Her brow creases. “We’re not supposed to . . . ,” she begins, but then she looks up at the sky. The driving sleet has changed to heavy wet snow as we’ve been talking, and it’s sticking to the top of Oren’s bare head and the black tarmac of the parking lot. I can see her thinking about the roads and wanting to get back to her nice, snug home. “I suppose if it’s just for tonight. My house is closer . . .”
Oren grins and runs to the Honda. Mattie watches him go with a puzzled look on her face and then turns to me and offers me the cup of coffee she’s holding. “He’s one persuasive little guy,” she says.
I nod and take a sip of the too-sweet coffee, turning away so I don’t have to answer the question in her look. I imagine she’s wondering, as I am, how Oren knew her house was closer than the convent.
WHILE WE WAIT for the windows to defog Mattie offers me more coffee from the thermos, explaining, “It’s not sweetened.” She must have seen me wince when I took a sip from the cup, which makes me feel guilty for turning my nose up at this woman’s coffee when she’s come out in the middle of the night to help us—but then angry at having to feel bad. That’s what these do-gooders do, they make you feel like they’re better than you.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Just help yourself if you want more,” she says, settling the thermos in the well between our seats. “I’m afraid I develop a sweet tooth around this time of year. Starts at Halloween when I eat all the leftover candy, builds at Thanksgiving with all those pies, and reaches a peak when we do our Holiday Cookie Walk.”
“What’s that?” Oren asks sleepily from the backseat.
“Oh, that’s a tradition around here. On the day before Christmas everyone bakes up their favorite cookies. You buy a ticket at Sanctuary for a box and then you go house to house until your box is full. All the money goes to the local food bank. And there’s hot cider and cocoa and skating on the pond. If you’re still here next week I’ll give you my box and you can collect the cookies and we’ll split the booty. How’s that sound?”
When there’s no reply we both look back. Oren is slumped over his Star Wars pack, sticky mouth open.
“Poor lamb,” Mattie says. “Have you traveled far?”
“From Newburgh,” I say, remembering what I’d told the woman on the phone.
“We’ve got a donation center down there. Second Chances? My friend Ruth runs it.”
Is she testing me? “We don’t need to shop secondhand,” I tell her.
“No, I can see that. The Star Wars pack is this season’s. I bought one just like it at Target for my godson. The boy’s jacket is new too. But your clothes”—she glances over at me, assessing my threadbare peacoat and worn jeans—“aren’t.”
“So?” I snap. “You’re not exactly a fashion plate yourself.”
She laughs so hard she starts coughing. When she recovers she says, “I like you, Alice. You’ve got fight in you. Just for the record, I wasn’t criticizing. I was noticing you pay more attention to your son’s clothing than your own. I bet you put him first in other things as well.”
“So I’ve passed some kind of good mothering test with you?” I say, making my voice angrier than I feel so she doesn’t guess how relieved I am. “Is that what I have to do to earn a meal and a bed for the night?”
“No,” she says, all the laughter gone from her voice. “All you have to do for that is need it. You don’t have to prove anything to me, but if you want to talk to me I’m here to listen.”
“And if I don’t?”
“That’s all right too. I will assume you have a good reason to keep your and your son’s location confidential.”
“Oren’s father hit him,” I say suddenly. “And he hit me. He threatened to kill me if I took Oren away . . . I . . . I . . .” I find it suddenly hard to talk. I feel as if Davis is in the car with us. Lying cunt-faced bitch, I hear him swear. I’m coming for you.
Although her eyes are on the road, Mattie must see me flinch. She lays a hand that feels like worn velvet on mine. “It’s okay. You may hear his voice in your head but he can’t hurt you anymore.”
No, I think. No, he can’t.
MATTIE’S HOUSE IS at the end of a long, wooded drive. I’m expecting some run-down shack or derelict mobile home, but it is instead an elegant Victorian with gingerbread trim and turrets and a wraparound porch.
“You own all this?” I ask, surprised.
“Me and the bank,” she says, getting out.
