Read Online Criss Cross by Lynne Rae Perkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynne Rae Perkins
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bag. A shoe. A plastic cigarette lighter. A comb.
Combs, Hector had noticed, were everywhere. Not here, but when you were walking down the street. They were usually the short, black, plastic kind, as if that kind was especially hard to keep imprisoned in a back pocket or a purse. You could sort of picture them, springing silently out of pockets and purses all over town. All over the world.
Boing, boing, boing.
Free! All over the world, hands digging into pockets and purses, searching. But it was too late. They were gone.
He was thinking now that it might not be a good idea to bring Meadow here if it was, like, a drinking spot. For one thing, he didn’t know whose drinking spot it was, or how often it was used. He felt a sudden sensation, as if maybe he wasn’t alone, as if maybe someone was there right now. He looked, at first just moving his eyes. Then turning around, slowly. But no one was there. He couldn’t see anyone.
It was such a pretty little place. The furry creature reappeared from the brook and scampered calmly along the bank. Hector didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t think it was a rat. He didn’t think rats could swim. The Pied Piper and all that.
He squatted down and started filling the potato chip bag with broken glass and whatever else would fit. The shoe was not going to fit into the bag. He considered some of the circumstances under which a person might lose one shoe without noticing it was missing.
The trash looked old. It wasn’t fresh trash. He thought he would clean it up and check back, and if fresh trash didn’t appear, maybe it would mean that no one came here anymore and it could be his spot. He thought that until a car rumbled by and a paper grocery bag sailed through the foliage just inches from his head. It landed with a thunk and a rip and released its contents at the water’s edge. Someone’s kitchen garbage. Eggshells and coffee grounds, pork chop bones, a ketchup bottle, some cans and plastic, some greasy paper towels …
A breeze stirred the whispering honey locusts, lifted a few wadded-up Kleenexes from the heap, nudged them into the brook. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily. The furry thing was watching, too. Hector felt a kinship with the furry thing. As the so-called higher life form, he felt compelled to remove his fellow-human’s garbage from the furry thing’s home. It occurred to him that the furry thing might like one or two things in the bag. But he wasn’t going to pick through it to find them.
He turned the bag so that the rip was on top and balanced the chip bag full of broken glass on top of that, then carefully stood up and turned. He made his way up the steep path, hoping his unstable parcel of mold, rot, shards, and contagion would not fall apart all over him.
Because his burden of garbage was large and precarious, he could not look down at the path and had to go by the feel of the dirt under his sneakers. He also had to go sideways so he would remain vertical, i.e., not tip over backward. Brambles clawed at his shirttail. Sour aromas filled his nose and swarmed over his skin and clothing. A small jar (olives?) worked itself loose and bounced back down to the bottom.
“I’m sorry,” said Hector. “I can’t come back for you. I would if I could, but I can’t.”
At the top he maneuvered backward between the fence and the bridge wall with luck and grace, and he emerged onto the sidewalk with a feeling of triumph, of savoir faire. Until he realized he didn’t know what to do next. And that there wasn’t a lot of time to think about it. The paper bag was damp. From damp to soggy was a short distance, and from soggy to not even there was even shorter. He strode purposefully toward the center of town, keeping an eye peeled for a garbage can. Something sloshed with each step—he could feel a wetness on his midriff—but he walked on. It was remarkable how under-garbage-canned this area of town was. Also, how much traffic
Combs, Hector had noticed, were everywhere. Not here, but when you were walking down the street. They were usually the short, black, plastic kind, as if that kind was especially hard to keep imprisoned in a back pocket or a purse. You could sort of picture them, springing silently out of pockets and purses all over town. All over the world.
Boing, boing, boing.
Free! All over the world, hands digging into pockets and purses, searching. But it was too late. They were gone.
He was thinking now that it might not be a good idea to bring Meadow here if it was, like, a drinking spot. For one thing, he didn’t know whose drinking spot it was, or how often it was used. He felt a sudden sensation, as if maybe he wasn’t alone, as if maybe someone was there right now. He looked, at first just moving his eyes. Then turning around, slowly. But no one was there. He couldn’t see anyone.
It was such a pretty little place. The furry creature reappeared from the brook and scampered calmly along the bank. Hector didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t think it was a rat. He didn’t think rats could swim. The Pied Piper and all that.
He squatted down and started filling the potato chip bag with broken glass and whatever else would fit. The shoe was not going to fit into the bag. He considered some of the circumstances under which a person might lose one shoe without noticing it was missing.
The trash looked old. It wasn’t fresh trash. He thought he would clean it up and check back, and if fresh trash didn’t appear, maybe it would mean that no one came here anymore and it could be his spot. He thought that until a car rumbled by and a paper grocery bag sailed through the foliage just inches from his head. It landed with a thunk and a rip and released its contents at the water’s edge. Someone’s kitchen garbage. Eggshells and coffee grounds, pork chop bones, a ketchup bottle, some cans and plastic, some greasy paper towels …
A breeze stirred the whispering honey locusts, lifted a few wadded-up Kleenexes from the heap, nudged them into the brook. Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily. The furry thing was watching, too. Hector felt a kinship with the furry thing. As the so-called higher life form, he felt compelled to remove his fellow-human’s garbage from the furry thing’s home. It occurred to him that the furry thing might like one or two things in the bag. But he wasn’t going to pick through it to find them.
He turned the bag so that the rip was on top and balanced the chip bag full of broken glass on top of that, then carefully stood up and turned. He made his way up the steep path, hoping his unstable parcel of mold, rot, shards, and contagion would not fall apart all over him.
Because his burden of garbage was large and precarious, he could not look down at the path and had to go by the feel of the dirt under his sneakers. He also had to go sideways so he would remain vertical, i.e., not tip over backward. Brambles clawed at his shirttail. Sour aromas filled his nose and swarmed over his skin and clothing. A small jar (olives?) worked itself loose and bounced back down to the bottom.
“I’m sorry,” said Hector. “I can’t come back for you. I would if I could, but I can’t.”
At the top he maneuvered backward between the fence and the bridge wall with luck and grace, and he emerged onto the sidewalk with a feeling of triumph, of savoir faire. Until he realized he didn’t know what to do next. And that there wasn’t a lot of time to think about it. The paper bag was damp. From damp to soggy was a short distance, and from soggy to not even there was even shorter. He strode purposefully toward the center of town, keeping an eye peeled for a garbage can. Something sloshed with each step—he could feel a wetness on his midriff—but he walked on. It was remarkable how under-garbage-canned this area of town was. Also, how much traffic
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