A Safe Place

by Margaret Watson

  “Maybe that’s the best place for her right now.”

  “She don’t want to go.”

  Ramon was too young to be dealing with this on his own. “I have a friend at DCFS,” she said. “Her name is Emma Sloane. You’ve probably seen her come into FreeZone to talk to Harley Michaels. I’ll give her a call and see if she can meet us there. She knows how to deal with the system.”

  “DCFS? My mama ain’t no kid.”

  “Emma would be there for you, Ramon.”

  “I ain’t no kid, either,” he said, staring at her with too-old eyes.

  “We’ll get this figured out,” Frankie assured him. She turned to the teacher, but before she could say anything, Cal leaned forward.

  “You’ll speak to Ramon’s other teachers and explain the situation, Mr. Connors. Won’t you?”

  Connors stared at Cal. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He glanced at Ramon. “He can make up his homework after…after everything is settled at home.” He cleared his throat. “But it’s important that he keep coming to school.”

  “He will.” Cal leaned around her. “You’ve been going to school, haven’t you, man?”

  Ramon lifted one shoulder. “My mama mostly sleeps during the day.”

  “There you go,” Cal said to Mr. Connors. “Is there anything else you need to discuss with Ms. Devereux?”

  “No, that was it.” The teacher looked at the teen. “You get your mama taken care of, Ramon. I’ll handle things here at school.”

  “That’s tight.” He stood, hiking up his baggy jeans. “I gotta go.”

  “We’re coming with you, Ramon.” Frankie shouldered her purse, then walked into the hall, with Ramon behind her. She turned to see Cal leaning over the desk, talking to the teacher.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Stewart,” the man said. “I’ll make sure of it.” Connors shook Cal’s hand a bit too enthusiastically.

  After a moment, Cal gently extricated himself. “I’ll check back with you on that.”

  “Good. Great.” Connors sank back into his chair and watched him leave the room.

  Once they were clear of the door, Ramon shuffled along beside her, holding up his jeans with one hand. Cal was silent. It made her wonder what he was thinking about.

  And what he’d said to Ramon’s teacher.

  The sky had darkened to purple when they emerged from the school, and several more cars had left the parking lot. Her vehicle and Cal’s were the only two left in the middle row. Her tiny foreign compact looked like a toy beside Cal’s monster.

  Who needed a car that big, anyway?

  “Ramon, you can wait in my car while I have a word with Mr. Stewart,” she said.

  “No, get in my truck, Ramon. We’ll be taking it to the hospital.”

  Ramon’s eyes actually brightened. “Yeah? That’s a chillin’ ride.”

  As he hurried toward the SUV, Cal pressed his fob to unlock the doors.

  “You don’t have to drive us to the hospital,” Frankie said.

  Cal looked genuinely puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He was trying to be helpful, and she appreciated that. “Fine, you can drop us off.”

  “What, you think I’m going to open the door at the E.R. entrance, kick you out and keep going? Leave you to get home on your own?” He shook his head. “Not happening.”

  “No, I figured you’d actually stop first.”

  “I’m staying, Frankie.”

  The simple words sent a shiver down her spine. None of her other volunteers had gone this far for one of the kids. Cal didn’t even like Ramon, but he was putting himself out for the boy.

  “This is Cook County Hospital. We’ll be in the emergency waiting room for hours. It could take all night.” She didn’t want to sit next to him in the cramped emergency-room chairs, where he’d undoubtedly hog the armrest and all the leg space. She didn’t want to watch him and Ramon posturing, both trying to be the alpha dog.

  All of it would be too damn tiring.

  Too personal.

  “Not up for discussion, Frankie.” He nodded at the white Escalade, where Ramon was leaning forward to examine the dashboard, and smiled. “Besides, he’s already in my truck. You want to get him into that POS of yours? Good luck with that.”

  “This isn’t your problem, Cal,” she said, even though she knew it was a losing battle.

  “It is now.” His smile disappeared, and the charmer was gone. “Who knows, Frankie? I might actually be helpful.”

  “Helpful or not, it doesn’t feel right to take your time.”

  He watched her for a moment, his face in the shadows. “You don’t want to accept my help? Fine. You can count these as CS hours.”

  “Cal, I—”

  “This is what we’ll do,” he said. “Give me your address. I’ll drop Ramon at home to help his mom get ready, then pick you up. We’ll double back to Ramon’s and pick up him and his mom.”

  “You already thought that through?”

  “I play games for a living. It’s all about strategy.”

  “You’re good at it,” she said, but he didn’t react. He merely watched her while she took out a piece of paper and wrote down her address.

  “Your cell number, too, in case there’s a problem.”

  She hesitated a moment too long, then wrote it down.

  “Don’t worry,” he said as he slid the piece of paper into the pocket of his dress shirt. “I won’t be scribbling it on men’s room doors.”

  Her face heated. “I know that. I just…I don’t give out my number to many people.”

  “Then I’m a lucky guy, aren’t I?”