I reach into the backseat to wake up Oren. He rubs his eyes, looking eight instead of ten, as if sleep has washed away the last two years of his life. If only it really could. As I watch, he remembers where we are, grasping his backpack and looking out the window warily.
“This lady’s house seems okay,” I tell him, “but if we don’t like it here we can leave in the morning.”
I wait for him to ask me how we’re going to do that with no money and no car, but he only nods and gets out of the car. I get out and follow him up the ice-rutted path, watching my feet, so I bump into Oren when he stops in the middle of the path. He’s staring up at the house, as surprised as I am to find ourselves at such a big fancy place.
“Do you live alone?” he asks Mattie, who’s on the porch waiting for us.
Mattie looks surprised, but then she shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “I know what you’re thinking: it’s a crime for an old spinster like me to use up all this space.”
Oren shakes his head. That’s not what he meant. “Aren’t there other kids here?”
I look at the house and notice now that although it’s big and fancy it’s also falling apart. Shutters hang crooked and the paint is faded and chipped. Plastic crates and black garbage bags—donations, I’m guessing—clutter up the porch. I’ve seen enough of these kinds of places in upstate New York to know what it looks like: a group foster home. That must be what Oren’s picked up on. He thinks I’ve taken him to a foster home.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, laying my hand on his shoulder. He flinches at my touch and fuck me if I don’t immediately look up to see if the old woman has noticed. But she’s looking at Oren, her face pinched and white.
“What do you mean?” she asks, all the treacly warmth gone from her voice. “It’s just me and Dulcie here.”
“Dulcie?” Oren asks.
“My old dog. Do you like dogs?”
He shrugs. Davis would never let him have a dog. But the old woman probably can’t imagine a boy who doesn’t love dogs. She turns and opens her front door—it’s unlocked, I notice—and an old yellow Labrador comes limping out. She shambles down the porch steps, tail wagging, and butts her head up against Oren’s chest. Oren stumbles back a jot so he’s next to me, then steadies himself by putting his hand on the dog’s head. After a second, he rubs the dog’s ears. The dog lets out a sigh and then so does Oren.
“Good girl,” Mattie says. “How ’bout we go inside and find her a treat.”
Oren looks up at Mattie. “Are you sure there aren’t any other kids here?” Something about the way he says it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. The old dog shifts her weight and leans against me.
“No,” Mattie says. “No kids. I’m afraid I’m just an old spinster.”
“What’s a spinster?”
“Someone who talks too much while folks are standing cold and hungry on her doorstep. How ’bout we get inside where it’s warm and I’ll make us some eggs and pancakes?”
“With syrup?”
“And chocolate chips,” she replies.
Oren nods and walks straight up the porch steps. He turns to see that I’m following. His face is tight, jaw rigid. A brave little soldier. It’s like he’s daring me not to follow him. For a second I think of turning around, getting back in the car, demanding that Mattie take us to that convent. How much worse can it be? But of course I don’t. We both know I’ve come too far to turn back now.
Chapter Four
Mattie
BETWEEN
THEM THEY eat half a dozen eggs and a dozen pancakes. It’s a good thing I picked up milk and eggs and butter at Stewart’s. Had I already been thinking of bringing them back here? Doreen will give me a talking-to, but it’s just for this one night. I’ll take them to St. Alban’s tomorrow.
I load the pancakes with bananas, nuts, and chocolate chips and slather them with butter and maple syrup. The boy drinks a quart of milk and Alice finishes the thermos of coffee. I don’t ask them any questions other than “More maple syrup?” and “Another glass of milk?” I’d meant it when I told Alice she didn’t have to sing for their supper.
When the boy’s eyes start to droop I hustle them both upstairs. I put them in the yellow room at the front of the house, my mother’s old sewing room, though years ago I gave all the sewing stuff to a woman from Saugerties whose husband was serving a sentence for sexual assault. She’d used the supplies—along with a loan from the Delphi Rotary Club—to start a quilt shop and alterations business. She also runs quilting workshops at the domestic violence shelter where women use scraps of their old clothes to make “New Beginning” quilts. Even if our lives have been torn apart, she likes to say, we can still use the pieces to make something beautiful.
