After an immeasurable amount of time in confinement, the C.O. escorted Cedric through the hallways. Left, right, left; people in various types of clothing shuffled past: women, men, some in uniform, most without. Cedric said nothing. He let his diaphragm finally draw air deep into his body. The air here was in motion, if still not truly fresh, and oxygen flowed into his blood.
He couldn’t help but wonder who had summoned him, and why. His freedom threatened to be tentative, and his heart fluttered uneasily inside his body. He had resolved to face the flames alone, and then he’d been clutched from the crowd. Who knew he was here? The joy he should have felt after being retrieved from the jaws of an uncertain future was bridled, restrained — pending further investigation.
The C.O. led him to a window of thick plastic and pushed some paperwork beneath the opening. He waited a moment and then backed away and pointed his pen toward the opening, gesturing in silence, as if his charge should know exactly what to do. Cedric felt shaky, and his empty stomach complained. He grasped at his faculties, regaining focus and stepping up to the ledge.
The officer seated behind the barrier was well-practiced. “Says here: Kenyon, Cedric. That you?”
Cedric nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Someone else tossed a dark green bin before him, and the man shuffled through the contents. Cedric recognized his belongings, and his hope was bolstered.
“One wallet containing—” he glanced at the paper and then back into the billfold. “Eighty-two dollars and fifteen cents. Wallet chain. Contents of pockets totaling a dollar and seventy-five cents. Belt and shoelaces. Nail clippers.”
The man pushed a large envelope over the counter and through the arch cut into the thick plastic, adding a piece of paper at the end.
“One folding knife with three-point-five-inch blade retained as evidence. Pending case disposition, you may file for return of your property.” He pointed. “Sign here acknowledging receipt.”
Cedric pursed his lips and pulled the paper to face him. He looked down at the list, words washing over him meaninglessly, and then peered up through the barrier.
“What about my car? My keys?”
The man remained steel-faced.
“Your car was impounded as evidence. I’m sure they told you that already. Doubt you’re ever seeing her again, kid. Maybe talk to your attorney but unless you were driving something nice, it probably isn’t worth what you’d pay to get it back.”
Cedric’s heart dropped, but he picked up the pen chained to the counter. The man continued to talk.
“Goes to auction in sixty days. Or, if it’s anything decent, maybe she’ll get drafted into undercover work.”
Cedric scrawled a sloppy mark one might recognize as a signature and pushed the paper back under the divider.
“So they took my whole keyring?” Cedric protested. “I had more than just keys for my car on there.”
His plea failed to elicit sympathy.
“Don’t do stupid shit.”
Cedric took the bin from the window and the man continued.
“Keys were probably inventoried separately at the precinct. Potential evidence.” Cedric looked into the bin, all too cognizant of how little he had claimed.
“You want ‘em back, you file a form.”
Cedric turned around and a middle-aged man with sun-damaged skin and wiry, unkempt hair spoke to him. “First time?” Catching his eyes, he cracked a rather ominous grin.
“Don’t look so scared. You’re gettin’ out’a here. The paperwork’s the worst part. Well—” He brought his fingers to his hairy chin and looked up, displaying the whites of his eyes.
Cedric stepped back, and the man erupted with a dark laugh. “The second worst.”
“Kenyon!” The officer who had escorted him from the cell drew his attention from the strained exchange.
“No more chatting. You can get dressed over here. Keep the aisle clear. You’re not the only kid going home today.”
“Hey, um—” Cedric fumbled over his words as he clipped his silver chain to a beltloop. He stood to face the officer who’d been leading him around the corridors. “Am I just allowed to leave?”
The officer raised an eyebrow and looked down at the papers clipped to the board in his hand.
“No can do. Says here a—” He looked down to inspect the form. “—Myrtle Marscapone came to post your bail. Looks like she’s from a group home for wayward youth.”
He looked up at Cedric. “Wayward youth like you.”
Cedric felt seen, and was quiet.
“No, you can’t ‘just leave’,” he clarified.
