Passage to Zarahemla Read online

  Lately the two of them had had many clashes over curfews and rules and other stuff that Brock felt were none of his sister’s business. He much preferred the company of Spree and the other members of the Shamans—the local street gang who hung out at the Stonewood Mall and the back alleys of Downey, California.

  In January he was arrested for hot-wiring a ’61 Lincoln Continental convertible. On that occasion his older accomplice had taken most of the rap, yet it was Brock who’d successfully crossed the wires and driven the car from the scene. His mother, always able to play the role of the overwrought single parent for onlookers, had convinced the authorities it would never happen again. But the police now had their eye on young Brock McConnell. As it happened, it was Kerra who’d actually enforced any discipline, enacting curfews, installing locks on his bedroom window to keep him inside at night, and chasing him down whenever he slipped past security. That was just before their mother began her final descent into the abyss.

  For the children’s sake, the mortician gave a kind of graveside memorial, which took all of three and a half minutes. Kerra looked up at the sky. The day was particularly bright and sunny, a fact that vexed her soul. Funerals were supposed to take place in the rain, right? Black umbrellas, huddled masses, the smell of wet streets and musty tombs. Instead, it was a perfect day for the beach, and the irony offended her. This was the blackest day of her life—a day she’d been dreading for years, a day she’d desperately hoped might not arrive until she was old enough to become Brock’s legal guardian.

  As they walked across the cemetery’s manicured lawn toward the social worker’s car, Mr. Paulson said the obligatory, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  He tried to sound sincere. He really did. But to Kerra it just sounded routine. All in a day’s work for a California social worker.

  Brock spoke his first words of the afternoon as they climbed into the ’91 Pontiac Sunbird. “I don’t see why we had to go to this dumb thing anyway.”

  As Kerra sat beside him in the backseat she tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away.

  An hour later, they were in Mr. Paulson’s office. Also present were a man and woman whom Kerra didn’t recognize. Nevertheless, she realized why they were here. And the realization made her heart feel like it was being squeezed in a mop strainer. The couple were obviously state-compensated foster parents. She and Brock had been told they were coming, but somehow it didn’t seem real. Nothing about these past four days had seemed real.

  “Unfortunately,” Mr. Paulson began, “we can’t keep you together. In a situation like this where the father is gone and there are no known relatives . . .” He looked up thoughtfully and asked the same question he’d already asked twice before. “Are you sure you have no idea where your father might . . . ?”

  Kerra shook her head impatiently. “No. He left us. Brock doesn’t even remember him.”

  Mr. Paulson sighed and sat back in his seat. “As you know, in this kind of situation our options are rather limited. Mr. and Mrs. Fleagle have agreed to take Brock. For you, Kerra, we’ll soon have—”

  “We won’t be separated,” said Kerra bluntly.

  Mr. Paulson sighed and removed his spectacles, a gesture apparently meant to show compassion, though it seemed rehearsed. “I know how you feel—”

  “No,” said Kerra. “You don’t.” She put her arm around Brock and drew him closer. “We won’t be separated.”

  Mrs. Fleagle, an austere-looking woman with crooked teeth, looked from Mr. Paulson to Kerra and back to Mr. Paulson. “I-I’m afraid we don’t have room for a boy and a girl—”

  “We don’t need anyone else,” Kerra insisted. “I can take care of him. I’ve been taking care of him.”

  “I’m sorry, Kerra,” said Mr. Paulson tiredly. “The law is quite clear. You’re only seventeen. And where the boy already has a criminal record—”

  “We’ll move,” she replied curtly. “I’ll get a job. We’ll be all right.”

  Her voice had an edge of desperation. Brock studied the patterns in the floor tile, doing his best to slouch and look unconcerned. But Kerra wasn’t fooled. The boy was scared to death.

  Mr. Paulson shook his head. “It’s out of the question. Maybe in the future we can make more permanent arrangements where you’re both in the same household.”

  “Can you guarantee that?” asked Kerra.

  Mr. Paulson hesitated. It was a fatal hesitation, and Kerra sensed it. Nevertheless, the caseworker replied, “We’ll do everything that we can.”