The only furniture left in the sewing room is the daybed where my mother used to take her afternoon naps. It’s a trundle, so Alice and Oren can both sleep on it, but there’s also a large walk-in closet with a futon. I point out the sleeping options, give them an armful of blankets and towels, and let them sort out who sleeps where.
The boy chooses the closet. Victims of abuse, I read in one of our training manuals, sometimes like to be in rooms that have only one access point. He tucks his backpack into the far corner, lays his head down, and is instantly asleep.
Alice kneels down to take off his shoes and coat. Beneath the coat he’s wearing a Star Wars sweatshirt. Alice wrinkles her nose. “In case you’re revising your opinion of my parenting skills, I’ll have you know he’s refused to take off this sweatshirt since we got it two months ago.”
“My brother, Caleb, wore a Luke Skywalker T-shirt for three months straight after we saw the first movie. Here, give it to me and I’ll wash it. I’ll have it back to you before he wakes up in the morning.”
She peels it off him and passes it to me, making a face, but I’m looking at Oren’s arms. There’s a bruise on his right forearm and one on his left biceps. She sees me looking, tilts up her chin, which is when I notice the marks on her throat. I could ask her about the abuse, but I sense that she’s too tired to talk tonight so instead I say, “There’s a clean nightgown if you’d like me to wash your clothes too,” but she shakes her head. I imagine she’s used to sleeping in her clothes. A nightgown makes you vulnerable. Before I go I turn on the night-light even though the overhead’s still on. It casts a pattern of stars on the ceiling. I noticed the book of Greek myths sticking out of the backpack. I could tell Oren the stories of the constellations—
But they’ll be gone tomorrow.
The convent will be the best place for them. The boy’s going to need counseling. I saw the way he twitched when Alice touched him. And Alice will need job training. She looks like she’s in her late twenties, so she would have been a teenager when she had Oren. I’m betting a teenage pregnancy followed by dropping out, a relationship with an older man, maybe a drug dealer, maybe a pimp . . . She wouldn’t have had time for school. At least there aren’t any track marks that I can see. I could get her into a vocational training program at Ulster Community College, far from the crime and drugs of Newburgh.
Downstairs, the kitchen looks like Boston after the Great Molasses Flood, but the smell of butter and maple syrup makes it worth it. I notice that Alice’s peacoat has slipped off the kitchen chair. When I pick it up a piece of paper flutters out of the pocket. I bend down to pick it up. It’s a bus ticket. I start to jam it back in her pocket when I notice the departure city stamped on it. It isn’t Newburgh, as she told Doreen, it’s Ridgewood, New Jersey. Well, Alice wouldn’t be the first woman to come to Sanctuary who didn’t tell the whole truth about where she came from. I’m a little surprised, though: Ridgewood is an affluent suburb. But it’s none of my business. I tuck the ticket stub back in Alice’s pocket.
I carry Oren’s sweatshirt to the washing machine in the mudroom and turn on the machine. I add soap powder and throw in the towel I used to rub down Dulcie before—and check to make sure I haven’t left her out again, but she’s sleeping soundly in her dog bed. What will it be next, I wonder, forgetting to pay the bills? Wandering in my nightie down Main Street? Leaving the gas on? Even the decision to bring Alice and Oren back here is probably a sign that my judgment is slipping. And really, how can I think I’m fit to watch after an abused woman and child when I can’t take care of my beloved old dog?
I pick up the sweatshirt and hold it to my face, inhaling its boy smell, as if it will smell of Caleb. It’s just a coincidence that this boy is the same age that Caleb was when he died. Just a coincidence that they both love Star Wars. Just a coincidence that I felt that weight against my leg earlier tonight when I got the call—
I shiver, remembering that phantom pressure, so like the feeling of Caleb leaning against me on the couch when we watched Saturday morning cartoons or whenever my father yelled at him.
You’ll never learn to stand on your own two feet if you’re always running to your sister.
The shiver turns into full-out shaking. It’s one thing to hear my mother’s voice, another to hear my father’s. I usually do a better job of drowning it out.
