Trader

  “I think I’ll call you Buddy,” I tell the dog. “How do you feel about that?” I get a sloppy kiss with a big wet tongue in reply and have to wipe my face. The breath that accompanies it is even worse—almost as bad as the big lug’s fur. He’s seriously in need of a bath.

  “We’re going to have to do something about the way you smell,” I tell him. Then I smile. “Though with the way things are going, we’ll be a matched pair soon enough, I guess.”

  I lie back down again, stare at the sky, the stars, feel the warm length of the dog pressed up against my side. The city seems impossibly far away. I can’t hear it, can’t see it except for a hint of its glow refracted in the boughs of the trees. We could be on a camping trip, up in the mountains behind the city, or out along the lake in cottage country.

  I wish we were. I wish we were just on holiday, the two of us, taking a break from the city and the shop, instead of being what we are, a couple of hoboes with nowhere else to go. It’d be easy to fall back into the depression that’s been shadowing me throughout the day, but Buddy’s presence makes it easier to keep at bay. It’s not that I’m suddenly happy with how things are going. It’s just that there’s something about sharing hard times, knowing that you’re not alone, that makes the hardship easier to bear. I don’t wish a troubled life for Buddy or anybody else, but I have to admit I’m glad he’s here now.

  “It’s you and me,” I tell him. “So we better take care of each other because we’re all we’ve got.”

  I feel the thump of his tail against my leg and fall asleep again, comforted by the even rhythm of his breathing.

  THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD

  ...and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

  —W. B. Yeats, from “The Second Coming”

  I'm a burning hearth. People see the smoke,

  but no one comes to warm themselves.

  —attributed to Vincent van Gogh

  1 LISA

  Dawn was an hour old. Through the gap between the gabled roofs of two neighboring houses, Lisa had been watching a rectangle of night sky drift from grey through pinks to a rich cerulean blue. She felt as though she’d aged twenty years overnight. Punchy from a lack of sleep and too much caffeine, all she could do was regard the perfect day that was shaping up on the other side of the windowpane and wonder how it dared present such a cheerful view when who knew what had happened to Nia? Her daughter could be lying dead in an alleyway somewhere. She could be halfway across the country, on a bus, in the cab of some tractor trailer, riding in the passenger seat of a businessman’s car, a businessman who was looking for an exit at this very moment, some out-of-the-way place where he could pull over, hit the locks on the doors, and then reach for Nia...

  She wanted to smash something, anything. She wanted to cry. When Nia got home she was going to give her such a piece of her mind. She’d ground her for life. She’d...she’d hold on to her so hard, she’d never let her go.

  The tears were a thick pressure, welling up behind her eyes, but she made herself hold them back. She’d been crying half the night. If she started to cry this time, she was afraid she might never stop. She made herself stare at the blue rectangle of the sky, stared so hard that when she looked away orange spots danced in her eyes.

  The music on the radio gave way to a newscaster with the seven-o’clock news. Turning from the window, she forced herself to pay attention. She expected the worst, to hear some horrible story about a young girl whose name was being withheld until her family could be contacted and then the phone would finally ring and it would be the police, that sergeant with the low voice saying, “I’m sorry, Ms. Fisher, but we have some very bad news...” But the disasters outlined in the news didn’t seem as though they could have anything to do with Nia and the phone didn’t ring.

  “Why don’t they call?” she said.

  Julie put a comforting hand over her own. “It’s still early.”

  “Early? She’s been out all night.”

  “I know. Bad choice of words.”

  But Lisa knew what she’d meant. It was the same thing that the sergeant at the Missing Persons desk had told her on the phone when she got home last night to find Nia missing. It was too early to worry. These were the difficult years. The defiant years. Teenagers Nia’s age were forever testing the bounds of their parents’ authority. They’d had a fight that morning? Perhaps her daughter was playing delinquent on purpose then, to prove a point. If Ms. Fisher was patient, he was sure Nia would be back on her own later on in the night, sometime in the morning, for certain, but in the meantime he’d make a note of her description and pass it along to their dispatcher. He’d call back if he heard anything at all, though he hoped Ms. Fisher understood that there were a thousand girls out there in the city matching this particular description. No, a photograph wasn’t necessary. Not at this point. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary at all. She should try to get some rest and not worry.

