Where We Are, page 5
I force myself not to panic by recalling everything I’ve learned about cults. How sometimes cult members hide away in remote places, like the mountains of Idaho or in underground caverns in the desert, but how sometimes cults exist side by side with ordinary people, in big cities or small towns.
“Don’t call them a cult,” Micah said the first time I used the term. This was a year ago.
“Aren’t they, though?”
“Not according to them.”
“What about according to you?”
He was silent. He was burning on the inside. I could feel it. We knew what each other was thinking. We know what each other is thinking. Don’t use the past tense, Sesame. Micah’s not dead. He’s just disappeared. He’s somewhere close by. He has to be.
He wouldn’t have gone with them if his parents hadn’t been part of it. His parents had been worn down, down, down by the Prophet until the tipping point was reached and they metaphorically tipped back into the arms of the Living Lights like they were playing a game of metaphorical Trust. They let their minds go soft and limp, and they trusted the Living Lights to catch them.
And the Lights caught them. Boy did they.
You wouldn’t catch me playing Trust, not even when I was little. Why would I? Why would anyone? What if they let you fall? Then where would you be? Crumpled on the ground, is where, instead of straight and tall with all your bones unbroken. My grandmother taught me to hold back, to keep things to myself. She believed in self-protection. “Protect yourself, my girl,” she used to say.
When it was clear that the Living Lights had sunk their talons but good into Micah’s parents—when they were at the point that anything he said about the Prophet or the Living Lights Project was going straight over their heads—Micah decided that if worse came to worst, he would go with them. Because he was worried, right? Which I get. But.
“It’s not a good idea,” I said. “You have to protect yourself.”
“I have to protect them, too, though,” he said. “Think of it this way: I’ll be kind of like an embedded reporter.”
“Embedded reporters go to war, Micah.”
“Embedded reporters are the conscience of the world, Ses.”
“Embedded reporters sometimes get killed. Have you thought of that?”
“They’re my parents,” he said, and the way he said it made me see how worried he was about them. “If it was your grandmother, wouldn’t you want to be with her?”
I just shook my head. My grandmother was dead and she had been dead for two years already at that point.
“Micah,” I said, “listen to me. Do not underestimate the power of charisma.”
He just laughed.
“Charisma? The Prophet? Please.”
Most people think of charisma as a good thing. A charm thing, a magnetic personality thing, a leader-of-people thing. Not me. Charisma can be all those things, but charisma can also be a cover for bottomless greed. Greed for power. Control. Attention. Fame. People tend not to think about charisma in those terms, but they should. I mean, Hitler had charisma. Right?
This is only the second day, but it feels like forever. I keep waiting for a text or call from Inky or Sebastian, or from some unknown number that belongs to someone who saw one of my flyers and has information about Micah. But I just keep seeing those three phones in my mind. All lined up. Should I have taken your phone? No, that wouldn’t make any difference. Wherever you are, you’re not with your phone.
It’s good that I have to walk Peabop and Prince. It’s good to have to do something, right now, right away. Because, panic.
The dogs are waiting just behind the Jameses’ front door, happy to see me. They’re always happy to see me. Peabop is a border collie and Prince is a pit-poodle mix, which looks exactly as strange as you’d think. Prince always wears a purple bandanna because his owners, James One and James Two—yes, they both have the same name, and when they started dating, their friends began calling them James One and James Two—are Prince fans from back in the day. They used to go see him at First Avenue. There are photos of them standing next to his star on the wall there. They mourned for weeks when he died.
“What’s your favorite Prince song?” they said when they interviewed me, and I thought fast.
“ ‘Purple Rain,’ ” I said, which may or may not have been the only Prince song I knew at the time, and the name of which may or may not have arisen in my mind from the collective unconscious. Ever heard of Carl Jung and his theory of the collective unconscious? It says that our minds all contain memories and impulses that are common to all humanity, and that we are born with them already in our brain. Like if you live in Minneapolis, you’re born with knowledge of Prince.
The Jameses both closed their eyes and pursed their lips and nodded when I said “Purple Rain.” The thing is, though, I am a Prince fan now. James One and James Two were right: he’s great. Sometimes when the dogs and I walk around Bde Maka Ska, I put on my earbuds and my Prince playlist.
“Do you know, Sesame G.,” James One said to me once—he always calls me Sesame G.—“Prince never abandoned his hometown. He never moved away from Minnesota.”
My grandmother loved Minneapolis too, and she never moved away. Micah and I love Minneapolis, and our plan is to open a café here. James One and James Two have already said they want to be our first customers. They’re crazy about Micah’s cooking. They’re crazy about Micah, too.
“Sesame, please tell me this fine young man is your sweetheart,” James One said the first time they met Micah, after he’d walked the dogs with me and we brought them back to their house.
“Yes, please tell us that you two are an item,” James Two said. “Because we heartily approve.”
They had just met him! Like, three minutes before! And Micah was standing right there! But the Jameses could already tell what kind of person Micah is, and they were right. We all stood there, Micah with his arms around Peabop because she was cold, and I felt my whole head turn hot.
“James One, I believe we have embarrassed our girl,” James Two said.