  Without waiting for her to answer, he strode to the SUV and swung himself into the driver’s seat. He said something to Ramon, and the kid snapped on his seat belt.

  They were halfway to the gate by the time she got into her car.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CAL WATCHED in his rearview mirror as Frankie hurried to her car.

  She truly believed all the stuff she spouted. She cared about those kids of hers, the ones who’d gotten the short end of the stick. And she backed up her words with action.

  Did those kids have any idea how damn lucky they were?

  Frankie was real. There was no BS about her. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone like her. Someone whose confidence came from knowing she was doing the right thing.

  Someone who was in control of herself and her life.

  She hadn’t been completely controlled tonight, though.

  Maybe he made her nervous.

  He stepped on the gas, and the truck leaped forward. Hell, ever since that moment in her office last week, she’d made him damn nervous.

  Ramon reached for the radio. “What kind of stereo you got in this thing?”

  “Turn it on and see,” he said.

  Ramon tuned the radio to a rap station, and the pounding rhythm blared from all ten speakers. Cal turned down the sound. “Sorry, kid. I don’t want to shatter any windows.”

  Ramon shrugged, then stared at him. Cal rolled to a stop at a traffic light. “What?”

  “What’s going on with you and Ms. D.?”

  Cal froze. “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me. You doing her?”

  Control. He controlled himself. Always. But he wanted to grab the kid’s T-shirt and shove him up against the windshield. Instead, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel as he stared at the little turd.

  “Don’t you ever disrespect Ms. Devereux like that again.” He leaned toward Ramon, and the kid had the good sense to slide toward the door. “If I hear you say anything like that about her, I will take you apart. Piece by piece. When I’m done, there
won’t be enough left to scrape off the pavement.”

  Ramon held up his hands. “Just asking, dude. ’Cause you look like you’re doing her.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You watch her, man. I know what that look means.”

  “I look at her because I work for her, you jerk.”

  The car behind him honked, and Cal saw that the light had turned green. The truck lurched forward. “Why is her personal life any of your business, anyway?”

  “Ms. D.’s been good to me. I watch out for her.” The kid scowled. “She don’t need trouble like you.”

  Cal couldn’t help asking, “What kind of trouble would that be?”

  The teenager kept his eyes stubbornly on the road in front of them. “You got arrested for beating the crap out of some dude. Ms. D. don’t need that.”

  “You think I would hit her?” Cal asked, appalled.

  Ramon snorted. “Don’t matter. I seen a lot of guys like you, think they’re some kind of hot shit. Ms. D., she’s real. She don’t need what you got to give.”

  Translation: he wasn’t good enough for Frankie.

  In the opinion of a gang banger.

  Cal’s knuckles hurt as he gripped the steering wheel. Even a loser punk like Ramon could see the emptiness inside him.

  Not that Cal was interested in Frankie that way. She was a do-gooder hippie chick. Serious. Intense. Everyone knew Cal Stewart was all about the flash and not the substance.

  “Turn here.” Ramon pointed at a one-way street. “There.”

  Cal pulled up in front of a brown brick three-flat. The landscaping consisted of bare dirt. The bottom floor had plywood where the windows had been. The second floor had sheets over the windows. There were no curtains at all on the third floor.

  “I’ll tell my mama what’s up,” Ramon said as he opened the car door.

  “Ms. Devereux and I will be back in fifteen minutes or so,” Cal replied.

  The kid walked into the building without looking back.

  Cal programmed Frankie’s address into his navigation system and drove several blocks to a quiet side street. The houses and apartments beyond the retail stores were in better shape, but it was still a down-on-its-luck neighborhood. There were beaters on the street that made Frankie’s car look like a Rolls-Royce. When the voice navigation lady said, “You have reached your destination,” he found himself in front of a closed bakery. There were lights on in the apartment above it.

  So Frankie lived where she worked.

  The curtain rippled, and a few moments later she appeared in the doorway next to the bakery. She jogged to the car, still carrying that damn huge bag.

  “Hey,” she said, dropping her load on the floor. She buckled her seat belt, then reached into the bag and pulled out two sandwiches in clear plastic containers and a bottle of water. “Here.” She held them out to him.

  “You made me sandwiches?” He stared at them without moving, and she finally dumped the sandwiches and bottle of water into his lap. The bottle was ice-cold against his thigh, even through his jeans.

  “I was starving,” she said, rummaging in her bag. “I figured you must be, too.” She pulled out another bottle of water.

  “Thank you, Frankie.” He looked from the jumble in his lap to her and caught her watching him. Even in the darkened truck, he saw color rise in her face.

  She held his gaze for a moment too long, then opened her bottle and took a gulp. She yanked another sandwich out of her bag. “You might want to get going. Ramon and his mother will be waiting.”

  Instead of pulling away, he opened one of the bags, and the scents of freshly baked bread, cheese and turkey wafted out. “Did you make this bread?”

  “I might have.” She opened her own bag and took a bite.

  “You ‘might have’? I didn’t think you were the coy type, Frankie.”

