Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer
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if I take a look at your donor list?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to take down the names and give some of them a call. If I can get a few good quotes about the vision these people have for Haven, my article might help you drum up additional support.”
He considered her request. “If our donors agree to be interviewed, it’s fine with me. But I don’t want you to publish names without their permission.”
“No problem.” She took the file he handed to her and scanned the list. “This is good. I know some of these people. Isn’t Richard Hayes the CEO of a moving van company?”
“He’s been great. But so far, it’s all been personal donations. He hasn’t involved his business yet, and that’s where the big money is.”
“These are fairly large churches, aren’t they?” she asked, jotting information as she went down the list.
“Sure, but they’re in low-income areas. They send us a lot of volunteer help, but they don’t have much money to give.”
Her finger stopped at a name. “I know this man—Jim Slater. He goes to my church.” She looked up, her face transformed by that radiant smile. “He runs an adoption agency, doesn’t he?”
“It’s called Young Blessings Adoption Services,” he told her. “Jim’s on our board of directors, and he drops by fairly often to help out with the kids. I’m assuming he must be well-off, because he’s done a lot for Haven. He paid for new tile in the bathroom. In fact, I have an appointment with him later this afternoon. To talk about the lead paint problem.”
“I bet he’ll help. I’ve worked with Jim in the church nursery a couple of times. He’s a gentle man, and so good with children. He lost his wife to cancer, you know.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“Well, this is great.” She looked up from her notebook. “One more thing, Sam. Terell mentioned a problem with DFS.”
Sam shook his head. “Your story’s on lead paint, Miss Burns. That’s all I’m willing to discuss.”
“But why would Family Services be after you?”
“They’re not ‘after’ us. You make it sound like we’re criminals.”
“Are you?”
He scowled. “Of course not. If you work with children and don’t meet your health codes, then DFS starts sniffing. Look, I’ve given you all the time I can, Miss Burns.”
“Ana.” She stood. “So, how’s the little girl in the corner?”
He thought for a moment, picturing the forlorn child who never spoke. “We’ve tried, but we can’t get her involved in our activities. Still, she seems to feel safe with us. She comes every day.”
“She’s kind of a lost child, isn’t she?”
“Invisible. That’s the word I use. She’s not the only one. We have several kids who drift at the fringes, looking on, and trying not to be noticed. They’re like ghosts. Haunting. We do our best to involve them, but we don’t insist that they join the activities.”
He started for the door. “Why don’t you talk to the girl? And put in a load of laundry while you’re at it.”
He was halfway down the hall before he realized he’d left her alone in his office. An unsupervised guest. A snoopy reporter. He swung around, strode back into the room and took her arm.
“This way out, Miss Burns.”
“Ana.”
“Cleopatra,” he muttered, leading her through the front office. He gave her a nudge out into the main area, where the youngsters were playing basketball. “There she is—in her corner. See if you can get through to her. Even a name would be helpful.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Sure you do.” He studied Ana, surprised at the pale wariness that filtered across her face. “We’re not helping her. Maybe you can.”
“I can’t, sorry. I have to make these phone calls.”
“Scared?” he asked, taking a step closer, meeting her almost face-to-face. “You’re happy to announce Haven’s problems in your article, but when it comes to understanding what we really do, what our mission means—”
“I’m not scared,” she snapped back. “I’m just not comfortable with children.”
“You work in your church nursery.”
“One-on-one, I mean.” Her eyes narrowed and her soft lips pursed. “Okay, Uncle Sam. I’ll go talk to her. I’ll talk to the other kids, too. Maybe I’ll find out a few of your secrets.”
“I don’t have secrets,” he called after her as she started to walk away.
“Yes, you do. Wyoming. You and Terell. The Marines.” She shrugged. “And my name is not Cleopatra.”
He watched as she headed across the room toward the shadowy corner. The little girl spotted her and quickly turned away.
The lightbulb pulls on my eyeballs as though they are attached by strings. I fear they will come right out of my head and leave me blind. Seeing nothing but the darkness. Then I will be even more afraid than I am now.
Quickly, I close my eyes, hiding them safely behind the skin of my eyelids. It’s black in this place, and I can feel the pain. Fear tastes like blood on my tongue. It smells like sweat. Not the good sweat of my father when he comes home from work. This is the bad sweat of thieves and murderers and my father when he has drunk too much beer. Darkness curls around me like monster shadows and demon smoke, choking me and flooding my nostrils with the evil smell.
Afraid, afraid, afraid of this pain and sweat more than of blindness, I open my eyes and stare at the lightbulb. My eyes float upward into the light, the shining and shimmering light. It is so bright that my eyeballs must surely burst open…
…and it is the sun, gleaming on my sister’s white teeth as she laughs. She pulls on my hand, urging me into the light, and I run with her. We race down the beach, our feet flying across the loose sand, our toes digging into the soggy, slushy sand, and now we skip out into the water.
I call to her. Hold my hand, Aurelia! Stay beside me!
A wave rolls in and slaps our legs, and we gasp and cry out in shock and delight. So cold! So wet! Oh, we love this water, and the way it beckons us deeper and deeper.
Come! Come on, my sister calls me.
No, Aurelia, I tell her. I squeeze her fingers tightly with my own. Stay close to me. Stay near the shore where it is safe! In the ocean live big fish with sharp teeth to bite us. In the ocean, coral can cut open our toes and make us sick. Sea urchins can stick their spiny needles into our feet, and jellyfish can wrap their poison threads around our legs. Seaweed can pull us under so that we would drown.
Stay with me, Aurelia. Stay near, and I will keep you safe.
We dance in the waves, my sister and me. We march up and down like soldiers. We play trumpets and guitars in our mariachi band. We chase our children, those naughty waves, as they run away from us and then back into our arms again.
Oh, we are wet, and Mama will be angry!
But the sun is hot, and our skirts will be dry by the time we walk all the way home. The sun beats down on us like the drummer in our band, and we sing to it. We fling water upward into the sky like a baptism. And the droplets shower down on us, shiny crystals, God’s diamonds. His blessings fall on Aurelia and me as we play in the sunshine. As we lift our faces to the sun and laugh at the light sifting through our black lashes. Oh, the sun…
…the round, glowing bulb of light. Now the pain is gone, and the fear creeps