Cries of the Children

by Clare McNally

“I know you’re in there,” a voice called. “Open the door.”

  Lorraine held her breath, not daring to move.

  Go away!

  “It’s the landlord,” the voice said. “We’ve got a problem I have to check out.”

  Lorraine went to the door.

  “Are you really the landlord?” she asked.

  The man said some words Lorraine didn’t understand, and added in an exasperated tone, “You want to see an ID, kid? Open the door.”

  “I can’t,” Lorraine said. “Come back when Bettina is home.”

  “Hey, kid,” the man said, “if we wait till Bettina comes home, there ain’t gonna be no home. It’s a gas problem. We traced a leak to this apartment.”

  Lorraine tried to understand this, but it didn’t make sense to her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the apartment’ll blow up!” the man cried. “Now, are you gonna open the door or do I get my key?”

  Lorraine thought: If he has his own key, he’ll get in anyway. She decided to open the door. The landlord was a frail man who seemed nearly ninety years old, but who was, in truth, just fifty. He brushed by her, leaving a trail of tobacco and liquor and after-shave-smells. Lorraine climbed up onto the couch, kneeling on the cushions and resting her elbows on the back while she watched him work at the stove. Pulling tools from a wooden box, he looked over his shoulder.

  “Hey, kid,” he said. “You wanna come here and hold something for me?”

  “Okay,” Lorraine said, jumping from the couch and bounding over to him. She was glad to have something new to do. “What do you want me to hold?”

  “This,” the man said.

  He turned, one hand reaching into the unzipped fly of his pants. He took something out.

  “Huh?” Lorraine asked, completely confused. She’d never seen anything like the pinkish-purplish thing in his hand.

  “Hold it, kid,” the man said. His voice sounded funny, rasping. His eyes had gone sleepy.

  Lorraine backed away with a cry. Though many of her memories had been lost in the last few days, something deep down told her this was sick, a bad thing.

  “Go away!” she cried. “You get out of here!”

  “I said ‘hold this,’ you little . . .”

  His hand shot toward her, fingers curled like talons to grab her long dark hair. Lorraine screamed, backing away and stumbling to the floor.

  The man was about to shout something, but suddenly his words were obliterated by a sudden cry of pain. His face went completely pale, and his eyes grew so wide the whites showed all the way around. He began to make odd gasping noises, turning his body, with great effort, toward the stove. Confused, the little girl backed away and watched an impossible scene unfold.

  The man had been resting his free hand on one of the cold burners of the stove. But now it had somehow changed, to become an iron shackle lined with sharp spikes. Lorraine watched, speechless, and the “cuff” grew tighter and tighter around her assailant’s wrist. He screamed, trying to wrench it free. The more he struggled, the more blood gushed from the circle of wounds.

  “Oh, shit!” the man screamed in agony. “Oh, shit!”

  The landlord’s view of the apartment faded away, replaced by waving blue and white light. In that light, he knew, lay all the most horrible, dangerous, vile things imaginable. And they were coming to get him. They were going to tear him apart.

  I’m gonna die!

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lorraine demanded. “Stop doing that! Get out of here!”

  The man went on screaming, waiting for the . . . things to get him.

  “Go away!” he cried.

  “You go away!” Lorraine shouted, not understanding.

  At that moment the shackle became the top of the burner again, and the man was free. The blue-and-white mist faded away, but not the sense that the horrors within were waiting for him. But he wouldn’t let them catch him, no sir. Without even looking at the child he’d come here to molest, he raced from the apartment, completely out of his mind.

  Lorraine bent over, clutching her stomach to keep the sickness she felt from rising. She heard the man’s screams all the way down the stairs. The door slammed, and seconds later Lorraine heard the man shouting something, followed by a screech of tires.

  Where was Bettina? she wondered.

  I’m scared! I’m so scared! What am I gonna do?

  Lorraine? I’m here now, Lorraine. Don’t be afraid.

