So, I've gotten some awesome follows for this story. So much so that I felt bad about leaving you guys hanging for such a long time. I'm going to try and post regularly (key word: try).
Chapter 2
Candace waited, turtleneck pulled to cover her frigid nose, by the window of the shelter looking down at New Yorkers trying to hustle their way through the rain. She searched their faces, looking for a gruff scowl, clipped black hair, a nose that had been broken several times before…
"Candace?" That familiar, kind voice called.
She ignored Mrs. Kennedy for a moment longer, staring down a tall man in a leather coat to see if it was him.
"Candace, I know you can hear me."
She sighed and turned to Mrs. Kennedy but otherwise didn't move. Mrs. Kennedy had her hair pulled back today, a nice change. She gave a sympathetic smirk, "Still no luck?"
Candace shook her head, letting her turtleneck slip down her nose to squeeze her throat.
"Don't know why you bother, sweetheart. The Punisher isn't going to come walking down the sidewalk."
"I don't know how else he can come in." Candace told her, "We're connected to two buildings on either side and he can't get in through the back."
"Candace, do you think that we can't report him back to the police if he did just show up?" Mrs. Kennedy put her hands on her hips, "He murdered those people. He escaped from jail, we will have to report him the moment we see him. It's the law."
Candace turned back to her window and sighed, "I won't report him."
"Come along, now. It's supper time."
A fish seller had donated his discards, and the cooking teacher had gotten over her cold, so dinner that night was steamed halibut and asparagus salad with some kind of vinaigrette that made Candace sneeze. Palace dining was what Mrs. Kennedy called nights like these. She would often eat among the other child prostitutes, teaching them table manners and what conversation was best for eating. Including Candace, there were seven girls and three boys, the oldest being fourteen and the youngest eight who was too "grown up" to be eating with his mother at the next table. Tonight, the Battered Women's Shelter dining hall was a quarter full, a slow night.
Mrs. Kennedy turned to Candace as she pulled out another Kleenex from her pocket, "Candace, honey, go and blow your nose in the restroom. It's good manners, and I'll take your asparagus away and get you some fruit. Will that be okay?"
Feeling like her head weighed a billion tons, Candace nodded and stood, scraping her chair over the linoleum tiles to saunter to the bathroom next to the dining hall. Located next to the one back door for donation trucks to come in easily, the bathroom was the first sign that Candace had had that told her that she was going to be safe and cared for. Each resident of the shelter had a job to do, with the rotation sheet moving jobs so that they could all share the load. The bathroom was the cleanest, most well stocked room she had ever seen! Her second night, when Frank didn't come back, she slept in the bathroom so that the smell of bleach could remind her of her mother and how she used to smell from cleaning houses.
Candace blew her nose, feeling better to be away from the sneeze causing asparagus, and looked herself in the mirror. She had had a mirror with Reddie, though he hadn't given her one. One of her former customers, a woman, had let it slip from her purse while Candace was obeying her commands. She had hidden it and used it to apply the yucky lipstick that Reddie had insisted she use. Now, she knew mirrors were helpful to look at one's hair to make sure it stayed in place, or that one's makeup wasn't too whorish for job interviews, or to see if clothes appeared too wrinkled or too old. Now, mirrors and body functions were good and not something to be punished for.
She washed her hands, taking a moment to smell the soap, (how wonderful it was to have soap!) then dried them on the rough paper towels, using the towel to open the door as Mrs. Kennedy had taught her to limit the spread of disease, then tossed the towel into the trash. The door next to the bathroom clicked with the wind, prompting her to turn and look at it. She frowned, watching it open an inch, then click closed again. She straightened, the coolness of fear coming over her. Men were not allowed into the shelter, and any who lingered long across the street were ordered away by the police. This was a safe place where women beaten into hiding could rest and rebuild. Candace had had nightmares of Reddie or one of her customers walking in through the front door to come and take her, but Mrs. Kennedy showed her how the door was locked after each person came in with the turn of a heavy lock switch. On top of that, there were cameras in nearly every corner, especially the back door. Candace turned to it, that comforting camera bolted to the ceiling like an alien head, always watching.
