Months had gone by since the incident with the letters. But he wasn't out of the woods yet. If anything, this was the real year that set him up for his premature end.
. . .
The line in the lobby of the local museum of cultural influence dawdled painstakingly. The Boy flipped through the pages of the one dirty magazine he owned, frankly starting to get bored of it, and shuffling his feet as the queue inched forward. He had the booklet of course wrapped in a more publicly appropriate sleeve – not that he cared much at this point if anyone thought badly of him; he just didn't want it to get confiscated. Swinging his collection sack on his wrist impatiently, finally the security guard called him through the gates and he gave a couple coins for admission, sighing. That was two less coins he could have given his father
Stepping into the great hall of the museum he passed a young man staring at a painting with earphones in and wires winding down to a smart phone in his hand. There was a faint humming from the stranger's music blaring so loud.
"How nice it would be to plug in and tune out like that."
Jealousy pinched the teen but now without any hope. There was no sense in wishing for things he could never afford. With Dad's new found love of gambling away his son's collections it didn't look likely The Boy would have a chance to save his own money ever again.
Still, the thought of wandering the museum listening to music and thinking of something other than his self-pity sounded nice. But that would be impossible to do today anyway. As you know, Dad liked to send The Boy with reminders to stay in line everywhere he went; today it was a gross black eye so swollen he could hardly see out of it. Even if both eyes were swollen shut and he had music blaring loud in his ears he'd still feel the stares.
Jostling his way through a school of kindergarteners lead by their teacher, he turned his thoughts away from their pointing and gawking at his eye and instead asked himself again what kind of notes he was trying to fill this notepad with.
"Just find something to write about and get it over with. I only need a passing grade on Wednesday."
A couple weeks after the incident with the letters, The Boy's ranking at the top of his class slipped through his fingers and Ria Ryuuji quickly took his place. His grades only continued to plummet from there. If he didn't get back up to a passing average with this assignment Dad would confiscate his skateboard, and The Boy wasn't about to let that happen.
This board was his only taste of freedom and he clung to it with all his might. It was the only comfort to the contemplations in the far back of his mind about ditching this waste of a town.
Walking the main hall of the small museum he read each sign in front of each exhibit room. This essay was for his humanities class, and he was supposed to write about how religious culture has affected the history of the local area, specifically how it influenced the early settlers.
"What am I supposed to learn from this? That my ancestors carved all these statues and worshipped these gods? Why should I even care about stuff like that?"
He came to a room titled "Shintoism Through the Years."
"Besides, it's not like I have a reason to worship the gods. They've never done a thing for me... Not that I need anyone's help."
Either way he figured this was as good a place as any to start. The room wasn't too full and was dimly lit in a cold lighting to accentuate the lights inside the glass cases holding ancient woodcarvings, statues, and hand-made ceramics. There was a wide, flat pillar in the center of the room with several TV screens all around its surface so that the observer could walk around the long room while listening to documentaries. Watching one of the screens where a man read out of an old leather-bound book, he scribbled some ideas for topics to write about.
Before the humdrum of whispered voices around became too stifling, one cheery voice popped out of the blur. Ryuuji-san stood behind him looking at a glass case of ancient tribal masks, beside her was her father, whom The Boy hardly recognized – he was in a normal winter coat, not his rich work suit as usual. Turning his back to them and burying his face in his notes, The Boy tuned in, watching over his shoulder – taking care she didn't notice him or his ugly welted eye – as the girl grasped her father's hand with a smile and they stepped to the next viewing case. Regardless what he told himself, a lonely heart craves relationship and human attention, even if it has to get that fix from a secondhand source:
The elder Ryuuji inquired about his daughter's grades in the esteemed but not unfriendly tone which their family was known for.
"They've stayed up pretty well, Papa." Said Ryuuji-san softly, "Except... humanities."
Her face was turned from The Boy but her voice sounded like she was frowning. The Boy couldn't remember seeing anything but a smile on her lips.
"Don't look like that, princess." said her father as he gently tugged her chin back up to a more flattering posture, "We'll find a way to get them back up to match the rest."
"Kinouma- sensei said I could retake the test but... I won't stay at the top of my class like this."
"Don't worry." Her father said more firmly. "Your mother and I have some money set aside; we'll get you a tutor. I know how hard it is to struggle with a new subject." The man chuckled with a notable gleam in his eye, "And I only want the best experience for my favorite daughter."
The youth giggled and reminded him she was his only daughter, to which he replied he had all the more reason to spend time and money on her.
After a pause the girl said solemnly, "I just...don't want to disappoint anyone."
