Everybody Has Everything - By Katrina Onstad Page 0,96

him. You’re not going to get in trouble.”

“No trouble. I have papers. I am legal. You want to come in?”

James nodded. He moved inside and stood in the living room while Chuckles wandered through the rest of house. If the girl objected, she said nothing about Chuckles’s explorations.

The living room contained nothing but an old couch, pink and faded. Books and notebooks lay scattered across the floor, English language text books, books with titles in unidentifiable, swirling script. On the fireplace sat a row of empty wine bottles enclosed in candle wax. The thin curtains were nailed to the windows, above the moulding.

“You live alone?” asked James, scanning for nooks and crannies and Finn inside them.

“No. We are three girls, all from Georgia. We come as nannies but it doesn’t work out for us. Now we are students. I am legal. My friends are not here.” She looked at him, squinted. “You live on the street also, yes? I see you. You want one drink?”

“No, thank you,” said James. After months of speculating, this reality seemed worse, somehow: there was no one to be liberated here, no Russian pimps, no gangsters. Just girls. Pretty girls. Students who don’t mind a little squalor and can’t take their garbage out on the right days. Girls he would have tried to fuck two decades ago.

“Sit, please,” but James could not. He stood in the middle of the room, smelling something pungent, the music loud enough to block his thoughts.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Do?”

“For job.”

James looked at her. “I’m unemployed,” he said.

She nodded. “Is very difficult time. Economy.”

Chuckles appeared.

“I don’t see anything,” he said.

“You, sir, you want drink?” Chuckles glanced at James.

“No thanks, lady.”

James reached into his pocket and held up the photo of Finn, Sarah and Marcus. The girl took it in her hands and held it close to her face.

“He is very beautiful, yes.” She passed it back. “Wait here.” She disappeared through a door. James avoided looking at Chuckles, knowing the relationship couldn’t sustain too much extra meaning.

The girl re-emerged, swiping her hair from her face. She held out a photo: a young girl, the hostess, only a few years ago. She sat on her knees between two boys, each on the edge of adulthood, wispy facial hair and acne. Above them stood her parents, tall and unsmiling. A Christmas tree covered in tinsel took up the background. The father’s downward smile matched his moustache. The mother had one arm on the girl’s shoulder, the other dangling uselessly at her side. They all wore cheap-looking sweaters. The photo was glossy, with fingerprints on the edges.

“This is my family,” said the girl. “My brother was hurt. You know about the war?”

James stared at that arm, that hanging arm.

“Of course,” he said. “What happened?”

“Oh, is a grenade, you know. He doesn’t look like this now, but he is fine. It is a miracle.”

Chuckles cleared his throat.

“Is sad, yes. But my parents are still in Georgia. This is the good news. And I think they will come here, and stay on this street. You can meet them.”

James imagined this, all the Georgians in his white living room, Ana passing flutes of Prosecco to spill on their polyester sweaters.

“I hope I do meet them,” said James. “Thank you.” Chuckles could sense that James was unable to move now; he put a hand firmly on the centre of his back, guiding him to the door.

To the girl, Chuckles said: “He’s at number ninety-four. Come by if you hear anything, please.”

She nodded, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Yes, I will,” she said at the door. “Yes, we are neighbours. So I will look for the boy.”

The girl stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped around her torso, watching the men, one supported by the other.

They completed the street, door to door, ahead of the police, their pleas generating alarmed faces and offers of help. Neighbours put on their coats and followed them. Mothers stood on porches and watched them walk away, teary, grasping their children’s hands.

James crossed the street and continued south, banging on doors, while Chuckles stayed a few steps behind him, working his cell phone.

Finally, it was too late for trick-or-treaters, and the children vanished from the streets. Pumpkins were extinguished.

At the top of James and Ana’s block, a police officer ran a piece of yellow tape between two stop signs. No cars were permitted to drive on the road, and people gathered under the streetlights, organizing into groups to descend onto the