MONDAY MORNING, PREPARING JULIO for his big day is serious business. Babies don’t travel light. “Back to school, Buster,” Renata murmurs as she gets him dressed and fed. She stuffs his things into the bag he came with, like returning an article that didn’t fit properly. Later on she’ll return the baby equipment to Aruna across the hall, or better still, let Jack do it. As she works, the radio drones on. “We plan a comprehensive assault....We are planning a broad and sustained campaign to secure our country and battle the evil.”
She’s trying to wean herself from the incessant news, but she can’t give it up entirely; like everyone else, she’s hooked. Groggy with sleep yet primed for the apocalypse, everyone turns on the TV or radio first thing, to see if anything’s happened. The broadcaster’s tone, rather than the words, is the tip-off. If it lacks the edge of excitement, of controlled panic, then nothing’s new, so far. Today the announcer seems almost bored as he introduces another presidential sound bite: “I will not settle for a token act. Our response must be sweeping, sustained and effective.” Without the face to accompany it, his voice comes across as petulant. The more it strives for certainty, the more uncertain its timbre. “Find them, get them running and hunt them down. They hit and run, they hide in caves. We’ll get them out.” That prospect seems to liven him up, the thrill of the chase.
Fine, then. A new day and all is well. But surely something will happen soon. It’s only a matter of time. So with each morning’s relief there’s a shameful dash of disappointment: let it happen, bring on the worst, so we can be freed of the asphyxiating suspense. Ever since the image of the plane drilling into the flat face of the tower drilled itself into the collective memory, the range of possibilities has widened beyond imagining. Like everyone else, Renata has been caught unawares, a condition slightly different from the five degrees of Bliondan shock, and like everyone caught unawares, she feels a bit foolish. Innocent. Not politically innocent. It’s too soon. The professional analyses, the smug I told you so’s, have barely begun. Existentially innocent: we should have known this is what life can offer. We should have known from infancy, from the instant the light of day hit our bemused eyes.
She doesn’t want to be around at the leave-taking, so she throws her own things together hastily and bundles her folders into a backpack. She gives Julio a quick, crushing hug, then rubs her cheek against his and pats him all over as if to leave the imprint of her hands. A careless kiss for sleepy Jack, and she’s at the door.
“Hey, hold on.” He grabs her arm. “This is it? You’re taking everything?”
“I need my things. I’ve got to get home and pack.”
“When will you be back?”
“Wednesday. I told you.”
“I’ll be over that night.”
“Okay.”
“Careful on the plane,” he says.
“How can you be careful on a plane?”
“You know what I mean. Take care.”
“Okay. You too.”
“Come back in for a minute.” She steps in and he gives her a long passionate embrace. It goes on so long and becomes so elaborate that she thinks he wants her back in bed. She pulls away, though not quite out of his arms.
“I’ve really got to go.”
“Thanks for all you did. Taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“It was good having you here. This was the longest you ever stayed here. I liked it.”
“It had its moments, yes.”
“So maybe you’ll come back.”
“Mm.” The very suggestion makes her retreat. And yet he’s the kind of man most women her age would treasure. Lock him in and throw away the key. For her part, she feels like a nun who’s taken a vow of chastity. Emotional chastity. It was safer to lavish her love on Julio.
The sky is that same bright blue again. Sunlight rinses the streets and buildings, the shop windows, even the passing faces, to a high gloss. The carrion tinge hasn’t quite evaporated, but the air seems better. Well, marginally better. She’s not yet ready to agree that we are in the middle hour of our grief, but it’s not as bad as it was two days ago, or three. The shock on awakening is not quite as great.
She walks briskly, thinking of what she’ll find in Houston. Suddenly, rounding the corner near Birthing Renaissance, there’s the girl again. Today she’s not furtive. She comes right up and smiles shyly, barely parting her lips.
“Hello,” Renata says. No reply. “I saw you yesterday too. You followed me home, didn’t you?” She pauses as long as it would take for a brief answer, but the girl doesn’t give answers.
“You must need help. Don’t be afraid to say. What can I do?...Is it that you can’t remember anything?...Well, let’s walk a little bit.” Somewhere, maybe, someone spoke words like that to Gianna. Someone offered help. If she was fortunate. “I bet you’re hungry. I haven’t had anything either. Come on, we’ll pop in here for breakfast.”
Renata has coffee and a donut and orders French toast for the girl, who ignores the menu. Is it possible she can’t read? Anything is possible. Gianna could read by five years old. Gianna loved French toast. They made it together every Sunday morning; she would dip the bread in the beaten egg and milk, then lick her fingers. Mary Elizabeth Kennedy, one of the Gee’s Bend quilters, said, “When sometime there was a question about who the real father was, the response was, ‘If the child don’t look like you, if you feed him long enough he’ll be starting looking like you.’ ” French toast proves a success now too. The girl smothers it with syrup and eats it down to the last crumb, along with two glasses of milk. “Thank you,” she mouths, no sound. She may have amnesia but she hasn’t forgotten her manners. Someone taught her. Past the barrier of whatever reluctance or inability or perversity keeps her mute, those two reflexive syllables push through.
