Shelter

by Stephanie Fournet

  This made me laugh, too. “Yeah, probably.”

  We drew all afternoon.

  It was almost dark by the time I rode my bike back to the Whitehursts’. And as soon as I turned onto Souvenir Gate, I knew I was in trouble. Because a line of cars snaked around the corner that made up the Whitehursts’ grand home. Mrs. Abigail had been released from the hospital, and the family was having a welcome home party.

  And I’d agreed to help Mama.

  As stealthily as I could, I weaved through the cars that lined the long driveway, ducked into the back yard, and stashed my bike in the shed. At a run, I tore up the steps of the back porch and into the kitchen where Mama was loading a silver tray with baby quiches.

  A job I was supposed to do.

  Her head jerked up at the sound of the slamming screen door, and Mama’s eyes rounded. Her nostrils flared. “Elise Nicole Cormier! Where have you—” Mama stopped, seeming to choke. A baby quiche fell from her fingers. “What’s all over you?” Her hand swept up and down, indicating my entire body.

  I looked down and saw every shade of pastel caking my skin and clothes. Sidewalk chalk. And plenty of it.

  “I—”

  Mama shook her head. “No time,” she hiss-whispered. “You have ten minutes to shower, brush your hair, and put on the dress I set out for you—”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Ten minutes, or you’ll be in more trouble than you already are, and make no mistake, young lady, you are in serious trouble.”

  She didn’t have to tell me that. The lines around her mouth told me enough. I bolted out the back door and flew to the guesthouse. Stripping off my clothes with one hand and dusting off my hair with another, I wondered at the time. It was dark now, but it hadn’t been full dark on my ride home. Just dusk.

  I poked my head out of my bathroom door — living in the guesthouse meant Mama and I each had our own — and saw that my bedside clock read 7:12. I should have been home to help Mama start setting out the food at six o’clock, so I was more than an hour late.

  Wincing at the extent of my crimes, I hopped in the shower and scrubbed at top speed. Soft rainbow colors trailed down my arms and legs, tinting the bottom the tub before washing away. I’d need to clean my bathroom before Mama saw that and got mad all over again.

  As I soaped off, I thought about the hours I’d spent with Alberta. In spite of my impending doom, I grinned. I’d had the best day since I didn’t know when. We’d chalked all afternoon. Butterflies. Dragonflies. Birds. Flowers. And she’d invited me to come back tomorrow.

  I just hoped I wouldn’t be grounded.

  I shut off the water. I might not have been technically clean, but I was no longer technicolor, so I dashed out the bathroom, dripping and draped in a towel. I should have taken longer than five seconds to dry myself because my navy-blue dress stuck to me in twelve different places as I tried to shimmy into it with one minute left on the clock.

  Hopping on one foot to slide on each shoe, I left the guesthouse before racing back to the Whitehursts’ kitchen. And I slid to a halt at the bottom of the porch steps when my eyes landed on Cole leaning against the kitchen door with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Well, well, well,” he snickered. “Someone’s having a worse night than I am.”

  Cole Whitehurst wasn’t any less scary at thirteen than he’d been at nine. I might have been bigger now, but so was he. A lot bigger. But I didn’t need to let him see how much he still scared me. I planted my hands on my hips.

  “Get out of my way, Cole. I’m late.”

  Giving me a bored look, he made no motion to budge. Instead, he lifted a finger and raised it behind him, lazily tracing the frame of the screen door. “I could do that,” he said, as though he were weighing the option. “But then Flora might see me and send me back to that party.”

  Without meeting my eyes, he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, I don’t think I want to.”

  I knew I was in trouble. And I knew I’d be in even more trouble if I didn’t get into that kitchen pronto, but Cole’s words confused me.

  I frowned at him, still trying to smooth the front of my dress. “Don’t you like parties?” The Whitehursts threw parties all the time, though this was the first since Mrs. Abigail’s accident.

  Cole’s cold eyes shot to mine. His brows became a ridge on his forehead. “Not this party.” His voice was low and angry.

