Together always (6 page)

They spent Christmas at an old motel in Santa Monica. There was no tree but he bought a cheap doll, wrapping it clumsily and leaving it beside Lily's bed for her to find on

Christmas morning. He almost wept at the look of excitement on her face when she saw the present, because he knew it couldn't possibly be anything she wanted. And yet the excitement didn't fade when she saw the simple baby doll with the impossibly bright blue painted eyes.

*'Oh, Trace, she's beautiful." She cradled the doll in her arms, looking up at him with a happy smile. "I'll call her Esmeralda and she'll be friends with Isaiah."

Trace looked at her and he wanted to tear the doll away from her and throw it in the trash. She shouldn't be spending Christmas in a run-down hotel, receiving a doll from Woolworth's as her only gift. She should be living with a loving family, people who'd give her the things she deserved. She should have been the angel in the Christmas play.

Sometimes he thought maybe Lily would be better off if the Welfare Department did find them. Maybe they'd find her a good home, a real home. Or maybe they'd send her back to Oklahoma. One way or another, he'd lose her forever. She might have been better off without him but he couldn't bring himself to let her go.

"I have a present for you. I made it myself." She reached under her bed and pulled out a coloring book, opening it to the back and tugging out a raggedly torn piece of paper that had obviously once been attached in the book.

"It got a little wrinkled." Lily smoothed the sheet of paper on the bed, her face intent.

"That's okay. A few wrinkles never hurt nothin'."

"I was going to wrap it only I couldn't figure out how." Trace took the scruffy piece of paper from her and solemnly studied the crayon drawing. It wasn't difficult to recognize the sticklike figures. Bold strokes of black crayon flowed around the head of the smaller one and tucked beneath one arm was a pink dog. The other figure was much taller. Yellow crayon had been streaked through with brown

in an attempt to get the right dark blond shade. Two bright blue spots in the middle of the face were clearly eyes. His arm was around the smaller figure.

**It's the two of us, Trace.'' Lily leaned on the bed next to him, her eager face bent over the drawing. "It's a portrait just like they hang in museums. I was going to do one of just you but you looked lonely so I put me and Isaiah in it and then it looked better. Do you like it?"

Trace kept his eyes on the drawing, ashamed of the tears he knew must be visible in his eyes. Out of the mouth of babes. So he'd looked lonely when she drew him by himself. That was exactly what he'd been before her. Alone and lonely.

"Trace, do you like it?" Lily's question was a little more anxious this time and he cleared his throat.

"I think it's the most wonderful present anyone has ever given me." Her face lit up in a bright smile.

"Really?"

"Really."

She threw her arms around him, pressing her face against his shoulder. Trace hugged her awkwardly, still enough of the boy left for him to feel uncomfortable with open affection.

"I love you. Trace."

"I...love you, too, Lily." The words were rusty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used them. Maybe when he was little he'd told his mother he loved her, but that was a very long time ago.

Lily's arms tightened around him, her voice muffled in his shirt. "We're going to be together always, aren't we. Trace? Forever and ever."

"Forever and ever. Pretty soon, things are going to start going our way, Lily. We aren't going to be living in motels forever. I'm going to get a job and we'll find a place to live and everything will be nice. I've just got to find a good job."

"You can do it, Trace. I know you can." She looked up at him, absolute belief in her eyes.

But IT WAS going to take more than Lily's behef in him to change the way they were living. Getting a job was easier said than done. No one wanted to hire a scruffy kid they didn't know—a kid with no identification and no useful experience. Trace picked up an occasional day's work but never anything lasting. The money kept dwindling until the time came when they didn't have enough left to stay in even the cheapest of motels.

They joined the nameless people who lived on the streets of Los Angeles, picking through garbage cans for food, sleeping in packing boxes. The Southern California spring came early so at least they didn't have to worry about the cold, but that was the only thing that went their way. No matter hov/ bad their situation got, Lily's belief in Trace never wavered. When he wanted to give up and lie down and die, he'd look at her and know that he couldn't do it, not as long as she was depending on him to take care of her.