“That’s not the deal. She’s responsible for you and you have to follow the rules: check in every week and do your community service. Respect your curfew. Piss clean. You don’t do what you gotta do then you get in bigger shit. Shit you don’t want.”
The officer saw the fear in Cedric’s eyes, and reconsidered his gruff tone. “You never been in trouble before? You live at this group home?”
Cedric stuttered, apprehensive. The alliterative name echoed through his memories, but he could place his finger on nothing. “N-no, I never lived in a group home. I don’t know this lady.”
The officer peeled up the top few sheets of paper, looking for some information. But he seemed to find nothing of import and turned back to Cedric. “Don’t know what to tell you, kid. Church outfit, maybe. They probably got your file through the city. Usually these places take in runaways and drop outs and make sure they don’t fall into the cracks. Help ‘em get their GEDs and stay off the streets.”
Cedric was nonplussed. “But I’m nineteen. And I already graduated.”
The man was not impressed. “Nineteen ain’t nothing, kid. Get your shit and let’s get going. Don’t got all day.”
Cedric walked down the hallway, technically reassembled, but still ill-at-ease. He was being pushed down the slide regardless of whether he was ready to proceed.
A pane of glass rose to his right, grimy white blinds lowered behind, and he instinctually looked into it. A muted reflection poured into his eyes, so washed out that only the outlines were well-defined. But he looked weary, exhausted.
‘Hair’s all fucked up.’
He kept walking, staring into his image, and raised his hands to try to smooth the stray locks back into place. But some of the hair off to one side was absolutely determined to remain standing.
“Come on kid, your chaperone’s in here.” He had stopped in front of a doorway, eyeing Cedric and waiting for him to proceed.
Cedric followed and entered the room.
It was filled with bodies, many chattering excitedly to their companions, others sitting still in observant silence or hidden behind a newspaper.
The C.O. stopped at a window and pushed his paperwork underneath the barrier.
“I got here Kenyon, Cedric.”
Cedric stood there and amongst the din ricocheting off the tile, he heard the clip snap noisily against the board.
“Room 8. Lady’s waiting. I’ll send someone in a minute.”
The officer turned back to Cedric. “Come on, this way.”
They walked away from the area forming a sort of holding zone and into a corridor branching into numerous presumably small rooms, each with a drab door and a single number.
“Good luck, kid,” and he opened the door, letting Cedric take the first step.
Myrtle had been waiting in this room for over an hour. But truly she’d been waiting for far longer than that. At ninety-two years of age, she’d become quite accustomed to waiting. She had acquired a good many sayings for a moment such as this:
‘Haste makes waste.’
‘All in good time.’
‘Slow and steady wins the race.’
When the boy entered the room, she rose, standing straight and removing fine lace gloves from each of her hands. She struck a rather odd figure in her black gown concealing all but her face. But that was always how she presented herself.
‘The fruit is sweetest when it’s ripe.’
She slipped the gloves into a small pocket on the left side of her dress. Her hands now unhindered, she reached forward in greeting. She erupted into a satisfied smirk as her father’s voice, gone from the world many long decades ago, rose in her mind at the sight of the disheveled young man.
‘Called a thousand times… and finally, here it is.’
Cedric tried to appear impassive as he shook the hand of Myrtle Marscapone. But one thought rang out clear as klaxon.
‘Who the hell is this old broad?!’
He hadn’t had much idea of what to expect when he’d heard the strange name. Perhaps he’d deliberately silenced his predictions, with the knowledge it was often the precursor of fear. But she? Whatever he had thought, or not thought —
She was not what he had expected.
She was tall; perhaps not quite so tall as he, but at his age he’d become accustomed to looking into the foreheads and hair of most women.
But not this one.
Salutations complete, they sat on opposite sides of the small table, and their eyes met. He said nothing, searching her face, until she spoke and he nearly leapt out of his seat.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Cedric. My name is Myrtle Marscapone.”
‘Seventy?’ he thought, distracted. ‘…Eighty?!’
But her eyes were alert and focused, telling a different story. Where his mind was encumbered by the immense weight of his exhaustion, her gaze was clear, and she looked at him without reservation.