“So. Okay. It’s just a few blocks to where I’m going. What will you do now? Do you have anywhere to go? Is there someone I can call for you?” Renata is starting to feel rather stupid. Obviously the girl is not about to answer, and if she had anywhere to go or anyone to call she would have done so. There’s nothing for it but to leave her, or else take her to the police. But for this matter the police, despite their recent display of courage, do not inspire confidence. Jack might have some ideas, but she doesn’t want to get Jack involved. Forget Jack. This has nothing to do with him.
The notion grips her more tightly with each step: Gianna might have ended up exactly like this girl. She might well be this girl. Common sense, again, is yielding to slippage. The girl’s presence is like a mind-bending drug. Gianna must be someplace, right? Renata has never accepted that she might be gone for good. Why not in this place? If she were to imagine Gianna at seventeen, she would imagine a face very like the one in front of her. She’s the right age, too. Well, perhaps a trifle younger, but with teenagers now, who can tell? With the kind of life Gianna might have led, the transformations....Although the kind of life Renata pictures when she lies sleepless would have made Gianna look older, not younger. But—and here she tries to revive common sense—the point is not whether she recognizes the girl. The girl recognized her. That’s what’s convincing. Why, out of all the people walking through the city, would she choose to follow Renata unless she recognized her?
Common sense aside, she can’t leave her behind quite yet. They walk another block in silence until they come to the bookman’s stand. Hola! Good morning, good morning. It’s a relief all over again to see him. He’s not buried in a subway tunnel after all. It will be a happy relief each time she sees him, maybe for the rest of her life.
“And where’s your little baby?” he asks.
“He’s going back to his grandmother today.”
“Bueno, bueno. But you’ll miss him.”
“Yes, I will.”
“And who’s this?”
Who is she? Renata is weary, too weary to explain how she found her wandering on the street, and all the rest. Stick with the simple. “My niece,” she says. “Mi sobrina.”
“Your niece? Yes, she looks like you, I can see.”
“I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” he says, and Gianna smiles back politely.
“She’s very shy. She doesn’t talk much. So, what do you have today? I have to take a trip. I can use something for the plane.”
She picks out a novel that promises enough plot for a few hours, then turns to Gianna. “Would you like a book? Do you like to read?”
Gianna surveys the wares and finally chooses a pulp romance from a stack with shiny, lurid covers. Renata buys the books for a dollar each. “Thank you and God bless you,” says the bookman, and they walk on.
Now that she’s identified Gianna publicly, and to the bookman with his connections to a higher authority, she can’t just leave her on the street. That would be unconscionable. If she’s her niece, she must be treated as such. And even if she isn’t....Like a good Etinoian, Renata is simply honoring the concept of ahmintu, being an ahmintesh yielding to the circumstances that come her way, incorporating the vagaries of chance into the loftier principle of destiny. You can’t leave a child alone on the street in a city in chaos, with nothing but the clothes on her back and a paperback book and the remains of twenty dollars in a plastic bag. Not even a cell phone, as Franco Donati had at his lowest point.
“You need some clothes. You’ve been wearing that same dress for days.” In the global village there’s always a Gap within spitting distance, so they find it and step in. It’s a patriotic act. Why, just last night the paper carried an exhortation from the elusive Vice President: “I would hope the American people would, in effect, stick their thumb in the eye of the terrorists and say they’ve got great confidence in our economy, and not let what’s happened here in any way throw off their normal level of economic activity.” In other words, keep shopping—the most potent weapon. The attack was a finite event; shopping is forever, like goodness, remembrance, and love.
Gianna seems familiar with the layout. She goes for the jeans first and knows her exact size; she hasn’t forgotten everything. Maybe she’s forgotten nothing, but finds this new adventure preferable to her old life. With Renata’s encouragement she also picks out a few T-shirts, a pair of khaki shorts, a windbreaker. Everything fits her fine—she tries on each item and shows Renata. She turns and preens in front of the mirror, already possessed of the absorbed self-scrutiny of a woman trying on new clothes. Like Julio, she lives in the present. If she’s truly forgotten the past, she doesn’t know what she’s lost, and if she remembers, it’s not of any concern for the moment. She doesn’t seem worried about the future, either. Simply a girl let loose in the Gap.
“Oh, and you need some kind of bag, a pack or whatever. You can’t carry money around in a plastic bag.” Gianna picks out a small canvas shoulder bag. Renata would have chosen something larger; every bag she owns is big enough for a book. But she doesn’t interfere. They stop in a lingerie shop for some underwear. “Shoes.” Renata glances down at the rubber thongs, their soles flattened to a quarter-inch thickness. How long has she been traipsing through the city in them? “A decent pair of shoes.” Gianna picks out sandals that don’t look at all suitable for the amount of walking she does. “Okay, but we’ll have to get you something better later. Sneakers, maybe.” In Duane-Reade, a toothbrush and comb, then Renata hands Gianna the basket and tells her to get whatever she needs. Her tastes aren’t expensive, only odd, at least for her present mode of life. Three lipsticks, bright red nail polish, hair conditioner, gel. “Is that it? You sure?” Gianna shrugs, and as if yielding to suggestion, selects a bag of miniature Snickers bars. That reminds Renata of food for the next two days, so they make a quick stop in the corner grocery.
