PART TWO
CHAPTER SIX: Sojourn
"You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, cryin' all the time. You ain't nothin' but hound dog, cryin' all the time. Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend a mine…"
Alex Reynolds found herself singing along to the radio despite her detestation for Elvis as she stared up into the innards of a canary yellow 1967 Mustang. She lovingly drained the oil from the car, her baby, and smiled as she thought of driving her along the eastern board with the dreary Atlantic to her left as she abandoned everything she knew for the relatively unknown.
"You almost done with that oil change, girl?" said Carl, the shop manager. He never called her anything but "girl," as if, with her short hair and tall and muscular physique, he needed a daily reminder that she was one. Alex rolled her body out from under the car and grinned. Her face was smeared with blackened oil and her short, blond hair, which she normally kept in a clean pixie cut, was sticking out in every direction.
"All done," she said. She stood up and wiped her dirty hands on her even dirtier overalls.
"Good, I need you to test the brakes on that Chevy over there."
"Sure thing, Boss," said Alex, rolling her eyes. Carl could be helpless sometimes.
"What time do you plan on bouncing out of here?"
"Soon," she replied. "I have plans tonight."
"Hot date?"
Alex snorted. "Nah. Dinner with friends," she lied.
"Well, don't leave without taking care of that Chevy."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Boss."
"If you don't like the job, you know what you can do with it," he said.
"Yeah, I know," Alex muttered. All in good time.
"I really don't get why a girl with as much money as you have in the bank bothers with a blue collar job like this."
"I know you don't," Alex replied. She could try to explain to him, but what would be the point? She loved cars. She loved working. She had worked her whole life. She didn't know anything else.
After she had seen to the Chevy and put one more, probably superfluous, coat of wax on her Mustang, unzipped herself from her coveralls, tossed her gloves into her cubby and slid effortlessly into her car. She reached over into the glove compartment and withdrew a pair of Aviators she had uncovered from a Faneuil Hall flea market the year before. She checked herself out in the rearview mirror and smirked. Pretty sharp, if she did say so herself.
"See you later," she said, nodding to Carl as she pealed out of the garage. He grunted in response.
South Boston was an unforgiving neighborhood to grow up in. That was true for anyone, but it was especially true for Alex. As the dilapidated row houses rushed by in a blur, she felt a pang of sadness. She had never lived anywhere but here. She had never even left Massachusetts. She had almost never left the city limits of Boston, but there was that brief stint in the group home in Dedham. But soon she would be leaving it all behind for the Great Unknown. All right, she admitted to herself. That's a little dramatic. New Jersey isn't exactly Indonesia. I'll be able to find my way around.
She pulled into her driveway and into the garage. It was a one-car garage detached from the house. She hopped over the side of the car and yanked down the garage door. It clattered to the pavement with a crash and Alex bounded into the house. Maps of the northeast United States were strewn all over the kitchen table with a route traced in yellow highlighter snaking down the east coast. A small town along the Jersey shore was circled several times around in red: Point Pleasant. She would be leaving in the morning.
Alex opened the refrigerator door and sighed. Nothing but an old, probably toxic by now, jar of peanut butter and a few cases of beer. She grabbed a Corona and popped the top as she headed for the living room. She fell ungracefully into the couch and started up her laptop, a top-of-the-line Macbook that seemed somewhat out of place in her otherwise modest home in Southie. She logged into her bank account and her jaw tensed. Five hundred thousand dollars more than she had yesterday bringing the grand total to just under one and a half million. It was like clockwork. Every year on this date she was half a million dollars richer. She had been spending steadily since then, but lived well below her means. Her income from the mechanic shop paid her basic bills, but wasn't really enough to build much of a nest egg with. That was fine with her. Extravagance wasn't really her way. She made only one exception to this general rule — her Mustang.
The arrival of this new influx of cash signaled her twenty-first birthday. She threw her head back and drank from the Corona heartily until it was half empty.
"Happy birthday to me," she said softly, setting the bottle down a little too hard on the coffee table. Some beer spurted out and speckled the shabby wooden table. She found it somewhat ironic that on this day, marking her legal entrance into the world of drinking, she'd already had half a fridge full of beer. They were lax about this kind of thing in Southie. And even if they weren't, Alex had looked well beyond her years for quite some time now. Tiny lines traced their way around her eyes, eyes which were underscored by permanent purplish splotches. These were the tell-tale marks of a childhood spent in a near constant state of panic.
On Alex's eighteenth birthday, Alice Baker, her social worker, had called her into the office. It was a shabby, run-down little room in a run-down building in Chinatown just outside South Station. Her latest professional foster mother was only too happy to drop her off. At eighteen, Alex had already reached her full height and towered over everyone in the Dorchester house. And although her body had grown up, it had failed to grow out. What curves she did have were constantly obscured by the extra large t-shirts she wore, hand-me-downs from foster brothers past. Ms. Baker frowned at the lanky teenager with greasy hair and dirt-tracked cheeks in front of her.
"A package came for you today," she said. Alex was slumped in her chair and barely raised an eyebrow.
"Is that why you called me down here?"
Ms. Baker pursed her lips. "No. I called you down here because you've aged out of the system. It's time for you to leave foster care." Ms. Baker glanced down at the floor where Alex had haphazardly tossed her backpack. "I suspect you know that since you're all packed."
"Yeah."
"Do you have any plans for yourself?"
"Go to Hollywood."
"Alexandra, be serious."
"Go to Harvard."
Ms. Baker sighed and reached down into her desk drawer. She withdrew a letter-sized brown package. "This is for you." She slid the package across her desk and Alex picked it up.
"Is that all?" Alex asked, barely looking.
