Like many who find themselves on the street, Charles preferred to live day to day. To concern himself with waking up, getting a bottle, getting a meal, having his smoke, and getting back to sleep. That was his routine, and he was comfortable with it. Tomorrow is tomorrow's problem. "What if?" held no seduction. The future is an unaffordable luxury. If something new popped up, deal with it when it happened. It was not an easy life, but an uncomplicated one.
To the dismay of Charles, "tomorrow" has ceased to be an abstract concept that unexpectedly sprang into being upon waking. Things beyond his control were conspiring. Tomorrow was real, and it was perilous. Preparations must be made. Options must be considered. What exists today must serve him beyond today. In his pocket was a five-dollar bill that could have bought him a pack of cigarettes, but might be needed for something unforeseen. It rests in there, waiting, wasted, and useless for now.
He had bore the indignity of calling upon his once-peers. To suffer the judgment and assumptions in their eyes to gain from their empathy and generosity. To take more and have something extra. To do more than the bare minimum. To have a plan and put it into action. It had been a long time since he was forced to be tactical, and his mind considered it foreign and undesirable.
But for the moment, things could simply be, and he could hope the actions taken made a difference.
A fire crackled in the tin, and smokey warmth radiated in the foyer. Charles was in his chair, nursing the bottle of overly-sweet, turpentine-flavored swill that was Thunderbird. River and Fiona sat on a blanket in the open tent with their new dolls. Fiona's appearance had completely changed. The fur of her face, neck, shoulders, tail, and paws had been colored in a random tortoiseshell pattern, a combination of her natural colors and cheap black pigment. A large splotch covered the whole side of her head and served as an attempt to obscure the injured eye. Her now black hair was cut short, but not quite as short as River's boy-cut. Around her chest was a towel to prevent her clothes from getting stained before the dye set. Charles had not bought nearly enough to do her entire body, but since it was winter, only the exposed parts mattered.
Neither Charles nor River had any experience with coloring, but they followed the tips and tricks in the instructions for getting better results. In the end, it was fairly convincing so long as nobody examined the work too closely. The hope was nobody would bother. Orange tabby females attracted attention since they were rare; calico and tortoiseshell pattern girls were common. Fiona had griped and cried the entire time they were making the changes. She understood the need for such drastic measures but still resented losing the familiar face she saw in the mirror. By the time they were finished with dinner — a mock goulash Charles had whipped up from a can of stewed tomatoes, tuna, and noodles — Fiona had mostly gotten over her displeasure of the new look.
In the tent, River and Fiona fussed over their dolls. Switching the clothes, brushing and styling the hair while considering what the names should be for each. River chawed on so many pieces of bubblegum at once that her cheek bulged.
"I think her name is Blackie," River said of her doll, whose hair was tied into pigtails.
Fiona grimaced. "That's terrible! She should have a nice name! Like "Ivy" or something."
"Fine," River conceded. "Her name is Ivy Blackie."
Fiona rolled her eyes. "Well, mine is named Mindy," she explained, straitening the braided ponytail on her doll. "Mindy Cunningham. She's a famous singer from... uh... England! And she's dating a basketball star."
"Nice! She like tall guys with big cocks!"
"No! She's not like that! In fact, she's still a virgin!"
"In the music biz? Ch'yeah, right."
"She is! She's saving herself for marriage."
River blew a huge bubble, sucked it back in, and snapped it. "She gonna lose that basketball player. They want one that puts out." She thrust forward her doll. "Like Blackie! She a dancer an' shakes her stuff on stage!"
Charles took a sip of Thunderbird and watched them play like cubs should. This was nice. Bordering on relaxing. Like they were simply a normal family on a camping trip. Too bad he didn't think to buy marshmallows. He stuck a twig in the fire and used it to light his pipe. He sat back as he puffed smoke from tobacco so stale it was nearly flavorless. The whole situation was larger than he could handle, and it had been dropped in his lap so carelessly. River, a girl on the fast-track to life as a street-walker, and Charles, a worthless piece of alcoholic trash, were the only things between Fiona and one of the most dangerous males in the city. Charles was unsure what the best way to move forward was.
He couldn't go to the police. The department was rampant with corruption, and many were on the take. It wasn't out of the goodness of their heart that they were looking for Fiona. That's not to say every cop was dirty; most were good and did good work, but cops are a gang like any other. They might be sworn to "serve and protect," but they mostly protect their own. Especially the dirty ones.
CPS? Far too risky. They're joined at the hip with the police. Everything that applies to the cops applies to them. Most are good people, but the few that aren't have undue influence. Fiona was in their system already, and look where that landed her.
The obvious thing was to get as far away as possible, but that wasn't an easy task. River's mother had a van, and wheels opened some possibilities, but he had no clue if it was reliable. Likely her mother didn't either. As an addict, Rhonda would have no desire to leave a location where she knows where to get drugs for a place where she doesn't. She's familiar with the dealers and had connections. Not to mention Rhonda was completely untrustworthy. He can't involve her.
Load up what he could in a bag and just go? Walk to the next major city? That's not an option. Cities are prisons surrounded by a moat of suburbia. Homeless are tolerated inside, but wandering outside of the city limits attracts excessive scrutiny. That's the last thing he needs.
A bus? Maybe. But the local transit bus doesn't go far enough, so it would take him a while to collect enough money for tickets on a Greyhound. Not to mention, he'd be in a new town he didn't know while trying to get the lay of the land. He could do that alone, but while taking care of cubs as well?
Charles poked at the embers in his pipe. And what about River? As much as he appreciated having her around to help — not to mention the other benefits — it was an unnecessary risk for her. He could justify gambling his own life, but not hers. No matter how irresponsible her mother might be, it was still safer for River to be with her instead of him. He couldn't ignore that. If he decided to pull up roots for Fiona's sake, he had no right to take River with him. Technically, he had no right to take Fiona either since she's a ward of the state. Of course, the state hasn't been doing much good for her so far.
Perhaps staying put was wiser? Navigating the bottlenecks leaving town carried significant risk. Not many knew where his camp was, and those that did had no reason to associate him with a redheaded girl a gangster was looking for. For the moment at least, it was the only real option. Stay and keep a low profile. The dye should prevent Fiona from being trapped hiding in his tent. She could wander if she wished without standing out. Although it was probably best if she laid low for a week or two, new look or not. Things happen every day in the city. Memories are short, and heat dies down.
They've done what they could for the moment, and there was nothing more he could do other than worry. It wasn't in his nature to worry since it doesn't change anything. He took a deep slug of the Thunderbird to chase his mind away.
"Hey, Chuck!" River called out. "Wanna play dolls with us?"
He snorted with amusement. "I'm a bit old for that."
"Yeah, so are we. What else ya gotta do? 'Sides get sloshed?" she reasoned.