When Cedric neglected to provide a response, lost in his tangled thoughts, Myrtle continued to speak, answering questions he hadn’t thought to ask.
“I run a small rehabilitation home in Queens. I sometimes work with the city to reach out to at-risk youth and set them on the path to success, retrieving them from the hounds before they fall into the pit of despair. Your file was sent across my desk and I thought we might be able to help you.”
She blinked and continued to look at him. “Cedric, correct?”
He was slow to react. “Y-yeah. Cedric Kenyon.”
“Cedric Kenyon,” she repeated, considering. “Yes, I do think you would find belonging within my cluster of students. They may lack sufficient parentage, but all are all bright young people with even brighter futures. They are exceptionally gifted, well-spoken, and possess no lack of considerable—”
That smile struck again across her face. “Talent.”
Cedric’s irises constricted, as if a beam of light had been shot point-blank into the back of his eyes. He blinked, looking down, not truly in pain, but flinching as he closed his eyelids and rubbed the sand from its reservoir.
He could not yet see, but he heard.
“We’re in Astoria, a bit over the river, I know you’ll have to come back here weekly to check in, Manhattan feeling itself the hub of all things, but the commute is quite simple once you get used to it—”
The door opened with a squeak while Cedric’s eyes were still adjusting, and the smell of a pastry and its sugary glaze entered the room, clinging to the man’s fingertips, speckled upon his cheeks.
“Kenyon, Cedric?” he spoke, the sound fading into the background like rustling grass.
The boy seeming dazed, he spoke to the woman instead. “Hello, Mrs. Marscapone. We have some things to go over before we complete things here and get you on your way. I am sure you are a busy woman; thank you for your patience. I have here the terms of his release, the conditions of his bail, his court date—”
But Cedric could not listen. Weakened and completely exhausted, he simply nodded, adding verbal confirmation as required, and signing his name right and where he was told. The text melted before his consciousness as salt in boiling water, but none of the men in uniform remembered anything amiss.
Of course they wouldn’t.
Myrtle, informed of the procedures and protocol, crossed her T’s and dotted her I’s, anxious to remove her newest student from his restraints.
She so viciously abhorred the sphere of the Mundane.
Cedric endured, lingering at the precipice of collapse. A mirage lingered in the back of his eyes and he thought he could still see the white beam at the end of the tunnel. He knew something was happening, but he did not know what. So he sat still until he was told he could rise.
And he was still hungry.
“I hope you do not mind; I’ve asked for an associate of mine to lend us his assistance with the transportation back to Queens. If I may be so honest, I tend to loathe driving as a whole, and the fact that parking in the area is such a horror further complicates the matter.”
Cedric followed Myrtle into a new room, where, his tired eyes drawn downward, white marble streaked with pale grey was the first thing he noticed.
“And I think he wanted to meet you.” The changing quality of the sound echoing against the walls suggested he look up, and his nostrils were filled with the smell of cigarette smoke.
His lungs contracted.
‘Here, they can do as they please.’
Bronze railings flanked two staircases leading from the unseen floors above. An enormous clock, a silent watcher, drew his eyes upward.
He felt Myrtle watching him, and he looked toward her, but he could not stand the heat and he quickly glanced away. He recalled what she had said.
“Y-yeah. Guess it’s better than walking.”
They walked through the lobby, past the gilded lighting fixtures, and each pushed open their own door, enormous metal barriers, and strode into the bright afternoon sunshine.
Two granite columns, seeming as massive obelisks, directed them toward the center of the walkway.
Cedric lifted his hand and turned his palm to shield his eyes, realizing how dulled his senses had become in captivity. They entered the throngs of people, and Cedric struggled to stand straight, while Myrtle might have been lost in the sea of needles reaching upward.
He followed her into the crowd, realizing he needed to strain his voice to be heard amongst the formless din.
“How did you know I was there?”
She looked back, ensuring he still kept pace with her, and continued along the sidewalk.
