She hated the glue he used to stick it on with, mostly because it stank and partly because he called it “spirit gum.” Dawn could never bring herself to ask what that meant.
She finished her porridge and then turned in her chair for Mr. Jay to apply the beard and make up her face. He continued to hum as he did so, smiling occasionally at the faces she made.
Though they were meager earnings she gathered in her collection basket, they were able to afford the essentials. And Dawn really loved being an entertainer, costume or not. It allowed her to go out in the streets with people and dance and carry on like she was normal. Otherwise, she spent her days in the shadows. Years ago, she had started coming up with her own tricks. Her body though a child’s was as nimble as a cat’s and decades of living in it had made her dexterous beyond compare.
While Dawn handled the acrobatic part of their act-mainly to keep the crowd’s interest and guard the collection basket-Mr. Jay would prepare for his next bit of magic. He always did that with great flourish, his whole body taking on a rigid, sticklike stance, and his face going flat, eyes looking inward. Dawn was never sure how Mr. Jay actually did his tricks but he had told her that it was a fine art that relied on misdirection as much as it did magic. Regardless, he would come out of his “Gypsy trance” as he called it, and go about the crowd mystifying them with tricks like guessing a person’s name, and their parents’ or friend’s, or he would do other more exotic things. It depended on the crowd; some were easier to please than others.
The pair had traveled a long way with their entertaining, and had performed now so many times that Dawn found herself improvising effortlessly-Mr. Jay had said that this was simply her subconscious having fun with it.
“You don’t want to get bored with entertaining, Dawn. What would be left?”
And she rarely ever felt butterflies in her stomach anymore. As long as Mr. Jay was nearby, she felt that she could do anything.
Today was a little different. This was their first full day in the City of Light. He wouldn’t tell her why they had come to the City, but he assured her that the money would be good if they could get the prime locations. Mr. Jay had already scouted out locations to work.
“And I might even find some old friends,” he said cheerfully.
Dawn didn’t care about any old friends as she struggled into her costume. She had already seen enough of the City. True, the size of it was awesome as you approached it, but when you were in it, the levels above weighed heavily and the only breezes blew off cars and buses or came up from sewers. There was a constant feeling of crowding.
She could not shake the nagging sense that her run in with Yellow-skin and the thin men was just a shadow of worse things to come. And the streets in the City were so big and numerous, and there were so many people, there were just too many places a forever child could get lost. She knew she’d be worried about losing Mr. Jay the whole time.
“Come along, Dawn. You wrinkle that forehead of yours any more and you’ll look like a road map.” Mr. Jay chuckled and twisted her nose. He looked her over. “And how are you today Mojo?” That was the name of the midget she played.
She patted her forehead with the back of her hand nonplussed.
The action made Mr. Jay laugh out loud. “Forever child or not, Dawn. There’s a woman in there somewhere.”
“Stop it!” she scolded, hoping to end the teasing right away.
“Yes, of course.” He smiled and regarded her with such a loving gaze that she immediately cheered up. “Now, will you be warm enough? These February winds can chill you through and through. A Winter rain’s expected…”
“Of course I’ll be warm enough.” She almost stamped a foot but remembered that Mr. Jay only said those things out of habit. “But thank you anyway.”
Mr. Jay picked up his walking stick, and shouldered his bag of props. He always carried extra things with him-packs of cards, bottles and string and cups-anything he might use in one of his tricks. And he always had some packets of mixed nuts and a stick of bread that never seemed to run out. “We’ll have to hurry. I found an excellent corner last night but it’s quite a distance uptown.”
They made their way out of the hideout and then along a rickety stair that took them to the exit of the abandoned building. A dirty mist hung in the air over the street. “I hope you don’t mind, but we may have to ride a bus to get there while the pickings are still good.” She looked up at his face as he talked, but its expression was hidden by the gloom. “We want to catch the workers at their first coffee break-and there’s a good collection of hotels and office buildings nearby that we can work until they’re back on the streets at lunch.” The fog blew into Dawn’s face and left droplets in her beard. She shrugged at her friend’s face.
A mixture of excitement and apprehension ran through her as they made their way to the bus stop. Other shadowy shapes joined them on the dark sidewalks: heads down, collars pulled up, with shock on their faces when Dawn stepped out of the gloom. The idea of performing in front of a whole new bunch of people was as exciting as it was frightening. She gripped the first two fingers of Mr. Jay’s right hand. As long as she kept her hold on him, she would be all right.
9 – Nun
Able Stoneworthy’s footsteps receded. Sister Karen Cawood waited on her knees, sliding each rosary bead over the plump flesh of her lower lip-her mouth unconsciously forming words that were not uttered. Jesus, whom thou didst joyfully conceive. Her shoulder still bore the warm impress of Able’s hand where he had gripped her reassuringly as she dropped to her knees in prayer. His voice had grown thick before he hurried from the room. The minister, her friend of many decades, respected her privacy more than she did. Jesus, whom thou didst joyfully carry to Elizabeth. At the sound of the outer office door latching, she climbed slowly to her feet, knees aching.
She muttered, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She pinched her thumb where the crucifix in her grip had bitten into it. Moving to her desk she dropped into her seat with a fragile sigh then pushed her coif back to rub her temples. Sometimes she wished they still wore the elaborate, heavily starched head covering that was once synonymous with nuns. It would have been better for hiding her bleary bloodshot eyes and pale skin than the modern headband and small veil that was now in use.
It was too early in the morning for Able’s earnest nature, too early for a woman who had consumed as many shooters as she had the night before. She couldn’t even remember leaving the bar she’d staggered out of, Casey’s or Carson’s on Level Four or Five, her wounded memory let the information go. Dragging herself in to work had required Olympian effort, and when she had looked up over her hot black coffee to see Able Stoneworthy standing there, fear disintegrated the last veils of her morning-after numbness.
Mortal. Venial. The difference in sins was a few thousand years in purgatory give or take. That was nothing. True purgatory was having a job that wouldn’t let her recognize her own G-spot. A guilty grin appeared on her face but was wiped away by a painful throb in her temples.
Then Able started in about an Angel visiting him. Smiling idiotically about it had come easily to her. That was the worst part of loving him; the lies were coming so easily to her. The irony was his trust hurt her more than his discovering the truth ever would. She set her rosary and crucifix aside, then leaned back in her chair pressing the backs of her hands to her aching eyes. “Oh, Able.” O kind and good Mother, whose own soul was pierced by the sword of sorrow, look upon us while, in our sickness…
The deceit had not been so easy when Able first brought her into his mission. Then, she had been deep in the cups of her own penance, and his religious fervor had been an easy crutch to grab onto.
She had traveled from South Africa to the New York on her 23rd birthday for a United Nations New Millennium conference on feeding the poor in developing countries. All so long ago now, but she had special interest in the topic since her country had been in dire need of such assistance. The new regimes that followed Apartheid were behaving no better than the worst of Africa’s despots. That on top of years of inequity had left her country grossly out of balance. Most of her black countrymen remained poor and were now being joined by thousands of whites. Competition for oil company revenues fueled the pirate governments and the distance between rich and poor had grown to almost insurmountable proportions.
How young she had been then, how idealistic. Then she said aloud: “How naive.” Everyone involved was
