remember them and care enough to come looking for them.
With stubby candles in cobalt blue votives from the Catholic church three blocks from their apartment, and wilted, unsalable flowers from the Korean market down the street, Jace and Tyler had made their own memorial to their mother. They had set up a little altar of sorts in the living room. Their centerpiece: a photograph of Alicia, taken long ago, in better times.
Tyler had dug the picture out of a cloth-covered box their mother had had as long as Jace could remember. He had looked through it many times when his mother had been out, but not with her there. She hadn’t offered to share it. A box of memories with no stories, no explanations. Photographs of people Jace had never known, taken in places he had never been. Secrets that would forever remain secrets.
Jace had given a short eulogy, then he and Tyler had each named the qualities about their mother they had loved most, and would miss most. They had said their good-byes and put out the candles. Then Jace had held his little brother tight, and both of them had cried, Jace as silently as he could because he was all they had now, and he had to be strong.
Alicia had told Jace never to worry if something ever happened to her, that in the event of tragedy, he should call a phone number she made him memorize, and ask for Alli. Only, when Jace called the number from a pay phone, he was told it was no longer in service. And so there was no Alli, and there was plenty to worry about.
The next day Jace had gone looking for another place for them to live. He had set his sights on Chinatown for a number of reasons. One, because he wanted Tyler to grow up in a place where he didn’t have to worry some junkie would beat his head in for a nickel or take him and sell him to a pedophile to get money for his next fix. Two, because the community was so eclectic, no one would think them out of place there. And three, because he figured if he could actually get them in among the Chinese, he wouldn’t have to worry someone would rat them out to Children and Family Services. The Chinese ran their community their own way, discouraging intrusion from the outside world. Family was more than just a word defined by the County of Los Angeles. The difficulty would be in getting accepted.
Jace had gone up and down the streets, looking for a menial job, being turned down again and again. Nobody wanted him, nobody trusted him, and most of them conveyed the sentiment without speaking a word of English.
At the end of the third fruitless day, when Jace had been almost ready to give up, Tyler had dragged him into a fish market to look at the live catfish in the tank in the front window.
Typical Tyler, he had gone right up to the person who looked most likely to have answers, and proceeded to ask half a million questions about the catfish—where had they come from, how old were they, what kind were they, were they boys or girls, what did they eat, how often did the tank have to be cleaned.
The person he had chosen to ask was a tiny Chinese woman with the bearing of a queen, nicely dressed, dark hair done up in a bun. She was probably fifty-something, and looked as if she could have balanced a glass of champagne on top of her head and walked to the end of the block without spilling a drop.
She listened to Tyler’s stream-of-consciousness questions with one brow lifted, then took him by the hand, went to the fish tank, and patiently answered each of them. Tyler soaked up the information like a sponge, like he had never learned anything more fascinating. He looked up at the woman with wide-eyed eager wonder, and the woman’s heart melted.
Tyler had that sort of effect on people. There was something about him that seemed both wise and innocent at once. An old soul, Madame Chen called him. She had fed them dinner in the small restaurant next door, where everyone jumped to please her as she snapped at them in Chinese.
She had quizzed Jace
With stubby candles in cobalt blue votives from the Catholic church three blocks from their apartment, and wilted, unsalable flowers from the Korean market down the street, Jace and Tyler had made their own memorial to their mother. They had set up a little altar of sorts in the living room. Their centerpiece: a photograph of Alicia, taken long ago, in better times.
Tyler had dug the picture out of a cloth-covered box their mother had had as long as Jace could remember. He had looked through it many times when his mother had been out, but not with her there. She hadn’t offered to share it. A box of memories with no stories, no explanations. Photographs of people Jace had never known, taken in places he had never been. Secrets that would forever remain secrets.
Jace had given a short eulogy, then he and Tyler had each named the qualities about their mother they had loved most, and would miss most. They had said their good-byes and put out the candles. Then Jace had held his little brother tight, and both of them had cried, Jace as silently as he could because he was all they had now, and he had to be strong.
Alicia had told Jace never to worry if something ever happened to her, that in the event of tragedy, he should call a phone number she made him memorize, and ask for Alli. Only, when Jace called the number from a pay phone, he was told it was no longer in service. And so there was no Alli, and there was plenty to worry about.
The next day Jace had gone looking for another place for them to live. He had set his sights on Chinatown for a number of reasons. One, because he wanted Tyler to grow up in a place where he didn’t have to worry some junkie would beat his head in for a nickel or take him and sell him to a pedophile to get money for his next fix. Two, because the community was so eclectic, no one would think them out of place there. And three, because he figured if he could actually get them in among the Chinese, he wouldn’t have to worry someone would rat them out to Children and Family Services. The Chinese ran their community their own way, discouraging intrusion from the outside world. Family was more than just a word defined by the County of Los Angeles. The difficulty would be in getting accepted.
Jace had gone up and down the streets, looking for a menial job, being turned down again and again. Nobody wanted him, nobody trusted him, and most of them conveyed the sentiment without speaking a word of English.
At the end of the third fruitless day, when Jace had been almost ready to give up, Tyler had dragged him into a fish market to look at the live catfish in the tank in the front window.
Typical Tyler, he had gone right up to the person who looked most likely to have answers, and proceeded to ask half a million questions about the catfish—where had they come from, how old were they, what kind were they, were they boys or girls, what did they eat, how often did the tank have to be cleaned.
The person he had chosen to ask was a tiny Chinese woman with the bearing of a queen, nicely dressed, dark hair done up in a bun. She was probably fifty-something, and looked as if she could have balanced a glass of champagne on top of her head and walked to the end of the block without spilling a drop.
She listened to Tyler’s stream-of-consciousness questions with one brow lifted, then took him by the hand, went to the fish tank, and patiently answered each of them. Tyler soaked up the information like a sponge, like he had never learned anything more fascinating. He looked up at the woman with wide-eyed eager wonder, and the woman’s heart melted.
Tyler had that sort of effect on people. There was something about him that seemed both wise and innocent at once. An old soul, Madame Chen called him. She had fed them dinner in the small restaurant next door, where everyone jumped to please her as she snapped at them in Chinese.
She had quizzed Jace
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