Kids of Appetite by David Arnold Page B

at the urn.
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Coco. “What’s inside?”
    Vic pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his mouth. “My dad.”
    It wasn’t a whisper, but it might as well havebeen.

THREE
OUR PAST TENSES
(or, The Inevitability of CorrespondingUnits)

Interrogation Room #3
    Bruno Victor Benucci III & Sergeant S. Mendes
    December 19 // 4:21 p.m.
    â€œVic, you’re not listening.”
    I stuff my handkerchief into my pocket, look around for a clock. As it turns out, time is hard to pass when you can’t see it.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “What was the question?”
    â€œDid Baz ever mention why Nzuzi doesn’t talk?”
    Mendes taps the edge of her file with her pen. She rarely writes anything, which makes sense, considering the whole conversation is being recorded. The pen she uses like a tiny drumstick, clicking it against the table, the pad of paper, the bracelet on her left hand . . .
    Rhythmically. Rhythmically. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythmically.
    Rhythmically. Rhythmically. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythmically.
    . . .
    â€œHe did,” I say.
    â€œAnd?”
    Truth is, until the last twenty-four hours I didn’t know many details about the Kabongo brothers’ past life. But a lot has changed. And last night—or early this morning, I really couldn’t say which—I’d learned plenty.
    â€œThe Kabongos were born in Brazzaville, in the Republicof the Congo. Their whole family had to flee when Baz was ten, I think. Zuz would have been really young—and they had a little sister at the time too. They walked for months, ate and drank very little. People were dying all around them. Made it pretty far together until their father died of malnutrition.”
    â€œThat’s terrible. You said Baz was ten?”
    I nod.
    â€œAbout how old do you think Nzuzi and Nsimba were?” she asks.
    â€œBy then, probably three or—”
    . . .
    Shit.
    . . .
    . . .
    â€œVic, you okay?”
    . . .
    I stare into Mendes’s eyes, second-guessing everything. “How did you know about Nsimba?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBefore. Just now. You said, ‘Nzuzi and Nsimba.’”
    Mendes flushes, flips through some papers in the file in front of her. “You mentioned a sister—”
    â€œNot by name.”
    â€œIt’s common Congolese practice, naming twins Nzuzi and Nsimba. I just assumed.”
    â€œI never said they were twins.”
    It wouldn’t be that difficult to learn information about the Kabongos’ lives before resettlement in the States. Baz mentioned organizations like the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and the Red Cross—certainly, there were records, documentation outlining theirexperiences. But it does make me wonder what else Mendes knows, and to what lengths she’s gone to gather information.
    She sips her coffee, checks her watch. “Anyway, you were about to say why Nzuzi doesn’t talk.”
    I run my hands through my hair. “I don’t really feel like talking specifics. The kid saw some pretty horrible things at a pretty young age, Miss Mendes. If he doesn’t feel like talking, I don’t blame him. To be perfectly honest, considering all he’s been through, I’d say he’s coping fairly well.”
    Rhythmically. Rhythmically. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythmically.
    . . .
    Mendes pulls a manila file out of nowhere, drops it onto the desk. Something about it is terrifyingly simple, like a lone stranger’s face in your own family’s portrait.
    There’s a knock on the door, quickly followed by the entrance of a guy in a suit, and a shock of red hair.
    â€œDetective Ron,” says Mendes. “This is Vic Benucci.”
    Detective Ron nods at me, his eyes landing on my face. In a matter of seconds, I see the forced casualness, the attempted internal explanation, followed by the nothing-to-see-here smile,