Ruin - By N.M. Martinez Page 0,57

it, flicking on another lantern for me that sits on a small wooden dresser. I sneak past Jimmy and into the room, taking a step to the side of the door to get out of Jimmy's line of sight.

The room is small, but it is furnished. There's a bed covered with a cream colored knit blanket and an old wooden dresser.

Henri puts my bag on the bed and then turns around to look at me as if this were the first time he's seen me. He holds his lips tightly together, almost in a frown, his bushy brows furrowed low over his eyes. I feel scrutinized, and knowing what I now know about him I feel strange. This is a man who helped start the Revolution if I can believe what I've been told. Maybe it doesn't even matter if I can believe it since everyone else here seems to believe it and revere him.

Henri doesn't move. His eyes fall down to my large grey sweatshirt. "Where did you get that shirt?"

I glance down and give a tug to the bottom of the shirt. "I found it in my bag."

"It was your mother's."

The words seem to come from him involuntarily. Our eyes meet and he seems as surprised as I am. He looks away from me and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Did you eat?"

I nod, but he isn't looking at me. "Yes. At Brandon's."

"Good. Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." He still doesn't look at me when he leaves.

I step over to the door and watch him walk away. Jimmy stands in the living room with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes on Henri as he walks out, but I catch them for a moment. For one instant, his gray eyes fall past Henri and on me. I shut the door.

With the door shut, I step away from it and to the duffel on the bed. Despite the somewhat early hour, I'm suddenly exhausted. I slide the duffel off the bed and climb on top, resting my head on the cold pillow. There's one small window, dirty and grimy like the other second floor windows must all be. With the light on, it looks blackened outside, and I don't bother peeking out of it. I'm not even curious about it.

The blanket is very soft and has a fresh scent to it as if it's been washed recently. I run my fingers over the knit covering on the blanket feeling each tiny hole and the semi-soft fabric used to knit it. Each of my breaths moves the tiny hairs on the knit fabric.

I'm here now. With Henri. The thought doesn't comfort me, but I do feel as if I've managed to make it over a hurdle. It could have just been the danger of walking in the dark with Jimmy. That is something I hope to never do again.

There is one thought that concerns me. It floats over the rest even when I try to shake it. Mom saw something in Henri. She must have known him. In the letter, she said I should trust him.

I give a shiver. The air is cold. The lantern doesn't let off any heat and the old window does nothing to keep the cold air on the outside. But it's also that thought which gives way to the realization that Mom knew him. She must have known him all this time and just never told me. It's a secret that she kept from me my entire life.

The thought disturbs me. It's not the same as an outright lie. I'd never asked her if she still saw my father from time to time or still knew him. There were all those times when I'd asked about him, questions that were always in the past tense. She gave me some answers while sometimes skillfully dodging others until I'd just stop asking. And I always did after a while. At the time it didn't really seem important. I didn't really care.

But now there are things I need to know, and I don't know how to find out short of asking him. And if he's anything like my mother, I'm never going to find out. Not from asking him directly.

Fifteen

The group downstairs is not quiet. Their voices travel from the bottom of the stairwell all the way to Henri's living room. Though their voices are distinct, their laughs and jeers permeate the relative safety of the apartment so that during the