“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.