Read Online Tom Finder by Martine Leavitt - Free Book Online Page A

Janice said to Tom. “Daniel hangs with the dead. I don’t know his people. But you might try hanging out at the LRT station. I’ve seen him there. He’s been sick, strung out. Bring some smokes for bait. Got to go. I need my space.”
    After they left Tom wrote in his book, Tom found a girl. He closed the book, then opened it again. Tom is a poet, he wrote. A Canadian poet.

Chapter 5
    You go on blowing your flute, I am going to play a different tune.
    â€“ Act 2, scene 28

    That night Tom was awakened often, every time the toilet flushed, every time someone cried out in his sleep. Someone was snoring. A few people were laughing all night long. They were going to sleep when Tom got up. It was still dark out, and the social worker was sleeping. Tom took a shower, ate some cornflakes, brushed his teeth with the toothpaste, and left. It felt good to be clean, but the shelter made him uneasy. The red-haired social worker looked at him a lot and asked him hard questions like, “What’s your last name?”
    When his parents looked at him, the day they found him, they would see him the way he really was: nice, good speller, able to hold his own in a fight. A God-fearing swimmer. And a saver. Maybe he’d gotten that from his mom. His dad was probably the kind that spent too much money on stuff for his son. They were probably worried sick, calling all his friends, the police.
    Why didn’t he just go to the police?
    No.
    Something to do with gravity. Something to do with the way he wanted to throw up and cry every time he even thought of it. His parents would understand when he told them about losing his memory, about needing to be invisible for a while. Tom went to the LRT station to look for Daniel.
    The Stampede station was empty when he arrived. The smells of tobacco and perfume and fries hung in pockets that you could walk in and out of. The wind skittered cigarette butts and discarded tickets along the cement platform. He walked around the station while the sun lightened the sky. No one showed up that could be Daniel Wolflegs. Tom looked for good cigarettes to use as bait.
    That day he found a lipstick, Tender Pink. He kept it all day. His eyes liked to lick it. He kept the lipstick in his pocket when he left the station to look for H ELP W ANTED signs. When he inquired, people were looking for someone older, or more experienced, or with a résumé.
    You were allowed four nights in the shelter, so Tom slept there again. Janice the poet and Pam the Canadian weren’t there. Tom showered and used mouthwash and stole three containers of floss.
    The next morning he met up with the newspaper man again. This time his tie was off and his shirt collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up.
    â€œWell, it’s the little mugger. Written anything for me yet?”
    â€œNot for you. Just for me,” Tom said.
    â€œYes? Let me look at it.”
    Tom hesitated, but the man gestured impatiently. He handed him his notebook.
    The man read. Once he nodded. Twice he nodded. He handed it back to Tom.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œShows you can spell,” the old man said.
    â€œI can spell,” Tom said.
    â€œSpell proficient.”
    â€œP–R–O–F–I–C–I–E–N–T.”
    The man nodded. He unfolded a piece of tinfoil and held it under his chin.
    â€œAm I a poet?” Tom asked.
    â€œA poet? That’s not my area of expertise. But I memorized a poem once in school. I can’t remember the periodic table or the dates of a single war or how to multiply fractions, but I remember that poem.” He closed his eyes and recited:
    â€œNot in entire forgetfulness,
    And not in utter nakedness,
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
    From God, who is our home:
    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
    Upon the growing Boy . . .”
    His eyes popped open, and he eyed Tom. Perhaps he’d had second thoughts