He shielded her as best as he could but he couldn't protect her from all the horrors of living on the streets. Derelicts, junkies and prostitutes were their neighbors wherever they spent the night. Some of them were kind, but most of them regarded two children as just that much more competition for the few resources the streets offered.

January marked Trace's sixteenth birthday, though he barely gave it a thought. At sixteen he could have easily passed for twenty, topping six feet and being broad shouldered, though the past few months of hard living had left him too thin. Most people didn't bother them.

He took odd jobs whenever and wherever he could find them, but they were few and far between and there was always Lily to worry about when he had to leave her alone.

When he couldn't find a job, he stole food to keep them ahve. His shame went deep but hunger went deeper still.

The best days were the times when he and Lily went to the library. It was warm and clean there and he could lose himself in a book. For a few short hours it was possible to pretend that everything was different. But they had to be careful, going at times when the Ubrarians wouldn't wonder why Lily wasn't in school. It was only a small escape.

Things couldn't go on the way they were. Lily might have boundless faith in him but Trace knew he was reaching the end of his rope. Her faith couldn't carry him much further. Something had to break and he was afraid it was going to be him. And then who would take care of Lily?

Chapter Four

The alley was quiet, with only the occasional shuffling movement from one of the bums who slept farther back in the darkness telling Trace they weren't alone. The early June night was hot. He'd heard some of the bums complaining that it was going to be a scorcher of a summer. Three months ago the street people had been competing for the warmest doorways and alleys. Now they were competing for the places that caught the edge of a cooling breeze.

It was only an hour or two until dawn. In the hills around Los Angeles, respectable people slept in their clean beds, dreaming of new cars, better jobs and mink coats. On the streets, the few dreams that were left were of hot meals and clean clothes. Even the streets slept at this hour.

Trace was awake.

He sat next to Lily's sleeping form, staring out at nothing in particular. A street lamp lit the mouth of the alley a few feet away, throwing sharp shadows into the packing crate they'd called home for almost a week now. Trace wasn't sure he knew how to dream anymore. There'd been a time when he'd had a lot of dreams but it was getting harder and harder to remember them. The only dream he still had left was for Lily. She wasn't going to grow up on the streets. That was the one promise he'd made himself. No

matter what, she was going to have a home. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to find it for her.

The way things were going lately, it would take a miracle. And his faith in miracles had been dead a long, long time.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb her, he picked up the old satchel that he'd taken when they left Oklahoma. God, that seemed years ago. He had to think hard to remember the boy he'd been then, the dreams he'd had. It had all seemed so simple. He shook his head and then had to stop, breathing deeply to control the dizziness. Lack of food. In the past three days he'd only been able to steal a few pieces of fruit and a tin of sardines. Most of that he'd given to Lily, telling her that he'd already eaten. He might have been able to steal more but he had to be so careful. If he got caught, Lily would be left alone.

When the dizziness passed, he opened the satchel and began removing its contents. It held pathetically little but it was everything they had in the world. He shook the clothing out carefully, hoping against hope that a forgotten dollar might fall out of some hidden pocket. There was nothing, and he ran his hand over the inside of the satchel, prying up the fiberboard bottom and running his fingers under it. He touched something and his heart leaped. God, let it be money. Even a dollar would buy them a box of crackers and a few pieces of fruit.

Trace held his breath as he eased the scrap of paper out of its trapped position, hardly daring to hope, unable to stop hoping. It slid free and he let his breath go in a rush, disappointment swamping him. He didn't even need to bring it out into the light to know it wasn't money. It wasn't the right size or the right feel.

It was an old envelope and he almost crumpled it up and threw it away, but something made him hesitate. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was a forlorn hope that the paper might offer some salvation. Whatever the reason, he turned

the envelope toward the street lamp and squinted at it, trying to make out the lines of print that ran across it. He couldn't read what was written there, but in his mind's eye he had a sudden image.

