Orphans of Wonderland (19 page)

There were no guarantees now. There never had been.

Evil wasn't in the guarantee business.

Chapter Nineteen

Dorsey stands in the field, smoking a cigarette and trying to look cool. He can usually pull it off without a problem, but not today. They've all tried cigarettes by now, but only he and Trent have taken to them and Trent rarely even inhales. At thirteen it's difficult to get hold of cigarettes, but Dorsey managed to score an entire pack of Winston Lights for their overnight camping trip. He taps the pack until another butt comes free, then holds it out for Trent, who plucks the cigarette out and stabs it into the corner of his mouth. He doesn't light it. Instead, he stands next to Dorsey with a perplexed look on his face. Like the others, he attempts to make sense of what's happening, what
has
happened.

“It's just a game,” Sal says. It is the third or fourth time he's said it.

The sun is high and bright in the sky. Joel looks up at it, as if for answers, while the others stand around in a daze.

How long have they been lying down in the grass? When did they decide to pretend to sleep in the field? Why did they pretend to do that? What game were they playing? Nothing makes any sense, and yet somehow their minds tell them it does.
You came to the field and pretended to fall asleep for a few minutes. The game is over now.

“Stop saying that,” Dorsey finally tells him.

“What?” Sal asks.

“It's just a game.”

“But it is just a game.”

Dorsey draws on his cigarette, exhales through his nose. “I don't feel right.”

“Me neither,” Lonnie says, nervously running his hands up and down his torso as if searching for wounds.

Trent, who has still not lit the cigarette, begins to tremble. Tears spill across his cheeks. He wipes them away fast as he can, takes a few steps away and turns his back so the others won't see. But it's too late. They have seen.

Dorsey and Lonnie begin to cry too. Silently, tears stream down their faces.

Joel nods as if he understands—even though he doesn't—and feels tears dripping from his eyes as well. What is the matter with them? What's going on?

Only Sal is dry-eyed. “It was just a game,” he says dully.

“The car,” Dorsey says, like he's just remembered it.

The others turn to him. Yes. The car. They'd all forgotten about the big black car. But wasn't that the last thing they all remembered?

“The big black car,” Dorsey says, the cigarette smoke circling him.

“It tried to scare us,” Sal says. “It's gone now.”

Lonnie puts his hands to his head, holding his temples. “When was that?”

“Something happened,” Trent says, pacing about awkwardly. He removes the unlit cigarette from his mouth, then brings it to his lips and takes it away over and over again. “Something happened. Something bad.”

“When did the car try to scare us?” Lonnie asks.

Dorsey hangs his head. “I don't know.”

“I remember the car,” Joel says.

“We all remember the car, Einstein,” Lonnie snaps. “When did it happen?”

“A few minutes ago.” Joel looks to the others. “Right?”

Dorsey shakes his head. “I don't…I don't think so.”

Trent stares at the trees on the far side of the field like he expects to see something emerge from them at any moment. “Something happened,” he says.

“Let's split.” Sal marches away, over to their bikes, which have all been left in a pile in the grass, along with their camping gear. He tosses the other bikes aside until he gets to his own, stands it up and brushes it off. “Stop being pussy squirts.”

“What happened to the car?” Lonnie asks, barely containing himself.

“It left,” Sal answers. “It drove off. What the fuck with you guys?”

“No,” Joel says. “It came back. I saw it turn around and come back.”

“Me too,” Trent says.

“Okay.” Lonnie moves closer to them. “Okay, then what?”

Dorsey stumbles through the grass. “I don't feel right.”

“Somebody fucking answer me!” Lonnie screams. “What happened when the big black car turned around and came back?”

“I don't know,” Joel tells him.

“Nothing happened,” Sal says, straddling his bike. “You guys are acting like a bunch of wimps. Letting a car scare you this bad and all crying and shit? Come on, man, you got to be fucking shitting me.”

Trent spins around and flicks his still-unlit cigarette at Sal. “Eat shit, man! You're as scared as the rest of us!”

The cigarette bounces off the side of Sal's head. He glares at Trent. “What am I supposed to be scared of, dipshit?”

“How the fuck did we get here?” Lonnie asks.

“We were lying down in the grass,” Sal says. “What's wrong with you guys?”

Dorsey takes a slow drag on his cigarette. “Did we go to sleep?”

“We were pretending. It was just a game.”

Trent moves toward him. “Say it was just a game one more fucking time.”

“Blow it out your ass, Trent.” Sal gets off his bike, lets it fall to the ground as he squares his stance. “Any time, faggot.”

Lonnie cuts Trent off, blocks him from reaching Sal and probably the worst beating of his life. “Knock it off, both of you!”

“We're not supposed to do this,” Dorsey says.

The others turn to him, unsure of what he means.

“We're not supposed to talk about it. We're not supposed to remember.”

Joel wanders away from the group, trying to sort his thoughts. He looks at his watch. It's new. His parents got it for him for his birthday this year. It displays not only the time, but also the day and date. “Wait,” he says, turning back toward the others. “Wait, what—what day is it?”

“Saturday,” Sal says.

“My watch says Sunday.”

“So what? It's wrong.”

“No,” Joel tells him, “it isn't.”

The cigarette falls from Dorsey's mouth into the grass at his feet. “It's Sunday morning, cuz?”

“It's Saturday,” Sal insists. “We just got here.”

Trent says, “But if it's Sunday morning, then…”

Joel sinks to his knees. “Where were we all day yesterday?”

“And last night?” Lonnie adds.

Trent begins to cough. It quickly escalates to choking.

The others look to him. Panic and confusion paint his face.

As his eyes roll back in his head, a mass of butterflies pour from his open mouth, swarming the air around him to form a cloud of fluttering wings both horrific and curiously beautiful.

