Mayday (11 page)

THE THOUGHTS OF C. RAINE

The belly rules the mind.

Spanish proverb

I STEPPED OFF THE BUS AT THE CORNER OF HENNEPIN AND RACINE
across from Crow and Basil's workplace. A pea-green snowmobile fishtailed to a curbside stop. I glanced from the machine to the corner where, standing not twenty feet before me, was Basil.

“My help,” I whispered.

He paid no attention to either my bus or the snowmobile, his lips moving to the words of the book he read. I'll come back to Basil, but first a word about winter driving.

Glare ice coated Hennepin Avenue, and cars slid by us sideways and backward.

I stepped back from the curb. Minneapolis drivers were typically a sensible lot in winter, so different than out-of-state fools who filled ditches with their spinouts. But all local sensibilities went out the window at Hennepin and Racine. A bewildering mix of mountain bikes, skiers, snowmobiles, and four-wheel drives shared the road with more common fare, making it the most dangerous corner one could stand near.

Which is why Basil loved it.

Why he didn't mind wearing a sheet of cardboard on his front, and another on his back.

Why he graciously accepted his role as the Shack's Hennepin and Racine Human Pizza Sign.

The rider of the snowmobile hopped off and hollered in a muffled mix of English, Spanish, and Curse. “Blast you, pizza sign!”

Basil briefly peeked up from his book, cocked his head, and the screamer paused.

Basil sighed. He often did that. The past five years had been good to him. He turned out too smart and too good looking and too, well, just too, to end up a sandwich sign. He knew it. But when cursed with Basil's luck, you grasp any job that comes your way, even if it's a whisker above unemployment.

The sled's engine fell silent, and the rider rounded the front with a full head of steam. Whatever the origin of his anger, there would be no escape for Basil. His piece of frozen ground was the size of a bathroom mat, with a railing behind and a rush-hour skating rink in front. It was a ten-minute ordeal to gently remove the sandwich sign, dodge the cars, and reach the Shack, home of jelly-bean pizza.

The guy was still screaming. I slowed my steps and strained my ears.

“Woman defiler! You're a predatory pizza sign!”

Sounds like Basil's been busy again.

Basil's bad luck ended when it came to girls. It always had. I, above all people, knew this, though peering from inside Shane's male body, I couldn't understand any of Basil's magnetic hold.

I stared at the Shack across the road and let memories flood.

Basil once had a respectable job. With me. Inside. We flirted and washed dishes and flirted—more, I believed, to pass time than to express anything real.

Until one day, Mr. Hovanitz reached around Basil's shoulder.

“My fellow American, I need an outside sales rep. You will be my Great Communicator.”

He said it was a promotion. He said it involved travel, and this was true, but only on a technicality. The position did sound important. Basil volunteered.

The next week, business at the Shack plummeted. Mr. H. blamed Basil for embodying “disinterested signage.”

He had that right.

I trudged forward through the snow, closer to the scene. Beyond the snowmobile rider—the cursing one—beyond the slipping, swerving vehicles, the Whole Foods parking lot filled with shouts and flashing lights, and both Basil and the rider paused to look. I'd never seen so many angry vegans.

Suddenly, I had no idea why I was here. What did I expect Basil to do for me? I backtracked and stood against the outside of the glass bus stop enclosure and watched my best friend.

He didn't look back.

Maybe I'm invisible again.

I waved at a driver. She blew me a kiss and slid on by.

I sighed. “Still good.”

“I'm talking to you, weasel. Basil, you're a snake in the grass!” The snowmobile rider kicked the machine.

Very hard. Over and over.

Basil winced and lowered his book. “Okay, that's enough. Foot off my sled!”

He adjusted his triangular pizza hat, took another look at Whole Foods, and returned to
The Spy Master.
I suggested he try Nietzsche, but Basil loved mysteries. He said they helped him escape the existential insanity of our real lives.

He'd love the mess I was in.

“I should kill you! I should do it right now!” The snowmobiler steamed.

“Um, hm.” The Spy Master was deep undercover. I wanted snowmobile guy to shut up. I needed Basil to see me. To see the
me
in me. I needed to be recognized by somebody.

