She rolled him on his back and folded his arms; she’d seen her uncle in a coffin. Clary made sure the man’s eyes were closed. She ran down to the beach, testing the sneakers, and returned with a handful of water; she wiped away some of the caked white from his lips. Clary said a prayer, crossed herself and hurried toward the trees.
She walked for a long time in the dark next to the tall trees. No cars or people passed. She almost fell asleep but it was cold and she made herself keep walking, otherwise she’d die. Clary remembered a song from the orphanage, “Grandma morte, estamos felices,” and when her mouth hurt from thirst, she just hummed but had to stop because her throat hurt.
Near a clearing, a house blinked Burt’s Motel in red lights. She squealed softly at recognizing el motel; she didn’t care if none of the other words she’d seen along the road were familiar, because none of the signs were in Arabic. That’s all that mattered.
A big man with a moustache stared from the open door.
“Yes?”
She hadn’t figured out what she’d say. If all the signs were in English then they probably didn’t speak Spanish. And how would she explain herself. With all the bullets and dead people, it was probably better not to tell the truth. Always was. Clary leaned weakly against the doorframe. She was so tired and thirsty and hungry.
The man kneeled and a woman with gray hair looked over his shoulder. She gasped.
When Clary woke, she was lying on a cot with a washcloth on her forehead. She fell onto the floor and crawled into the corner, alert and scared.
“Well what are you doing?” The woman laid a tray of soup and bread on the coffee table. “Come on, honey, don’t be frightened. You been sleeping a while and it’s time to eat. What’s that, a growl? Come on.”
Clary didn’t trust the smile. She really didn’t trust any smiles. She backed away, remembering how she got here. Stupido. Run.
She staggered and fell to her knees. The woman helped her back on the couch, rubbing her forehead.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The woman sat her down firmly as if there was no way Clary was getting up without permission. “Now you eat.”
She sniffed at the food and the woman clucked her tongue. Finally Clary took a bite. She had two bowls, all the bread and was working on some cookies when the man with the moustache came into the room.
“How is she?” he asked gruffly.
“Hungry.” The woman rolled her eyes. “Thirsty, too. I’ll get you more, honey.”
While the woman went into the kitchen, Clary glared at the man in case he had any ideas about touching her. It hadn’t worked in the orphanage, but maybe America was different.
“What’s your name, girl?” the man asked.
Clary gripped the soup spoon and decided if he came near, she’d jam the handle into his eye.
“Don’t you talk?” he frowned.
“Not if you ask like that, Burt.” The woman returned with some cheese, which Clary quickly finished. Clary blushed, puzzled by the woman staring at her cheek. America was a Crusader nation. Why did she look so upset by the cross?
The man leaned against the wall, staring suspiciously, while the woman touched Clary’s face.
“How’d you get the scar, honey?” she asked.
“Must be a believer,” Burt said. “Jesus Christey?”
The woman shushed him, embarrassed. “Where do you live?”
She had to say something, but knew speaking Spanish would be stupid.
“Think she’s from the fool school?”
“I don’t know. They treat them well, but…” She fussed with Clary’s tangled hair, sighing at her clothes, bruises.
“I don’t want to get mixed up in this, Grace.” He pointed at Clary’s scar.
“Should we send her out in the middle of the night?”
“Let the police handle this.”
Clary understood police. She pointed to her throat, waving her hands sadly.
“She can’t talk,” Grace said.
“I got it,” Burt answered. “But she still comes from somewhere they do things like that.”
Grace patted Clary’s arm. “Let her sleep here tonight and we’ll figure it all out in the morning.”
Clary nervously shoved her hands into her pockets.
Burt suddenly leaned over. “What are you hiding, little girl?”
She bared her teeth, hissing softly.
“Lemme see.”
She bit his forearm. He finally shook free with a pained howl and raised his fist. Grace pulled him away.
“Let her be,” she snapped. “Poor thing’s all messed up.”
“That’s why she shouldn’t be here.” Burt wiped away a trickle of blood.
“She’s staying the night, Burt.”
“Not until I see what she’s hiding,” he whined. “Could be a goddamn knife or religious spell or something.”
Grace stared questioningly at Clary. “Show me what you got, honey. I’ll give it back.”
Sighing, Clary started putting the sneakers back on.
“And those ain’t a child’s shoes,” Burt added menacingly.
“Girl, I’m talking to you.” The woman wasn’t so nice anymore. “You’re not going anywhere until you show us what you got or we’re calling the police.”
She couldn’t have police. She didn’t like this ugly woman and this mean man who wanted to touch her. She handed over the jewelry box. The people’s eyes went wide when they saw the diamond ring.
“Did I tell you?” Burt triumphantly held up the ring toward Grace. “Where’d you steal this?”
Her heart pounded. Americans were bad, too. The ring wasn’t theirs. Wasn’t hers either, but the sailor had given her the address of the fat lady and a baby.
“Mama,” she shouted. “Mi Mama, mi mama.”
She cried hysterically and the woman hugged her.
“Damn you, Burt Winston, it’s the child’s mother’s ring.”
“For Grandma’s sakes, she’s a thief.”
“Does she look like a thief?”
Clary lowered her eyes, sobbing silently. Grace gave her back the ring while Burt watched skeptically.
“It’s okay, honey. Put your mother’s ring away.” The woman led her into a small office and made up the cot with clean sheets and a blanket, then turned out the lights.
“Sleep well. No one’s going to bother you.”
The