Laden down with their loot, they proceed toward Renata’s apartment. Gianna appears willing to follow wherever she’s taken. But first there’s one more essential stop. Gerald and Henry’s antique shop, a couple of blocks out of their way.
At the tinkling doorbell, Henry looks up from the catalog he’s studying. “Renata? What brings you here? Coming back home?”
“Yes. How are you both doing?”
Henry grimaces. “As well as we can. Gerald just went out for coffee. He’ll be sorry he missed you. Where’s the baby?”
“Going back to his grandmother. Jack took him this morning. How’s the guy upstairs? What’s his name again?”
“Philip. He’s a wreck. He wanders around the streets holding up one of those photos. You know, Missing? I mean, it’s six days already. They’re not going to find anyone alive now. He can’t go back to work because there’s nowhere to go yet. We had him down for a drink yesterday and he just cried.”
She can only shake her head. “Henry, this is my niece, Gianna. Gianna, say hello to Henry. He and his friend Gerald are my downstairs neighbors.”
Gianna’s been wandering about, staring at the assortment of antique telephones, lamps, tapestries, vases, and general clutter, but she turns and extends a hand.
“Hi. Looks like you guys have been shopping.”
“Yes, she, uh, needed a few things.”
“I can see that,” Henry says wryly.
“I’m going out of town for two days and Gianna’s going to stay in the apartment. So if she needs anything, is it okay if she calls—” No, she wouldn’t call. “I mean, is it okay if she rings your bell?”
“Cool. Or if we’re not in she can try here. Okay, Gianna?”
She nods.
At home, Renata shows her how to use the keys, guiltily, because she’s never given Jack a set, and here she is giving them to a total stranger. Well, not quite a stranger anymore. She’s her niece. This is the real Gianna now. Renata will make herself believe it. Why else would the girl follow her? She remembers her. Maybe she remembers everything since the afternoon at the merry-go-round, and one day she’ll tell.
“This one is for the front door, and these two are for the apartment. Here, you try, so I’m sure you know how.”
Renata shows her around the place. “I have to leave but I’ll be back in two days. Okay? Do you understand everything?”
A nod.
“You can sleep here on the living-room couch. It opens up. See, it’s easy. Make yourself at home. You can watch TV if you want, and there’s a VCR. I’ll put the food away—make sure you remember to eat—then I’ve got to pack and get to the airport.” Talking to herself, almost.
Now that she’s getting used to it, Renata finds it oddly relaxing to speak to someone who never answers. No disagreement or conflict or strain, no wondering what the words might be concealing, no nuances or misunderstanding, at least on this simple level of keys and groceries. No ambiguity. No lies. She almost wishes Gianna would never speak, so she’d never have to figure out who’s behind the compliant face. Silent, she is wholly benign and uncalculating, merely a child who needs help. Perhaps she was punished for the words she spoke. Possibly she’s known and felt things for which there are no adequate words, so why bother with any at all? “I can’t talk no more about how I came up,” Leola Pettway, the quiltmaker, said. “It hurt to think about it.” Everything they’ve accomplished today has been done without her uttering a single word.
“Well, I’m off.” Gianna’s been curled up on the couch reading her new book while Renata packed. Last thing, she tucks in her purse the Arabic grammar she found at Rashid’s, and an unexpected find from the library, 201 Arabic Verbs. “Will you be okay for two days?”
She nods.
“When I get back we’ll figure out what to do next. Here’s some money. Use what you need. But leave that twenty on the table, okay? It’s...sort of a souvenir. If you need the phone, if you decide to start talking, it’s over there. And if you like to read, there’re lots of better books.” This makes Gianna smile. She must have heard it before. Okay, no reforms yet. Stick to the basics. “Oh, and don’t go out late at night, okay? I don’t want to have to worry.” This advice is even more absurd: Gianna’s been wandering the streets at least since Saturday. It’s a miracle nothing has happened to her. Assuming nothing has.
At the door, with the taxi waiting downstairs, Renata takes one last look over her shoulder. Her voice comes out shaky. “Will you be here when I get back?”
Gianna nods.
Renata knows that in the eyes of any sensible person, Jack, or Denise, or even flaky Linda, she’s done something outrageous. Mad, even. To give a stranger off the street the run of your house....You never know, are you out of your mind? In Hawaii no one would be shocked. In Hawaii it’s an age-old custom to take in children of relatives, friends, any child who needs a home. The practice is hallowed by tradition and by love, with no need for formal adoption procedures. Hanai, the custom is called. The child is called a hanai too.