  As if that was even an option.

  “She’s just never done anything like this before,” Lisa said.

  Julie nodded sympathetically. “But you did have a fight.”

  “All we seem to do is fight these days. She’s been driving me crazy. But if anything’s happened to her...”

  “Everything’s going to work out,” Julie said. “She’ll be okay.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  Julie sighed. “You’re right. But I remember doing this to my parents, just to make a point. I’m not saying it’s right; I’m just saying it happens.”

  “I suppose...”

  And hadn’t she done the same thing herself? Lisa thought. Bucking a ridiculous eleven-o’clock curfew by staying out all night. And hadn’t her mother said to her, I hope your children treat you the same way you’ve treated us. Lisa had never realized the pain she’d caused her parents. She’d only been able to see the unfairness of their rules.

  “Waiting’s the hardest.”

  Lisa nodded. The waiting was turning her into a wreck. She wanted to do something, but both the police and Julie agreed that the best thing she could do was wait here at home.

  “Maybe I should try calling the hospitals again,” she said.

  “They already know to call you if anyone that looks like Nia is brought in.”

  “I know. But I feel so useless. I’ve got to do something.”

  “Why don’t you make some more coffee?”

  And what would that accomplish? Lisa wanted to shout, but she understood what Julie was saying. She was amazed that Julie was still here, that she’d spent the whole night with her the way she had. How many men would still be here, would be this supportive on a first date?

  “My nerves are so on edge,” she said, “I don’t think I could take another jolt of caffeine. But I can make some more for you, if you’d like.”

  Julie shook her head.

  She looked amazing, Lisa thought, even after being up all night. Blouse a little rumpled as it clung to her trim torso and shoulders, dark hair all thick tangles, the point of a catlike chin cupped in her hands, elbows on the table. There was a smudge of shadow under each eye, but the tone only accentuated their deep grey and made her look even more desirable. The worry Lisa had for her missing daughter was a huge, swelling presence, lodged like big stones in her chest and stomach, an overpowering sensation of anxiety and helplessness, so the surge of attraction she felt for Julie right now came as a complete surprise.

  “I really appreciate your staying here with me tonight and this morning,” she said. “I don’t know how I’d ever have been able to deal with this on my own.”

  Julie smiled. “That’s what friends are for.”

  “I hope,” Lisa began. She felt awkward, the words sticking in her throat. She tried again. “I hope we can be more than friends.”

  Julie reached out and gave her hand another comforting squeeze.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  What am I doing? Lisa thought. Nia was missing, may
be hurt, maybe worse, and here she was, flirting. With another woman. She felt like a terrible mother, but she couldn’t stop the warm glow that spread through her, that rose to put a sudden flush on her cheeks. She didn’t want to stop it.

  She made herself look away, back at the phone, and cleared her throat.

  “I wish someone would call,” she said.

  This time Julie made no response. She seemed to know exactly why Lisa was changing the subject. She gave Lisa’s fingers another quick squeeze, then returned her elbow to the table, chin cupped in the cradle of her hands once more.

  2 MAX

  The next time I wake it’s to feel sunlight on the other side of my eyelids and I know it’s morning. The warmth of the sun puts a warm glow on my face and for a moment I feel good. This time I know where I am, what’s happened to me, and for some reason there’s no panic, just a kind of weary acceptance that this is the way it is. I’m stiff from sleeping on a granite bed, but I’ve felt worse.

