Upstairs, Margaret and Diane tended to Norah. The sound of water coursing through the old pipes indicated that a bath was being drawn. Downstairs, at the kitchen sink, Erica saturated an old dish towel in cold water, and with gentle pressure, she wiped clean Sean's face, stanched the blood from the corner of his lip, and winced as she pushed the dirt from the pebbled lacerations at his cheekbone and chin. They could hear Norah slip into the tub, cry out that it was too hot, and the singsong reparations from the two sisters. Finished with her ministrations, Erica stepped back to consider his face the way an artist might move to gain a different perspective. “You'll be all right,” she said. “You clean up nicely.”
The remark seemed a kind of gentle joke, so he returned a weak smile. She reached for his hands, and he let her wash the wounds on his palms and knuckles. Clean again, his hands seemed less alien, and the balm of her touch restored him after the violence. The woman said at last, “I am Mary Gavin.”
“I know who you are.”
“You must be Sean. I've heard a lot of good things about you from Norah and Mrs. Quinn.”
“Your mother.”
She brushed an escaping strand of hair from in front of her eyes. His words felt like an accusation, but she realized at once that of course Norah would have told her only confidant. A story existed below the surface of sudden angels and lost daughters, and this poor boy was caught in the vortex. She wondered what other secrets he kept.
“You can trust me,” he told her. “I won't tell.” As he made the promise, his lip began to bleed again, and she held the cloth against it like a kiss.
“Is there someone I can call to come get you? Your mother or father?”
Through the dish towel he mumbled, “My mother's still at work, and my father doesn't live with us anymore.”
She reached out and laid her hand against the side of his face, and he tilted into the warmth of her touch. He closed his eyes and rested there. Upstairs, the water drained from the bathtub, a door opened, and the girl emerged to the muffled strains of two comforting voices.
Norah descended. She came down from her bath a different person, her wet hair combed close against her scalp, the scent of jasmine shampoo in the air, and the light gone from her eyes. Trailing her, worn by the shock of the attack, were her attendants: Diane, limping from step to step, for her foot had fallen asleep, and Margaret, anxious and fretful, pulling at the hems of her sleeves to hide her reddened hands. Wrapped in a thick robe, Norah crossed barefoot over the floor and put her arms around Sean, rested her head against the shoulder she had once bitten, and left a wet patch on his shirt. He accepted the gesture with good grace, blushing.
Erica watched her mother watch the girl and could see that Margaret was grieving already before the child was gone. Grief had become the handmaid of hope, and she whose life was also bound by heartache and desire understood all too well what must be done.
The five gathered at the table, and Norah and Sean circled back to how it began with the protests of the mothers and how it ended with the attack by the children. Telling the story released its internal tensions, for it is an old tale of misunderstanding that ends in violence. A comfort of tea was brewed and served, a pan of hot chocolate for the younger souls. A deck of cards appeared by sleight of hand. Tricks were realized with shouts of triumph, and laughter resounded over improbable bids risked and made. In this way, they assuaged their anger and disappointment. When the hour came for Sean to go home, they had willed themselves back to equipoise, found a route to one another.
“Your mother will be worried,” Margaret said. “I'll walk you home, Sean, and be there to help explain those bumps and bruises.”
Diane stood and bowed. “We'll take my car. A hero deserves to ride in style with at least two chauffeurs. Your chariot awaits.”
Diminished by the oversized robe, Norah walked him to the door, a child again spent by fear and hope. Her hair had dried to a tangled mess, and her eyeglasses must have been chipped earlier that day. Facets caught the falling light and broke it into many colors. “Thank you for sticking up for me.”
“It's okay.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And for believing. I'll never forget it.”
He looked away. “Okay, see you tomorrow.”
Norah waved goodbye, and on the drive home, he began to miss her and wish he had lingered awhile.
After watching them get into the car, Erica sat on the bottom step and patted a place for the child. She sidled in close enough to touch, and the woman leaned into her, pressed her shoulder against Norah's head. Alone in the house, each became acutely aware of the other and their roles in bringing about the reunion. “Would you like to talk now?” Erica asked. “Tell me how I can help?”
“No, I can take care of myself.”