  The little girl kept herself rolled up in a shrimplike ball.

  You’re back again? Marty?

  It’s me.

  Why did you do that? Why do you make scary things?

  It wasn’t me this time, Lorraine. It was you. You did it to make him stop.

  I didn’t!

  I didn’t realize it until now, but you have the same type of power that I have. We are not all as strong as this.

  No, no, no, no . . .

  Don’t be afraid! It’s all over. He was hit by a car. He won’t hurt you again.

  Lorraine’s thoughts were silent for a moment.

  I . . . I killed him? she asked uncertainly.

  He killed himself. He ran into the street. They’ll find drugs in his body and say he went insane. But you can’t ever let anyone know what happened here. It will ruin our plans.

  But . . . but Bettina . . .

  Bettina can’t know. She isn’t one of us. You aren’t supposed to be with her.

  Who am I supposed to be with?

  I don’t know. Lorraine, you have to get up. You can’t let the old lady see you crying. She’ll ask questions.

  Lorraine was about to reply when the door suddenly burst open. Bettina came rushing in, accompanied by a young man carrying a boxed TV set.

  “Oh, you’re safe!” Bettina cried, rushing to take the child in her arms. “Thank God, you’re safe.”

  “Man, I never saw anything like that,” the delivery boy said. “It was like he was crazy or somethin’, yellin’ stuff about monsters in the building.”

  Marty, will people come up here now?

  But Marty was gone.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf,” Bettina said. She looked at the child. “Did that man do something to you?”

  “No!” Lorraine cried. She realized it came out too strongly, and to cover herself said: “I was looking out the window. I saw that man die!”

  “Poor child,” Bettina said. “What a terrible thing for young eyes to witness.”

  The delivery boy stepped forward. “Where do you want the TV? I gotta go back.”

  Bettina waved her hand toward one corner. The boy unpacked the box and arranged the small set up on top of an old dresser. He left without a word.

  “Are you sure nothing happened?”

  Lorraine felt that Bettina knew she was hiding something. She held the woman tightly, wishing she could tell her everything, but knowing she never could.

  Outside, someone else had heard the man’s strange talk of monsters. He was a very nondescript man: a plain pale face with small round glasses perched on a stubby nose; fine receding brown hair, mundane gray suit. He stood among the crowd of people waiting for the police to arrive at the accident scene. His eyes were focused on the apartment building from which the man had come running.

  A few days ago he had foolishly lost a very important item. Now he was more than convinced he’d found it again.

  “I know you’re up there,” he whispered, as if Lorraine could hear him.

  He’d be glad to get her back and placed with the right family. Walter LaBerge had said this was his last chance to redeem the mistake he’d made. The man was absolutely determined not to blow it this time.

  With determination marking his stride, he pushed his way across the street and entered the apartment building.

  19

  IT DIDN’T SURPRISE Samantha that she felt better just for having spoken to Wil Sherer. He was an eccentric, but she could tell he had a good heart and was dedicated
to his work. If anyone could help her, it seemed he could.

  The sun was setting as she drove to Barbara’s house, pink and purple cirrus clouds waving like banners over the mountains. It gave the blue spruce a violet cast. There was a dreamy quality to the landscape now, like something from a Victorian watercolor. But Samantha, filled with thoughts of her conversation with Wil, hardly noticed it.

  Barbara lived on the second floor of a colonial house in a modest apartment furnished from catalogs. She didn’t spend much time there, always off on a date with somebody or other. Samantha remembered she had a dinner date tonight, and hoped Julie wasn’t getting in the way. She’d find that hard to believe, but a couple having dinner might think the very presence of a child was a nuisance.

  She climbed the brick steps and pressed the top doorbell. A light came on over her head, and a moment later she heard footsteps on the stairs. Barbara opened the door.

  “Hi!” she said. “How’d it go?”

  “He’s going to help me,” Samantha said, following her up the staircase to the apartment.

  “Oh,” Barbara said without much enthusiasm.