  At that moment Kerra made her decision. But she had to play the game. She had to buy a little more time.

  “All right,” she said, her voice full of defeat. “But he’s not even packed. All of our things are still at the apartment. Let me help him pack tonight. Mr. and Mrs. Fleagle can pick him up there in the morning.”

  Mr. Fleagle mumbled something about having very little room for more suitcases, considering that they were already caring for three other foster children. Kerra assured him that Brock’s things wouldn’t take up much space. Mr. Paulson finally blew a sigh and consented. He even agreed to drive them home.

  “But just to gather your things,” he hastily added. “You’ll both sleep at the center tonight.” He turned to the Fleagles. “Brock should be ready around eight A.M.”

  An hour later, as the summer sun sank into the Pacific, they arrived at their apartment complex on Stimson Street. Mr. Paulson had grown increasingly nervous the whole way there. Kerra might have thought he’d seen plenty of neighborhoods with residents who were primarily Hispanic, black, or from other minorities, but what she didn’t know was that Carson Paulson had made it a point throughout his career to work out of an office and not in the field. As they pulled into the parking lot, several tattoo-spangled bystanders eyed them suspiciously.

  “Is it safe to park my car here?” Mr. Paulson asked the children.

  Facetiously, Brock replied, “Yeah, I’d be worried. Old Pontiacs are in high demand.”

  “This may take us a couple hours,” said Kerra. “We can meet you back here when we’re finished.”

  Mr. Paulson glanced around again at the run-down neighborhood and the tattoos.

  “They don’t like strangers much,” Brock informed him. Mr. Paulson looked at his watch. “All right. But I’ll only give you one hour. Be ready.”

  Kerra and Brock climbed out of the backseat. They watched as Mr. Paulson drove away. As soon as he was out of sight, Kerra grabbed her brother’s arm and hoisted him

  toward the apartment.

  “C’mon,” she said.

  “Huh?” said Brock, confused.

  “Don’t act so surprised. We’re getting out of here.”

  * * *

  Brock waited until they were inside the apartment, pulling duffel bags and their mother’s lone travel trunk out of the closet, before he asked the obvious.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Does it matter?” said Kerra. “We’re staying together.” “What if I don’t want to go?” said Brock. “All my friends are here.”

  Kerra turned to her brother, her emotions torn between sympathy and frustration. “Don’t you get it? In a foster home you won’t see them anyway. We won’t see each other either. Do you want them to separate us forever?”

  He thought a moment, then confessed, “No.”

  “Do you want them to make it so we can’t ever be together again?”

  Her words simmered in the boy’s mind. At last he shook his head and remarked, “I hate them.”

  Kerra shuffled through the drawer next to the fridge until she found keys to her mother’s ’94 Ford Taurus. Delia McConnell still owed three thousand on the car, which was far more than it was presently worth. Despite this, no payments had been made for several months. Taped to the fridge was a threat to repossess it, but as of four days ago the threat had yet to be carried out. Kerra pressed the duffel bag into Brock’s arms.

  “Fill it,” she ordered him.

>   Brock shuffled down the hallway to his bedroom. He continued to listen to his sister ranting about how they would be forced to live on opposite sides of the world, how nobody really cared, and how they had to look out for each other because “no one else would.” She also mentioned that they had only eighty-six dollars to their name.

  For Brock it was all just too much to take in. And yet there was no denying a certain element of adventure to it all. Just him and Kerra against the world. Then again, hadn’t it always been like that? Brock shivered. He wasn’t quite sure why. Was it really the thought of losing his sister forever? This was actually a strange revelation. Until today he’d always considered her a major pain in the neck.

  As Brock entered his room, he stopped unexpectedly. How strange. His bedroom window was sitting open. What was more, it was till swinging slightly—and there was no wind. Then he saw the padlock that his sister had installed on the outside. The loop had been snipped.

  Suddenly a hand seized Brock’s face, pressing hard against his mouth. He tried to shriek, but the sound was squelched. Brock turned to see his attacker, and immediately his shoulders relaxed. It was Spree, his eighteen-year-old compadre and fellow gang member. He had a finger to his lips, earnestly motioning to Brock not to make a sound. Spree was decked in his usual grunge attire, double earrings in his ears and another stud just below his lip. Around his forehead was the red and black bandanna of their gang, the Shamans.

