For an instant he stared at the food when she set it before him on a napkin, then he reached out and snatched it up. She poured a cup of pomegranate juice and set that down on the table too, along with another square of the sandwich. Now he watched her gravely as he chewed.
With one eye on the wall clock, Sam put the remainder of the sandwich on the napkin in front of the boy and hurried into the bedroom. Alone now, she stood for an instant, covering her face with her hands, shuddering. Then she lifted her head and looked around at the things she would leave behind, struggling to calm her thoughts. There would be time later to weep.
Irreplaceable possessions were stored in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She yanked it open. She pulled out the red silk pouch where she kept her mother's jewelry, including the wedding ring Mother had worn for over fifty years. She dropped it back into the pouch and checked inside for the silver three-leafed broach, the pearls, and the gold pendant with rubies set inside a heart. All there. She dropped the pouch into the purse slung over her shoulder and glanced around. What else, what else, what else could she not leave behind?
Pictures, she remembered. The photographs. Racing into the living room, she rummaged through drawers for the pictures. She found them along with some letters she treasured, bundled these together, and shoved them into her purse.
Then she turned and looked at the boy. For an instant she considered just leaving him here. He had managed before she'd come along. And he'd surely slow her down. Thoughts of the Khmer Rouge freight-trained through her mind, leaving no space or time for anything but flight.
Still, she hesitated. Then, holding onto the strap of her purse, she lifted the boy from the chair and his head swiveled toward the crumbs of the food as she carried him to the door, his arm reaching back around her shoulder.
At the door she halted, sighed, and returned to the kitchen for the remaining bits of the sandwich. Then she headed for the door once more, her mind sifting for names or faces of neighbors who might be willing to keep the boy.
But there was no one. A futile effort, she knew. Oliver would have to allow her to take the child aboard the plane. He would
have
to. She couldn't leave the boy standing alone on the tarmac.
With a last look around the apartment, she slammed the door behind her and raced down the stairs. In the street she halted, blinking at the blast of hot white light and dust and noise that assaulted her. She set the child on his feet and grabbed his hand.
"Come," she said. "We have to run."
One hour and twenty minutes were left before the last plane would leave.
New Orleans—1977
Work had been unrelenting for days.
Amalise arrived by eight o'clock every morning, early for a lawyer. Most nights she worked until midnight, driving home bleary eyed through the empty streets, and then falling into bed, only to start all over again the next morning.
But on this morning, something drew her back to Kerlerec Street.
She hadn't planned to go there. But on her way to the office, instead of turning toward the business district, without a conscious decision, she drove toward the Marigny. Traffic was light on this day.
Despite her prior resolve, she drove through the triangle target area, imprinting on her mind the places that Bingham Murdoch would destroy with his project. When she reached the house on Kerlerec Street, she rolled down the window beside her to breathe in the fresh morning air. There again were the children playing in the yard. Perhaps they were too young for school, or perhaps it was still too early in the day. Two of the boys played a rough version of kickball, as she and Jude had done at that age. The girl still sat on the swing, this time holding a doll on her lap, her lips moving as though talking to it.
Amalise lifted her eyes to the porch. There he was, the same small boy sitting on the top step almost hidden, one shoulder hiked, leaning against the post. She wondered why he didn't join the others.
"May I help you?" The muffled voice startled her, and she jumped.
Turning, she saw a woman standing on the street on the passenger side of the car, balancing two bulky grocery bags in her arms. The woman frowned at her. Amalise reached across the seats and rolled down the window.
"I saw you watching the children," she said before Amalise could open her mouth. She shifted the grocery bags in her arms in an irritated manner, and Amalise heard the hint of suspicion, a question in her voice. The woman's long brown hair was streaked with gray and pulled back to the nape of her neck. Fine wrinkles fanned the corners of her eyes, softening her expression despite the unfriendly tone.
Too old to be the children's mother?
"Yes, I was. They're adorable. Are they yours?"
