In Another Life VIII
Harleen Quinzel opened her eyes when she heard a noise from the kitchen. Someone was moving around in there – probably her Mommy or Daddy, she thought reassuringly, as she cuddled her stuffed clown doll tighter and shut her eyes.
Then her eyes snapped open again when she heard her Daddy snoring from the bedroom next door. It must be her Mommy moving around in the kitchen, but Mommy was usually a sound sleeper…
No, something about this wasn't right, decided Harleen Quinzel, and she sat up, slipping out of bed still clutching her clown doll and padding down the hall to her parents' bedroom. She pushed open the door to see them both asleep and breathing heavily in their bed. But if both her parents were in here, who was that making noises in the kitchen?
She tiptoed inside the bedroom and shook her father. "Daddy!" she whispered. "There's somebody in the kitchen!"
"Mmm…what's that, Harley?" he murmured sleepily.
"There's somebody in the kitchen," she whispered. "I think it might be a ghost. Or a monster."
Her father sighed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Harley, for the last time, there's no such things as ghosts or monsters…"
"George, listen!" whispered Harley's mother, sitting up suddenly as she too heard movement coming from down the hall.
Her father was suddenly wide awake, climbing out of bed and heading toward the door. "Gladys, you stay here with Harley," he said.
"Shouldn't we call the police?" she whispered, standing up and pulling her daughter close.
"Not yet," he muttered. "Maybe it's just a…stray cat or something, and then we'd feel pretty foolish wasting police time. Let's just see what it is."
He opened the closet door and pulled out the shotgun, and then crept silently down the hall. "Daddy!" whispered Harley, breaking out of her mother's embrace and rushing after him.
"Harley, no!" gasped Mrs. Quinzel, running after her.
Harley reached her father just as he kicked open the door to the kitchen and flipped the light on.
Inside was a teenage boy, incredibly thin and pale and ragged, and looking absolutely terrified. He looked as if he hadn't eaten or slept in several days, as there were dark circles under his desperate, green eyes, and he clutched the food he had been raiding out of the refrigerator to his chest, as if it was a priceless possession.
His other hand carried a handgun, which was pointed at Mr. Quinzel, although the boy's hand shook. "Stay…stay back," the boy stammered, in a shaking voice. "I'll shoot!"
Mr. Quinzel looked at him, and then slowly lowered his shotgun. "George, what are you doing?" gasped Mrs. Quinzel, who had resumed embracing Harley, partly to protect her, and partly to hold her back.
Mr. Quinzel put the shotgun on the ground and then held up his hands. "You don't want to shoot me, son," he said, gently.
"I don't want to, but I will!" cried the boy. "I will if you don't stay back, or…or if you try to call the cops!"
"We're not gonna call the cops, son," said Mr. Quinzel, gently. "We're not. Just calm down. Put down the gun."
The boy stared at him hopefully, but still kept the gun raised.
"You wouldn't shoot me in front of my family, would you?" Mr. Quinzel asked, softly. "In front of my wife, and my little girl? You wouldn't do that, would you, son? You're not a bad man, are you?"
The boy glanced at the doorway, and his eyes fixed on Harley, who was staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, clutching her clown doll and shaking. He bit his lip and then lowered his gun, shaking his head.
"I'm…I'm not a bad man," he whispered. "I'm not, I just…"
"I know," whispered Mr. Quinzel. "You're hungry. You just help yourself to whatever's in there," he said, nodding at the refrigerator. "Why don't you take a plate and sit down? You look exhausted."
"I…I don't understand," stammered the boy. "Why…why are you being nice to me? What do you want?"
"I want you to have a meal and a rest," said Mr. Quinzel, firmly. "So sit down and help yourself."
"You…you just wanna distract me so you can call the cops!" he stammered. "That's your game, isn't it?"
"No game, son," said Mr. Quinzel. "But we'll sit here with you if you don't trust us. Gladys, Harley, let's all sit down," he said, taking his own seat at the kitchen table.
Everyone slowly obeyed, and when the Quinzel family were seated, the boy at last took his seat, looking around suspiciously. He placed the food in his arms on the table and then began to devour it.
"What's your name, son?" asked Mr. Quinzel.
The boy wiped his mouth. "Jack," he muttered. "Jack Napier."
"And how long have you been on the streets, son?" asked Mr. Quinzel.