Candace stepped forward, remembering what Mrs. Kennedy had taught the children in case they should be kidnapped by former customers: scream, kick, repeat. Be loud, and draw attention. Bad guys hated attention. She touched the door, feeling it resist her easily. With a slight, shove, the door swung open to reveal the dirty back alley where trucks would back up to unload their wares almost every day. Outside the door was a book, a toddler's book entitled "One Batch, Two Batch."
She picked it up, feeling the worn, cardboard cover. Perhaps it had fallen out of the donations box? She flipped it open, smiling at the sight of furry animals and coins. Whoever had owned this book would never have the life she had.
"Hey kid,"
She nearly dropped the book. Her head snapped up and she pulled the book closer. She knew that voice, had yearned to hear that voice once more. But where was he? She looked over her shoulder into the shelter, but saw no one. In the alley, there was nothing but brick and the potential for rats.
Her lips parted and she dared to speak, "Frank?"
"Meet me here at nine o'clock tonight. Bring a bag."
"Where are you?" Her hair flew around her shoulders as she whirled around, feet crunching against the gravel.
"Look up behind you."
She flung around, expecting to see him hunched over her with a scowl she had seen him wear on the news. Her shoulders dropped as her hope flew off like a helium balloon; a camouflage walkie talkie duct taped to the red brick.
"Don't worry about seeing me, I can see you." It said, the tape shivering with slack.
"Where are you?" Candace repeated, feeling stupid for literally talking to a brick wall.
"Get back inside before they wonder where you are. You can leave the book and the walkie in the trash can in front of you."
She lowered her eyes to the metal trash can placed perfectly under the walkie talkie as though Frank had expected the duct tape to give way. Slowly, Candace walked to the trash can and looked into it, seeing the rusted metal bottom and nothing else.
"Get going!" The walkie talkie barked, making her jump.
Candace ripped the walkie talkie off the wall and placed it on the book, lowering both gently into the metal trash can so they wouldn't be damaged and scurried inside, closing the door behind her.
9:00 pm
Candace fumbled around her dorm room for her clothes and jacket, stuffing them all into her pink backpack. The girl who shared the room with her, Lucy, slept soundly with her stuffed teddy bear clutched close. Candace shouldered her backpack and crossed the floor to press her ear to the door, listening for Mrs. Villegas, the floor matron, to take her evening bathroom break. Hearing nothing, Candace dared open the door and poked her head out to peer down the hallway.
Mrs. Villegas, a former gang banger from Spanish Harlem, tapped a stack of papers on her desk and stood, looking up to the ladies' restroom on the floor. Candace paused, not knowing if she should shut the door, or wait for her to leave. Mrs. Villegas noticed nothing, and sauntered off to the bathroom, head held high. Candace shrugged and stepped out of her dorm, careful to close the door quietly behind her.
Candace had moved around the shelter many times at night, happy to be in a place where unlocked doors were a way of life. She knew the way to the dining hall and how to sneak past the front office, although she hadn't nailed sneaking around the cameras just yet and always got caught after a while. Quickly, she moved to the door next to the dining hall, hoping Mrs. Kennedy hadn't locked it. She grabbed the doorknob, and thought the dirtiest curse she knew. It was locked.
She slipped her backpack off, she knew how to open doors thanks to Lucy. Clawing through her shoes and new pair of jeans, she felt for her screwdriver and pulled it out. Quickly, she wedged the flathead between the door and the frame and wiggled it from left to right. Then, from her jeans pocket, she pulled out the swiss army knife she always kept with her since the police interviewed her after she arrived, and picked at the lock bar until it slid into the door. After that it was nothing to swing the door open to freedom.
The night air was cooler than normal, making her grateful for her new jacket. Candace threw her screwdriver into her backpack, pocketed her army knife, and stepped out into the alleyway. She closed the door and turned to the trash can where she had left the walkie talkie and children's book. They were there, giving her a sense of relief she didn't know she had been waiting for. She attacked the walkie talkie and tore off the duct tape.
She squeezed the smooth plastic sides, "Frank?" Her voice was still against the night, eerie.
"Hey, kid."
A smile slapped her face and a laugh escaped her chest. "Frank!"
"Walk out to the street, there's a taxicab with it's light off, number 4395. Get in the passenger's seat, I'll be with you the whole time, okay?"
Candace was walking before she could even think about it. "Where am I going?"
"Just to the cab. It's safe, I promise you."
