We’re the only ones getting off the bus. I glance at the other passengers as we walk up the aisle—the college kid plugged into his earbuds, eyes closed, head nodding to tinny rap; a Latina woman with a baby whose eyes move over me without making contact; an old woman wrapped up in a scarf reading a book. No one who will remember a boy and his mother getting off in a nowhere town in the Catskills. Not even the driver turns to watch us make our way down the steps to the door. I have the creepy feeling that we are invisible. That once we step off this bus we will vanish from the known world, that the purple-shawled woman has been sent to lead us to the underworld like those snake-haired crones in Oren’s book.
Sensing my hesitation, Oren stops at the steps down to the door and turns to look up at me, eyes wide and solemn. I open my mouth to tell him it’s all right but he beats me to it. “It’s okay,” he says. “This is the right stop.” The driver turns his head to us. He’s wondering what’s wrong with me that my son has to lead me off the bus—and he’ll remember us now. I curse myself for hesitating.
“Of course it is. Thanks . . . honey.” I remember at the last moment not to use Oren’s name. I smile at the bus driver. “He’s been studying the bus map since we planned this trip to Aunt Jean’s.”
“Good man,” the driver says. “You take care of your mom, now.”
Asshole, I think, giving Oren a little push to move him along and keep him from answering. He does anyway. “We take care of each other,” he says.
The icy rain makes my eyes sting as we step off the bus onto the pavement, and I have to stop and wipe them. Oren takes my hand like I’m a goddamned invalid and leads me forward, out of the exhaust fumes. The woman is approaching, holding out a white paper bag. “You must be Alice and Oren,” she says, looking first at me and then down at Oren. “I’m Mattie. I’d shake hands but I seem to have a bag full of bear claws. Do you think you could help me with those?” She holds the bag toward Oren.
“Are they real bear claws?”
The woman—Mattie—throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my, do I look like a bear hunter? Even if they do get in my garbage cans and make a stink, I consider the bears my friends.”
“There are bears here?” Oren asks, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Why yes,” Mattie says, “and coyotes and bobcats too. But the only kind of bear claws I eat are of the pastry variety. Here, why don’t you try one?” She’s still holding the bag out to him. Oren looks to me, as if I am the kind of mother who restricts his sweets intake. What a clever touch. I smile to show how much I appreciate it and he takes the bag from Mattie. He digs his hand in and takes out a glazed pastry as big as a man’s fist. He holds it up to me.
“You take it,” I say.
Oren takes an enormous bite, and Mattie looks up from him to me like she’s waiting for me to say something, like I’m supposed to slaver all over her for some cheap pastries from Stewart’s. That’s what these do-gooders get off on. Still, I’d better keep on her good side until we’re safely out of here. “Thanks,” I say. “We had to leave too fast to pack any food.”
“There will be something more substantial where you’re going,” she says.
“And where’s that?” I ask. “It has to be someplace no one can find out where we are. Oren’s father—”
“I understand,” Mattie says. “Everyone in our network understands. Your whereabouts will be kept completely confidential. There’s a convent fifteen miles from here.”
“A convent?” I ask.
“The sisters are committed to protecting women and children. No one could be more confidential—most of them don’t even talk!”
I think of the last time I was in a church and begin to shake. “I—I’m not religious.”
“Me neither,” Mattie says. She looks down at Oren, who has finished the bear claw and is licking icing off his fingers and studying me. “Let’s get out of this sleet,” Mattie says, turning toward her car, an old rusted-out Honda.
“Nuns are for orphans,” Oren says, not budging. “And I’m no orphan.”
Where on earth did he get that? Did some social worker threaten him with an orphanage? A swell of hatred for the profession overwhelms me and makes me want to tell this do-gooder with her sugary snacks to get lost. A convent! They’ll probably try to convert us like the born-again foster parents I had one year.
I put my hand on Oren’s shoulder. “The woman on the phone didn’t say anything about a convent. We’ll wait for the next bus and take our chances elsewhere.”
Mattie gives me a level look and I can tell she sees right through me. I don’t have the money for another bus and I don’t have any idea where else we’d go. We’re fresh out of chances. It makes me angry that she’s so sure about me. Who is she to judge me? Now that we’re closer I can see that her purple shawl is moth-eaten and there’s an odor coming off her that smells like wet dog. She looks like she’s getting ready to tell me to lump it, but then Oren pipes up.
“Couldn’t we just stay with you? I bet that convent is far away and hard to get to in the snow.”
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.