  Spree finally released the boy’s mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” Brock whispered urgently. “Shhh!” said Spree, peeking out the doorway to make sure Kerra was still off in the kitchen.

  Brock was beside himself. “If my sister finds you here, she’ll freak!”

  “Then stop whispering so loud!”

  For the first time Brock noticed a small leather gym bag in Spree’s left hand. It had a double zipper locked in the middle with a tiny padlock to insure the bag’s inaccessibility. Spree moved to the window and peeked out nervously into the night.

  “You broke into my room?” Brock asked in surprise.

  “Had to.” Spree turned back and said solemnly, “Hey, I heard about your old lady. Awful thing. But we all knew it would go down sooner or later. How are you doin’?”

  “All right,” said Brock, his tone noncommittal.

  Despite his condolences, Spree seemed distracted by other things. He was acting downright agitated. Spree was always a bit jumpy, but tonight he was more wound up than Brock had ever seen him.

  After checking the hallway one more time, Spree went back to Brock and said, “You and me are brothers, right? Partners?”

  “Sure, Spree, but—”

  “Then I got a favor to ask.” He locked eyes with the boy and announced, “I’m ditchin’ the Shamans.”

  “Ditchin’?”

  “Quittin’ the gang. I’m out, man. Movin’ on. I need you to look after something for a while.” Spree brought the bag forward.

  “What is it?” asked Brock.

  “Never mind. No peeking.”

  “But we’re leaving, Spree.”

  “Leavin’? Where’re ya goin’?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’re leavin’ town. Tonight.”

  Spree thought about this a moment, then declared, “Perfect.”

  Again he peeked around the bedroom door, still wary of Kerra. Then he grabbed Brock’s duffel bag and took the liberty of placing his padlocked leather bag inside it. Spree proceeded to hoist clothing from Brock’s dresser drawers, as if burying his property the way a dog might bury a bone.

  “You call me at my cousin’s when you get to where you’re going,” Spree continued. He handed the boy a small square card with the number on back.

  “But I don’t know when that’ll be,” said Brock.

  “Doesn’t matter. Just call. How would you feel about going into business together? You and me?”

  “Yeah,” said Brock uncertainly. “Sure.”

  Spree grabbed Brock’s shoulder to shake some enthusiasm into him. “I knew it! We’re a team! How many cars did we spring together? Ten? Fifteen?”

  “Three,” Brock corrected.

  Spree ignored that and indicated the duffel bag and his buried property. “Don’t lose it. I’m trusting you. I love ya, kid. I’ve always loved ya. Together we can do it all!”

  “All of what?” It was Kerra. Brock’s sister was standing right in the bedroom doorway. Spree and Brock looked up, startled. Kerra entered, her eyes shooting flames.

  “Hey, Kerra!” said Spree, smooth as snake oil. “Ooo, you look fine. New pants? My, my, my . ..”

  “How did you get in here?” Kerra demanded.

  “Uh, well—”

  Kerra saw the open window, the broken lock. Her tone rose to a fever pitch. “You broke into my house?”

  Brock glanced at the duffel bag to confirm that Spree’s leather bag was well hidden.

  Spree raised his hands innocently. “Just sayin’ good-bye to the kid—”

  “Get out!” raged Kerra. She grabbed up a ratty, warped tennis racket from off Brock’s shelf and drew it back threateningly.

  “I’m out!” said Spree, moving toward the window. “I’m out!”

  “NOW!”

  Spree hesitated, grinning crookedly. “Not even a goodbye kiss?”

  Kerra stepped toward him and swung. The racket barely missed Spree’s nose.

  “Kidding!” Spree half climbed, half leaped outside. Brock ran to the window before his friend had dropped down. “I’ll call you.”

  “No, he won’t!” Kerra shouted back at him. “Get outa here, Spree!”

  Brock and Spree smacked down on each other’s fists—a gesture of camaraderie. “Brothers,” said Spree. “Don’t forget.” Brock nodded.

