• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Yes.”

What else was I supposed to say? God had spoken.

I looked away from him and over at the trio of cops on the food line. They eyed our table as they ordered great tongue sandwiches, soup, and cream-lathered desserts. I knew it must be snowing again. Their shiny blue jackets were wet, the imitation beaver collars slick and ratty-looking. But the hungry cops would have to wait for an empty table. Uncle Woody was nowhere near finished talking.

“I don’t understand you, Cass,” he said. “You must get some kind of satisfaction from living this kind of life. But I’m damned if I know what it is. Who are these people to you? Why do you stay up there with them after all this mess has happened? What’d they ever give you?”

“They liked me, Woody.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Ivy said acridly. “Why don’t you tell the truth? You just want to be cut free to misbehave, without us watching you. You’d rather smoke that stuff and roll around with men than tend to the business of getting an education and taking your place in the world. Don’t you understand, Cass—you are needed. Young people like you are the only hope we have as a people.”

I couldn’t speak for a moment. Wilton had related the gist of numberless such lectures he’d received from Oscar Mobley. The difference was, I was too gutless to make some smart-ass reply.

So I was supposed to restore hope among my people. That was a tall motherfucking order, and I wasn’t even remotely up to it. Goofy, neurotic me, leading the race on to glory. No problem. I’m right up there with Sojourner and Malcolm and Booker T. They used to throw temper tantrums and hide whole German chocolate cakes under their beds, too, didn’t they? And eat LSD like it was salted peanuts?

I finally said, “When this is over, I’ll try to do better. I’ll apply myself better. Is that okay?”

They both had locked jaws and teeth.

“Like I said, I’ve a favor to ask. Another one. Will you do it, Ivy?”

“Me?”

“You. Help me this one last time. And then I’ll try to be more like you want me to be.”

“Oh, the hell you will, Cassandra.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, girl. What is it? Just tell me. And then go on out of here before I lose my mind.”

2

Sim was one of the last people I imagined fitting into the mix at the commune. And where was he going to sleep? I had an image of his huge feet hanging over the edge of the sofa. But then I realized there was no shortage of beds now. He could bunk in Annabeth’s abandoned room, or in Dan’s, anywhere but Wilton and Mia’s bed. That would be ghoulish.

He dropped me at the apartment and then went home to pack a few clothes, and maybe a couple of his LPs.

Before I left Valois, the venerable Woody had dispensed some more sage words. “Look through the boy’s belongings,” he said. “You may notice something nobody else would pay any mind to. Maybe you’ll be the only one it means something to.”

Good thinking. The problem was, I’d already done that. Most of the knickknacks in Wilt and Mia’s room had belonged to her—Hopi Indian dolls, yoga mat, jewelry, sewing baskets, that kind of thing. Wilt had little besides his clothing and the secondhand bicycle his boss at the shop had given him.

He didn’t have any other belongings except his books.

Then look at those, Woody instructed.

That idea didn’t sound so wise to me. In fact, it sounded dumb. I did it anyway. Nothing to lose.

“But they’re mixed up with everybody else’s,” Cliff pointed out when I enlisted his help.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “But it’s not going to be as hard as it sounds. Barry doesn’t have any books. Annabeth wasn’t much of a reader, either. Dan doesn’t have anything but art books. And all Taylor’s books are out on the sunporch. So that leaves Wilt and Mia, me and you. You know what’s yours, I know which ones are mine. That whittles it down a lot, right?”

He shrugged and started thumbing through the ones on the top shelf. We encountered Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I. F. Stone, The Doors of Perception, Richard Brautigan, Nine