  “You could be more encouraging,” Samantha said.

  Barbara sighed, turning to look at her friend as she entered the apartment.

  “It’s just that I’m so afraid of you being accused of something you didn’t do,” she said. “That detective will eventually have to work through the police, and I’m not sure they’ll believe your reasons for not contacting them.”

  “Detectives work independently,” Samantha said. “And in confidence.”

  She looked around. They were standing in a short hallway, the Navajo-print wallpaper decorated with dozens of small paintings in terra-cotta frames. Barbara dabbled in acrylics on the side, and had designated one of the apartment’s four rooms as a sort of office/studio. Samantha could almost guess that’s where she’d find Julie, but she asked anyway.

  “She’s painting,” Barbara said. “That kid’s got talent. But she keeps painting the same things. Always beach scenes, and always with a yellow house.”

  Samantha felt her heart skip a beat. She ignored the sense of uneasiness and headed toward the back room.

  Julie was wearing an old flannel shirt. She peeked around the corner of an easel and grinned at the sight of Samantha.

  “Hi!” she said.

  She put down the paintbrush and ran to give her caretaker a hug.

  “How’ve you been doing?” Samantha asked. “Barbara says you were painting.”

  She made no move to look at the child’s work.

  “It’s been fun,” Julie said. “Barbara’s really nice. We made peanut-butter cookies too.”

  Samantha gave her friend a surprised look.

  “You made peanut-butter cookies?” she asked. “I thought you hated baking.”

  “Well, there weren’t any snacks in the house,” Barbara admitted. “And Fred likes them too.”

  “I was worried he might be here already,” Samantha said. “That Julie might be in your way.”

  “Not at all!” Barbara insisted. “And he likes kids, really. Besides, he’d have to like Julie. She did most of the baking herself. I’ve never met a kid like you, Julie. You’re amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  Julie laughed in a self-deprecating way. She looked down at her toes. Yes, there was something she couldn’t do. She couldn’t remember where she came from. But she didn’t say this.

  “Julie, why don’t you clean up the paintbrushes?” Samantha said. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Would you like to go out to dinner?”

  “Okay,” Julie said.

  The doorbell rang. Barbara excused himself to go down and answer it. As Julie began to clean up, she handed Samantha a large piece of paper.

  “This is for you,” she said. “It’s the first one I did, so it’s sort of dry.”

  Samantha studied the painting. It was a beach scene, broad and virtually empty. The strangely familiar yellow house with green shutters stood to one side, a triangle of light brightening one half of it as the sun shone down. On the other side of the painting Julie had depicted a concession stand. Samantha remembered the pictures she had drawn at the hospital. In those, the concession stand was also decorated with blue dolphins. This, too, looked familiar. Something about the blue-and-white awning stirred such memories in Samantha that she could almost hear it flapping in the summer breeze. There was a sign leaning against it: “HAYBROOKS.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Samantha said, wondering why that name sounded so familiar. “Is it a place you’ve been to?”

  “I don’t know,” Julie said.

  But maybe I’ve been there myself. I’m sure Tve heard that name before!

  Julie pointed. “Do you see the little girl on the beach?”

  She pointed to the picture’s only living being. A young girl with long dark hair stood with her back to the viewer. She wore a one-piece shortall of red and white gingham, and held a red metal bucket by its broken handle. There was a picture of a fat white crab painted on the bucket’s side.

  Samantha felt a chill rush over her. There was something very, very familiar about that bucket. . . .

  “Samantha!”

  With a gasp, Samantha turned around at the sound of Barbara’s voice. Barbara gave her an odd look, then said:

  “This is Dr. Fred Matlin. Fred, I’d like you to meet my good friend Dr. Samantha Winstead. Fred also graduated from St. Francis.”

  Though Fred Matlin stood a good three inches shorter than Barbara, and barely an inch taller than Samantha, the confident way he threw back his shoulders seemed to heighten him considerably. He had a young, soft-featured face, his raggedy-cut hair the color of an old penny. Behind red-rimmed glasses his green eyes sparkled brightly.