"You never do." He smiled and bopped her nose with a finger. "You take after your old man too much for that."
Ryuuji-san laid her head on her father's arm and walked on with him like that, like she couldn't feel more comfortable anywhere else in the world.
"...Must be nice to have a dad who..."
The Boy wasn't sure how he wanted to finish that uncomfortable thought, so he threw it away entirely. No use wishing for things he could never have or even deserve.
After all, he'd already sabotaged the perfectly good motives of one parent working hard to try to convince the court to let them be together... If only stupid little eight-year-old him hadn't thought it was a good idea to write to her without asking Dad, that he could pull off that trick the rest of his life and not get caught. Before it was just his father that told her not to come around, but now thanks to The naïve Boy she had a strict new restraining order to deal with. Thanks to The naïve Boy she might keep working for years in vain. Or maybe she'd already given up by now. If she did he'd never know.
Still, bouncing the drawstring bag on his wrist, an idea popped into his brain thinking of what he had to work with in the parent he did have left. Normally the bag being half full as it was now meant he was done collecting. Dad would be satisfied when he got home but... sometimes he got in a better mood when The Boy brought home a bigger haul. What if the bag was really half empty? So, after an hour at the museum with envy for the Ryuujis still fresh in his core, The Boy prepared to do his father proud or die finding out if such a feat was possible.
Stealing, pick-pocketing, and doing everything in between all the way home, he found that thieving by choice instead of necessity was addicting. Greed took over, the thought of Dad praising him for going the extra mile fueling him to continue searching every nook and cranny of the suburban sect. When his avarice had just about filled his bag to the bursting point, he went for more still.
It was then he turned to fishing from a wishing well outside the front of the local private cemetery at the park. Of course it wasn't long before his luck finally ran out. The park ranger caught him and demanded to see how much stolen money he had taken from the private donations. He insisted he had only stolen a little and that the rest was his own money, but the policeman, finding over five thousand yen worth of just coins and an erotic magazine, wasn't exactly impressed. Confiscating the lot, he warned The Boy how lucky he was to be a minor and told him to get home before he got himself into deeper trouble.
Without anything else to hold money, The Boy had no choice but to flee the park and head home before dark. Furious and terrified to face Dad without any money at all, he muttered every curse word he ever learned to keep himself from punching or breaking the nearest thing he could get his hands on. In this case it was the precious piece of trash he called a skateboard.
Kicking the board onward and faster he wound through the side streets, gliding full speed around people and in between cars, until finally he came to the back alleys behind his neighborhood's fence-line. In his head were memorized elaborate maps of the area; and in his frenzy of anger he thought only of getting home to get his beating over with as soon as possible. His mental GPS told him the fastest route was through this alleyway coming up on his left. So he turned sharply, not thinking twice about where he was.
The evening sun casted a heavy shadow on this narrow passage so he rode into almost darkness. He had forgotten this was the street where – for some reason still unknown– the construction workers seemed to have run out of concrete and started using rough red bricks as pavement. Unable to see the ground in the shade he was startled by the jarring shift under his wheels, slowing his speed. Blood still boiling in shame for his own stupidity he glared ahead to the sidewalk and the cement wall beyond this alley. Kicking forward way too hard he ignored the dark shapes flying past him which he would soon recognize as spilt sacks of trash.
In an instant his wheels caught something and he was sent lunging forward into a full face-plant. The edge of his board flipped and boxed his anklebone. Landing partly on his wrists and partly on his nose, dirt slowly burned his grated skin as he rose on hands and knees, growling.
And now he did the only thing you can imagine he wanted to: yell and kick things. He didn't know what he was beating, just that watching the trash fly all over the place was a release of the heat. It wasn't such a bad deal until he hurled a kick at a metal garbage can sending it rolling to the wall on the other side of the sunlit sidewalk, nearly breaking his toe in the process. He grabbed his throbbing foot, biting his tongue and falling back on his tailbone.
"Excuse me!" a small voice piped in through the vulgarity rampaging his head.
To his right, atop the steps that lead up to the store front of that niche bakery was the elderly baker herself. The Boy felt a fraction of his temper give way to embarrassment. He, like most people, had forgotten this little bakery was back here. But the little woodcarven sign above the door reading Heavenlee wasn't exactly the most memorable thing you'd ever seen, hardly even readable in the shade.
Her silver hair was tied in two tiny buns perfectly placed on either side of her head. She wiped one hand fretfully on her dirty apron while grave concern wrinkled her pruned face. They held each other's shocked gazes until eventually the mortification started to further curdle his sour temper.