The rider wouldn't go.

He couldn't. Couldn't stop grunting. Grunting and pulling. Pulling and bending. He was bent in two, clawing at his helmet, still stuck on his ears.

It looked three sizes too small.

Then I remembered: Sergio.

The memory yanked from me a laugh, deep and manly. Basil and I had been with Sergio when he purchased that helmet from the PowerLodge.

“It looks small and girly,” Basil said. “Besides, why not wait until you get a snowmobile?”

Sergio turned the helmet over in his hands. “That'll come soon. What do you think, Crow?”

I shrugged. “It does have that peach, retro vibe, if that's what you're going for.”

Sergio stepped nearer to me and raised his eyebrows. “Do you like peach?”

“I like peaches.” I broke into laughter.

“I'll take it!” Sergio marched to the counter and plunked down a fistful of dollars.

His head has been paying for that purchase ever since.

Sergio fought those ears—the ones the size of pancakes—and the helmet released with a suctioned pop. He gasped and massaged those pancakes and reached for the basket bungeed behind the seat.

Basil dropped his book. “Calm down, Sergio. Get off the road. You're going to get killed.” He reached out his hand. “Give me the keys. There's stupid and there's this.”

Horns blared as cars swerved around the sled. Sergio didn't care.

He was driven. Or obsessed. There's not much of a difference.

Sergio removed something long and green and reared back. Basil penguin-stepped sideways.

“I had to pay for the last sign myself. I can't afford—”

A vegetable
thunked
against his thigh.

Basil scowled and rubbed his leg. “That felt like a zucchini!” He lifted his head just in time to take an eggplant on the cheek.

“Home wrecker!” Sergio reached for another vegetable.

“I didn't touch her!”

“You probably did more than that.”

An acorn squash to Basil's temple.

“Is this about Crow again? We work together,” Basil shouted. “We closed together. She was in her mood and asked me to walk her home.”

“At two
A.M.
? Things happen at two
A.M.
How come she doesn't speak to me anymore?”

What would I say to you?

“C never speaks to you, and you're an idiot.”

“Now she's ‘C.' Already have a pet name for her, huh?”

Beans showered. One lodged in Basil's ear.

“That does it.” Basil whipped his ear bean toward the street, ducked out of his sign, hoisted it above his head, and charged.

“Basil?”

I turned slowly and stared across the street.

It was me.

Crow's voice cut through traffic and grabbed the three of us by the neck. For an instant, everybody froze. She stood in front of the Shack and wiped her hands on her apron. “Are you okay?”

It's me. I'm alive.

“See,” Sergio double-fisted some carrots and shook them toward Basil. “She cares for you!” A volley of vegetables rained down on Basil. Carrot, carrot, green pepper. “She wants to know how you are.” Red pepper.

Basil swatted away airborne produce. “Fine, C, I'm fine. Sergio's just returning my snowmobile.”

Basil took several cauliflower heads to the chest and groin. The last dropped him into fresh powder.

Two squad cars pulled up, parked in front and behind the snowmobile. Three officers and an angry guy in a Whole Foods apron joined Basil on the corner.

“That's him,” squeaked Apron Man. “He ran off with a basket of organic vegetables—”

“The pizza-sign kid?”

“No, him!” Apron Man pointed at Sergio, who took off on foot.

I knew they wouldn't catch him.

They knew it, too. The cops were weighty and Sergio was quick, and soon he blended in with thousands of skiers on Lake Calhoun Parkway.

Apron Man started a pathetic sniffle. “But what about my eggplant?” He sure loved his vegetables. I remembered thinking that from when I watched this scene from Crow's position across the street.

He bent over and gently lifted the purplish skin. “This eggplant has been terrorized.”

How do you terrorize a vegetable?

The police shrugged and tagged the snowmobile.

“That's my sled!” Basil screamed. “My dad's a cop, and he's comin' after you.”

“Sure, kid.” A policeman bent over and plucked an apple out of the snow. He examined it, rubbed it on his uniform, and took a chomp. “If your dad was a cop, he'd have told you about leaving sleds parked in snow-emergency routes. Have a good day.” He hopped into the squad car and fishtailed away.