He didn't respond, devouring more food hungrily before he said, "Long enough."
"Where are your parents?" asked Mr. Quinzel.
"Dead," retorted Jack, coldly. "Good riddance. I don't need them."
"That's not a very nice thing to say about your parents," said Mr. Quinzel.
"You didn't know 'em," snorted Jack. "Trust me, I'm better off alone."
"I don't think anyone is better off alone, son," said Mr. Quinzel. "I think everyone deserves a loving family, and a home, and a bed…"
"Well, a guy can dream!" said Jack, with a forced laugh.
"Don't you have a home?" piped up Harley, who had overcome her fear of the stranger and was now just puzzled by him. Surely everyone had a home…
"Yeah, sure, kid," he said, shrugging. "My home is wherever I want it to be. I'm free to roam this whole city, that's my home. I'm free," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself of the truth of that statement.
"Is that why you're afraid of the cops?" asked Mr. Quinzel, quietly. "Because you're free?"
"Yeah. Because they try to take my freedom away," Jack retorted. "Stick me in orphanages or correctional facilities or some other kinda prison. Not for me, thanks," he snorted. "I can take care of myself. Always have, and I always will."
"Don't you ever get lonely?" asked Harley. "All alone, without a Mommy or a Daddy?"
"No," retorted Jack. "Why would I be lonely? That's for losers, weaklings, y'know. The kinda people that need other people. I don't need anyone."
"You look like you could use someone to fix you a square meal," said Mr. Quinzel. "And maybe buy you food, so you wouldn't have to break into other peoples' houses and steal theirs."
"I ain't stealing," he snapped. "I'm not a thief. You're only a thief if the cops catch you. I'm just…helping myself," he muttered, devouring another slice of bread.
Mr. Quinzel was silent. "I'd like to help you, Jack…" he began.
"I don't want your help!" snapped Jack. "Don't need it either! I do just fine on my own, and I don't want your charity!"
"No, just my food," said Mr. Quinzel, smiling. Jack just glared back at him. "Son, let me help you," he said, gently. "I can make up a bed on my sofa for you tonight, you can get a good night's rest, and then tomorrow we can discuss your future, how about that?"
"I ain't got time to think about the future," snapped Jack. "My present is occupied with me surviving. You can't daydream about the future if you wanna do that, not in Gotham."
"You haven't heard my offer yet," said Mr. Quinzel. "I run a business – a used car dealership here in town. Now you look like a strong, able-bodied young man, and I could use an assistant to help me fix up the cars. I've been thinking about hiring one for a few weeks now. It would be a real job, where you'd be paid real money, enough to buy food and a place to live. I'll let you stay here until you've saved up enough to afford a small place. What do you say to that?"
Jack glared at him suspiciously. "Why?" he demanded. "Why would you wanna help me like that? What's in it for you?"
"I get an assistant," retorted Mr. Quinzel. "And you need my help, Jack. That's why."
Mrs. Quinzel cleared her throat suddenly. "George, maybe we should talk about this privately before we invite Jack to stay or offer him a job…"
"All right," said Mr. Quinzel, standing up. "Jack, would you look after Harley for a moment?"
"George…" began Mrs. Quinzel, but he looked at her, and then led her out of the kitchen, keeping the door open a crack.
"You can keep an eye on her to make sure he's not hurting her," said Mr. Quinzel, gesturing to the door.
"Good. Because I was about to wonder if you'd lost your mind!" snapped Mrs. Quinzel. "We can't just take a boy in from the street! We know nothing about him! What if he's on drugs? What if he drinks? We should call the police and let them deal with him…"
"He's obviously dealt with the police before, and you've seen what the result is," said Mr. Quinzel, gesturing inside. "I do need an assistant, Gladys. Why don't we just give him a chance? I'm sure it's more than anyone else has done."
"You would let a strange boy stay here, with Harley?" demanded Mrs. Quinzel. "Doesn't the safety of your daughter mean anything?"
"Well, let's see if he's doing anything unsafe with her," said Mr. Quinzel, glancing inside the kitchen.
Harley and Jack just looked at each other, Jack still eating and Harley just holding her clown doll. "You want a plate?" she asked at last.
He shook his head, still eating. "Mommy says you should always eat with a plate, or you'll get food everywhere," said Harley. She stood up. "I'll get you one," she said, heading over to the counter. She reached up a hand, but the cupboards were still far out of her reach. Jack watched her struggling for a moment, and then stood up, heading over to help her.
