‘I have debts to pay.’ His voice has settled, pride steeling the resignation. I smell the mud he has splashed through this morning. Sweat and, yes, blood. He has his shoulders back, his spine straight, but I notice the slight wince – the intake of breath. It is his own blood, dried on his body, that still marks him. ‘Obligations. And you shouldn’t be near me.’
Care waits. Stands still as Tick stares off down the street. Such occurrences are not uncommon in this world, where the small and the weak are easy prey.
‘What will you do now?’ she asks.
The first truck starts with a grind of gears. The second pulls up, but this skinny man doesn’t turn – not even when the bully calls to him.
‘Hey, you there!’
Care pivots. Hands on hips, she takes a step past the muddied man and raises her voice. ‘What do you want? You fired him.’
A laugh. ‘I ain’t gonna pay him for loafing, that’s for sure. There’s work to be done.’
She turns back to the gaunt man. He wipes his hands again and nods to her. ‘No rest for the weary,’ he says, a ghost of a smile creasing his swollen lip. ‘Good to see you, Care, despite … Well, thank you – thank you for everything.’
We watch as he goes back to the truck. The foreman laughs as if at some private joke as his new man clambers onto the truck bed and reaches for a crate.
TWENTY-FOUR
The girl remains silent as we circle the block, her face as opaque as those cobblestones. The boy, by contrast, becomes noisier as we walk on, leaving the back streets for the bustle of the waterfront. He dances around Care, peppering her with questions which she ignores, and turns instead to commenting on the changing scene as the traffic grows busier. He seems particularly dismissive of the people whom we pass, in their monochrome suits and leather shoes. The coats, especially, he remarks on, disparaging their daytime drab. But he is eyeing their good wool, I see, and I detect a note of envy, despite his insults.
It has been a cold winter, I gather – recent events have erased my memory of anything but rain and a freezing flood. As he speculates about the passers-by – their proclivities and paychecks, their expenditures for fur or suede – it occurs to me that he is seeing a different side of this street. He is looking for the nightlife that must dominate here once these office drones have had their day. The idea that these workers may be the same preening peacocks who strut about after dark seems foreign to him, and I understand the concern Care has for his education, for his future.
I am uneasy about our journey. In part, because as we left the back ways for the more commercial avenue, my path became more difficult. A cat on a quiet street appears natural, a necessary part of the fauna, with a job – no, a responsibility in this industrial area. A cat among the busy urbanites? A freak. A nuisance at best. A rogue attracting attention and, at worst, violence. I do not want a repeat of the scene downtown, especially here where the desire for order – in the guise of civility – is much less in evidence than on the cleaner streets we have left behind. I am timid here, darting from shadow to shadow. Although the pain in my side has subsided to a dull ache, I find myself falling behind. On such a busy thoroughfare, as the day grows bright, there are too few safe places.
My dread grows as Care proceeds across a slate-paved plaza. A scent of alcohol and sick seems out of place and yet familiar. When I detect the perfume of an opossum, the leather of my nose twitches in response. I know this place, these broad walkways. This is where I followed Bushwick – Dock Street. The way to his warehouse. The night market looks different under the sun’s glare, although it sports the same tidal pull of commerce and greed. The boy catches up with Care. He knows this place, too; his comments on the toughs and their dolls express a certain yearning. This is the arena he aspires to, though not in its mundane dress.
Suddenly, my reluctance makes sense. There was evil here – the stench of death and fear – and I would keep this girl from it, if I could. Despite the constant footfall, the open stretch of stone, I dart ahead to stand before her.
‘Blackie.’ She shakes her head as if I were the boy. ‘I thought maybe I saw you. Damn …’ She looks around, as if for an escape, and my tail perks up. My ears. ‘Where will you be safe?’ She’s talking to herself, without expectation of an answer, but I must react. She seeks to store me, to stow me away for my safety, when I am the experienced one in this venue. I lean in, straddling her foot with my body. This has the advantage of stopping her while I deliberate, as well as expressing my allegiance. But no, too late, I recall our relative sizes – I feel the hands on my side and twist. The sore place makes me, perhaps, a tad more vocal in my protest than I would like, but it does no good.