Basil kicked his splattered sign and gazed toward the parkway.

Basil was my best friend.

His sign was a mess.

This had been my life.

“What are you staring at?”

I shook free from my daydream, blinked, and shuffled my feet. I hadn't moved in minutes.

“Uh, the show.”

“Show's over.” Basil grabbed the ticket, ripped it in half, and inspected his snowmobile—his pride and joy.

He doesn't know me. How do I change the future of complete strangers?

I breathed deeply and wandered across the street toward the smell of pizza. I slipped inside the Shack, grabbed a handful of free peppermints, and veered right into the bathroom.

Crow was supposed to clean the unisex every other hour, but I—I mean, she—rarely did.

I locked the door and collapsed in the corner, like I did in the hospital. Like I did in my bedroom at home. Somehow, corners felt right.

Why had I come? Why had I thought Basil could help? I'd been wrong. He didn't know all the players involved in my drama.

He didn't know me.

I buried my head in my hands.

Soon I'd find sleep, but right then, I felt Lifeless.

THE THOUGHTS OF C. RAINE

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth. Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

I WOKE TO A NAMELESS HOUR, AND A SILENCE, THICK AND WEIGHTY.

This was disconcerting. My early years spent stethoscoping each nighttime moment, listening for anomalies that screamed, “Boots on, Monster comes,” had turned my nights into drawn-back arrows. Though Addy no longer needed me at night—Jude's visits came to a screeching halt after the first Mayday's horror—the slightest of sounds still caused me to fire, to wake.

Still, sound grounded me, provided mile markers through the dark.

The eerie quiet of the bathroom held no passing of time, and I was terrified. I'd not felt time's flow beside Lifeless either. It was, perhaps, a wandering soul's greatest curse—stuck on earth in a perpetual now.

But both the previous shell and the present Shane could change this. Within them, as before, time passed, events flowed. Life happened.

At least outside this bathroom.

I stood and stretched.

Stiff.

It described my neck and my back and the drainpipe I'd used as a pillow. I washed my face and gazed into the mirror, thankful for this stranger steeled for the tasks ahead.

Keep Will Kroft from my sister. Keep the relationship from starting. No start? No reason to end it, or end me.

I rubbed my face, felt stubble on my chin, and exhaled hard. How many shells like me were out there? How many souls were on their walkabouts? How many people I've known weren't really—

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” The quote muscled in, and I damped down my hair. Well, I'm no angel. Maybe it applies to souls, too.

• • •

I was sixteen when Francine decided to marry. It wasn't a future I had seen for my second cousin—she wasn't exactly marriage material, whatever that is. But she snagged some poor soul, and before he could flee, the date was set: October 31.

You knew it wasn't going to be a lasting union.

Francine lived in St. Cloud, an hour's drive away, and due to popularity issues, she had tapped Addy and me for bridesmaids. I saw the mustard-yellow, leaf-print “happy-dress” I was to wear, and my stomach turned. Adele joined me in Mom's bathroom minutes later. She bested me and actually threw up, though her sickness had more to do with the Monster's comment: “You'll look good in that, Adele.”

The wedding rehearsal fell on October 30. So did snow, a thick, heavy road-closing surprise that canceled Halloween and drove us to curse the state we lived in. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to cancel the wedding.

Adele stayed in St. Cloud overnight as the snowfall deepened. Wee hours filled with second thoughts and nervous giggles weren't my thing, and I hopped on I-94 to risk the ride home. The highway was closed. There were no other vehicles, though this could be inaccurate; I couldn't see out the front windshield. I opened my driver's-side window, stuck out my head, and drove straight. It worked for sixty miles.

My exit approached; I sensed it. I could not see the sign. I could not see anything. I waited, waited. The snow eased; surely I was crossing beneath the underpass. I feathered the brake, fishtailed forward, and eased right.

