Finding Noel (7 page)

A girl and two boys ran into the room. The girl was stout, slightly younger than Macy and bore a resemblance to the woman. Standing behind the girl one boy appeared to be Macy's age, the other a few years older. They all stared at her as if she were some new species of animal. For a moment no one spoke. Then the girl said, “That's not Buffy.”

The woman took off her coat, hooking it to a coat tree. “I told you
Buffy
was already taken.”

Macy glanced back and forth between them.
Who was Buffy?

“I wanted
Buffy.
”

“You'll take
her.
”

“What's her name?” the older boy asked.

“I'm Macy,” she said trying to sound cheerful.

“Stupid name,” the younger boy said.

“Not as stupid as
Buffy
,” the older boy said, laughing. “Booooffeeee,” he said, taunting his sister.

“You said I could have Buffy for Christmas,” the girl whined.

“Just shut up,” the woman said. “Buffy's gone. Someone else got her.”

“What are your names?” Macy asked.

“Bart,” said the oldest. “He's Ronny and that's Sheryl.”

“Hi, guys,” Macy said brightly.

No one answered. Just then a dog came into the room. It was large—gigantic to Macy—with brown, brindled fur. Its head looked awkwardly large for its body. It stopped when it saw Macy and a deep, fierce growl rose from its throat.

Macy took a step back. She was afraid of dogs. Especially this one.

“Buster don't like new people,” Bart said.

“Eat her, Buster,” Ronny said.

Macy froze with fear. The dog's ears fell back and it barked loud enough to hurt Macy's ears.

“Get that dog outta here,” the woman shouted at Bart.

“She's a pit bull,” Bart said to Macy. “They call them that cuz they made them for fightin' in pits. She could kill you in one second flat.”

“I said get! And clean up his mess on the back porch.”

“It's not my turn.”

“I don't care whose turn it is, I told you to do it.”

“Make the new girl do it,” Ronny said.

“Yeah,” Bart said to Macy. “That's your new job, cleaning up after Buster.”

“Now!” the woman screamed.

Bart groaned, then grabbed the dog by the collar and began dragging it away. “C'mon, Buster.”

The woman turned to Sheryl. “Now show her the room.”

Sheryl defiantly crossed her arms. “She can't sleep in my room.”

The woman shot a fierce glance at the girl and she wilted beneath it.

“Okay,
fine
,” Sheryl said.

Mrs. Hummel walked from the room. Sheryl turned to Macy, her face screwed up in anger and defeat. “C'mon.”

Macy looked back at the front door. She could run away from these ugly, mean people, but to where? She had no idea where she was. She lifted her plastic bag.

“Why you carrying a garbage sack?” Ronny asked.

“Nun' your business,” Macy said.

He looked at her ornament. “What's in your hand?”

“Nun' your business.”

He moved toward her. “Give it to me.”

Macy looked him in the eyes. She let the sack fall to the ground, then balled her fist. “Touch it and I'll knock you clear into tomorrow.”

Ronny paused, uncertain of whether or not she could but pretty certain she'd try. Macy had fought bigger boys. Boys at the drug rehabilitation centers who wanted to do things to her or her sister. She had won some of those fights, or at least made enough trouble to deter them. But there were times that she lost and they did what they wanted. She had never felt so vulnerable as when she was being
protected
by the state.

Ronny, ashamed at being backed down, walked out of the room. Macy followed Sheryl to the bedroom. It was a box of a room, cramp and cluttered, the floor littered with clothes
and foam rubber chunks from a cushion the dog had gotten at. There was a bunk bed in the corner of the room.

“You sleep on top. Unless you wet the bed. You wet the bed?”

“No.”

“Better not.”

Sheryl left the room. Macy threw her bag on the top bunk, then looked around for a place to hide her ornament. Another world, another uncertainty. One thing she knew for certain—she would leave the first chance she got.

Macy has decided to find her sister which might be a little tricky seeing how she can't even remember her sister's name. I have a feeling that somehow her journey will involve me. I can't imagine a better travel companion.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

I showed up at the Hut a few minutes before seven. I parked next to Macy's car in the back lot and entered by the employee's entrance, a black metal door decorated with bumper stickers. I had my guitar slung across my back, its bright yellow strap crossing my chest. Macy had been waiting for me and smiled when she saw me. She took my hand, leading me to the same office where I had made the phone call. This time a man, mid-forties and balding, occupied the desk.

“Jeff, this is Mark.”

Jeff glanced up at me. “Pleasure,” he said with impersonal cordiality. “You got a big crowd tonight.”

“Thanks for letting me play.”

“You betcha,” he said. “You know any Christmas songs?”