She made it to the opening of the alley, both sides opening to the New York night with the street to anywhere and nowhere before her. There were three taxis parked along the street, two with their lights on, one pulling away, and one across the street with its light off. Candace hurried to it, feeling the emptiness of freedom against her shoulders despite her backpack as she moved. The taxi was faced away from her, displaying its number perfectly. 4395, just like Frank had said.
Crossing the street was the easiest thing, even with butterflies tickling her insides. She reached the passenger side window and looked in. He was just as she remembered him! Clipped black hair, square jaw with a crooked nose, and heavy build like a weight lifter. In one hand, he held a walkie talkie, in the other, he held the steering wheel. He turned and looked at her, revealing a black eye on his left side, and a thick scab across the bridge of his nose. His scowl, one that was famous all across New York, broke into a smirk.
"Hey kid."
"Frank!" Candace opened the door and jumped into the car, throwing her arms around his neck.
The arm that held the walkie talkie moved to hug her, the movement slow. "How are you holding up?"
Candace leaned away. "I'm okay. What happened to you?" She moved to touch his eye that was as black and purple as a bag of old grapes.
Frank moved his head away and loosed his arm. "Got in a fight. They don't let you watch the news?"
Candace nodded. "I saw your trial. Followed it in my TV hours."
He looked at her, leaning away slightly. "You ain't scared to be in the car with me?"
She shook her head, sitting back on the passenger's seat. "You punish bad guys. You punished Reddie for what he made me do. I can't be scared of you. I love you."
Frank chuckled, his upper body bobbing back and forth with the motion. "I can honestly say that's a new one."
"It's true. You're my Uncle Frank."
He smiled, a real smile. He gestured with his eyes back to the entrance of the shelter, barely visible from the taxi. "How're they treating you? You good in there?"
Candace shrugged and nodded, "It's clean. The cops are nice, they didn't take me away when I told them what I would do like Reddie said they would. They put me into the system, and told me that they'd put me in a foster home when I'm done being rehabbed."
"What did you need the rehab for?"
"They said I was mal-mal…"
"Malnourished?"
"Yeah, that. And I was hurt, down there." She pointed to the space between her legs. "It hurt to pee from some of my customers getting too rough."
Frank turned away, setting his jaw before turning back to her. "Are you fixed? Are you taking any medication? Any pills?"
"Not anymore. I stopped them yesterday because the doctor said I was healed up."
"How about therapists? Did anyone come and talk to you about what you did with your customers?"
Candace nodded, remembering Miss Olivia and Miss Lenore and their nice suits and big notepads. Miss Olivia asked questions about Jerry, her uncle. Miss Lenore only listened, asking questions every now and then to what she would say. "Miss Olivia and Miss Lenore were very nice. They listened to me, let me be quiet. They let me talk."
"Good." Frank nodded, "That's good." He looked back at the shelter. "Alright, kid. You've got a choice to make. You can go back inside, they'll put you in the foster care system where you got a fifty-fifty chance of making it. You'll either get a good family that'll adopt you or teach you some good things, or you'll end up with someone just like your uncle that'll put you back on the streets where I found you." Candace flinched, Frank cocked his eyebrow and continued, "It's a chance, and you won't know it until you're there." Frank inhaled, "Or you can come with me. I got a friend of a friend who I might ask a favor from who'll take care of you."
"And what will you do?" Candace asked, rising slightly. "Can I go with you?"
"You can't go with me. I'm not a nice guy to be around, and I can't take care of a kid. I've made a lot of enemies and if any of them see me with a weakness like a kid, they'll take that shot. And of all the bodies I've collected, I don't want yours to be one of them. But…" He looked out his window and inhaled and exhaled slowly, "You reminded me of my little girl when I saw you in that room, back when I first saw you. I would have never wanted my baby to know half of what you know already. So, I'm giving you a choice, Candace. Come with me, or chance it with them. You can always go back to them no matter what. Someone treat you wrong or you just want to talk, you can always go back. You hear me?"
"Yes," Candace replied. Mrs. Kennedy had told her that, too.
"So, what'll it be? Go back in, tell them you want to go into foster care, or take a ride with me?"
Candace looked back to the entrance of the shelter, watching an orange light flicker over the door. She slid off her backpack and nestled it onto the floor, then reached for the seatbelt and fastened it. Frank started the car.
She looked to him, "Where're we going?"
"Take a cruise upstate. It's going to be a long drive so you get some sleep."
