Waiting for Christopher (11 page)

For the first time, Feena saw Raylene completely astonished. It was just a second, then there was no surprise, only suspicion. “Where’d you get that book?”

“You dropped it the other day.”

“How about that?” Raylene shook her head, waved the book away. “An equal-opportunity reader.” She stood, hugging the folded blanket to her chest, a sort of challenge in her level gaze. “Is that supposed to get you a medal?”

“A medal?” What was wrong? What was always so wrong? Why couldn’t Feena say or do one thing right?

“Look,” Raylene said, “I know you might choke on it, but how about the truth?”

“The truth?” Feena was in echo mode again. Her brain racing, she watched Christy, who was pulling on the edge of the blanket.

“Yeah, you know.” Raylene’s voice was low and smooth, frightening in its neutrality. “The truth as in: If this is your sister, what are you doing hiding out in a fast-food joint for ghosts?”

“Weed,” the baby commanded, but neither of them was listening. “Weed mu.”

“I’m not—”

“The truth, as in: How come you turn six shades of pale every time I ask about your mom?”

“Okay. Okay.” Feena was cornered, desperate. In seconds, she ran through scores of lies, rejected each one. “What if I told you,” she asked at last, “that Christy isn’t my sister?”

“I’d say that’s a start.” Raylene turned, put the folded blanket into a cabinet that lay on its back behind the booth.

“What if I told you she’s
my
baby?” Now that she’d said it out loud like that, Feena felt braver, surer. For a while, anyway, it was true. “I’m her mother.”

“Yours, huh?” Raylene gave a long, low whistle, then crossed her arms. “Who’s the daddy?”

“His name is Edward.” Before she could stop herself, Feena was off on a romantic tangent. “He’s blind. It was an accident. There was a fire—”

“I read the book.” Raylene unfolded her arms, stood impassive. “I swear, either you’re a plain fool or you take me for one.” She put an arm around Christy, who had crawled up onto the closed cabinet and was kicking its side with his sneaks.

“No, really…”

Carefully, painstakingly, Raylene straightened the collar on the baby’s dress. “‘No, really’ nothing,” she said. “Your time’s up, Miss Books for Brains.”

“Bwu,”
Chris interrupted, pointing to his sneaks. He looked at Raylene for approval. “Cwiss shoes
bwu
.“

Raylene didn’t answer, just lifted him off the cabinet and set him on the ground. He tried for Feena’s attention now.
“Bwu,”
he said, tugging on the hem of her tee. “Cwiss shoes
bwu
.“

Raylene’s gaze was level, menacing. “This baby walked right out of his diapers while you were gone.” She paused and there was that non-smile again. “Course, that’s no surprise, seeing how you bought extra large.”

That explained the way Raylene was acting
. Feena couldn’t face her.
The cold voice, the dirty looks
. She glanced away, toward the woods, the dark silhouettes of the trees. “I didn’t know diapers came in different sizes,” she said softly.

“Buying diapers twice as big as you need is one thing.” Raylene spoke slowly, deliberately. “But nobody’s too dumb to know a girl from a boy.”

“It’s not what you think…” Feena felt Christy’s eagerness, his impatient yanking on her shirt. But she couldn’t look down at him, couldn’t take her tear-filled gaze off the woods.

“I figure you got that stuff pretty well sorted out before you went and made this baby in the first place.” Raylene never took her dark, mirror eyes off Feena. “I figure you can’t be one-half as dumb as you act.”

“I’m not.” Feena heard the frogs start up, was aware of a moth tumbling, mud-colored, in the dusk beside her. “I mean, you see, it’s just—”

“And I figure maybe you need some serious help. But one thing there’s no maybe about. One thing I know as sure as I know my name. You won’t be taking this child anywhere, anymore.” Finally, turning from Feena, Raylene leaned down, took Christy’s hand, and drew him into her arms.

“But I…”
She knows
, Feena thought numbly.
She’ll call the police and that will be the end
.

“I’ve seen some sick, sorrowful rejects, but I never seen anyone lower than you.” Christopher wriggled in Raylene’s fierce grasp, but she held him tight, pinning him against her.

