leave me in here,” she was shouting as he stepped out of the cabin and closed the door behind him.
“Monsters,” he mumbled as he walked off. As if there weren't enough of those in the world as it was.
“It's not like there's any shortage,” he said aloud and then added, to himself, “including the ones I've created myself,” but he didn't want to think about the sweet little orphan girl he'd befriended all those years ago, and what had become of her since. It wasn't entirely his fault, or so he liked to think. It was the nature of the business. It was all in the details.
Twelve
For her part, Princess was wasting no energy. Literally. As with most days and nights, she sat on her pile of cushions in her tent beneath the pier and waited for her minions to serve her. Between Fripperone and Jockstrap, on the one hand, her customers on the other, and the lousy do-gooders on yet a third hand, she had all of her needs attended to without hardly ever even getting off her ass. She kept all of her essentials nearby; snacks, more snacks, and her magic-potion-making kit. She was impervious to weather of all kind, feeling neither cold nor heat, wetness or dryness, but maintained her implacable motionlessness through it all. It had taken a massive effort to follow Fripperone's cry and now she was still recovering. Her plan was to sit and wait for Cookie to come around as she usually did. Princess approved of plans that involved nothing more than sitting and waiting.
Cookie finally showed up around four in the morning. She had promised to bring some more nice woolen socks for Princess, whose feet were swollen from all that inactivity and required extra comforting. Princess, and the whole gang for that matter, liked to pretend that they were really quite helpless victims of circumstances beyond their control, but Cookie was never fooled for a moment. Jockstrap had not lost his will to live in some far off combat mission. Fripperone was not permanently disabled due to psychic stress. Princess was not an abused and abandoned gypsy orphan. Curly and Rags were not street urchins from day one. Heck, Cookie knew their grandfather from her time in the Navy!
Her rule, however, was to never discriminate, and never judge. If they were out on the street, if they asked for help, she was there and she would give it. Maybe they didn't need it. Maybe they were hoodlums and bums but maybe someday it would all turn around. Maybe her example would pay off in the end. In any case, it was easier to live by the one simple rule - just give.
And listen. She always listened. Princess told her about Davey Connor, how they thought he was dead - who didn't? - and how they'd just seen him, only calling himself Eddie. Eddie Barkowicki? How do you like that? As if there could be another Barkowicki. Heck, her parents had even changed all their names to Barnes way back when. Did she know him? Had she seen him?
No, Cookie could truthfully answered, she had never met anyone who called himself Eddie Barkowicki. No need to mentioned she'd met one who merely called himself Eddie. That was not the question, so it was not a lie. She wondered what it could mean, though. The one she had met called Eddie had seemed a fairly harmless sort of fellow. He seemed lost, a bit wild. Was he hurt? Had he somehow lost his memory? She concluded that this must be it - he'd been injured in the murder attempt, had become an amnesiac who now wandered the streets at night, looking for his home but unable to recognize it if he even saw it. She decided she would help him if she could.
In the meantime, she asked aloud what Princess and the others had to do with this Davey, and was a bit alarmed to hear the history, which Princess was only too happy to share. She forgot herself a little in the joy of the memories, forgot she was supposed to be humble and meek in the presence of Saint Cookie.
"We used to tease the little rat something fierce," Princess bragged. "We stole his money, we hid his school books, we smashed his lunch. One time Rick even broke the kid's thumb. Those were the days."
She smiled happily as she remembered the details.
"Back then, my Rick was the King of the school. Even Jimmy Kruzel used to quake in his boots when Rick came around. Rick had it in for that kid more than anyone. Locked him in his gym locker one day! What a hoot! Mr. Stones had to come and pry him out with a crowbar. We always hated Davey Connor. One time Jockstrap got him when he was riding his bike. Pushed him off the bridge down the hill to the train tracks. Kid when bumpity bumpity bump, all the way down. Stupid weasel. That's what we always called him - weasel. I don't know why. Rick came up with it."
She paused, then suddenly remembered who she was talking to, and added,
"Of course that was twenty years ago. We were all different then. Bad times. It was a rough neighborhood, you know. You had to take care of yourself."