“We have indeed embarrassed her,” James One said. “And all this time I was thinking she wasn’t an embarrassable sort.”
But I was. I am. Maybe embarrassed isn’t the right word. Maybe the word is more like When something is so important you can’t talk about it, like how much this boy means to you, your whole body starts to burn. Yeah. A word for that particular feeling would be the right word.
“Come on, sweet peas,” I say now, and I clip the leashes to Peabop’s and Prince’s purple collars.
* * *
The Jameses are home when I bring Prince and Peabop back, which is weird. They’re regular working people with regular jobs downtown. They’re both in the kitchen, back door unlocked, waiting for me. Oh crap, maybe Officer Emmanuel already called them. Peabop and Prince seem surprised to see them too.
“What’s going on?” I say. “Are you guys okay?”
My voice sounds weird even to me. James One looks at me closely. “We sense a disturbance in the Force.”
James Two is looking at me now too, with the same look of concern on his face. “The question is are you okay, Sesame?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?” James One says.
They are standing by the sink in their kitchen. Peabop and Prince are gulping from their water bowls so fast the water splashes onto the splash mats beneath. It’s like they haven’t had anything to drink in days. They’re water-holic dogs.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
James Two puts his hand up in the air between him and me and turns to James One and starts talking as if I can’t hear him. Like his hand in the air makes some kind of sound barrier between them and me. James Two: “Ask her about him.” James One: “But what if her heart’s broken?” James Two: “Then it’s even more important we ask her.” Then they both nod at each other and turn back to me. James Two drops his hand back by his side and clears his throat.
“Sesame,” he says. “Here’s the deal. We got a call from an Officer Emmanuel. She said that you listed us as emergency contacts? And that your aunt is out of town? And you’re concerned about Micah?”
I’m afraid to look up. Afraid of what they’ll say. What else did Officer Emmanuel tell them? The Jameses aren’t my family, after all. I don’t have any family. Not that anyone but Micah knows that.
“Oh!” I say. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you. I put you down because my aunt is in California with her friend, she’s really sick, my aunt’s taking care of her, she won’t be back for like a month and the officer wanted to check in with, you know, my people—” I stop because “my people” hurts to say. Makes my throat close up a little. Who are my people? My grandma was my people. Micah is my people. Sebastian and Inky are my people. And the Jameses. Unless they aren’t, and my giving out their names and phone numbers was overstepping. I’m afraid to look at them again.
“Sesame,” James Two says. “It’s okay.”
“Yeah,” James One says. “It’s okay, honey.”
The honey undoes me. Tears start leaking out again. The Jameses both put an arm around me. Peabop and Prince stand in front of us, tails wagging.
“It’s fine for you to put us down as contacts,” James Two says. “In fact, we were flattered.”
“Yeah,” James One says. “That’s not what we’re concerned about. Our question is, what’s going on with Micah?”
I swallow. There’s a lump in my throat. This is what the Jameses do to me. This is what kindness does to me. James One and James Two are looking at me closely, both of them nodding.
“You can tell us,” James Two encourages me. The lump in my throat swells and hurts and the tears keep coming and the Jameses are leading me over to the couch—big and white, with blankets spread over it so Peabop’s and Prince’s claws don’t scratch the leather—and sitting me down between them.
“Spit it out now,” says James One, and James Two takes my hand between his.
So I do. I tell them everything, that Micah and his parents have disappeared, that the Living Lights have swallowed them up, it’s already been two days, I don’t know where he is, they left their phones behind. I tell the Jameses that I filed a missing person report but Officer Emmanuel didn’t seem worried and she hasn’t called me and I put up a million missing person flyers and do they have any idea how expensive it is to make copies? And how all day long I’ve been waiting to hear Micah’s text ringtone, which is crazy because again, he doesn’t even have his phone!
“You think he’s somewhere in the city?” James Two asks, after he and James One have sat there for a minute, absorbing everything.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He left a message for us on the whiteboard in his kitchen. He said to look for his GPS somewhere in the neighborhood.”
“But you don’t have any specifics? He never mentioned an address, or a place, or any identifying features?”
“The Prophet—that’s what the leader calls himself—kept talking about this abandoned building he’d bought in South Minneapolis with all the money they gave him. He calls it the South Compound. I think that’s where they are.”
They glance at each other, and I can feel their hesitance. It sounds far-fetched, I know. But I’m sure Micah’s somewhere nearby. I mean, there’s the message on the whiteboard, and all the talk about the South Compound and how it was going to be the base of operations. And anyway, my gut says he’s nearby, and the body knows things that the mind doesn’t, right? We carry knowledge way down inside us. Like the Prophet. We both knew he was dangerous, like really dangerous, from the beginning. But we ignored it. We overrode our instincts. And now Micah is gone. I tell them all this.
They both nod, are quiet for a moment, thinking. Then James One says, “You want to stay with us while all this is going on? I mean until your aunt gets back?”