He tried to stand and found the old woman's hand before him. He refused to take it. No way she could help him up, she was even smaller than him.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Embarrassed, angry, foot throbbing, and hoping she didn't hear any of his screaming, he shook his head.
"I thought I heard some commotion out here, at first I thought it was just the stray rummaging the trash again." She fretted. "What are you doing back here?"
"Nothing. I just tripped." The Boy retorted, turning away sharply but stumbling on his own limp.
"Ah! Look at yourself." The lady dismayed, pulling him back around and brushing the dust off his chest and shoulders. "Don't worry, I'm sure all of this will wash out of your coat."
He tensed at her touch and pulled away. "I-I'm fine. Leave me alone." he tried to push her compassionate hands away.
"Oh..." she frowned. "What's this??"
He flinched when the stranger reached for his face, examining the shiner on his eye. He spooked but stopped short of his recoil as her wrinkly fingers brushed away his bangs gently. Her deeply creased eyes peered through her heavy lids at the massive bruise. They were a warm peach color.
"Are you sure you only fell down just now?" she said sweetly, but skeptical. "I've never seen a bruise form that fast."
The Boy cleared his throat. "I said I'm fine."
To his surprise she swiftly reached at his feet and picked up his board before he could snatch it from her.
"Hey!" he snapped, "Give that to me!"
"Follow me." She made her way up the step at the front door. "I've got something that'll fix you right up."
"I don't need your help!"
He tried to reach for his board but tripped as pain seared his foot still. Grudgingly he limped up the steps and through the glass door after her.
Inside, she flipped a switch and the lights in the front of the shop flickered on. She must have been closed, for if they had been turned on before, the yellow light would have shone through the windows and lit his path outside.
She set his board against one of the two stools at the small bar attached to the display glass and cash register. The lady then moved to the mahogany wardrobe she seemed to be using as a closet and started fishing around for something. The Boy looked around. Her shop didn't look much different from the museum he just got out of. A collection of ancient looking paper fans were hung on one wall, where charcoal drawings of gods in luxurious raiment on large parchments hung elsewhere. Scrolls of traditional brush calligraphy were just another of the many decorations on the busy pistachio wallpaper with black and pink cherry blossom patterns. The back wall was gabled with dark wood in the Oriental style and the kitchen concealed only by a rice paper door.
As she searched head buried in the wardrobe mumbling to herself he snatched his board protectively. But, the old furnace in the corner kept it toasty in here and the air smelled like fresh cinnamon rolls. Curiosity stoked and no longer too eager to get home where Dad refused to "waste" money on heating and it always reeked of alcohol, he took a meander around the shop.
Looking at the pastries in the display under the counter, he was reminded of that day when he was eight. Watanabe-sensei had given him some spare change and then this same baker blessed him with a free lemon meringue pie. Was this old lady always so bent on doing favors for sorry looking boys like him?
Behind the bar were shelves full of paper dolls and all kinds of books, from cookbooks to Shinto encyclopedias. On the counter sat... a charity donation box! He had forgotten from the few times he had come in here before, that she always kept some sort of change box on the counter in case people wanted to give their change to charity causes. He took one glance at the lady behind him, still with her back turned to him and searching in the closet. In a heartbeat he had nabbed the box and shoved it in his coat pocket, which luckily was deep enough and the box small enough the bulge was hardly noticeable.
Better to go home with less than the quota than nothing at all; maybe he wouldn't be beaten quite as hard.
"Ah ha! There we are!" said the lady finally, drawing out a jar of pale cream and striding back to him. "Tonight after your bath, rub a little of this on your bruises and scrapes. By morning it'll be gone as a ghost!"
"Um..." he said slowly, "I don't have any money."
"This one's on the house." And she gave him a small wink, putting the jar in his hands and pushing him towards the door. "You can take it but promise you'll bring it back in the morning and tell me how it worked. It's a new formula and I'm dying to see how it works. You don't have a peanut allergy do you?"
"Uh... I don't think so."
"Good. Then see you tomorrow!"
"W-Wait a minute!"
But the door was already shut and she flipped the sign to 'closed' from the inside, picking up a broom and finishing her cleaning like he was never there. So, very hesitantly and staring at the mason jar in his hand he started walking home, feeling like he just got tossed in and out of a whirlwind back into the cold.
At home his evening proceeded as painfully as expected. Then he bathed, used the ointment – not second guessing a medication from a stranger because even if it were poisoned he wouldn't really care at this point – and went to bed. The next morning after one glance in the mirror, he sprinted out the door early for school. He sped straight back to the alleyway on the edge of his neighborhood on his board, this time remembering to pick it up and only running the rest of the way on the bricks.
