Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [1]
Anthony needed to get away almost as much as Carlo and Anne. He was a teenager eager for the taste of a day without parents, without rules, and with pockets jammed with allowance money. All of it out there waiting less than an hour’s ride from the safety of a New Jersey colonial. His only obstacle had been to convince Jennifer.
She balked when she first heard the plan, and it was all he could do to keep her from spilling the secret. Jennifer was afraid something would go wrong, believing all the horror stories she had heard. But she stayed silent, her arms always wrapped around a Kermit the Frog doll, confident Anthony would protect her and allow nothing bad to happen.
Confident that he would be the one to keep her safe.
Jennifer was a frail girl, with a thin, freckled face, eager to cross the bridge from preteen to young adult. She wore a long-sleeved Gap denim shirt over a white pocket T. The jeans were tight and bleached, bottoms scraping a pair of red hightops. Black bangs brushed the corners of her eyes.
“Should we really do this?”
“Stay home if you’re scared,” Anthony said, walking from her room.
“I’m not scared,” Jennifer said right back.
“Then get ready,” Anthony told her. “And don’t forget to bring your own money.”
They walked down a sloping hill, ice, dirt, and moldy leaves brushing against their shoes. Jennifer kept her hands inside her coat pockets. On her shoulders was a backpack filled with a change purse, Kermit, and a hairbrush. Anthony kept his face away from the arctic blasts of wind bouncing past trees and houses. They moved in silence, each excited at the prospect of doing something forbidden.
Anthony held the door to the 7-Eleven across the two-lane street from the bus shelter. He checked his watch as his sister walked past.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “Get what you want and meet me by the stop.”
They boarded the 11:04.
Anthony paid for the one-way tickets with exact change. They walked down the center aisle toward the back of the bus, taking two empty seats four rows from an old couple bundled into down coats. Anthony unzipped his black leather jacket and leaned back, thick black curls resting against the torn edge of the seat. He closed his eyes as the bus swung past a series of minimart shops, fast-food outlets, and used car dealerships, heading for the speed lane of a congested thruway and the streets of New York City.
“I can’t wait to see the stores,” Jenny said, her Styrofoam cup of tea now cold in her hand.
“We’ll walk around a bit,” Anthony said, eyes still closed. “Get a feel for the place.”
“Will it be crowded?”
“It’s New York.” Anthony turned his head toward the window. “It’s always crowded.”
“We gonna be home before dark?”
Anthony didn’t answer, rocked to sleep by the motion of the bus.
“I hope we’re home before dark,” Jennifer Santori whispered to herself.
• • •
THE BUS PULLED into the top level of New York’s Port Authority terminal at 11:56 A.M., three minutes past its projected arrival. Jennifer put a hand on her brother’s shoulder and woke him.
“What will we do first?” Jennifer asked, zipping her parka.
“Find a bathroom,” Anthony said.
They walked among thick crowds, Anthony holding Jennifer’s hand. He repeated his warnings not to leave him. To wait where he left her.
To speak to no one.
To look at no one.
Anthony pushed open the men’s room door, the one directly across from the Papaya King. He left Jennifer against the wall next to the door, pointed a finger in her face, and again told her not to move.
She answered with a nod.
He was out in less than five minutes.
He looked to his left and swallowed hard, feeling the sweat and the chill. Anthony Santori stood there and did the only thing he could think to do. He shouted his sister’s name. Again and again and again and again. He shouted it as loud and as strong and as often as he could.
But there never was a response.
His ears were filled with the din of passing conversations. People