stay one night. Maybe borrow a few dollars so I can get a change of clothes and a new backpack. Then he can forget all about me again.
Having a plan—no matter how shaky it was—made her feel better. Elly pushed herself to her feet and dug out her wallet. Her legs still felt like they’d been stuffed with jelly, but she could walk a little longer, then stick her thumb out if she had to. She slipped a piece of paper out of one of the credit card pockets and read the address for what must have been the millionth time since she’d sought it out last spring.
He’d walked away from them, but he hadn’t gone far. Maybe because, as mismatched and screwed up as they all were, they were family.
Or maybe that’s just where he was when he ran out of money.
It didn’t matter; she’d find out either way soon enough. Elly set off down the road, composing apologies to her brother with every step.
• • •
S HE HAD TO hitch with three different people to get there. Cavale lived about twenty minutes from Edgewood, in Crow’s Neck. In the early nineteen hundreds it had been a booming industrial town, but the Great Depression saw most of the textile mills closed, and Crow’s Neck had never recovered. Eighty years had taken their toll: the abandoned factories had been overtaken by grass and trees, the glass long gone from their windows. Whole neighborhoods were nothing but boarded-up houses and lawns gone to seed.
It wasn’t so much that Cavale lived in a bad part of town, as it was simply a place no one really wanted to go if they didn’t have to. The last driver, though,
did
seem to think local thugs were going to steal his hubcaps while Elly got out of the car if he brought her all the way to Cavale’s door. He’d insisted on looking up directions on his phone to ease his conscience. It had taken him longer to describe how she could walk to that address than it would have taken him to drive her the last couple of miles.
That was all right, though. Walking gave her time to prepare herself for the possibility that he might slam the door in her face.
Always have a contingency.
It was another of Father Value’s lessons. In this case her contingency consisted of two steps:
1. Do not cry on Cavale’s doorstep.
2. Practice her best panhandling face.
Hitching rides was fine, but rare were the drivers who’d offer to buy you lunch, too. She’d never stolen—well, never money or food; artifacts buried in churches were a different matter—and she wasn’t sure she could get away with it if she tried. Something about her made shop owners suspicious even if she walked in waving cash around.
There were signs of life in most of the houses: children’s toys left out on this one’s lawn, a few early Halloween decorations in that one’s windows, even a television blaring the twelve o’clock news—but there was an air of abandonment here, like the people who lived in these houses weren’t really
there
. This was the kind of place you went when you couldn’t afford better. She wondered how many families said, “When money’s not so tight, we’ll get out of here,” as their substitute for grace at dinner.
Forty-five Greenwood Street loomed like something out of a Lovecraftian dream: its chocolate brown paint was peeling, half the posts were missing from the porch railing, and the whole structure canted slightly off true. Cavale’s house was the last in the row of inhabited fixer-uppers. Beyond his residence, the street was all collapsing houses and broken pavement.
Where the other residents at least made token attempts at keeping their lawns neat, Cavale had let his grow wild. Dry, dead summer grass came up to Elly’s knees as she cut across the expanse, leaving a swath of beaten-down straw in her wake. She might have thought Cavale had moved on and abandoned the place if it weren’t for the mail in the box beside the door. The mailbox itself was holding on by one last nail, its body at a crooked angle. She
Having a plan—no matter how shaky it was—made her feel better. Elly pushed herself to her feet and dug out her wallet. Her legs still felt like they’d been stuffed with jelly, but she could walk a little longer, then stick her thumb out if she had to. She slipped a piece of paper out of one of the credit card pockets and read the address for what must have been the millionth time since she’d sought it out last spring.
He’d walked away from them, but he hadn’t gone far. Maybe because, as mismatched and screwed up as they all were, they were family.
Or maybe that’s just where he was when he ran out of money.
It didn’t matter; she’d find out either way soon enough. Elly set off down the road, composing apologies to her brother with every step.
• • •
S HE HAD TO hitch with three different people to get there. Cavale lived about twenty minutes from Edgewood, in Crow’s Neck. In the early nineteen hundreds it had been a booming industrial town, but the Great Depression saw most of the textile mills closed, and Crow’s Neck had never recovered. Eighty years had taken their toll: the abandoned factories had been overtaken by grass and trees, the glass long gone from their windows. Whole neighborhoods were nothing but boarded-up houses and lawns gone to seed.
It wasn’t so much that Cavale lived in a bad part of town, as it was simply a place no one really wanted to go if they didn’t have to. The last driver, though,
did
seem to think local thugs were going to steal his hubcaps while Elly got out of the car if he brought her all the way to Cavale’s door. He’d insisted on looking up directions on his phone to ease his conscience. It had taken him longer to describe how she could walk to that address than it would have taken him to drive her the last couple of miles.
That was all right, though. Walking gave her time to prepare herself for the possibility that he might slam the door in her face.
Always have a contingency.
It was another of Father Value’s lessons. In this case her contingency consisted of two steps:
1. Do not cry on Cavale’s doorstep.
2. Practice her best panhandling face.
Hitching rides was fine, but rare were the drivers who’d offer to buy you lunch, too. She’d never stolen—well, never money or food; artifacts buried in churches were a different matter—and she wasn’t sure she could get away with it if she tried. Something about her made shop owners suspicious even if she walked in waving cash around.
There were signs of life in most of the houses: children’s toys left out on this one’s lawn, a few early Halloween decorations in that one’s windows, even a television blaring the twelve o’clock news—but there was an air of abandonment here, like the people who lived in these houses weren’t really
there
. This was the kind of place you went when you couldn’t afford better. She wondered how many families said, “When money’s not so tight, we’ll get out of here,” as their substitute for grace at dinner.
Forty-five Greenwood Street loomed like something out of a Lovecraftian dream: its chocolate brown paint was peeling, half the posts were missing from the porch railing, and the whole structure canted slightly off true. Cavale’s house was the last in the row of inhabited fixer-uppers. Beyond his residence, the street was all collapsing houses and broken pavement.
Where the other residents at least made token attempts at keeping their lawns neat, Cavale had let his grow wild. Dry, dead summer grass came up to Elly’s knees as she cut across the expanse, leaving a swath of beaten-down straw in her wake. She might have thought Cavale had moved on and abandoned the place if it weren’t for the mail in the box beside the door. The mailbox itself was holding on by one last nail, its body at a crooked angle. She
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