  I cocked my head back, shocked. Sure, Cole was mean, but who wouldn’t be happy to have their mama home from the hospital? And Mrs. Abigail was a nice lady. She’d always been nice enough to me and Mama.

  “You’re not glad your mama’s out of the hospital?”

  I might as well have splashed a glass of ice water in his face because Cole’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. “Of course I’m glad.” His startled look gave way to an impatient scowl. “This isn’t a welcome home party for my mother.”

  Well, now he was just talking nonsense. I knew Mrs. Abigail had arrived home the day before. I’d seen her wheeled up the newly constructed ramp on the front porch with my own eyes. The front hall was full of vases of her favorite flowers, calla lilies. A Welcome Home sign hung in the archway between the front hall and the formal living room. Of course the party was to welcome Mrs. Abigail home.

  But instead of telling Cole the obvious, I just frowned at him. “Then what’s it for?”

  The impatience leaked out of his face. His jaw set, and Cole blinked at me three times. Then he just stared. He stared right at me like he wanted something. Like he wanted me to tell him something important.

  But I could only stare back, lost.

  Finally, Cole broke his gaze, shaking his head. “Never mind,” he muttered. Then he slid away from the door. “Just don’t tell anyone I’m out here. Got it?”

  For a moment, I just watched him, totally confused. Cole Whitehurst was hiding from a party in his own house.

  Cole Whitehurst.

  But after a few seconds, I nodded. “Got it.” And then I slipped into the kitchen, my eyes still on him until I shut the door.

  “Elise, get an apron on and take the pastry shells out of the oven,” Mama ordered as soon as she saw me. I could tell by her voice she was still mad, and I knew I’d be punished somehow, but I also knew Mama’s wrath wouldn’t last long as soon as I got busy.

  And I loved helping Mama in the kitchen, especially for a fancy party. She was an outstanding cook, and I was proud of her work. Mama was proud too. And I knew she was only mad at me because she’d been counting on my help, and without it, the food she put out wouldn’t be as hot as she wanted, or a platter of hors d'oeuvres in the dining room would stand empty longer than it should.

  I pulled on an apron and some oven mitts and did as I was told.

  “Can you set those out by the crawfish etouffee while I finish slicing this pork roast?” Already, her voice had softened, now that I was here doing what I had said I’d do.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, looking forward to the time when we’d be able to take our supper in the kitchen, just as soon as the entree items had been taken out. We’d have to be quick, of course, to be ready to serve the desserts before the guests had to wait on them, but after a day of play, my stomach was rumbling.

  Even though it was a Friday night, the party in honor of a woman just back from the hospital did not run late. Mrs. Abigail went to bed around ten, saying goodnight to her guests as Mr. Whitehurst pushed her wheelchair to her temporary bedroom downstairs. The family all slept upstairs, but given her condition and the history of the offending staircase, Mr. and Mrs. Whitehurst had relocated downstairs until her recovery was complete. At Mrs. Abigail’s departure, her remaining guests took their cue to leave, and Mama and I set about cleaning up.

  Mama had told me I could go to bed, but I didn’t want to. Moving into the guesthouse had changed a lot of things for us. The Whitehursts had given Mama a raise, of course, because her work days were much longer.
But they also let us live in the guesthouse for free, so this meant Mama had more money in her pocket. Whenever I helped her, she paid me out of that pocket, and I wasn’t going to pass that up when the work was as easy as washing fancy dishes after a party.

  Besides, I now wanted my own set of sidewalk chalk.

  So, I stood at a sink full of suds and washed and rinsed silver, china, and crystal while Mama gathered up the tablecloths and set the furniture in the front of the house back where it belonged. I didn’t mind. Mrs. Abigail’s china pattern was beautiful. The dishes were a soft cream, rimmed in gold, with pink, yellow, purple, and blue flowers on the edges of each plate and bowl. A bouquet of the same flowers dressed up the sides of the cups, pitchers, and other accent pieces.