"Sounds like you did just that," Cookie calmly replied.
"Well, anyway," Princess said, "It was kind of like old times is why Rick flew off the handle just now when he saw him. Now we want to make up, tell him we're sorry, you know? We should all be friends now we're older and out on the street and all. Maybe he's down on his luck like we are. We'd help him out. It's why we're looking for him, you see."
"I see," Cookie nodded. "And I will certainly keep my eyes open. I'll let him know," she promised Princess, and she meant it. If she did come across him, she'd be sure to tell him all that she'd heard.
Thirteen
Dave Connor did not know what to do with himself. He had returned straight home after his encounter with Princess and Fripperone, and didn't stir from his couch the rest of that night or even for a moment the following day. He did nothing, thought nothing, felt nothing; it was as if his mind had gone completely blank. The shock of a single idea had gripped him, and blocked all other sensations. The idea had presented itself to him before, but he had never quite accepted it. He had been somebody. He had been someone that other people knew and recognized and remembered. Uncle Ray of course had known him. He had acknowledged this fact but treated it as no more than a story in a magazine. Clayton had known of him, as if he had read that story. To Dave that former life was barely even a shadow. It was less real to him than a planet in a far off galaxy, but now it had come right to him, stood there in front of him, and demanded an answer. Are you or are you not who you are? Who you were?
He waited until Ray had settled himself down in his favorite old chair for the evening before he came upstairs and sat nearby. Ray was used to this brief encounter, as it had become routine in the past two weeks. He would have his supper, put away his dishes, and take his seat. Then Dave would trudge up the stairs and sit, for a few minutes, before venturing outside. Sometimes Dave would have a word or two to say, but usually not. This night he lingered longer than usual, long enough for Ray to notice the difference. He put down his own magazine and turned to Dave.
"Going to work tonight?," he asked. Dave shook his head.
"I wish I had money," Dave said. "I would give it to you."
"That's a nice thought," Ray replied. "Maybe you will get some if you wind up working for that lady for real."
"I don't think so," Dave sighed. Ray did not ask further. After another long interlude of silence, Dave spoke up again.
"Who was I?," he blurted out.
"Who were you?," Ray said. "I thought you knew that. You're my nephew, Dave Connor. Is something the matter? Have you forgotten?"
"I never knew," he murmured. "I knew but I didn't know. I didn't think. I knew my name. I know my name, but who I was, I don’t know. What was my life? What was I like?"
Ray took some time to think about his answer. It seemed important all of a sudden. Ray had wondered why Dave had never asked before. Now he realized it simply hadn't occurred to him, hadn't meant anything to him. He was not, in fact, Dave Connor. He was somebody else, but he wasn't even some body else, he was something else entirely, and it was awkward for him, almost impossible, like a dog that had turned into a horse and was trying to bark.
"The Dave you were," Ray told him, "Was not the Dave you are now. I can tell you that much. That Dave, well, he was a piece of work. A nice little boy all right. Very quiet, very polite. You remind me
of the little Davey, up until around ten or so. That's when your mother got sick. And then your dad. You changed completely after that. By the time you were, oh, maybe fourteen, it was a different Davey Connor. Unhappy, surly, even mean sometimes. You didn't do anything for your parents, you know. Didn't try to help. Wouldn't lift a finger as they got weaker, and sicker, and finally passed on. You took off on your own, ran around with your friends. Your mom and dad worried about you all the time. Asked me what to do, as if I could tell them anything. I never had a kid. Heck, I was more like you when I was that age. Left home in my teens and never looked back. I could understand that, but I couldn't help."
He paused to see what effect his little talk was having on his nephew, but Dave had no expression on his face. He was listening intently, but not really hearing. He couldn't absorb this data, make it his own. It was just another human interest story. Ray continued.
"Then you got involved in some things you shouldn't have. Got caught once or twice. Spent some time in jail. I never told anyone around here about that, not even Clayton. That was all in Wetford. I figured, if you ever needed a fresh start, I'd try and keep your name all clear around here. Then you started branching out. Started doing business over here down river as well as up