Too sharp. I missed the off-ramp and plummeted down into the bowl of snow. In nautical terms, my car plunged thirty feet below sea level, or ramp level. In any case, I was way down there, the snow covering my hood. I pounded the wheel and cursed, knowing I'd be buried alive and found dead in mustard yellow.

I removed the key from the ignition and lowered my head.

A hand smacked my window, and I jumped.

I watched the glove brush away snow, and wave. I saw the face, kind of. It was a guy, I knew that, but in the blizzard more details were impossible. Twenty seconds later, I felt a
clunk
, and my car jerked forward. Up, up. I plowed forward and up until I came to a gentle stop. Caked-on snow fell from my windows, and I pushed out my door.

There was nobody—no tow truck, no wandering do-gooder—nobody. My car rested safely on the street. I turned and looked down into the bowl of snow, at the ten-foot drift I'd been in. There were no tracks, no sign I'd been there. Only the foot of snow piled on my hood provided proof of my sanity.

Believe what you will, but understand why I might be more open than most to the possibility of wandering souls, passing angels, things I can't see. One hauled me from a ditch, then disappeared. Maybe his locket turned black and his walkabout was over. Maybe Sadie yanked him.

That's more than a little weird.

That's
Twilight Zone
material.

• • •

I leaned toward the mirror. “Crow. Are you in there?”

Many of my emotions were still mine, were still Crow's. Adele, I loved her. Jude, disgusting as ever.

But my thoughts, they were foreign. A hard drive that would have been completely unexplainable by my exchangeable-body-parts psych teacher.

1. I will wear the same clothes today. Apparently, that was okay.

2. Today, I will take no shower. That seemed reasonable as well.

3. That girl from Hope Home. She wasn't listed on the job's benefit package, but she should have been.

I splashed more water on my face. I'd become a hound.

Three clicks, followed by grinding and a low hum. The heat kicked on. The furnace whirred to life at six
A.M.
, the same time Frankie stumbled in to open up.

Get out of here.

I unlatched the door and peeked out into the still of the Shack, slipping quickly into the empty dining area. Shadowy images of Mr. Hovanitz stared at me from every wall.

I paused and smirked. He'd hired me as a waitress, which had lasted one day. Apparently, he didn't like how my basic black clashed with the Shack's standard brown uniform. I was demoted: first to cashier, then to pizza maker, and finally to dishwasher. That was fine by me, as I'd never pass on a chance to clean up.

I did my job well. I dreamed of no reason to leave. Adele had college aspirations, maybe a doctor or a vet. By eighteen, my passion for writing had devolved into dark poetry, filled with anarchist tendencies and philosophical traps. Not much market for that.

But Addy, she was emerging beautifully, and my protective services were no longer needed. I'd lived to be her bodyguard. Now my empty heart idolized her from afar, waiting until she would call on me again. And then I'd be here, ready.

Cleaning dishes.

No time to reminisce. My prize lay behind the counter: a garbage bag bulging with breadsticks. Soon, the food-shelf truck would pick up yesterday's leftovers. A gift for the hungry. I figured myself more than deserving.

I tore at the bag and removed hunks of hardened bread. I scurried to the fridge, stuffing bread into my cheeks and swallowing whole.

It turned out that Shane was a pig who double-fisted his food. I bent over and removed two packs of dunking sauce. If I'd had time, I would've whipped up a jelly-bean pizza, but Frankie was rarely late.

Finally, from the back room, I grabbed Basil's Shack jacket, the one he wore on the corner. I would not wear the pizza hat.

Warm and fed, I pushed out the back door, tramping around to the street.

In the darkness of early morning, Hennepin Avenue bustled, and I paused at the curb. I knew every coffee shop and boarded-up business, but they felt foreign. Life inside this Shane had me mystified.

Maybe I wasn't Crow. Maybe I never had been. Maybe I had always been Shane and I just woke from a bizarre sleep in which I dreamed up another life.

Or maybe I'd watched
The Matrix
one time too many.

I urged my feet forward, and they shuffled onto icy tar. The glass frame of the bus stop glistened beneath a streetlamp's glow. Shadowy figures shifted inside, and I weaved between cars and approached.

Two guys, loud and hooded, waited on the bench.