  The flowers made me want to learn how to paint so I could add their design to something of mine. Something plain that needed to be prettier. Like the wall opposite my bed or the inside covers of my school books.

  Once, I’d asked Mama what the china pattern was called, and she’d said, “Castle Garden.”

  Castle Garden.

  Was there any more perfect name for something so beautiful?

  I saved the plates for last because they had the most detail and were my favorite. When I was done with those, I wiped down each dish so we could put them away dry while Mama stood in the laundry room, loading the washer with tablecloths and napkins.

  She tsked. “I’m missing one of the napkins,” she muttered, shaking out a tablecloth in search of it. Then she looked up at me. “Baby, would you go hunt for it? Someone might have dropped it under a table or behind a chair.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said before drying my hands.

  I slipped out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Mama had left the lights on, but she’d also replaced all twelve chairs that had been moved aside for the buffet spread that evening. I dropped down on hands and knees to see if I could spot the missing napkin. It was easy enough to find from my position, but the fine linen napkin the color of vanilla ice cream was pinned under the foot of one of the middle chairs, pressed against the polished hardwood floors.

  I scurried around the head of the table and was just about to reach for it when I heard the soft click of the front door.

  I held my breath. After the last guest had left, the Whitehursts had all gone to bed so we could clean up.

  Or at least I thought they had.

  And if they had, who had just come in the front door?

  And then a light flicked on in the front hall, its glow visible through the living room just ahead of me.

  “Where have you been?” The voice, cold and angry, echoed from the front hall. I recognized it as Mr. Whitehurst — Cole and Ava’s father — and my insides shrank at the sound.

  Now, Mr. Whitehurst had never said one word to me, and he worked long days, so out of everyone in the family, I saw him the least. But that didn’t mean I didn’t feel him.

  When he was home, the house was all kinds of quiet. Ava and her friends didn’t laugh and shriek in the den at the back of the house. As I froze on hands and knees under the dining table, I realized I couldn’t think of a time when Ava had friends over while her father was home. Now that I thought about it, it seemed like she was more often at their houses on weekends when her daddy was home for stretches at a time.

  From what I could tell, Mr. Whitehurst was not a man to raise his voice. But he didn’t need to. I remembered a time in fourth grade when I sat in the kitchen with Mama because we had no school for parent-teacher conferences. Cole and Ava, who were in private school, had class that day, but Mrs. Abigail was taking coffee in the dining room.

  Mr. Whitehurst had been home, which was unusual, and he’d come downstairs, joining her at the table. From my spot in the kitchen, I hadn’t been able to see this, but Mama had heard it, and she’d quickly gone out with the coffeepot to fill up his cup.

  “Thank you, Flora,” I’d heard him say.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” she’d said back, so low I could just make it out. And then Mama had returned to the kitchen. Silence had followed for a long moment.

  “Abigail, what did you do to your hair?”

  I’d been coloring at the kitchen table, and though he’d spoken softly, I heard his words clear as a bell. Mrs. Abigail was all kinds of pretty. A natural redhead. Not strawberry-blond or auburn. Her hair was a deep copper I loved looking at. As I colored, I wondered how she’d fixed it that day and hoped I’d get a chance to see it.

  “I just thought I’d try something n—”

  “Don’t.” The word was clipped. Tight. “It looks cheap.”

  I had looked to Mama and saw her eyes widen, though she hadn’t met my gaze. Instead, she’d crossed to the laundry room and started filling the washing machine, the sound drowning out the conversation from the dining room.

  But not before I heard the next words.

  “Yes, Garrett, I’ll change it after breakfast,” Mrs. Abigail had replied in a rush.

  And then there had been silence. But a heavy, full silence.

  “I mean, I’ll go up and fix it now.” And then I’d heard Mrs. Abigail’s chair scrape against the dining room floor just as a rush of water started to fill the washing machine.

  Now, from that dining room floor, the silence felt exactly the same. Too heavy to be carried. And who was he talking to? Mrs. Abigail had gone to bed hours before. And she couldn’t have left the house in her condition without help. Even if she could maneuver her wheelchair, her right leg stuck out in front of her in a cast. Getting the front door open and moving herself through it would have made a whole lot more noise than the soft click I’d heard.