  Kerra pulled Brock away and struck down onto the windowsill with the racket, hitting Spree’s knuckle. Spree dropped the last three feet, landing awkwardly on the hedge. Kerra and Brock’s eighty-year-old neighbor, Mrs. Dunquist, poked her nose out of her bedroom window to check out the commotion.

  Spree explained to the woman, “Little love spat. You know how it is.” He turned back to Kerra. “You’ll forgive me, won’t ya, honey? Sugar lips?”

  “Don’t ever talk to my brother again!” Kerra hissed.

  Spree backed away, throwing kisses. Brock’s window slammed shut. Mrs. Dunquist, frowning in disapproval, also disappeared. Spree laughed one final time, then all at once he went silent, again nervously scanning the dark corners all around him. At last, the young gangster picked up his bolt cutters off the grass, put the other hand in his pocket and slipped hastily into the night.

  * * *

  “You still haven’t said where we’re going,” Brock said in a low voice.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kerra replied.

  Toting a trunk nearly as large as herself, Kerra led her brother through the parking stalls. Brock was also loaded down, not only with the duffel bag, but with several three-ring binders full of Yu-Gi-Oh and Pokemon collector cards. Like Spree, Brock and Kerra were also wary of the night. Kerra feared this was all too easy. She half expected Mr. Paulson to pop out from behind a car, shining a flashlight in their faces.

  As they reached the stall assigned to their apartment number, their hearts dropped to their toes. The stall was empty. Their mother’s car was conspicuously absent.

  “I told you she wasn’t making payments,” said Brock.

  “I knew that already,” Kerra snapped back.

  Brock added, “The repo dude got himself a Ford Taurus.”

  The devastation weighed heavily on Kerra. “What are we gonna do?” she mumbled to herself. She had no plan B. What was their plan B?

  Her brother suddenly yanked her down behind the pickup truck parked in the neighboring stall. They peered over the hood as Mr. Paulson’s Sunbird rolled slowly down the main avenue of the parking lot, finally stopping at the curb about twenty-five yards away.

  “He’s early,” Brock whispered.
/>
  They could see Mr. Paulson’s silhouette behind the wheel, checking his watch, looking anxiously toward the building where their apartment was located.

  Kerra looked behind her to ascertain an escape route. She was determined that no matter what she and her brother finally decided to do, it did not include allowing themselves to be apprehended again by California Welfare and Family Services.

  “Let’s go,” said Kerra.

  Brock was still holding her sleeve. “Wait a minute.”

  As they watched, Mr. Paulson began climbing out of the car, looking impatient. In his hands was a piece of paper where he’d evidently written Kerra and Brock’s apartment number. After nervously scoping the area for thugs or villains, he started toward the stairway of their building.

  “Follow me,” said Brock.

  Kerra watched her brother creep around to the other side of the pickup.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  Brock didn’t reply. He continued toward Mr. Paulson’s car. Reluctantly, Kerra picked up her trunk and went after him. It was on the tip of her tongue to demand that he come back so they could flee in the other direction, but curiosity had the best of her—at least until her brother reached through a narrow gap in the rear window and unlocked the back door. Kerra seemed to recall that Brock had rolled that window down beforehand, almost as if he’d planned this. Or if not planned, hoped.

  “What are you doing?” Kerra whispered harshly.

  Brock hardly paused in his actions. “You wanna get out of here, right?”

  After slipping into the backseat of the Pontiac, Brock climbed awkwardly into the front seat and took up a position behind the steering wheel. Kerra watched him disappear, sliding into the foot space underneath. She moved around for a better view and saw him pry off some plastic paneling. He started fumbling with some wires just below the steering column. Kerra glanced around in terror. Mr. Paulson would soon realize they’d left the apartment. Surely he would hastily return to his car. Her heart was hammering.

  All at once she heard the Pontiac’s engine turn over. The exhaust pipe chugged out a puff of smoke. Her brother had hot-wired their social worker’s car! Kerra felt completely torn. She wanted to tear Brock’s hair out, and at the same time she wanted to kiss him. Brock, with a smug grin on his face, reached over and unlocked the passenger-side door. He even gave it a push to open it.