The Night Visitors(7)

“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.

“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.”