When he barged through the doors of Heavenlee, the belle jingled cheerfully and he found the elder alone behind the counter setting out new pastries. Puffing and not sure where to start, he pulled the jar of ointment from his backpack and handed it to her.
"It... worked." He panted, still amazed at how perfectly he could see her out of his eye that yesterday was nearly swollen shut.
Beaming with pride, she stepped closer and put a hand on his face, pulling it this way and that, inspecting the bruises that were almost invisible, just as she had promised. His cynical heart was swelling with excitement for the first time in what felt like ages. The ointment had worked its magic; even the newest wounds from last night were fading before they'd gotten the chance to show.
She grinned wrinkles deeper into her cheeks. "You're welcome."
"How much do you charge for a jar of this stuff???" he demanded in one breath.
"Charge?" she said, "Oh, I don't know. It's a family recipe; I've never sold it."
"Please, Ma'am, I really need to know." The Boy begged. "I'll pay for it. Name your price."
The elder pouted. "If you're really worried about the one on your eye showing then you go ahead and keep this jar until it's completely healed."
"No," he muttered, sadly eyeing the fact that the jar was already half-empty. "I mean... I might need some more like... for in the future... when this one's empty."
The old woman lifted her chin and hummed thoughtfully. "An easy bruiser, huh?"
He shrugged.
She nodded knowingly. "Get teased for it at school?"
He scowled at his feet.
"You'd like to stop giving them something to stare at, is that it?" she continued, very matter-of-factly.
The Boy grumbled, "I said I'd pay you whatever you want for it. It's none of your business why I need it."
The old lady thought for a moment. She turned her head and looked at the clock, flipping out her paper fan and waving it slightly under her many chins. "I'll tell you what:" she said, "You go run along to school. When you're done, come by and see me."
The Boy's heart sank. After last night, he would have to stay out thieving for hours to make up the loss.
"I can't." He groaned, still looking everywhere but at her face. "I have chores after school. I won't have time."
"Trust me." She continued in a shrewd tone. "I can solve your problem way easier than those chores could."
"Who says I have a problem? I'm just trying to buy something."He retorted, aggravated by her inability to give him a straight answer.
The woman raised her brows and folded her thin lips in a sad grin. "Sweetheart, anyone who is desperate enough to steal a charity collection from an old lady's bakery has problems... whether they admit it or not."
A dumbfounded stare was all The Boy could offer in reply. She laughed at his comical expression and he turned color a little. He pulled on his collar nervously but she just kept laughing.
He glowered at her giggling old face, "Are...Aren't you mad?"
"Of course I'm not mad." She said. "I knew you took it before I even let you leave."
"...So, you just...let me have it?"
"Let's just say I know a needy cause when I see one."
Her smile was full of such utter kindness it disgusted him.
"Who says I'm needy?" He mumbled. "For all you know I could just be a punk kid that doesn't care about anyone else."
Here the lady paused carefully. "From my experience with boys like you... I've learned that punk kids who don't care are usually the byproducts of punk parents who care even less."
The Boy's puckered brow slipped loose.
She sighed sadly. "When you look at it that way, it's not hard to forgive a child for being mislead."
The Boy opened his mouth without being sure what he wanted to come out of it. Should he deny her terrifyingly accurate assumption or thank her for being the first person to ever make it.
"However..." Her fan snapped shut and smacked him over the head.
"Ow!!!" he threw his arms up as a shield. "What the hell-!!"
"...There is no justification for thievery." She finished, smiling as gently as ever.
The Boy bit back quite a string of curse words bubbling in his throat, feeling a welt begin to smart on the top of his head. "Well, now you have to give me ointment for this welt I'm going to have!"
"Ah, don't worry about that." She just kept waving her fan, "I'll let you use all the cream you want. But we're going to be getting some proper tough love from now on, so just promise to stay on your best behavior and we shouldn't have any problems."
He kept rubbing at his head, "What do you mean, 'we'?"
"I'm hiring you." She said plainly, making her way back to her work behind the counter.
The Boy blinked a few times. "...Ma'am, are you senile?"
"No." she replied casually. "But my arthritis is getting worse by the day and it would be splendid to have a nice young pair of hands to help out around here, not to mention I love the company. Seeing as you need ointment – which I would be happy to provide in return – I think it sounds like a win-win for us both."