  “I asked you a question, son. Don’t make me repeat it.”

  I held my breath. Cole. Of course, it was Cole. I hadn’t seen him since he’d stopped me on the back porch. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him in my efforts to help Mama and redeem myself for being late.

  I heard a sigh that must have been Cole’s, and I shivered. Why wasn’t he answering his father? He needed to hurry up and answer.

  “I went for a walk,” he said, sounding both innocent and irritated.

  Silence again. I wondered if they’d hear me if I grabbed my errant napkin, crawled out from under the dining room table, and made a break for the kitchen. With my luck, I’d bump a chair, draw their attention, and be suspected of spying.

  “You know how important this night was to your mother.” Mr. Whitehurst wasn’t asking a question. He seemed to be making an accusation.

  “I disagree,” Cole said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I think it was more important to you.”

  This statement confused me, but not as much as the thwack that followed it. I heard a second thwack before a grunt I clearly understood.

  My blood turned to ice water.

  I wanted to scramble to my feet and run as fast as I could to get Mama, but something held me still under that table. It was the memory of Mama hurrying to turn on that washing machine.

  I bit my lip and swallowed.

  The sounds of heavy, measured breathing floated through the living room and into my ear. This was Cole, I realized. This was Cole trying to stay calm.

  “There’s blood on the floor, Coleman. Be sure to clean that up before you go to bed.”

  And then I heard Mr. Whitehurst’s retreating steps all the way down the hall. The sound of the downstairs bedroom door clicking closed made my arms and legs go weak, and if I hadn’t already been on the ground, I might have crumpled.

  Afraid to move, I waited to hear Cole’s footfalls disappear upstairs, but I didn’t. Instead, I heard him breathing. But, in truth, it didn’t really sound like breathing. It sounded more like gulping. Choking.

  My stomach clenched when I realized Cole Whitehurst was crying.

  I had no idea what to do. Offering to help him would be the right thing, but Cole would never forgive me for seeing him like this. I grabbed the lost napkin and crawled backward, trying not to make a s
ound.

  Finally out from under the dining table, I pushed myself up, smoothed down my dress, and straightened to find Cole standing not two feet from me.

  His lip was split and bleeding, his eyes red and his lashes wet. He was baring his teeth at the sight of me.

  “Were you spying?” He spoke low and near silent between his clenched teeth.

  I quickly shook my head. “No, I swear.” I held up the napkin in my defense. “I came for this.”

  Cole narrowed his eyes at the pathetic excuse in my hand before snapping his gaze back to mine. “But you heard all that.” A flash of defeat crossed his face before he clenched his jaw again. “Don’t lie.”

  The lie I’d been ready to tell stuck in my throat, so I nodded.

  He glanced away, scowling, and I watched his chest rise and fall before he looked over my shoulder and then back at me. “Do you think Flora heard?”

  I found my voice. “No, no.” I wasn’t a hundred-percent sure she hadn’t heard something, but, for reasons I couldn’t yet understand, I was a hundred-percent sure I hoped she hadn’t.

  “You can’t tell her,” he told me, though I already knew this. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  I met his gaze with a firm one of my own. “I won’t.” But then I looked at his lip and the front of his shirt. “But you’ve got blood on your shirt. She’ll see that if we don’t get it cleaned up now.”

  He looked down at the two slanted streaks of blood on his dress shirt and frowned. “How do I get it out?”

  An idea came to me, and I grabbed Cole’s elbow and gave it a squeeze. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  His eyes followed the movement of my hand, and his frown held at the sight of me touching him. I let go, and his glare moved to my face. He eyed me as if I’d just licked his elbow instead of grabbing it.

  “I’ll be right back,” I repeated, walking backward before turning and sprinting for the kitchen. I found Mama at the sink, filling the mop bucket. Even though it was late, she always mopped the kitchen floor at the end of the day, cleaning up after herself.