by Louise Hawes
And Feena would never see him again. Never feel his head against her shoulder. Never catch him staring at her as if she were all he needed.
She didn’t wait for him to wake up. Carefully, she scooped him up, still heavy with sleep, then picked her way through the rubble to the woods behind what must have once been the restaurant’s back door.
She’d heard about snakes in the South, copperheads and rattlers and black snakes, so she watched where she walked, staying just inside the line of trees that led back toward the Pizza Hut. The sweat poured off her, and heat seemed to steam out from the ferns below, the creepers overhead. When she was opposite the house, she pushed aside tall weeds and parched, tangled fronds to stare past the road to the parking lot. It was still empty.
Good. And better still, the Chevy was missing from the narrow driveway beside the Pizza Hut. If her mother hadn’t left too long ago, Feena would have time to get supplies. She headed across the highway as fast as she could, trying not to jostle Christopher awake.
Why were there no police cars at Ryder’s? No blockades? She wondered about the hole that was left when a little boy wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Maybe, she thought, angry and relieved at once, it was too small for anyone to notice. And the anger carried her along, like the slick, dark muscle of a wave. If his mother didn’t care, Feena decided, if the police didn’t care, she did. If no one else heard Christy cry, if no one else saw him raise his arms to be picked up, she had.
The baby continued to sleep, snoring softly against her even after she’d maneuvered the lock, then kicked the front door wide and pushed it shut behind them. She worked her way across the shade-darkened living room, nearly tripping over an open magazine lying facedown by the couch. In her room, she laid Christopher on the bed, then hurried into the kitchen.
The shopping list was missing from under the pineapple-shaped magnet on the refrigerator. That explained why the TV was off and her mother was out. Quickly, Feena raided the shelves above the sink, dumping cans of soup, applesauce, and beef stew into a paper bag. The refrigerator, as she’d expected, was nearly empty, its metal shelves skeletal, immaculate. She found a slightly brown banana and two plums in the crisper, then sat down to write a note. Mom. She tried to angle her script carelessly, as if this were nothing special. At a friend’s house. As if she were invited to all sorts of places, every day. Back tonight, she almost wrote but decided that sounded too specific, too intentional. Back later. Feen.
She stuck her note under the magnet, then went to check the bathroom for toilet paper and soap. She dropped an extra toothbrush into the bag, too, hoping she’d find a public restroom or a water fountain, where she could help Christy brush his teeth. She liked the idea of circling him with her arms, showing him how to scrub the front of his teeth up and down, the sides back and forth. “Feena, Feena,” her father had sung when he taught her, “make ‘em cleana. Feena, Feena, in betweena. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh.”
Smiling, she tiptoed back to her room, watched the little boy sprawled peacefully on her bed. She indulged, for only a second or two, the wish that she could sleep there with him, that he belonged to her. But she knew it was time to leave, to pick him up and try to juggle the bag of food and his groggy, limp body. She was actually glad when he woke. And even more glad when she saw the expression on his face. It was as close to a smile as she’d seen him come. “Mu now?” he asked, without missing a beat.
Of course! She’d promised him more soda. She put him down and grabbed his hand, leading him back into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator again and came out with a half-full bottle of flat Pepsi. “Okay,” she told him. “Just like I said, right?”
Again he cupped his hands over hers, hugging the bottle to his chest, gulping down the fizzless cold. “Now,” she said before he could ask for seconds, “we have to go.” She held out her hand, and when she looked down at him, she saw it again. That half smile, like a new moon. He slipped his hand in hers and followed her, as if he always had, out the door.
five
She felt like a criminal, but as she took the butterfly clip out of her backpack, Feena was proud, too. Astonished that, despite the rush and confusion, her brain had been scheming, coming up with a plan. Part of her, she realized, was resourceful and independent, like Janie, Raylene’s heroine.
She made a game of it now, putting the big pink clip in the baby’s hair, showing him in the mirror she fished from under her books. “See how pretty you look?” she cooed. She adjusted the plastic ornament, raking back his long curls with it, re-clipping it like a barrette behind his right ear. “A butterfly landed on Christy, because he’s so sweet. Right?”