The Boy gazed around the shop. "Okay... so you need a younger worker around here. I get that, but... me? Really?? Of all the strong young men you could hire... Maybe you can't tell but I'm not exactly what most people consider 'able-bodied.' And I'm thirteen, you can't legally hire me! You're kidding, right?"
"You're a thorough thinker – I like that." She nodded and sat on a stool behind the bar. "Truth be told, I'm a bit of a spiritual person. I believe in the red string of fate that brings together the two souls who can aid each other like no other pair could. When I found you in the alley yesterday, I swear I'd never felt a stronger spiritual presence!"
At this, the teen tried very hard not to laugh. He halfway thought of walking out right then and ignoring this crazy old coot.
"This bakery," the elder went on more seriously. "Is not just my career; it's my passion. It's all I have and I want to avoid retirement as long as possible. But my body can't maintain a whole shop like it used to."
"Put up a 'now hiring' sign." said The Boy. "You could get stronger workers than me and more of them."
The old lady shook her head violently. "No, employees come and go like fads. That's not what I want at all. What I need is an apprentice." She pointed at him with her fan. "I was just waiting for the right little soul to show up."
"...Right..." and The Boy paced forward, set the jar on the counter then slowly backed towards the door. "Well, good luck with that. But, um... on second thought, I really don't need the ointment that badly."
"A thousand yen."
He froze. "What?"
"I'm guessing you steal because your parents don't give you much of an allowance." said the woman in a business-like tone. "In return for being my apprentice, I'll let you use the magic cream whenever you need it and I'll pay you a thousand yen an hour for your troubles, since you'll be working after school."
"A thousand yen?!" the teen gaped. "There's no way in a location like this you make enough to pay me that weekly let alone hourly!"
"You'd be surprised how much business I get. There may not be a lot of people who know about this shop, but those who do are faithfully returning customers." She smirked. "Besides, it's not like I have much to do with the money I make. I live in the back room here so I'm only paying utilities and groceries for one building. And I promise, I'll make it my personal responsibility to make sure you get paid every day."
The Boy's brain was in frenzy. Dad would never let him. He'd actually asked his dad about finding some work around the neighborhood but the man always refused, saying he has to handle the responsibility of school before he can shoulder any others. But... If he worked every day after school for two to three hours, that would more than fulfill Dad's minimum quota. In fact, working for two hours every day after school would fill his bag faster than fishing out of wells anyway.
The Boy chewed the inside of his lip. "What about weekends?"
"On Saturday and Sunday I'm only open from eight to twelve. But there will be plenty of work to do around here even without customers, so working weekends is entirely up to how long you want to stay. I'll still pay you for every hour, even if you want to work all day." And she finished with a grin that let him know she would very much like that.
As it was now, he would sometimes stay out until dark without getting enough to appease Dad. Even if it turned out to be harder work, how nice would it be to know that he wouldn't go home empty-handed?
The Boy felt hope trying to light his heart. He squashed it down a little longer. "You still haven't answered my question though." He said. "I'm not at the legal hiring age yet."
"Don't worry." She assured with the biggest beam yet. "If anyone asks I'll pretend like you're my grandson."
The Boy's skin cringed at her joy.
"In fact." She went on, "I won't even tell you my name. You can call me Granny. I've always wanted a grandkid and no one would suspect a thing!"
"I'm not calling you Granny."
The old woman giggled at his sour attitude. "Well, then you'll just have to call me nothing at all."
He scoffed. Her name wasn't important right now as far as he was concerned. What was important was this deal.
"What if I can't work some days?" he asked.
"I would understand." She said. "But I'd appreciate if you prioritized our deal as much as possible."
Dad would get suspicious if he was gone during regular hours every day and started bringing home a regular amount every time. But he wouldn't have to give his father all the money every time. And working extra hours on weekends could give The Boy deep enough pockets to create irregular collections to offer his father and avoid suspicion altogether.
The Boy finally met the old woman's smiling gaze. The only really questionable factor here was her sanity. Who knew what lay behind those wrinkled grinning eyes. Maybe she was senile.
Or maybe she was just another lonely soul.
Or maybe this was a trap. It all sounded too good to be true. Besides, last time he thought he was safe to go behind Dad's back he ended up at the bottom of a cellar choking half to death.
The baker finally stood again. "This is a lot to think about, I know. I'll give you some time to think about it. You've got to get to school."
He craned his neck to the grandfather clock. His heart skipped. He had five minutes to get to school.
The old lady gave him a final wink. "Think about it, okay? When you come to the conclusion it's a win-win for us both, come on by. Let me take care of those 'chores' for you."
To be continued...