The Night Visitors(9)

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.