I swallow hard. They are so kind. I picture my house, dark and cold without me in it, my table of poems waiting to be scrolled up, my skylight and my quilts, and then I imagine myself here, with the Jameses. This house is theirs, and my house is mine. I can’t give in. That would be weak. I take care of myself and I’m good at it. Don’t ask for help, Sesame. You want to change something, change it yourself. And maybe the most important thing? My house is where Micah would go if he escapes. I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “But thank you. Really, thank you.”
“Anytime,” James One says again. “We’re worried too. What are you going to do right now?”
“Go make more flyers. I already stapled up most of the ones I made at FedEx Office last night.”
“Hey!” James Two says, as if he has a great idea, and James One must have the same idea, because they both reach for their back pockets at the same time. “That’s something we can do,” James One says, and they each hand me some money. Twenties and tens. “Use this to make more flyers.”
“Or, wait!” James Two says. “Let’s make this even easier. Take the money and make more now, then give me a copy of the flyer and I’ll make copies at work, as many as you need until he turns up. I’ll leave them on the porch so you can swing by whenever you want and get them.”
My throat hurts again. From crying and from them being so nice, I guess. I nod, take the money, zip up my jacket, and head out into the cold.
* * *
On the way to FedEx Office, I stop at Isles Bun & Coffee and get a cinnamon bun. Their cinnamon buns are the best bakery buns in the city, but Micah’s are better. Everything Micah makes is better than anyone else’s. Like his grilled cheese.
Micah’s grilled cheese begins with butter and a hot pan.
He spreads soft butter on one side of the bread and places it butter-side down in the hot pan. He shaves off thin slices of cheddar with the knife he gave me, the one that sits on the butcher block with my spoons and forks, and layers them on the bread. He butters another slice of bread and places it butter-side up on top of the cheese. He covers the pan with a plate because I don’t have a lid, and turns the flames down.
He waits. I wait with him. We stand at the burner. Little blue flames flicker beneath the pan, and the smell of melting butter and toasting bread is irresistible. After a minute, he takes the lid off and flips the grilled cheese with the spatula he gave me, so that the bottom can toast. The top is perfect: golden and crisp. He presses the spatula down on it and cheese oozes out the sides. He puts the lid back on and looks at me and smiles.
“Almost,” he says. “Patience.”
His patience is greater than mine. If it were me making that grilled cheese, it’d be half gone already, a paper towel wrapped around it to save using a plate. But not Micah. He waits until the bottom is as perfectly golden-crisp as the top.
Micah told me he spoke Food the first day we met, when I was making my poem rounds. I looked up and there he was, this boy, just looking at me. It took me a minute to recognize him. We had ridden the elementary school bus together, but I hadn’t seen him since. He surprised me. Kind of scared me, too, that I hadn’t noticed his footsteps. You have to be vigilant. You have to be on guard. You can’t let people sneak up on you. Especially when you live the way I do. He was holding a Lunds bag in his arms.
“Hey,” he said. “Sorry if I scared you.”
I held the leashes—I was walking Prince and Peabop—out in front of me like a weapon.
“What’s in the bag?” I said. It just popped out of my mouth.
Prince and Peabop sat back on their haunches and watched him quietly, this tall boy with dark curls and a Lunds grocery bag who somehow had materialized next to us. That neither Prince nor Peabop were afraid of him should’ve been a clue, but I was so angry at myself for letting my guard down that I didn’t even notice they weren’t barking and lunging.
Looking back, that I myself didn’t notice Micah’s sudden appearance in the alley should’ve been another clue. That he was friend, not foe. That my gut knew something my conscious mind didn’t, which was that I could trust him.
“Potatoes,” he said.
My right hand clutched the leash and my left hand was folded around a couple of scrolled-up poems that I was about to drop into the poem box hidden behind me. I just stared at him. I was determined not to give anything away. But… potatoes? For real? Potatoes are so, like, old-school.
“I like potatoes,” I said. That didn’t seem like enough, though. Like if Vong wrote down I like potatoes, I would tell him to be more specific, add detail, give the reader a glimpse of personality. So I kept going. “Mashed are my favorite.”
He smiled. “Mashed are good. Baked are good. So are fried. It’s hard to ruin a potato.”
Then he said, “I know you, don’t I?” and it was the way he said it that made me look hard at him. Not like, I know you because I think you go to my high school, or I know you because we used to ride the same school bus in elementary school, but in a bigger way. Like he knew before I did why I wasn’t afraid of him, why I was willing to talk about potatoes with him, why the topic of potatoes was the outside conversation but something else was happening below the words.
That can happen, you know. Sometimes you meet someone—you see them on the street or you turn your head in a restaurant or you bump into them on the light rail—and you know them. As if you’ve known them forever. As if in another world you knew them. We kept talking and I kept standing in front of the poem box so he wouldn’t see it. Peabop and Prince eventually got bored and lay down, right in the snow, in a patch of sunlight a leash’s length away.
I was thinking about that day as I walked to FedEx Office. My hand holding the white waxed-paper bag with the Isles cinnamon bun was frozen. The other one was tucked down into my pocket, which was how I knew my phone was ringing even though I could only feel the vibration. I hauled it out and sank down on the sidewalk. Unknown number. My heart flooded with hope. Please be Micah, I thought, please be Micah, as I swiped it open.
“Miss Gray?”
Shit.