“You don’t understand.”
They’ll take him away, and then they’ll arrest me
. Feena considered grabbing the baby back, pictured the two of them running off, streaking into the night. But her legs felt weak, too wobbly to carry one person, much less two.
They’ll arrest me
, she told herself,
and he’ll have to go back
.

“Anyone burns a baby like that don’t deserve spit.”

“Burns?” The numb place in Feena dissolved, and suddenly there was room for Raylene’s anger. She saw it in the other girl’s face, felt it in her own chest. “What do you mean, ‘burns’? What are you talking about?”

“That moron act of yours just won’t wash.” Feena moved toward them, but Raylene pulled the baby back and stood in front, protecting him. “Next, you’re gonna tell me those cigarette burns on Toffee’s legs happened by themselves, right? Just a bad case of diaper rash, right?”

Feena stopped, stood still. “Oh, my god!” She looked at Christy, who was now holding his hands out to Feena, trying to get free of Raylene’s grasp. She remembered the red weepy constellation on his thigh. How could she have been so stupid?

And how, she asked herself, could anyone in the whole, bewildering world be so cruel? She shut her eyes, grew dizzy fighting the pictures—images of Christy held fast in his mother’s immense arms, of her glowing cigarette tip moving up and down, up and down. “That’ll teach you, Mister. That’ll teach you to do what I say.”

“N
o go.” Christy was repeating it over and over now. “Cwiss no go.” He wasn’t yelling; he never yelled. But he was pulling away from Raylene, setting all his weight against her. “Want stay,” he insisted, tugging, looking over his shoulder toward Feena. Finally, Raylene gave up trying to drag him. She secured her book under one arm, then stooped down and grabbed him around the waist, hoisted him up still kicking like a struggling pig. They had set off into the gloom before Feena realized what had happened.

“Wait!” Feena gathered up the books and stumbled after them. “Give me a chance!” She tripped over the pieces of sign she’d forgotten about, was caught by a thorny creeper that bordered the path to the highway. “Give me a chance! I can explain!”

If she heard her, Raylene gave no indication. In fact, she picked up speed, and Feena was afraid she’d lose them. It was hard to run and yell at the same time, but she couldn’t let them disappear. It was so dark now that she was glad Christy kept up his protests. “No!” she heard him scolding. “Want here, Ween. Want here!”

“Raylene, please!” She followed behind as the older girl struck off down the path, away from the road. “He needs me! You’ve got to stop!”

When Raylene turned around and started walking back toward her, Feena gasped with relief. She stood, head bent, as Raylene—calm, unflappable Raylene—screamed.

“No,
you
got to stop. You got to stop lying. You got to stop chasing after us. And most of all, you got to stop treating this baby like dirt.”

Feena didn’t care. She let the tears come, let them run down her face. “I didn’t. I didn’t,” she said in between sobs. “I was trying to stop it. I took him away.” She buried her face in her hands, smelling the sharp, dark sap of the creepers she’d uprooted as she raced after them.

“What trash are you talking now?” Raylene stood close. She put Christy down but held tight to his hand.

“I didn’t hurt him,” Feena said, lowering her hands, trying to see Raylene’s face by the new moon. “I would never hurt him.” She hardly noticed Christy edging toward her, didn’t know he was there until his small pincer fingers found her shirt. Gratefully, she lifted him up, held him tight, cried into his baby neck. “You have to listen to me, please.”

Raylene, still holding Christy by one arm, waited. “Well?” she said.

Feena blinked into the dark, still fighting tears. She talked rapidly, tripping over her words, afraid she might lose her audience. But Raylene didn’t move, just stood and listened.

Feena told it all, without editing, without trying to explain or excuse what she’d done. To name it, to say it out loud was enough. It was as if Raylene were a quiet, empty vessel into which Feena could pour it all—the fear, the mistakes, the second thoughts. Bit by bit, drop by drop, she told her everything—the move from Connecticut, the humiliation of the Pizza Hut, the short-tempered woman, and the little boy with her dead brother’s name.