  It could be worse. It could be raining. I could be dead instead of wearing somebody else’s skin. Lying there on the headland, I can feel a breeze on my skin. It’s coming in from the lake, but it’s comfortable rather than chilling. The sun’s already burned off the night’s chill.

  I hear the sound of the lake against the shore, the footsteps of joggers as they go by on the path below. Buddy’s lying next to me, still pressed close, asleep. When I sit up, he starts, stirs nervously, eyes big, a little scared as they look at me. I hold him, not tight enough to scare him, but enough to let him know he’s welcome, that he doesn’t have to flee. I can feel his body tremble under my hands, but I talk to him, soothingly, and finally he starts to settle down. When I take my hand away, he gives it a little butt with his muzzle, asking for more.

  “Okay, Buddy,” I tell him. “You want loving, you’ve come to the right place for it.”

  It feels good, putting a little happiness into someone’s life, even if that someone’s only a stray dog.

  I wait until the path’s clear as far as I can see in either direction, then make my way down the incline to the lakeshore. I wash my face, but though I’m thirsty, I’m not willing to lap the water up the way Buddy is. My cheeks are rough with stubble. I’d like a shave and a bath. My stomach grumbles, louder than it did last night. I’d like a meal, too. I have to laugh. Why stop there? I’d like to be back home. I’d like to have a home.

  I make myself put aside that line of thinking because I know it’ll take me nowhere but down. The exercise is a little easier than it was yesterday, probably because I’ve got a companion now. Buddy’s sitting beside me, water dripping from his muzzle, an expectant look in his features. Waiting for breakfast, I guess. You and me both, fella.

  I hear the sound of another jogger on the path behind me. When I stand up and turn, it’s to find myself on the receiving end of one of those disdainful looks that I’m almost getting used to. But this time I don’t let myself look away. I square my shoulders and meet the jogger’s gaze, thinking I’ve got as much right to be here as you. Before he can turn his attention elsewhere, I give him a smile and a wave. He seems a little surprised, but he smiles back and returns my wave.

  Welcome back to the human race, I tell myself. I watch the jogger until he’s out of sight, then brush the dirt from my jeans and jacket.

  “C’mon, boy,” I say, and take the path myself, following the route the jogger took, but at a slower pace.

  The city shows up faster than I’m expecting it to. One moment I could be up in the mountains behind the city, walking the deep woods like those around Janossy’s farm, the next I see the skyline over the tops of the trees, I can hear the noise of the traffic. Five minutes later I’m by the War Memorial, watching the food carts setting up along Palm Street. I can smell the coffee from here and just thinking of the muffins, bagels and other fast-food breakfasts the vendors are selling has me cursing every bit of leftover food I ever threw out.

  By noon, this part of the park will be a riot of sound and color, the pathways and lawns congested with people on their lunch break, kids hanging out, tourists, fortune-tellers, buskers, joggers, skateboarders, in-line skaters, mothers with their children, nannies with somebody else’s, craftspeople, junkies, old men playing cards and checkers, hookers down from the Zone on their own coffee breaks. Summertime, it seems as though everybody in the downtown area shows up in these few acres by the War Memorial. It’s almost as popular as the Pier, down by the lake on the other side of town.

  This time of the morning there are only business men and women, mostly in power suits, grabbing a coffee and a quick bite on the way to work, and a few homeless people like me making campsites out of the benches. A couple of them have set up complicated cardboard structures using their benches as the principal support. Others merely mark their territory with a scatter of possessions: shopping carts; a stack of coats, inappropriate for the weather and not much good for anything else at this time of year; the inevitable plastic shopping bags.

  I find a bench that hasn’t been claimed by anybody else and settle down, Buddy lying by my feet.

  Now what?