“Not for the guitar.”

“Maybe you could learn some.” He returned to his calculator.

Macy led me out.

“Christmas songs?” I said.

“He's trying to push holiday gift sales. Just be glad he didn't ask if you could play the
Star Wars
theme.”

“I'm glad for all of us.”

In the corner of the room was a black vinyl-upholstered stool set behind a chrome microphone stand. The mike was plugged in to a small suitcase-size amp. A light on the amp glowed amber.

“I have something for you.” She lifted a flyer from a nearby table. It read:

Guitar Lessons from Mark Smart

Reasonably Priced

Call 445-3989

“I assumed you were reasonably priced. If you're not, you can just write ‘un' in front of ‘reasonably'. I put my own number down until you get a phone.”

Again I was amazed at her thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”

“Let me know if you need anything else. Knock us dead.”

As she went back behind the counter, I unlatched my case and lifted out my guitar, leaving the case open for tips. When I thought no one was looking, I dropped in a five-dollar bill of my own. Priming the pump.

I straddled the vinyl stool. Nearly every seat in the place was taken and everyone seemed content in their own conversations, unaware of my presence. I felt like I was intruding. Maybe they'd tip me
not
to play.

I adjusted the chrome microphone stand, then tapped the microphone. It was dead. I found the switch and turned it on. There was instant feedback, a shrill screech that brought the place to a standstill, like the amplified sound of nails scraping
across a chalkboard. I lunged at the mike and shut it off, nearly dropping my guitar in the process. If I had wanted to be unobtrusive, I had just blown it. I glanced over at the counter and Macy was grinning.

I moved the microphone a safe distance from the amp, danced my fingers through a few silent chords, then started lightly picking until it felt good, and I started into a song. At first some of the customers glanced over at me but just as quickly returned to their lattes and conversations. My first song, a James Taylor number, received polite applause.
At least no one threw anything
. I played a couple more songs, and with each one I brought a few more of the customers in. About a half hour later I felt confident enough to speak to the crowd.

“I'd like to play something I wrote. This is a song for my mother.”

Several of those at the closest tables turned their chairs toward me. I played the song Macy had heard me practicing when she came to my apartment. This time when I finished, everyone in the room clapped. I looked over and even the workers were watching. Macy gave me a thumbs up. A couple of women, one blond, the other a redhead, got up to leave but first walked out of their way toward me. The blonde dropped three dollar bills into my case. “That was great,” she said.

“Yeah,” said the other. “Will you be here next Thursday?”

“I'm not sure. I'm just filling in for someone.”

“We know,” said the blonde. “We're regulars. We hope you come back.”

“I've been thinking of taking guitar lessons,” said the redhead. “Are you taking new students?”

“Of course he is,” said the blonde. “Why else would he have a flyer?”

“If you give me your number,” I said, “I'll call and we can arrange a lesson.”

She wrote her number down on a napkin and handed it to me.

“She was hoping you'd ask for her number,” the blonde said.

“You're going to be walking home,” the redhead told her friend. She turned back to me, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They left the café.

By the end of the night the bottom of my guitar case was littered with bills and silver coins. I had exhausted my repertoire and was playing the same songs from earlier in the night, but the place had mostly cleared out except for Macy and a woman behind the counter. At midnight Macy locked the doors. I put away my guitar and counted my tips, stuffing the wad into my coat pocket. When Macy had finished cleaning, she came and sat next to me, bringing me a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream. “Everyone liked you,” she said. “Even Jeff was impressed. He said you can come back.”

“I'd love to.”

“How'd you make out on tips?”

“Almost fifty dollars.”

“That's
really
good. I think Carlos usually does twenty-something.”

“I don't think people like Carlos.”

“No. He's about twenty years past his prime. You're a good replacement.”

“And two people asked about lessons.”

“I'm not surprised. It's my flyer. It was…compelling.”

“It was compelling.” I laughed. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“How about breakfast? I'm craving pancakes.”

“Pancakes it is.”

We drove to a nearby IHOP. I ordered fries and Macy ordered a large stack of buttermilk pancakes, which she drowned in a sea of maple syrup. It was amusing to see someone that small with such a large appetite.

“I've been thinking a lot about what you said the other night,” Macy said. “I'm going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Find my sister.”

“Cool. So where do you start?”

“I called the DCFS this morning. I have an appointment with a caseworker tomorrow at ten.”

“What's DCFS?”

“Division of Child and Family Services. They're the ones who took me from home.” She looked down and cut a piece of pancake. “Do you know what I really hate? I hate that I can't even remember her name.” She shook her head emphatically. “I can't remember my own sister's
name.
” She lifted the fork to her mouth.