"If something goes wrong, you can go here and get help.*' John. He hadn't thought of the man who'd given them a ride to Denver in months, but now his image was as clear as if the driver were standing next to him in the alley. '*If something goes wrong, you can go here and get help."

Trace smoothed the envelope over his knees, his fingers shaking. He'd forgotten all about it. He'd taken the address because it was easier than refusing. He'd been so sure they wouldn't need help. It was a miracle he hadn't thrown the piece of paper away. A miracle. Hadn't he just been thinking that a miracle was what he and Lily needed? Maybe this was it.

It was barely Ught when he roused Lily and they left the alley. She followed him without complaint. He knew she was hungry but she didn't say anything. She knew as well as he did that they didn't have any food. Determination set his jaw into a tight hard line, adding years to his age. It wasn't right that she was living like this.

They snuck into a gas station bathroom and did their best to clean up. It wasn't possible to wash away the grime of four months on the streets with a harsh paper towel and cold water but Trace did the best he could, running a comb through Lily's hair and smoothing his own into vague order. Staring into the cracked mirror, he barely recognized the face looking back at him. It wasn't the same face he'd known a year ago. But then, he wasn't the boy he'd been a year ago.

It cost them the last few cents he had in his pocket to catch a bus to Glendale, but it was too far to walk. Trace was pinning all his hopes on the scruffy envelope in his pocket. There had to be someone who'd help them at the address

John had given them—someone who would at least help Lily, if not him.

The address turned out to be a liquor store and Trace felt his hope flicker. It didn't seem likely that there'd be any help here. He checked the address again, sure that he must have made a mistake, but the printing was strong and clear. Well, they were here and, God knew, they had nothing left to lose.

'*Lily, I want you to wait outside for me. Don't talk to anyone and don't move from right here. Okay?"

She nodded, her eyes too big in her thin face. "What are you going to do. Trace?"

"I'm going to talk to someone about a job." That was as good an explanation as any. He didn't want to tell her any more, didn't want her to hope for something that might not exist. "You wait right here for me, okay?"

"Okay. Trace? Do you think maybe, if you can get the job, they'd give you something to eat?"

"I'm sure they will." He had to force the words out past the tightness in his throat.

A bell jingled as he pushed open the door. Inside, the store was cool and clean. A long counter filled one side of the room, and behind it were the liquor bottles. On another wall was a glass case full of beer, sodas and a few rather limp, prepackaged sandwiches. Two short aisles of food provided most of the necessary ingredients for a casual get-together. Chips and dip, crackers and cookies. Trace's stomach rumbled hungrily and he had to drag his eyes from the display of food.

He turned his attention to the man who stood behind the counter. The last faint hope drained away. There was no way this man was going to help them. Maybe John had written down the wrong address, maybe the store had changed hands or maybe he'd been playing some cruel joke, but they'd get no help from this man.

For one thing, he was talking with a customer, obviously on the best of terms, and the customer was wearing a very crisp, very official uniform. When you lived on the streets, you learned that the police were not your friends, at least not if you wanted to stay on the streets. Trace had become adept at recognizing a police car from at least a block off, giving him time to dart into concealment, terrified the officers would stop and ask why he wasn't in school, why Lily wasn't in school.

Setting aside the fact that the proprietor was on chummy terms with a cop, Trace could see just by looking at the man that there was no help to be had. Medium height but stocky enough to look shorter. Red hair cut short in a vaguely military style. His face square jawed and tough. There was no softness there, no compassion.

Anger slid into the void left by half-formed hope. Anger, despair and a desperate defiance. He'd spent their last penny to come here. They had nothing left. Nothing in the world but each other. He'd been a fool to hope. He should have learned by now that hope was a cruel emotion, leading to disappointment. Well, he'd been a fool for the last time. He was damned if they'd come all this way only to leave with empty belhes. He turned his attention to the shelves of food, vaguely aware of the jingle of the bell as the officer left.