The grocery bags slipped, and the woman hunched to grab them. A box of cornflakes tumbled to the street, and she muttered something. Amalise turned off the engine, pushed open the car door, and hurried around to where the woman stood. She picked up the box of cereal and reached for one of the bags. "Please, let me help."
Instinctively, the woman backed away. "No, thank you. I can manage." But even as she spoke, a bag slipped from her grasp. Amalise caught it as it fell.
"Whoa!" Amalise, smiling, reached out to steady the woman. "Are you all right?"
The woman closed her eyes and stood motionless for a moment, breathing deeply. When she finally looked back at Amalise, she wore a shaky smile. "Thanks," she said. Her tone was apologetic. "I think I would have fallen."
Amalise cupped her free hand beneath the woman's elbow, and they crossed the street together. When they reached the sidewalk on the other side, she let go.
"I can take it from here," the woman said.
Amalise shook her head. "I've got time. Let's get these into the kitchen."
The woman nodded, unlatched the gate, and shut it after Amalise. The boys in the yard halted their game to stare as Amalise trailed the woman up the steps. As they came close, the boy on the porch stood and slipped behind the post, as if to make himself invisible.
"This is Luke," the woman said, nodding toward him. "He's new." She rested her hand on his head as they reached the top step. "And he's still a little shy."
The child's Asian features were delicate. Up close his brown skin glowed as he stared at Amalise without expression. Dark hair framed his face, soft and shining in the sunshine.
"Say hello, Luke," the woman said, articulating her words with care, but the boy stood motionless. She turned to Amalise with an apologetic look. "He won't talk." Turning, she headed for the door, speaking over her shoulder. "He'll learn soon enough from the other children. We think he understands more than he shows."
Amalise followed, catching the screen door before it slammed behind them and feeling the child's eyes following her.
They wove their way through a living room, dodging toys and books and boxes. "Sorry about the disarray," the woman said as they entered the kitchen. Here, a rectangular table of sturdy oak stood in the center of the room, surrounded by six chairs. The woman set her bag down on the table and turned to Amalise with open arms. Amalise held out the bag, and in the instant before the woman took possession, she felt the contents shift and the bottom of the paper bag give way. They both jumped back as cans, bottles, vegetables, and the box of cereal all tumbled to the floor. Glass shattered and mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup splattered shoes, hemlines, and walls.
With lamentations, Amalise scrambled after several rolling cans. The woman set her bag on the table and retrieved a handful of paper napkins and a wet cloth. She cleaned up the broken glass and brought out a damp mop.
"So cheap, the grocery bags they use these days!"
"And I'm so clumsy." Amalise wiped up the remaining sauces with the soggy paper napkins.
"It's not your fault." The mop swirled on the floor around Amalise. "Caroline's my name, by the way. Caroline Jeansonne."
Amalise looked up, grimacing. "I'm Amalise Catoir."
Later, with order restored, Caroline made coffee. She set a mug in front of her guest. "Amalise. That's pretty. Is it a family name?"
"It was my grandmother's." Amalise looked around the small kitchen. She could see the wood planks beneath the red, yellow, and blue striped wallpaper. The floor was linoleum. The icebox was an older model with rounded edges, with photographs of the children and crude crayon drawings taped to the door. The stove was long past any warranty, well used but spotless.
"Would you like cream? Sugar?"
Amalise looked back at Caroline. "No thanks." She picked up the mug and sipped. "I like it black. But what a mess I've caused." She shook her head. "If I hadn't come along, you'd have made two trips, and none of this would have happened."
"Don't give it another thought." Caroline filled a second cup from a shining pewter pot. She gave a little laugh. "I'd have dropped
both
bags, and it would have been worse."
Amalise smiled, studying Caroline as she set the coffee mug down on the table and lowered herself into a chair. She looked to be around fifty or fifty-five. Her blue sweater and flower-patterned rayon dress were too light for the season. The sweater had tiny moth holes around the buttonholes.
"Is the grocery far from here? I'd like to replace the things that broke."
"That's not necessary." Caroline picked up her cup and sipped. "Stay awhile. I'd enjoy having a conversation with someone over the age of six."