She kissed him on his dirty, fuzzy head, and stopped feeling clever. A wave of tenderness, of proprietary fondness, washed over her. Was this what it was like to have a child? To walk through the world assured of someone’s love?
They followed the dusty path that wound from behind her house, along a dried-up creek, until they found civilization—a public library branch, a playground, and best of all, a small strip mall. The minute they got within sight of the playground, Christopher tugged repeatedly at her hand, little animal spurts of yearning. It was late and there were only a few children on the jungle gym, intent at demolition projects in the small round sandbox. Christopher lunged happily toward them, and she let him go, hoping his makeshift disguise would hold.
“Hi.” Never very outgoing, Feena surprised herself with the tinny friendliness in her voice. She sat down on one of the benches next to a woman with a braid. “Is that your son? I hope my little sister isn’t bothering him.”
The woman smiled at her, open, easy. “No,” she said, turning back to the playground as Christopher toddled over to a short round boy making hopeless swipes at the monkey bar. “How old?”
“What?”
“How old’s your sister?”
“Oh.” Feena realized the woman was making small talk. She didn’t suspect a thing. For her, Christopher was a cute, towheaded little girl in jeans. And a butterfly clip! “Two.” Feena watched Christopher grab the little boy’s arm. “Two and a half.”
“Angel’s four,” the woman told her.
“Angel?”
“Yep. That’s his real name. Named after my grandfather.” The woman flipped her braid behind her. “Anyway, Angel’s four. But he loves little ones.” She studied the children, proud, relaxed. “Especially girls.”
They talked, the two of them, while Christopher made inroads. Soon he and Angel had appropriated the sandbox and were helping its formerly lone occupant mold and stomp paper-cup houses. It was so right, so natural, Feena grabbed her chance.
“My name’s Candace.” She’d always liked the impudent, breezy sound of that name. It made her feel braver, somehow, holding out her hand to this stranger, this adult.
“I’m Dale,” the braided woman told her.
“Dale, do you think you could do me a big favor?” Feena stared past the playground to the strip mall. “Do you think you could watch my sister while I run and get some diapers?” She smiled at Dale, a you-know-what-it’s-like apology. “We’ve run out.”
“Why, sure,” the older woman told her. “You go ahead. Your sister will be fine right here.” She stood up just as Feena walked away. “Wait, honey. What’s her name?”
“Chris—” It was too late, she’d already said it, too late to call it back. “Christina,” she said, furious at herself. “It’s Christina.”
The CVS was crowded with after-work shoppers. Despite her success with Dale, Feena was afraid to meet their eyes. What if they’d heard it on their radios? What if they all knew about the kidnapping? A police officer in plain clothes might be watching the diaper section right now. She might walk straight into a trap if she hesitated, stood too long deciding on brands. She wasn’t worried for herself so much. But the thought of returning Christy to his mother, of watching the held-back smile she’d seen bloom on his face fade and disappear into that patient, hopeless stare, was more
than she could bear.
Feeling shy, vulnerable under the fluorescent lights, she watched from a distance while other women shopped for canned formula and baby food. After two of them chose the diapers with a somersaulting baby on the wrapper, she did, too. Quickly, she darted toward the shelves, plucked up a package, then headed for the brushes and combs.
This was an easier decision. She simply chose what she would have liked when she was little, when she loved to wear ponytail wraps with fluffy pompoms on the ends. She used to sit quietly, as close to purring as a human can come, while her mother brushed and brushed her hair. Just the two of them—no daddy, no baby, no TV. Her mother beside her, humming, stopping sometimes to say, “Gorgeous, Feen. You’ve got gorgeous hair.”
She picked a card of pink pompoms and a card of speckled blue and white ones before she saw the stuffed rabbit. It was in the next aisle over, and it was wearing a dress that would just fit Christopher. The closer she got, the better it looked. The bunny, made of soft, tan plush, was nearly as big as Christy himself. Without its patchwork jumper, it would make a perfect toy. She picked it up, hoping she could afford it, noting the dress’s Velcro fasteners that would make it easy to slip onto a wiggler.