Much like the chorus of screams ripping to shreds the blissful silence of an otherwise peaceful Sunday morning.

Joel watched the neighborhood as best he could, scanning the area again and again. Through the large front windows, he saw men in whites working in the bakery across the street. Delivery trucks from the soft drink bottling plant on the corner came and went with regularity. The windows and door of a convenience store a few doors down were plastered with advertisements for discount cigarettes, coffee and breakfast burritos. A liquor store with bars across the windows occupied the next corner, the exterior of the building covered in graffiti.

Above it was the small apartment where Dorsey Hill lived with his girlfriend.

Dodging traffic, Joel crossed the street. He entered the building through a door to the side of the liquor store entrance and was met by a battered, graffiti-covered hallway and a staircase leading to the second-floor apartment.

He climbed the stairs and arrived at a door scarred and worn, its paint old and badly chipped. Joel knocked, and a harried-looking woman in a tan polyester dress with a white apron answered the door a moment later.

“Yes?” she asked, annoyed.

Joel tried to smile, probably failed. “Is Dorsey in?”

The woman looked him up and down. “Who's asking?”

“If you could tell him Joel Walker's here to see him, I'd appreciate it.”

“What do you want with Dorsey? Leave the man alone.”

“I need to talk to him. Is he here or not?”

“Nita, it's all right,” a voice said from behind her.

The woman sighed, gave Joel one last dirty look, then moved away.

Before Joel could fully process her reaction to him, Dorsey stepped into view. He looked a lot older and very tired, his Afro gone, the hair now buzzed close to his scalp and peppered with gray. His body was still thin and well muscled, but his posture was hunched, and he moved as if it was difficult for him to do so without pain. Though his eyes were not as bright as they'd once been, like he always had, he smiled with them first. “Sally said you'd come.” His voice was raspier than in his youth. “How you been, cuz?”

“Been better, man. What do you say?”

“I say it's been too long.” Dorsey wrapped him up in an unexpected hug.

He smelled of cheap cologne and cigarettes, but it was such a pure and genuine gesture Joel couldn't help but be deeply moved. “Good to see you, Dorse.”

His old friend let him go, and they both stood there awkwardly.

“I'd invite you in,” Dorsey said, “but I don't like white people in the house.”

Joel laughed lightly. If nothing else, Dorsey's sense of humor was still intact. “Can't blame you there.”

“You're not missing anything, and besides,” Dorsey said, lowering his voice, “Juanita's the protective type, dig? She's getting ready for work, doing the dinner shift tonight, so let me get a coat; we'll talk outside and stay out of her way.”

Moments later, as they took the stairs and ventured out onto the street and into the cold air, Joel noticed that Dorsey, now wearing a gray knit hat and a pea coat, walked with a slight limp. Traffic was heavy, but otherwise there weren't many people on the street. Dorsey motioned to a nearby playground surrounded by chain-link fence, and they headed in that direction.

It smelled like the ocean here, as it wasn't far, but mixed with engine exhaust, grime, baked goods and a mingling of other foods—largely a combination of fresh and fried fish—from local establishments. At the far end of the avenue, wind blew in off the Atlantic, bringing with it an icy chill. Joel stuffed his hands in his pockets, tucked chin to chest and walked on, ignoring the pain in his ribs and along his jaw.

“Sometimes I feel the need to get out on the street,” Dorsey told him. “Walk the neighborhood and breathe the air, feel the city pulsing and moving all around me. Helps me remember I'm not so alone in the world, reminds me I'm connected to something bigger and alive. Makes me feel…normal. Close as I ever get, anyway.”

Normal,
Joel thought. He had no idea what that even meant anymore.

“Didn't think I'd ever see you again,” Dorsey said.

“Didn't think I'd ever be back.”

“Still doing the reporter thing?”

“So they tell me.” Joel slowed his pace a bit so Dorsey could keep up.

“I haven't worked retail in years,” Dorsey explained. “Had a couple babies with my ex and all that changed. Needed more money, so I started fishing. Worked the same crew for years. Good money but hard work and away from home a lot. Stopped a while back, had to go on disability. My body can't take it anymore. Bad back, my knees are all fucked up, got to take a handful of pain pills just to get out of bed in the morning. Sucks to get old, man. And the babies, a boy and a girl, they're all grown up now. Don't have much time for their pops these days, got their own lives and families. Always been partial to their mother anyway. Can't blame them; she raised them and I was hardly ever home. Just paid the bills. Got lucky and met Nita a few years ago. She's a good woman. Tough as leather and mean as a snake, but a good woman.” They passed through the gates to the playground, which consisted of a run-down swing set, jungle gym and basketball court with rusted hoops sans nets, and settled over by a couple out-of-the-way picnic tables. “Sad sight, isn't it? Empty playground, I mean. Even in winter, doesn't look right.”

Sad
was a good word for it. The entire neighborhood was draped in an intrinsic melancholy and dreariness so thick it was palpable. “Dorsey—”

“Never got the chance to tell you,” he interrupted, pulling a pack of smokes from his pocket. “But I was proud of you, cuz. You lit it up back in the day.”

“I crashed and burned, that's all.”

“What, all that devil shit? It got crazy toward the end, sure, every nut in the country got in on it, every bad psychologist and church-lady lunatic, but that doesn't mean it was all lies. The radical religious types took it too far, not you. Never seen a group of people go on and on about Jesus this and Jesus that, then do everything they can to drive folks as far away from Jesus as they can get.” With a great deal of effort, he stepped up on the bench, sat atop the picnic table and lit a cigarette. “Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

He put the pack back in his coat pocket. “I read your book. You got it right. People around here lived it. Few even died. Shit, look what it did to you.”

Joel held his tongue and stood between the tables and the fence, alternating his gaze between Dorsey and the street.