Ms. Baker sighed again. "Yes, that's all."
Without a word, Alex shoved the package into her backpack, slung the pack over her shoulder and headed for the door.
"Alexandra!" Ms. Baker called. Alex looked back, her hands on the door. "I'm very sorry," said Ms. Baker, shaking her head. "I'm sorry we couldn't find you a permanent home."
Alex didn't reply. She let the door close with a thud behind her as she sailed out the door. A permanent home, she thought, rolling her eyes. Like anyone would have her. She was a freak and she knew it. She stepped out into the cold Boston air and zipped her hoodie up to her neck. This was it. She was finally free. But her freedom felt confining. She hadn't given much serious thought to what she would do when she was finally out of the system. And now that it had happened, she felt lost. She started walking. She had no particular aim other than to put as much space between her and that office as she possibly could. She walked and walked and walked. Finally, night had fallen. Her fingers were white from cold. She ducked into a Starbucks coffee shop and ordered a cup of hot water with lemon. She cursed under her breath when the bambi-eyed barista charged her a whole dollar for the beverage. Alex took her cup and found an empty table. She wrapped her hands around the warm cardboard cup and inhaled the steam, allowing it to warm her face. As she sat, she remembered the envelope Ms. Baker had given her. She reached into her bag and pulled it out. It was addressed to her, but the return address — Halcyon Trust — was unfamiliar to her. She tore open the envelope and turned it upside down. A letter and a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper slid out onto the table. She opened the parcel first. It was a key. She looked at it curiously and then turned to the letter and began to read:
Dear Alexandra,
My fondest wishes to you on your eighteenth birthday! Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Gregory Levinson and I serve as vice president with Halcyon Trust. I am pleased to inform you that you are the named beneficiary of a sizable trust and that I have been designated as trustee for said trust. The trust has been set up at the Bank of America and your credentials to access the trust income are attached to this letter. In addition, you will find a key to a safe deposit box, also located at the Bank of America, enclosed in this package as well.
One more thing of note that I must tell you is that the settlor of the trust — that is, your benefactor — has chosen to remain anonymous. Your benefactor is most insistent on this matter so please understand that I cannot give you any details as to his or her identity.
It is my pleasure to serve as your trustee and should you ever have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me any time.
Yours sincerely,
Gregory Levinson
Vice President
Halcyon Trust, LLC
Alex read the letter again, but was as perplexed as ever. On the next sheet was an address for the Bank of America branch located at Government Center as well as some log-in information for the bank's website. At the time, she was barely computer literate and, having nothing better to do, decided to pop into the bank branch personally and see what was up. The friendly teller looked over her letter and log-in codes and smiled broadly at her. Alex distrusted her instantly. She continued to scowl even as she was led into an elevator and descended several floors below ground, past several corridors of stacked black drawers.
"Ah, here we are," said the much-too-cheerful bank teller. She pointed a slender, well-manicured finger at a box marked "7." "Here you are!" she said brightly handing Alex back her key. "I'll give you some privacy."
Alex stared at her back until she had disappeared down the hallway. When she was alone, Alex pushed the key inside the box and turned. The door swung open and revealed a black box on the inside, about the size of a shoe box. She reached in and pulled it out and lay it on the table beside her. She stood there staring at the box for what felt like ages. A feeling of dread began to pull at her. She didn't like unknowns. Curiosity inevitably won out though and she lifted the lid from the box and peered inside. A small satchel bound at the top with string and a letter. The letter was sealed, but it wasn't addressed. She went for the satchel first. She pulled at the string and turned the satchel over. Out slid a small pen-sized object encased in gold. On the top was a golden star that bore a strange symbol she had never seen before. She turned it over looking for the inkwell and frowned when she saw none. It was pretty, she had to admit, but if it wasn't a pen, what was it? Alex had little patience for knick knacks with no useful purpose. She turned to the letter and tore it open.
Her blood ran cold as she read:
Dearest One,
The time has come for you to learn the truth of your destiny. I know your life on this planet has been marred by tragedy and loss, but I hope you will see in it some higher purpose. You are a fighter. You have been one all your life. You have been one in all your lives before this one.
But I am afraid your true battle has not yet begun. There are forces which have penetrated our Universe and are working toward its demise. If those dark forces unleash the Destroyer, all will be lost. You must fight. You must win.
I will be in touch from time to time to guide you on your path. For now I leave you with this gift. This talisman is the external manifestation of the Light which burns inside you. You will know when you are called upon to use it.
Be safe.
And there at the bottom, scrawled in purple ink was a symbol that was forever burned into her memory. Trembling, Alex reached her hand through the neck of her shirt and withdrew a circular compact. She had gotten the compact from the only person she had ever loved and had immediately strung a metal chain through it so as to wear it as a necklace. She didn't take her eyes off the symbol at the bottom of the letter and her shaking fingers struggled to open the compact. When she did, she carefully removed a tattered piece of paper that was as old as she was. She unfolded the paper — the only link to her past she had — and lay it side by side with the letter from the deposit box. Identical symbols. Identical handwriting.
Alex remembered that day with remarkable clarity. It was only three years ago, but so much had happened in the intervening time that it felt like it had happened to another person in another lifetime. She rested her palm on her chest where the compact bulged beneath her shirt and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she reached for the Corona and downed the rest of it in one swift gulp. The glass bottle was still cold. She pressed it against her neck and sighed as the cool condensation tempered the heat of her skin. She didn't move for a long time and eventually the sun began to sink low in the horizon casting long shadows in her living room. She didn't bother to turn on any lights. Sleep didn't come for her. It rarely did. She sat staring in the darkness for what seemed like hours. She was saying goodbye.