  I could try to cadge some spare change from the suits like a few of the other street people are doing, but I can’t quite muster up what it takes to do it. Can’t admit that I’ve fallen that far, I guess. My stomach’s still rumbling. When a woman in a sharply tailored skirt and jacket ensemble drops half her muffin in the garbage can beside my bench, my mouth’s actually watering. I’m up and digging after that half muffin before the woman’s got three steps away, ignoring the disgusted look she gives me. But then, when I have it in my hand, all my appetite leaves me. I just can’t do it. I can’t eat what somebody else just threw in a garbage can. I’m not hungry enough yet, I guess.

  But that doesn’t mean it has to go to waste. I break off bits of the muffin and feed them to Buddy.

  “At least one of us isn’t going to starve,” I tell him.

  He wolfs the food down, one, two, three bites, and then he’s looking for more, pushing at my knee, licking my hand.

  “Sorry, Buddy. That was it.”

  But now I’m checking the other suits out, seeing what they’re maybe going to throw away, marking the distance, figuring if I can get to the can before one of the other street people do.

  “Hey, there, virgin. What’s your dog’s name?”

  I turn so fast, it’s like a cartoon. There’s a young Native American guy sitting on the bench beside me, lounging there like a cat, like he’s been there for hours, and I never even heard or saw him approach, never felt his weight on the bench when he sat down beside me. He’s a lean, rawboned individual with black hair pulled back into a ponytail and the spookiest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re dark, like night shadows are dark, like a crow’s wings, laughing eyes, crazy eyes, but solemn, too.

  He’s wearing jeans and scuffed leather workboots, a white T-shirt that makes his skin seem darker than it is. Propped between his feet are a couple of folding wood-and-canvas stools and a knapsack that looks as though it’s made of moosehide.

  “What did you call me?” I ask.

  He grins. “Virgin. I figure you’re, what? Two, maybe three days old?”

  I guess the solemnity I saw warring with the craziness in his eyes lost the battle.

  “Look,” I tell him. “I don’t really get—”

  “I was talking street-old,” he says, breaking in. “I can always tell. You’re newborn to the world of the have-nots. Hungry, but not hungry enough to eat garbage yet, doesn’t matter how fresh it is.”

  He looks better off than the other street people around us, but the way those crazy eyes of his lock on to me, I don’t think he’s saner. They’re so black I can’t quite make out their color. It’s as though they don’t have any, as though they’re all pupil.

  “So?” I say.

  I’m not trying to be argumentative. I’ve never been one to pick fights, and anyway, crazy or not, he looks very capable of taking care of hi
mself. But I don’t like the way he’s sitting in judgment of me. I already know I’m hard off. I don’t need my face rubbed in it.

  “So I’m just making conversation,” he says. “I took a look at you feeding that dog of yours before you even ate yourself and I’m thinking, that’s a man with principles. I like a man who takes responsibility for his companions, you know. What’d you say the dog’s name was?”

  “Buddy.” I find myself replying before I realize I’m going to.

  He nods. “Bones,” he says, sticking out his hand.

  I guess it’s his name. His hand’s there in the air between us for a moment longer than is really comfortable before I finally give it a shake. What the hell. Yesterday I wanted somebody, anybody, to talk to, so why am I complaining today? So what if there’s something in his eyes that tells me he should be in a padded cell in the Zeb instead of out here on the street?

  “I’m Max.”

  “You don’t look like a Max.”

  I give him a sharp look, but his face gives nothing away. Then I have to smile. As if he knew anything. As if he could even be involved.

  “It’s still my name.”

  “Okay. Max and Buddy.” He acts like he has to consider it, then nods. “That’s good. They fit. You'll be good for each other.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Bones smiles. He smiles a lot. “You’re not really glad I think so,” he says. “But that’s okay. I know what you’re going through. The first few weeks are the toughest. You want a coffee? Something to eat maybe, for you and Buddy?”

  I don’t even ask him why he’s offering. All I can do is look at him.

  “Hey, I spend a lot of time here,” he says. “I get to know who’s just going through a bad spell and who wouldn’t earn their way if their life depended on it, which it does, but are they going to listen to me when they didn’t to anyone else?”