‘Carrie? Is that you?’ The girl jumps and I slink back, squeezing myself into the shadow of the stairs. A dull lump of a woman approaches. Not much taller than the girl, she appears several times as wide, a hillock rather than a human, an illusion aided by her mushroom-colored wool coat. An oversized purse of the same nondescript beige hangs over one arm, while in the other she holds a paper bag already stained with grease and a paper mug. ‘Carrie Wright,’ says the hillock, small brown eyes blinking under a frazzle of rusty curls. Her voice is warmer than I had expected. ‘As I live and breathe.’
The girl straightens and stands her ground. We are out in the open here, as open as this claustrophobic street can be, and so I sit up to watch. If the girl does not deem this creature a threat, perhaps she is the reason we came here.
‘Miss Adele.’ The girl’s voice trembles, though with fear or something else, I cannot tell. ‘I was hoping to see you here.’
‘Of course, of course. You always could come by.’ She shifts the mug and bag to her left hand, hiking the purse up her shoulder as she does so – a movement both cumbersome and familiar, the daily burden no longer noticed. I am mistaken, she is not a hillock. She is a bear, emerging clumsy from its winter rest. This done, she reaches out as if to touch Care – or to grab her. ‘Let’s go inside.’
‘No.’ Care steps back, just out of range. The bear blinks then lets her arm drop. ‘I’m sorry.’ Care’s voice softens. ‘I just came because I need your help.’
‘Of course, anything.’ The bear nods, making her rusty curls bounce. ‘I’m afraid the investigation into your parents’ accident has been suspended, but—’
‘It’s about Tick.’ Care doesn’t let her finish. ‘Thomas. I’ve done what I can. Tried to keep him with me, take care of him, but he’s gotten … he may have gotten involved in something too big, and I might need help.’
‘You could bring him in.’ She stops. Care is shaking her head. ‘You want protective services? An emergency intervention?’
‘If I have to.’ Care’s voice breaks a bit. ‘I’m not sure, but I may— Is there a number? Somebody I can call?’
‘I have a card.’ With her free hand the bearish woman starts to rifle through her purse, which begins to slide off her shoulder. She grabs it and kneels, depositing the paper bag on the steps. I step forward. It smells interesting, and it is warm.
‘What?’ She jerks the bag back and hands it, with the mug, to Care before returning to her purse. After a moment’s furious digging, she pulls out a card. ‘Here. This is the hotline. If a child is in danger, we will come. In force.’
Care appears thoughtful as she looks at the card.
The woman, in turn, is reading her face. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you that before, Carrie. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you or Thomas. It was the system. We thought it was a good placement for him. For you. This city …’ She stops. Care keeps staring at the card. ‘I’m sorry.’
Care tucks the card in her jeans with a nod. ‘Thanks,’ she says as she hands back the bag and the mug.
‘Keep it,’ says the woman. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
We share the donut in an alley about a quarter mile away. Despite the relative quiet of the street and the departure of the woman into the building, Care is eager to get away and doesn’t even stop to examine her bounty at first. She walks quickly, her head bowed, but we are not interrupted, and when she finally slows we are back in familiar territory, the buildings more rundown but the streets less populous, even now as the morning sun begins to dry the puddles.
The pastry is cold by then; its creamy topping thick. I lick it for the richness of that greasy coating but leave the doughy part untouched. Care looks longingly at the wet bit I have discarded but contents herself with the remainder, dipping it in the even milkier contents of the paper mug.
‘You want some coffee?’ She sees my nose twitch as I take in the scent of warm and sweet, then holds the mug down for me to taste and laughs as I recoil at the bitterness beneath the cream. Her response warms me, more than that foul beverage could, and I find myself purring. We are on the sunny side of the alley and I have begun to feel better about this day. Better about everything, except the idea of a trap.
‘I can’t really do it,’ she says and I look up. She has the same concerns as I do, I see. It is these concerns she addresses, rather than any query of mine. ‘I mean, I won’t call protective services. They’re just for leverage with AD. They know him. He’s done some time for using kids and I’ve got to get Tick out of there.’
I do not understand what she’s saying, though I can feel the thread of uncertainty that runs beneath it. Still, we are warm and have eaten. I am drifting toward sleep when she stands and wipes her hands free of crumbs. ‘Freddie will know how to reach him. Freddie or Junebug.’
She turns to look at me. ‘Sorry, Blackie. I should let you sleep, right? It’s just … I’ve begun to feel like I can bounce things off you. I can’t talk to Tick like this, even when he’s here. When I was working with the old man I got used to it. Got used to putting my thoughts into words. Sometimes it helped.’ She shrugs. ‘I guess cats are good listeners.’