I stuff the sweatshirt into the half-full washer . . . and something clangs against the metal drum. I’m reluctant to search the boy’s pockets but it could be some piece of electronics that will get destroyed in the wash. I reach my hand in and grasp cold metal. When I pull my hand out I see that I’m holding a six-inch bowie hunting knife stained with blood.
I put the knife down on top of the dryer carefully, as if it’s a gun that might go off. The sweatshirt has already been sucked down under the churning soapy water. If there’s blood on it it’s too late to save it as—
What? Evidence?
Evidence of what?
Evidence of something that sweet ten-year-old boy did?
Or of something his mother did that he’s protecting her from?
The situation is worse than Doreen or I thought. The question is what to do about it. I could confront Alice with the knife and try to convince her to go to the police and file an assault charge. Anything she or Oren did would most likely be considered self-defense. Oren’s father would be put away in jail and they would be free to live their lives.
Until he got out. I’ve seen convicted offenders of abuse serve as little as six months on aggravated assault charges. And what if Alice and Oren can’t plead self-defense? What if Alice, tired of being hit and bullied, struck out first? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman took a proactive stand against abuse and got convicted of assault. She could end up in jail and Oren could end up in his father’s custody or foster care. And if it was Oren who stabbed his father . . . he could end up in juvenile detention and I know all too well what that can do to a kid.
All of these possibilities swirl through my head with the same murky force of the washer cycle, which has stalled because the tub is now half full and the lid is still open. I think about that boy upstairs—the first boy who’s slept in this house since Caleb—and know what I have to do. I drop the knife into the water and close the lid.
THERE’S LITTLE CHANCE of sleep after that. I tackle the kitchen, cleaning up the pancake mess and moving on to the next layer of grime that’s built up. Then I make up muffins for the morning. As the smell of baking wafts through the house, stirring memories, I sweep the downstairs, the fancy parlor that’s now full of stacks of old clothes. I always take the donation bags home to wash the clothes and sort them by size and gender (although Doreen says that’s very heteronormative of me). I find some jeans and T-shirts that I think wi
ll fit Oren and packages of unopened underwear and socks for both of them. I buy them at the dollar store in a wide variety of sizes. No one wants to wear hand-me-down underwear.
I keep the book donations in the dining room. Boxes of unsorted books on the Chippendale chairs and piles of sorted books on the long, polished mahogany table: romance novels with lurid covers, mystery novels with shadowy figures, dog-eared sci-fi novels with rockets and three-eyed aliens, horror novels with screaming faces. Doreen accuses me of reading all the books first and it’s true that I do keep a pile for myself, but I also keep an eye out for books that we can sell to an antiquarian bookseller I know over in Hobart. I also like to monitor the distribution to our network of centers so the group foster homes get the good children’s books, Horizon gets the good young adult, and the shelters have a wide selection of genres.
I remember seeing a book on constellations that I bet Oren will like, but it’s not in the stacks of books on the table or in the boxes waiting for distribution. That’s when I remember. It’s not a donated book; it’s a book my father owned.
The door to my father’s study is at the end of the dining room and it’s the only door in the house that locks. It’s an old-fashioned lock that can be bolted from either side with a key that I keep in a Waterford bowl on the sideboard. I take it out now and turn it in the lock, the tumble of metal cylinders echoing in the pit of my stomach, the creak of the door feeble as my own step on the threshold.
Well? Are you coming in or not, mouse? my father would say when I hesitated in the doorway.
The taste of dust hits the back of my mouth like a hand reaching down my throat and I cough. There’s only one lamp in the room, the heavy brass banker’s lamp with the green glass shade. It’s been so long since I’ve been in here that the bulb could well have burned out. I have to venture several feet in darkness from the wedge of light at the door to the lamp.
Caleb loved to play a game called Lava in which you pretended the floor was a boiling pit of magma that would instantly melt your flesh down to the bones. You had to navigate through the house by stepping from one piece of furniture to another. That’s what it feels like to step from the wedge of light into darkness, like my flesh will turn to jelly, but I do it, reaching out to find the lamp . . .
The Night Visitors Page 3