It’s like carrying a corn husk or a nautilus shell when the inhabitant has vacated. I can’t pinpoint a hotel room so we arrive in the parking lot. The asphalt is cracking and there’s only one car. The Rube Goldberg contraption on the hood and the faint smell of rancid grease and french fries indicate that it’s been rejiggered to burn cooking oil. The motel is two stories with exterior entry. Just a concrete strip. The sign declares it to be the Sleep Inn. Underneath it used to read AMERICAN OWNED, but someone has tried to paint over it. As I hurry past the front office I smell the pungent aroma of vindaloo.
I’m taking the stairs two at a time. Is he still breathing? I can’t feel his heart over mine, which is wildly beating. They have the corner room at the far end from the office. A pudgy young teenager is holding open the door. I recognize him from the photo Ray displayed. I rush into the room. It’s dingy, the spreads are threadbare, but it’s meticulously clean.
She’s waiting. The photo from BICC doesn’t capture her. In the photo she’s ugly. In person, her life and soul are in her gray-green eyes. She spares me not a glance. She gathers Baxter into her arms, and settles onto the end of one bed holding him in her lap. It’s hard for her to arrange the fat, bristly tail, but I scarcely notice that. It’s a pietà.
“It’s okay, kiddo. Momma’s here.” She has a warm, low voice with a husky little catch in it, and that overlay of East Coast money. The little ace reaches up and tangles his hand in the chocolate-colored hair that falls over her shoulder. “Drake,” Niobe says. “Would you go get me a Coke? I think there’s still a few cans in that machine.”
The nuclear ace goes.
“Is that wise?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You either brought people or you didn’t. And I don’t want him to see this. He knows too much about death.” She leans forward and gently kisses Baxter on the forehead. The small chest is barely rising and falling.
She’s softly humming. I don’t recognize the tune. I stand there feeling gauche and decidedly de trop, but I can neither move nor look away. So, this is death when you care.
I try to remember all the deaths I’ve dealt. I can’t.
I try to remember if I cared. I didn’t.
I try to picture holding Dad when he passes. I can’t.
I’m afraid.
The death is so subtle that I miss it. Only Niobe’s soft sobs tell me it’s happened. She closes Baxter’s eyes, quickly kisses each cheek, and hurriedly lays him down on the bed. The small body melts, leaving only a smear on the worn bedspread. She looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears, but she seems at peace.
“Thank you.”
I squat down in front of her. “How do you bear it? I don’t think I can.”
She pushes her hair behind her ears. She is frowning, thoughtful. “You’ll do it for him. Because you love him, and he wouldn’t leave you alone if you were dying.”
And that says it all. We sit together in silence. Then she asks, “Who are you?”
“I’m Noel Matthews. I can get you out of here. They’re going to kill him.” I jerk my thumb toward the absent Drake. “And if you try to stop them they’re going to kill you, too. There’s nothing you can do.”
“I can not leave him. That’s what I can do.”
“He’s a living bomb. They’re right, he’s too dangerous to be allowed to live.” I can feel my frustration rising.
“A lot of people are dangerous, and when they kill they mean to. Drake is a little boy. He doesn’t . . . didn’t want to hurt anybody. We have to give him that chance.”
“Why do you care so much?” I ask.
The sensitive, overly soft mouth tightens with determination. “Because this is one death I can stop.”
The door opens. “I had to get an orange pop. There wasn’t any more Coke,” Drake announces. His eyes slide across the stained bedspread and slide away. He goes to Niobe and gives her a rough and awkward hug. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. She hugs him tight.
I can’t believe I’m hearing myself saying, “All right, I’ll take you both, but I’ve got to make a little change first. . . .”
Won’t Get Fooled Again
Victor Milán
A FIGURE APPEARED IN midair beside the open-topped Land Rover Wolf. It floated