As Feena talked, Raylene let go Christy’s hand, let him relax into her. Behind the whispery safety of his curls, Feena kept going, as if the story had been waiting to burst free. She described the night in the miniature-golf booth, the trips for food and supplies, the newspapers that hadn’t mentioned a missing child.

By the time she reached their morning in the library, she’d stopped crying, started wishing she had a tissue to wipe away the mess streaming from her nose. “We even got a library card,” she told Raylene, letting Christy down to retrieve something shiny he’d seen on the ground. “Pretty funny,” she added, rubbing a hand across her face, “how guilty I felt giving a false name.” She glanced nervously at her listener. “I mean, considering everything else I’ve done.”

Feena waited then, finally out of words. Raylene waited, too. Was she calculating, judging?

Only Christopher moved, busy with a piece of coconut husk he’d found. Slipping into sandbox mode, he used the shell to dig in the dirt, undaunted by the slow progress he was making with the hard, baked earth. “Make mu,” he chanted, patting the small mound he’d managed to pile up. “Cwiss make mu and mu and mu.”

“Well,” Raylene announced with the same economy, the same slow, sure drawl she always used, “it wasn’t in the paper on account of nobody reported it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whoever burned Toffee has been turned into DYFS a zillion times. They know the cops won’t believe them.”

“Difuss?” asked Feena. “What’s Difuss?”

“Division of Youth and Family Services.” Raylene looked down at Christy, kicked a tuft of dried grass with one sandaled foot. “You know, caseworkers, checker-uppers, all that. Toffee’s mom probably figured out she’ll be Suspect Number One the minute she goes to the police.”

Of course! Feena had never even considered that, but it made sense. If the sweet-faced woman had been reported for child abuse, she might not have told anyone her son was missing. And the police wouldn’t be looking for Christy, after all!

“Toffee, let me see your sugar face.” Raylene stooped down and cupped Christy’s chin, distracting him from his earth moving. “Lord, I wonder can I ever get used to you being a boy.” She sounded as though someone had switched the ending of a fairy tale on her. She sighed, then looked up at Feena. “It’s not right, is it?” she asked in a soft voice Feena hardly recognized. “Some folks would do anything to have a baby, but they can’t. And some that have kids, well…” She trailed off. “They shouldn’t, that’s all.”

Feena nodded. The mosquitoes were like night armies now, attacking from all sides. Just off the path, in the woods, something rustled through the grass.

“When my mother got pregnant?” Raylene took off her smock, folded it under her, and sat down, waiting for Christy to finish playing. “I mean, the second time? She spent three months in bed. She said she almost lost me and she wasn’t about to take a chance like that again. Three months lying there, 24/7.” She laughed gently. “Going crazy and making me that way, too.”

“How old were you?” Feena sat down near her, not even bothering about the dirt. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

“Ten.” Raylene patted the side of Christy’s mud mound. “That’s good, Toffee. That’s real good.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So did you get a brother, or a sister?”

“Didn’t get either one.” Raylene’s voice dropped lower still. “Mama had a miscarriage.”

Feena heard the intake of her own breath. “I’m sorry.”

“We had this room all painted, you know?” Raylene wasn’t looking at Christy or even at Feena now. She was talking to herself, her eyes liquid in the moonlight. “My mother, she wanted everything lemon yellow, so it wouldn’t matter, boy or girl. But I just knew it was going to be a girl. I saved up and got this lamp made out of a glamour doll. She had a yellow dress with white lace, and Mama let me put it on the baby’s dresser.”

“Oh, god.” Real life, Feena was learning faster than she wanted, is full of sad things—sad small things that people never read about, or see on TV.

“There was so much blood the day it happened.” Raylene stopped, watching Christy work busily beside her. “Mama was crying and groaning and asking me to help. I couldn’t do anything.” Another pause, Christy pounding away at the mud. “In the end, all I could do was call the ambulance.”

“Where was your dad?” Feena thought of her own father, his bedtime story, the one he hadn’t read but recited slow and quiet as a prayer.
Once upon a time there was a baby. One day, he had to leave his family…