She hardly seemed to be projecting, and yet, he could hear her voice clearly. “As I said, your file was slid across my desk. When there is a vacancy at my school, I seek to fill the spot. No sense in an empty bed. There are too many who need that guiding light.”
She turned her head so that he could see her in profile. “I took interest in your case.”
He felt she had simply rephrased what she’d said in front of the cops.
“You do this often, then?” Cedric felt he was just short of screaming. “Show up downtown and write a check for a random kid you’ve never even met?”
Defying logic, he swore he could hear her clearly chuckle under her breath. “Not often.”
He felt he was racing to maintain her speed, speed she seemed to achieve as effortlessly as skating across an expanse of polished ice.
“I think you’ll enjoy my associate. We’ve worked together for a number of years. He was not initially so fond of my conception of the school, but I think I’ve won him over. It took some time, but as do all things worth doing. Water will pierce stone.”
She stopped, and seemed to tilt her head, aligning her hearing to find a whisper on the wind.
Cedric stopped, and stood next to her, the people dividing themselves to avoid the pair as trees in a meadow.
“Yes, I think he’s on his way. Soon. But not soon enough.” And she looked toward the street, where cars sped along at a glacial pace. “I asked him to bring you a sandwich.”
Cedric was not entirely sure where to turn his splintered attention.
“Mrs. Marscapone—” he began to plead. “I appreciate your assistance, I really do. I made some stupid mistakes, really stupid mistakes, and I didn’t know how I was going to get out of that mess, but—”
She was still gazing into the sky.
“I think I’m too old to go live at an orphanage.”
The sky seemed to darken, and the flow of time thickened as would chilled syrup. Cedric, unaffected, looked about him, bewildered by the shadows from the clouds billowing overhead, all changing too rapidly for him to render sufficient disbelief.
He caught the eyes of the passersby, each of them glassy, distracted, and wholly unaware of anything that was transpiring beyond their gaze.
He strained to move his body, but he was able and persevered, pushing against the pressure to look toward Myrtle.
Incensed by his words, she would not grant him her face, but she spoke all the same — with a carefully restrained hostility, delicately enunciating her words.
“Ginger bites more the older it gets.”
He noticed her body release its tension, the sky turning again a balmy shade of blue, and the people resumed their unhindered pace, the denizens of the street completely ignorant of any interruption.
Cedric looked inward, obeying an instinct toward skepticism, trying to blame his empty stomach for these lapses in his perception, yes, perhaps he’d been blinking too laboriously and it had simulated the darkness of nightfall, and he was hungry and tired and he hadn’t slept in days and he tried to place what he had seen on the shelf of things he thought he knew and thought he understood, things that adhered to the rules with which he was familiar, but —
The order was crumbling.
“Mrs. Marscapone,” he begged, but she only turned a single eye to him. “I’m trying to understand what’s going on. I don’t understand why you singled me out. There have to be a hundred kids just like me, sitting in jail just like me, and today you drop in from nowhere and tell me to follow you. Why me? What do I have that they don’t?”
She presented her face, a solemn expression of quiet resolve, and she closed her eyes to guard from the assault of his questions. Of course she had to have known he would try to grasp at things beyond his understanding, and he would try to comprehend things beyond his comprehension. Of all the things that had been foretold, that facet of his personality had been abundantly clear.
“Cedric, you’re changing. The world around you, it is always in constant motion, sometimes senseless, sometimes without reason, sometimes moving just to move, but you—”
She paused and looked at him, her eyes glossy. “We can try to guide you for as long as we can. Take root, sprout, absorb what we give you and spread your wings. Fallen petals protect the flowers.”
She considered her words, but her gaze continued, intense. “But you must stop running. You’ve been running for far too long.”
At her biting assessment, he felt frail and uncertain. His heart dropped and a phantom pain grasped with shadowy tendrils at his throat. Through the edges of his vision, he searched for an exit and for a fleeting moment he thought he glimpsed escape. But his feet did not move.
For the first time, he looked into her dark eyes and thought he saw what she had seen likewise in him.