The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,45
begin the ascent up a third, narrower flight of stairs.
“You moved her,” Gregory says.
She replies with a grunt.
I clear my throat. “How many people live here?”
“As many as need to,” she snaps.
I get the impression she’s not singling us out for harsh treatment. This is simply her manner. She’s one of those people accustomed to putting her world in order and having it stay that way. Anyone coming along to challenge that order has to run the gauntlet of her hostility. Or maybe she just doesn’t care for middle-aged white people turning up on her door talking to her like she’s an idiot. It bothers me too.
The third floor is a mirror image of the second, though on a smaller scale. The hallway seems narrower, the doors smaller. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, which comes entirely from a flickering fluorescent at the far end of the corridor. All the rest seem to be burned out. (I suppose I should be grateful there’s electricity at all.)
Mother Zacchaeus leads us halfway down the hallway to a room marked 3-9. The middle number, presumably 0, is long gone. She pushes through without knocking. Gregory motions for me to go first.
There are three mattresses on the floor, each with a mummy of sheets coiled in its center. Through the open window, the only source of light, I glimpse the rusted metal railing of an emergency ladder, then a patch of grass and busted concrete that must be what passes for the backyard. A girl sits on the mattress nearest the window, her hand propped on the sill, holding a cigarette with dainty grace between two fingers. She wears shorts and a nylon zip jacket, her long, smooth legs the color of caramel.
“Go take that outside, Aziza,” Mother Zacchaeus tells her.
The girl takes a drag on the cigarette, then flicks it out into space.
“Go on, I said.”
She seems to notice us for the first time. She glances over Gregory in a heartbeat, her eyes settling on me. Mother Zacchaeus flicks her hand and the girl rises to go. As she pushes past me, I get a whiff of smoke and cheap perfume. Up close, I am shocked how young she is. Surely not more than fourteen or fifteen.
“You awake?” Mother Zacchaeus says, kicking one of the mattresses.
The sheet mummy on the bed shifts in response. I hadn’t realized anyone was there.
Gregory crouches next to the bed. “Hey, Sam, are you okay?”
He beckons me over. As I approach, the sheet falls back to reveal a sliver of face. A lock of sweat-matted brown hair covers one of Sam’s eyes. There’s so much eyeliner around the other it looks like someone tried to scratch over it with a black crayon. She cracks open an eyelid, testing the light.
“Leave me alone,” she mutters.
Mother Zacchaeus kicks the mattress again. “You get up. Come on, now.”
This coaxing tone is the closest thing to affection that’s come out of the nun’s mouth. Sam responds by propping herself up. I get a glimpse of bony shoulders crisscrossed in straps: white for the tank top, pink for the cami underneath, black for the bra straps. The side of her bottom lip is transected by a swollen cut. No, wait. Looking closer, I see it’s a round piece of metal. A lip ring. Nice.
“Sam, get up. I brought someone to see you.”
“What?” She rears back like a startled fawn, searching the room with panicky jerks of the head. Her black-rimmed eyes look comically huge. When she sees the expected someone—presumably her mother—isn’t here, she slumps back on the bed. “I said, leave me alone.”
The words aren’t out before the nun’s foot hits the mattress again, this time with so much force it scoots sideways half an inch. Sam sits bolt upright.
“Show some respect,” Mother Zacchaeus says, pronouncing it re-SPECK. Leaving no doubt in my mind which of us she intends Sam to pay this respect to.
“Can you just ease up a little bit?” I ask.
Strangely, the nun reacts differently than I anticipate. Instead of lashing out to put me in my place—or worse, using that foot of hers—for the first time, Mother Zacchaeus favors me with a smile.
“Good,” she says. “I guess we all want a little respeck.”
I smile back, hoping we’ve gained a little trust.
Gregory isn’t having any of that. He leans toward Sam, clamping one of his big hands on her face, forcing her eyelid up to inspect her pupil. She twists away without much conviction.