Seven ninety-five! She knew, of course, if she’d stopped to look at something like this back in Connecticut, her friend Denise would have told her that children in China had been forced to work long hours putting lace on the jumper pockets, pink lining in the rabbit’s ears. But now all Feena felt was relief that CVS had probably bought hundreds, thousands of bunnies—enough to bring the price down to her level. Enough to give Christy a new disguise and something to cuddle. She couldn’t put faces on the rows of poor hungry children she’d conjured up. So she left them sitting there, their machines clattering more and more faintly as she hurried to the checkout counter.
The line snaked all the way to the pharmacy, so when Feena stepped behind the last person, she had plenty of time to torment herself with what-ifs. What if Christy got sick? She studied the shelves: There were bottles of aspirin, bottles of decongestants, boxes of antihistamines. What if he needed a doctor? The back of one bottle listed one dose for children under one hundred pounds, another for children under fifty. NOT TO BE ADMINISTERED TO CHILDREN WITH FLU SYMPTOMS, one label warned. NOT TO BE TAKEN WITH ORAL ANTIBIOTICS OR ANTI-INFLAMMATORY MEDICATIONS, another advised. What if she made a mistake? Or missed a symptom, a sign? What if Christy slipped away like her brother had? “Sometimes babies stop breathing and no one knows why.” She remembered her mother’s face, stiff as a mask, a scary new voice seeping out from it. “Every once in a while, a baby dies, too.”
“These for you?”
Feena suddenly found herself at the head of the line, face-to-face with one of the last people she wanted to see.
“I said, are these for you?” Raylene Watson picked up the package of diapers, ran them expertly over the scanner.
“What are you doing here?” It was somehow ironic, preposterous to see Raylene’s placid smile, her gleaming crown of cornrows above the red CVS smock and glassy-faced nametag. HELLO, the tag announced, MY NAME IS RAY. Embarrassed by her own wrinkled tee, and by the diapers and pompoms, Feena glanced instinctively toward the store window, searched the playground. But it was too far away to pick out anyone, to reassure herself that Christy was still there. “I mean, I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Sorry I didn’t check with you first,” Raylene told her, still smiling—was that grin pasted to her face?—reaching for the dressed-up rabbit. “How old’s your little sister?” The first time over, the rabbit’s dress caught on a corner of the scanner. Raylene grabbed the toy by its neck and dragged it across again.
“What?”
“Your baby sister,” Raylene repeated, waving the pompoms. “How old is she?”
Lord, why did everyone want to know kids’ ages? It was as if a number gave them a handle, a way in; it was the question of the hour. “Two and a half.” Feena fumbled in her backpack for the week’s lunch money. While the older girl bagged what she’d bought, Feena offered up a little prayer of thanksgiving that the woman in the cafeteria at school had refused to take her money. “Got to have a lunch form,” she’d told Feena sternly. “Can’t take that without no form.” But Feena had forgotten the form, forgotten even to have her mother sign it.
As she counted out the change, Feena forced herself not to look out the window, to watch instead, as if it were open-heart surgery, Raylene’s slender hands widening the mouth of a plastic bag, dropping in the toy and the diapers. “Well,” Feena said when there was nothing else to say. She glanced at the man in line behind her as if he were waiting impatiently for his turn at the register, instead of standing impassively staring at a display of batteries and miniature flashlights. “I’ll see you in school.”
Raylene didn’t stop smiling, didn’t even nod. “Sure,” she said, turning to the battery man. “Welcome to CVS,” she told him in a voice that sounded like an answering machine. “Did you find everything you need today?”
Feena propped her bag under one arm and tried to walk casually toward the door. Once outside, though, she streaked back to the park, to Dale on the bench and Christopher in the sandbox. He was covered, she could see even before she lifted him up and felt it, with a layer of damp gritty sand. “Thanks so much,” she told Dale. “Thanks a lot.” She wished she’d gotten some candy for the other little boy, but seeing Raylene had frozen her brain.