  She swallowed and took another drink. “I’m not being coy. I don’t remember which bread I made this morning. Might have been the wheat. Might not have been.”

  “You make more than cupcakes?”

  “Once the cupcakes are done, I work on everything. Some days it’s bread, some days it’s pastries, some days cakes.” She waved her sandwich toward the street in front of them. “Go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled away from the curb and looked at the sandwich again. It had been a very long time since someone made food for him.

  He’d mistaken Frankie’s kindness for condescension. She was trying to take care of him, just as she took care of the kids. “It’s delicious,” he said, without taking a single bite.

  FRANKIE WAS FINALLY ABLE to relax when they picked up Ramon and his mother. She and Cal had been busy eating, and neither had said anything. But she knew he glanced at her every few moments. And when he wasn’t looking, she glanced back.

  When Ramon and his mother got into the car, Frankie busied herself with handing them food and water, asking Ramon’s mother how she was doing and reassuring Ramon.

  By the time they got to Cook County Hospital, Ramon had inhaled two sandwiches and put one carefully aside for his mom. “She’s not hungry right now,” he explained.

  Ramon’s mother, Yolanda, was stick-thin, with brittle dark hair and haunted eyes. Even though it was a warm, early-summer evening, she shivered in a heavy coat, clutching it around herself as if it were the dead of winter.

  When they pulled up to the door of the emergency room, Cal said, “You go in with them. I’ll park the car.”

  The waiting room was crowded. Mothers rocked crying children, elderly men and women stared at the two ancient televisions with dull eyes, and three pregnant teens held huge bellies as they clung to the hands of middle-aged women.

  A bored-looking staffer took Ramon’s mother’s name and directed them to triage, where they sat down in the hard plastic chairs that lined the wall. Ramon helped his mother onto the chair, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear. She shook her head and tried to stand, but he tugged her back down.

  Frankie touched Ramon’s shoulder. “Can I get your mother a cup of coffee or soda?”

  “She’s good. She don’t like hospitals.”

  Frankie didn’t like them, either. She stared at the registration desk, willing the woman to hurry.

  The crowded waiting room, the misery and anguish that hung in the air like a bad smell, brought back memories of the night her parents had died. She and Nathan and Marco had huddled in a smaller version of this room, waiting for doctors to tell them if the rest of their family were alive or dead.

  Patrick had survived the auto accident.

  Her parents had not.

  Trying to insulate herself from her surroundings, Frankie wondered dimly where Cal was. Maybe he’d decided to just drop them off and go home, as she’d told him to do.

  No, Cal wouldn’t do that. After three weeks, she knew him better than that.

  Finally, the woman at the desk called Ramon’s mother’s name. The boy helped her up, then supported her as they approached the door to the registration stations. Just as they disappeared around the corner, Cal slipped into the seat next to Frankie.

  “They got in fast,” he said.

  She glanced at him, startled to see him wearing sunglasses. “It’s just triage and registration. Trust me, it’ll be a while before they see a doctor.” She gestured toward his face. “Why the shades?”

  “I need to protect my eyes.” He shifted in the chair. “What’s wrong?” he asked, setting his palm on her thigh to still her leg. She hadn’t realized it was jiggling.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. Worried.”

  “That all?”

  “What else would it be?”

  Cal studied her fo
r a moment, then turned away. He sat upright in the chair, even though the slippery plastic made most people slouch, and stared straight ahead.

  She opened her mouth to tell him that hospitals freaked her out, then bit her lip. TMI, she told herself. Cal didn’t need to know that.

  After a few minutes, she became aware of a murmur rippling through the room. When a young African- American man approached Cal, she finally understood.

  “Hey, man. How’s the knee doing?” he asked.

  “It’s good, thanks,” Cal replied. He smiled at the man, then looked away.

  The murmurs grew louder, and several more people came over. Some offered scraps of paper for autographs. Some just wanted to shake his hand. Almost all asked about his knee.

  That was why he wore sunglasses, she realized. He didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone.

  “Do you want to leave?” she asked him quietly. “I would, if I were you.”

  “I’m good, Frankie.”

  She couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses. He was hiding from her, too. And why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t as if she’d been so open with him.

  Finally a middle-aged man approached him. “Did you hurt your knee again?” he asked in a loud voice. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “My knee is fine,” Cal said with a tight smile. “Thanks for asking.”

  A few people approached with cell phones and took pictures. The woman behind the registration desk scowled and picked up a telephone. A few minutes later, a gray-haired woman in a suit appeared from behind the triage door and walked over to Cal.

  “Mr. Stewart?” she said in a pleasant voice. “Would you come with me, please?”

  Cal stood up. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to get you checked in so you can have some privacy.”

  Cal pulled Frankie to her feet, then held on to her hand as they followed the woman. As soon as they were behind the triage door, he let go.

  He took off the sunglasses and slipped them into his pocket. “Thank you for bumping us to the head of the line,” he said with a smile. “Our friend’s mother is in triage. She’ll appreciate the fast service.”