"I can do it!" snapped Harley.
"Yeah, when you've grown six feet," retorted Jack, picking her up around the waist and putting her down on top of the counter. She turned to glare at him, and then pulled open the cupboard doors, grabbing a plate and handing it to him.
He took it and headed back over to the table. Harley remained on the counter, looking down at the floor below. He turned. "Can't you get down?" he asked.
"Sure I can," she retorted, putting her hands on her hips. "I'll just jump."
"Uh huh," he said, smiling as he munched some potato chips. "Might be a long way down. You could hurt yourself if you don't land on your feet."
"Well, I will," snapped Harley. "You'll see. I'll show you."
She glanced down at the floor again, and then took a deep breath…and jumped off the counter.
Her parents had raced into the room, just in time to see Jack dive to catch her. She landed in his arms, glaring up at him.
"I was fine!" she snapped as he released her safely on the ground. "You didn't need to catch me!"
"Well, next time I won't," retorted Jack. "And you can just go to the hospital with a cracked skull. See if I care."
"George!" snapped Mrs. Quinzel, beckoning her husband out of the kitchen again and leaving Harley and Jack alone. She sat back down at the table, putting her clown doll in the seat next to her.
"Who's your friend?" asked Jack.
"That's Harley Quinn," said Harley. "Daddy named her that when I bought her, because it's like my name."
"Which is?" asked Jack.
"Harleen Frances Quinzel," said Harley. "But everyone calls me Harley. So Harley Quin…"
"Yeah, I get it," interrupted Jack. "Nice gag."
"I wanna be a clown like her when I grow up," said Harley. "Daddy and Mommy took me to the circus, and the clowns were my favorite part. They were really funny."
"Is that so?" said Jack, clearly uninterested.
"You ever been to the circus?" asked Harley.
"No," he retorted. "Sounds lame."
"It ain't lame!" snapped Harley. "It's fun!"
"Not my kinda fun," he retorted.
"Well, what's your kinda fun?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I dunno. I shot a rat once. That was pretty cool."
"That's gross," said Harley, making a face. "But then I guess all boys are gross."
He grinned. "Uh huh. Just wait and see what I can do, kid," he said, filling a glass of water from the sink. He drank from it, swished it around, and then snorted the water out of his nose.
Harley giggled in shock and delight. "Gross! Do it again! Do it again!" she said, clapping.
"No, Harley, why don't we not make a mess all over the kitchen table?" said Mr. Quinzel, racing into the room. "Jack, if you've decided you wanna stay, why don't we help you make up a bed on the sofa?"
"Jack can have my bed if he wants," said Harley. "And I'll stay up and try to learn that water trick!"
"No, Harley, you're coming to bed with Mommy and Daddy tonight," said Mrs. Quinzel, firmly. "And I don't think Jack would like your bed anyway – it's pink."
"Let me find you some spare sheets," said Mr. Quinzel, heading to the linen cupboard. "And some pillows."
"Do you want one of my stuffed animals?" asked Harley of Jack. "I'm sleeping with Harley, but you can have my bear or my elephant or my…"
"I'm good, thanks, kid," said Jack.
"Ok, Jack. See you tomorrow!" called Harley, waving at him as Mrs. Quinzel carried her off to bed. "Night night!"
"Now you get some sleep, and in the morning, I'll go show you around my garage, how about that?" asked Mr. Quinzel, as he made up the sofa.
Jack nodded. "That's…fine, I guess."
"And you don't have to take the job if you don't want to," continued Mr. Quinzel.
"No, I…I do want to," stammered Jack. "I want to work, and…earn money and…have a place to go back to at night."
Mr. Quinzel smiled at him. "Well, you will, Jack," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But you're welcome to stay here for as long as you need. Harley seems quite taken with you."
"Well, I'm…quite taken with her," he said, smiling. "She's a sweet kid. Not that I like kids or anything – that would be lame," he said, shrugging.
Mr. Quinzel nodded. "Well, goodnight, Jack," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He flicked off the lights, and Jack sat down on the sofa. He took off his shoes and his jacket, and then lay down, basking in the feeling of soft sheets and a pillow. He was asleep in moments, safe and warm, for the first time in his life.