Christopher pulled away when she held out her hand, refused to give up his freedom. She wondered whether he would cry if she simply plucked him up and carried him off.
“Oh, that’s okay. They were real good together,” Dale told her. “We got to get home, though. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow?” She joined Feena at the sandbox, and Feena watched gratefully as first Angel, then Christopher, in imitation, held up their hands and let themselves be lifted out of the sandbox.
It was only when they’d left the playground and were heading toward the dense growth along the highway that Feena remembered the book she’d forgotten to hand over to Raylene. And then the milk she’d meant to buy. “Damn!” She said it out loud, and Christopher turned his head toward her, searched her face as if looking for storm signals. She was instantly sorry she’d raised her voice, sorry she’d put him on alert, his whole body stiffened into a holding pattern.
“We forgot to get milk,” she explained to him. “You need to drink milk and brush your teeth before bed,” she added, not knowing where she’d heard this new rule, or why it seemed so important. But it was. So they edged their way back toward the Texaco station she’d seen by the mall.
It had restrooms and a Quick Mart, and the boy behind the counter didn’t even glance up from the pocket video game in his lap when Feena and the baby walked in. He didn’t look old enough to be selling cigarettes and beer, and he certainly wasn’t interested in customers. Feena had time to study the two large racks of newspapers and magazines in front of the counter. She tried to read the headlines in the local paper, to get close enough without distracting the boy. She had dreaded what she might find splashed across the front page—TEEN SWIPES TODDLER or COPS CONFOUNDED BY KIDNAPPING. But instead, in the same family-size type she’d fantasized, she read: DOLPHINS TAKE DIVE IN THIRD.
First, she felt relief, and then she felt foolish. It couldn’t be in the papers yet. Even if the sweet-faced woman had gone to the police right away, only television and radio would have the story so early.
Television! She thought of her mother, certainly home by now, glued to the Sony shrine. She imagined Lenore, swept up in her shows, suddenly ejected from the dream by a fast switch to the news desk and a paper-shuffling anchor: “We interrupt our regular programming for up-to-the-minute coverage of one of Florida’s most despicable crimes. Early this afternoon…”
Foolish again, she told herself. This wasn’t the Lindbergh kidnapping, after all. She still remembered the way the history teacher at her old school had actually got
ten tears in his eyes when he described how the Lindberghs had begged the kidnapper to return their baby. Begged and begged, without knowing that it was too late, that the little boy was already dead, discarded like so much garbage in the woods a few miles from his house.
But Christopher wasn’t dead. And his mother wasn’t famous. What was more, she might not have reported him missing. Feena remembered those formidable arms, their relentless swipes at Christy’s head and shoulders. Why, she might have driven off and not come back. Might be glad to be rid of him. And even if she wasn’t, how would she explain to the police that she’d left him at Ryder’s? Abandoned him, that’s what she’d done. Feena hadn’t kidnapped Christy, she’d found him, that was all. Lost and found.
The boy at the counter still hadn’t looked their way. Feeling braver now, and much more self-righteous, Feena led the baby between the Tastykakes and the chips to the large green door at the back of the store. There was no stick person painted on the front, no upside-down-triangle skirt or long thick pants to tell them whether the bathroom was for women or men. But Feena didn’t care. All she knew was how good it felt, how safe, once she’d slid the lock closed behind them.
six
If Christopher had ever brushed his teeth, he seemed to have forgotten all about it. As Feena pulled the toothbrush out of the bag from home, he stared as if he’d never seen anything like it before. Tentatively, he touched its bristles, then pulled his fingers back quickly. He was willing enough, though, to perch on the edge of the sink and peer into the dusty mirror while Feena demonstrated her preferred brushing technique.
“Cwiss,” he said, delighted with the sandy face he saw in front of him. “Cwiss, Cwiss, Cwiss,” he chanted rhythmically until Feena realized he’d been watching himself, not her. “Cwiss, Cwiss, Cwiss,” he repeated as she squeezed the toothpaste onto the brush, determined to do the job for him. “Cwiss, Cwiss, Cw—” He tried to keep going, even with the brush in his mouth.
