” asked Coco, who barely had to lean over to see under the desk. She scraped the bottom of her carton of ice cream with a spoon, having polished off the entire pint. It was a little before eleven a.m. “What's with all the blood?” she asked, her mouth full, a ring of chocolate around her lips. “I mean, he looks dead, right? Do you think he's dead? If he's not dead, he sure is a late-riser. Wait, why's he back here again?”

Coco asked questions the way most people took breaths.

“I told you,” I said. “I ran into him by the river. He said he needed a place to stay.”

Next to me, Zuz set down the bag of groceries we'd just purchased from Foodville. He was wiry but strong, and no one argued when he insisted on carrying the bag. I finished the last of my cranberry muffin, nursed my coffee while Baz approached Vic. He set a tray of coffee on the desk, bent down, and gently poked Vic in the arm.

“Rise and shine, little man.”

Vic jerked awake, ramming his head on the underside of the desk.

“Why're you covered in blood, kid?” asked Coco. “And don't lie to me. I'm from Queens.”

Vic looked down at himself, still rubbing his head. Blood had dried to the side of his jeans. Only then did we see it: the tiny red stream running directly from the floor under one of the pig carcasses to where he'd been sleeping.

“Motherfrakker,” whispered Coco, tossing her empty pint in the trash can.

“Coco,” said Baz.

“Hey, I'm sorry, but that is the grossest thing I have
ever
seen.”

Vic pulled himself out from under the desk, dragging his backpack behind him. He coiled the cable from his earbuds around his iPod and stuck it into a side pocket.

I grabbed the last muffin from the top of the grocery bag and held it out. “Here. There's coffee too if you want.”

On the other side of the room, a door opened and in walked Norm. “Don't mind me, don't mind me,” he said, tossing unopened mail in a pile on his desk. “Aha! Small boy has met my friends, yez?”

Vic looked down at his boots.

Norm slapped him on the back. “You are the new Chapter, then?”

“The, um, what?”

Norm looked at us, pointed a thumb at Vic. “He does not know?”

Baz put an arm around the husky Russian and walked him back across the room. “Thank you for your hospitality, truly. You are a loyal friend.”

Norm's chest inflated, his smile reaching from one ear to the other. He looked back at Vic, said, “These are good people, small boy. Very good people. You listen to them, yez? They will help you.”

Norm disappeared with an
okeydokey
. Vic looked around, accepted the muffin, and when Baz offered a coffee from the tray, he took it with a quiet thanks.

“Guys,” I said. “This is Vic. Vic”—I waved around at the others—“meet Baz . . . his brother, Nzuzi . . . and Coco.”

Vic nodded at everyone, and when it became apparent he was going to wait for us to speak first, Baz dove in. “I apologize for rushing this, but I'm late for work already. Normally, I'd like to hear more about your situation, your goals, but all that will have to wait. I have two questions for you, and the only wrong answer is a lie. First question. Do you need help?”

Not so long ago Baz had asked me the very same question. Shortly after moving in with Uncle Les, I took to sneaking through the back door of the Cinema 5 in Bergenfield. It was an old-school setup, incredibly lax, perfect for what I needed: a hideout. Sometimes I did homework, sometimes I watched whatever movie was playing, but usually I just fell asleep in the back row. It was during just such a nap, I'd heard the words . . .

“Do you need help?” repeated Baz in the here and now.

Vic rubbed his head, the spot where he'd hit the metal desk, and nodded slowly as if still considering the question.

Baz squinted. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” said Vic. “I need help.”

I remember how hot the Cinema 5 had been, how I used to push my sleeves up, and it always made me smile, because it was such a luxury being able to push up my sleeves, knowing it was too dark for anyone to see the bruises. Per usual, I had fallen asleep, and when I woke up, there he was, this employee carrying a sweeper and asking me if I needed help. I was still in the hazy fog of sleep, but I'm not sure it mattered.
Yes,
I'd responded. Then came the second question . . .

“Did you hurt anyone?” asked Baz.

Vic took a nervous sip of his coffee, and said the exact same thing I'd said when I was asked. . . .

What do you mean?

The employee had stood stock-still, sweeper in hand, and I'd wondered if I should be afraid. I honestly couldn't remember where I landed then, because where I ended up wasn't that far from fear: I grew to love Baz. It was an odd love, something between the love for a brother, a father, a priest, a childhood friend.

“What I mean,” said Baz, “is . . . did you hurt anyone?”

Vic sipped his coffee, holding the cup with both hands, as if concentrating on not spilling it. “No,” he said. It was quiet but resounding.

Baz nodded. “Good. You may stay with us if you like. We live on an orchard in New Milford. A bit of a walk, I know, but it's warm and we have food. It is your decision, of course, but I do need an answer now.”

It was a rare offer, but when made, typically it was answered with a prompt yes. Most new Chapters were in such
dire straits, they didn't need much convincing, but with Vic it took a little longer. He looked around at all of us, his breath coming in long steady increments, his skull as good as transparent—those wheels were churning.

“Okay,” he said finally.

“Wonderful,” said Baz. “Nzuzi, Mad, Coco—can you take Vic back to the greenhouse? Get him settled in, cleaned up.”

“Oh, I can't,” I said. “I was . . . gonna go to the library.”

Truth was, I'd been planning to go see Jamma, probably stay for a couple of days. Baz stood in the doorway and stared at me. He didn't even have to say anything.

“Fine,” I said.

“Thank you. I get off at five. We can meet at Napoleon's then, and discuss our new Chapter.” Then, to Vic: “The others will show you around. Please make yourself at home.” Then, to Zuz: “Do not forget Gunther's bag.” Then, to Coco: “No cursing. Best behavior.”

And he was gone.

We stood in awkward silence for a few seconds until Zuz snapped twice, picked up the paper bag, and headed out the back door. “Hit the nail on the head, Zuz,” said Coco, following him outside. “Frakking babysitters all day.”

I looked at Vic, shook my head. “Don't mind them. They always take a while to warm up to newbies.”

Vic redistributed the weight of his backpack to his other shoulder. “What's with the word
frak
?”

“Ha. Right. You ever seen the show
Battlestar Galactica
?”

Vic shook his head.

“We had this Chapter once who was obsessed with it. I guess on the show, they all say
frak
instead of
fuck
, and Coco used to have a swearing problem, and Baz is a bit of a
stickler. Anyway, this Chapter, he suggested Coco adopt the Galactican faux curse.”

Vic nodded. “And what's a Chapter?”

It sounded like he'd been sitting on the question, pinning it down for the right moment to ask, only to have it pop out from under him like an overeager egg.

“I'll let Baz explain. It's a haul to New Milford, though. We should get going.”

Together we traded in the wilds of the backroom butcher shop for the winter-white streets of Hackensack, and I tried to remember the last time I'd felt a person's thoughts so tangibly, floating and dancing and swirling through the air like the snow we walked through.