  “It’s always exciting to meet an alumnus. What year?”

  Barbara giggled, sounding more like a child than Julie.

  “You aren’t supposed to ask questions like that!”

  What a flirt, Samantha thought.

  “Sorry,” Fred said. “I remember Barbara from several parties, although we weren’t in any classes together. And I’m pretty certain I can remember seeing you around campus too, although I’m not so sure.”

  Samantha smiled. “I’m sorry that I don’t remember you.”

  She really didn’t feel like idle chatter.

  “Barbara, thanks so much for taking care of Julie,” she said. “You’re a life-saver!”

  “She was great,” Barbara said. “You can come anytime you want, Julie.”

  “ ‘Bye, Barbara!”

  Samantha led Julie down the stairs and out of the house. In the truck, Julie tugged at her sleeve and asked:

  “Is something wrong, Samantha?”

  “Nothing, honey,” Samantha said. “I’m just tired.”

  “We don’t have to go out to dinner,” Julie said. “I don’t mind.”

  “I don’t feel like cooking,” Samantha said. But she really wasn’t in the mood to face a crowded restaurant either. “Why don’t we hit the drive-in at Pancho Pedro’s? We could bring stuff home.”

  “All right,” Julie said.

  “What would you like?”

  Julie shrugged. “I don’t know. What do they have?”

  Samantha started up the car and drove down the road, reciting the quasi-Mexican menu of Pancho Pedro’s fast-food restaurant.

  “I’ve heard of tacos,” Julie said. “I think I know what a tostada is. But what’s a burrito?”

  Samantha laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not,” Julie said. “I don’t know what a burrito is.”

  It was such a mundane food product around this area that Samantha wondered if she’d stumbled upon another clue in Julie’s mystery. Had she led an extremely sheltered life?

  “Well, let me think,” Samantha said. “You start with a soft flour tortilla, then you add meat and beans and . . .”

  By the time she finished descri
bing the food, Julie was rubbing her stomach.

  “It sounds yummy,” she said. “I’ll try one of those.”

  A few moments on Interstate 25 took them to a row of fast-food places. They passed Burger King, Taco Bell, and Wendy’s before finally pulling into the parking lot of a bright orange-and-green sombrero-shaped building. Samantha wondered why all fast-food places were orange. She maneuvered the Bronco up to the speaker, gave her order, then drove to the window. A few minutes later she drove out again with their dinner.

  “Hand me one of those onion rings,” she said to Julie.

  “Can I have one too?” Julie asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Ow! They’re hot!”

  The onion rings burned Samantha’s tongue, but still the entire bag was finished by the time they reached Samantha’s house. She walked with Julie into the house, then said:

  “Let’s eat in front of the TV. I’ll set up the tray tables.”

  When Julie turned on the television, Alex Trebeck was introducing the guests of Jeopardy, There were a lawyer, a teacher, and a writer. The categories came up: Famous Faces, Starts with an E, Solar System, American History, and Potpourri.

  “I love to try to guess the questions to these answers,” Samantha said, unwrapping the taco salad she’d bought for herself.

  The lawyer chose the first answer, American History, for one hundred dollars.

  “Prior to the Revolutionary War,” Trebeck said, “British soldiers fired at a crowd and killed five people in this famous clash.”

  “The Boston Massacre,” Julie said.

  Samantha turned to look at her, but Julie was staring, mesmerized, at the television.

  The teacher buzzed in.

  “What is the Boston Massacre,” she said.

  “Good for you, Julie!” Samantha said. “You must like history.”

  “Maybe,” Julie said.

  More clues . . .

  Julie breezed through the American History category.

  The lawyer was up again. This time he chose Solar System.

  “Nothing moves faster than this.”

  “The . . . what is ‘the speed of light’?”

  Julie was shaking her head. Samantha laughed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That isn’t the right answer,” Julie said.