"Are all of these children yours?" Amalise leaned back, resolving to replace the groceries as soon as she could.
"Yes . . . in a way. We foster them, but we're hoping to adopt." Her eyes dropped for an instant.
"That's wonderful."
"Ellis and I are older than the social workers would like, especially for so many children." She shrugged one shoulder and flushed. "And income is a problem." She sipped the coffee. "But we're giving the children a home, and that counts for consideration. We're providing them stability." She set down the mug and massaged the back of her neck.
"How long have they been with you?"
Caroline lifted her hand with a little wave. "Oh, we—my husband, Ellis, and I—we took in the first two, Charlie and Nick, a couple of years ago when they were toddlers. They're the boys you saw outside." She waved her hand in the direction of the front yard. "Daisy, the little girl, joined us just last year."
Amalise nodded. "And the boy on the porch?"
"Luke." Caroline seemed to hesitate as she picked up the coffee mug again and sipped before answering. "He arrived a few weeks ago. He'd been at the home in Gentilly for a few weeks when they called us for help. Just temporarily. It's a lot to handle, but they were overcrowded."
"Poor little thing."
She tilted her head, looking at Amalise. "Yes, But at least he's out of the institutional system for a while. 'Three hots and a cot,' they call it. This is the first real home any of these children have lived in that we know of."
Amalise's stomach dropped. Murdoch's project would take care of that. She set down the coffee cup and looked at Caroline, casting around for a change of subject. "Luke looks Oriental. Is he from Vietnam?"
Caroline nodded. "From what we've been told, he was rescued from Saigon right before the Viet Cong moved in. He's been in an intake shelter on the West Coast. I guess someone just gave him the name Luke along the way. Things out there were in complete disarray, I understand. Papers were mixed up and records lost when the Saigon embassy burned after the evacuation."
"He seems lonely." Amalise dropped her eyes. What would happen to these children after Black Diamond? She told herself that she was creating drama where none existed. The family would get a good price for the house from Murdoch's agents and buy a nicer one, a newer one in another neighborhood.
Caroline nodded. "Only God knows what this child's been through. We'll warm him up soon, I hope. The social workers thought he had a sponsor here—that's why he was sent to New Orleans. But they were wrong."
"How old do you think he is?"
"It's hard to tell. He's all sticks and bones." Caroline's expression grew sober. "He doesn't eat much. Ellis says he's just not used to our food yet." She took a deep breath. "But he'll relax sooner or later, and we've been thinking about including him in our adoption petition. One more child shouldn't make that much difference, should it? But we don't know if that would hurt or help our application." She blinked and looked away.
Amalise heard the children calling to one another outside. She shouldn't have come here, she knew. She should leave. She glanced at her watch, set down the cup, and rose. "I've got to go. I need to get to work." With a rueful smile, she said, "I'm sorry for the mess, but I'm glad to have met you. I think it's wonderful what you're doing for these children." As she spoke, the front door slammed and little feet pounded through the living room and into the kitchen. Daisy raced toward Caroline, tears streaming.
Caroline reached for the girl. "Caro! Caro!" the child cried, sobbing something about her doll, the boys, and a ball. Caroline murmured to her words that seemed to soothe while she stroked the little girl's hair.
"This is Daisy." Caroline swung Daisy into her lap and looked up.
Amalise smiled but edged toward the door. She was eager to leave before she became further entangled in a problem she couldn't fix.
"Come back any time," Caroline said, stroking Daisy's hair.
Come back, come back, come back.
Amalise nodded, heading for the door. She would, she said.
But she would not.
On the porch she found Luke still sitting alone on the top step. She looked down at the child, taking in his thin shoulders, the sharp cheekbones, the fine, straight hair, and something stirred inside. He looked so lost. Luke stiffened and stared out over the yard without moving, looking past her as if she did not exist.
Her throat grew tight as she walked to the car, realizing what she had just done. She'd put actual names and faces and stories to people sitting in the path of Bingham Murdoch's destruction. She climbed back into the car, berating herself. This had been such a mistake. The firm was counting on her to do her job, to be a productive member of the Murdoch team.