One black. One white.

They cursed and jostled, and my stomach flipped because even I knew my limits. There were places girls didn't venture before daylight and places they did. This was a didn't.

I slowed my steps, glanced over my male frame, and relaxed.

I sat down and grunted.

The guys grew still, small, and grunted back. They slumped on the bench and slipped into their poser faces. We grunted some more, which was amazing, if only because I understood everything. Note to self. Guys are bilingual, conversant in at least two languages: English and Grunt.

If these guys only knew.

• • •

I stepped into the Hope Home office, glanced at the receptionist, and felt my gaze drop eight inches.

Stop that.

“I'm here.”

Reese looked up. That turned out to be her name. Her nameplate was the first thing I noted, given its . . . prominent placement. That and she was dressed really good.

“You're early, and that's okay . . . usually.” She bit her lip again and walked around the desk.
Okay, that's way too much leg for December.
Reese was trying really hard. Way too hard. Inside, a switch flipped from attack mode to escape. Crazy.

But I couldn't run away from Will Kroft. Sadie had set me down in the perfect place, next to the kid who wanted to destroy my sister. I'd do a better job of neutralizing this time around. Unlike my first trip back, I had months to intervene.

I pried my gaze off Reese's legs. “I'll wait.”

Reese raised her hand to her face and started chewing a nail, a move that tilts toward compulsive and away from sexy. “That's not the best idea. Mr. Loumans—the house parent I told you about—he's dealing with a crisis right now.”

I heard a shout. I knew the shout. I'd been yanking on his IV for weeks.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“It's not for me to say, or for you to know—there are privacy issues involved. I really need to ask you to leave.”

A side door burst open, and in strode a determined man, followed at a distance by a cursing Will Kroft.

“Reese. We've had a breach of trust. Will denies any part in the matter, and I want to believe him, but—”

“What the hell is the breach? I never touched your damn phone.” Will waved off Mr. Loumans, turned, and stomped back toward the door. “You're a joke. This place is a joke. What do I want with your piece of junk?”

I closed my eyes and imagined reaching for the IV. I felt it, grasped it.
Time to yank.

“You'd like to call her,” I said quietly, and took a seat. “You're going to use this man's phone to call her, because Mom, I mean Susan, won't take calls from your cell anymore.”

I didn't look up, but basked in the glow of his silent shock. “Addy's more than you deserve, but for some reason she gives you the time of day,” I scoffed. “Then again, she's a sucker for hard-luck cases. She takes in stray dogs, brings in sick birds. I'm not sure into which category of animal she places you, but she does endure your calls. But all that will change. I'll make sure of it.”

I cleared my throat and glanced around the room. All stared at me, except for Will, who had not yet turned. I would have paid good money to see his face.

Mr. Loumans rested against the counter, his face deep in thought.

“So,” I continued, “what's not clear about the phone incident? Do I need to go into detail? The first time you took this man's phone, Jude answered. The Monster gave you to Addy, and you talked for about two hours. About yourself.” I paused. “Little side note: ask a girl a question here and there, and then shut up and listen. They like that. But back to your eternal call, Addy had to go, but you called her right back—like you always do, never taking no for an answer, right?” I steamed, clenched my teeth, and kept going. “You need a phone for that. You need his personal phone. Because every call that goes into Adele's house goes through her mom, and her mom won't answer any more solicitations from Hope Home, and fortunately, Addy is smart enough not to have given you her cell number. At least not yet.”

Will slowly spun, and I looked at him square. “What does she see in you anyway?”

He glanced around, and exhaled slowly.

“Give the man his phone back,” I said. “Or do you want to hear more? I've got the rest of the story.”

• • •

That Basil's father was a cop held distinct advantages. That he occasionally bent the rules for us, even better.

It was during one of those rule benders when I first met Will.

I was sixteen, and Basil had asked if I'd like to run “the route” with his dad. Not one to admit I had no idea what that was, I agreed.

At seven thirty, Basil and his father pulled up in the police truck.

“It's a sad duty—a necessary duty, but a sad one,” Officer Dewey said as we chugged downtown.