The Summer Kitchen (41 page)

I rushed into the room, woke him so suddenly he pitched forward, causing the footstool on the sofa to fold up. He caught the armrest, stopping himself from ending up on the floor. “Sandra, what in the . . .” He blinked, blinked again, trying to clear his vision so he could see the clock on the VCR.

“Something’s happened. I need you to come with me.” The day of Poppy’s death flashed through my mind. Rob had said the same thing that day, after he’d gotten the call from the police.
Something’s happened, Sandra. We need to go down to the hospital. It’s Poppy.

Rob’s head swiveled toward the door, his face ashen with sudden panic. “Where’s Christopher?”

“Christopher’s fine. He’s at Holly’s overnight. It’s the café, the kids there.”

Rob sank back against the chair. “For heaven’s sake, Sandra. You scared me half out of my mind. I thought something had happened to Christopher. It’s five thirty in the morning. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“No!” My hands flew up, slapped downward. I turned away, turned back, trying to decide whether to continue attempting to convince him, or just leave. “
Please,
Rob. I need you. Just come with me. Come with me now, and I’ll explain on the way.”

He sat up, then hovered on the edge of the chair, studying me in a way that felt painfully cool and clinical. My hopes sank. He was about to say no. He’d tell me this was insanity. I could see the thought crossing his mind, hardening the expression on his face.

“Please,” I said again. “Rob, I need you to come with me. Please don’t say no. Just trust me.”

Brows drawing together, he weighed the possible responses for what seemed like an eternity. An eternity during which I contemplated our future. If the person who was supposed to love me the most didn’t believe in me, then what future was there?

“Let me get my shoes,” he said finally, then pushed out of the chair, checking around the base of the sofa. “What’s going on, exactly?”

“I don’t know all the details. Please, just hurry.” I felt a sense of relief disproportionate to the act of a man putting on his shoes. “Let’s take your car. You might need your med kit.”

Slanting a concerned glance at me, he grabbed his keys and wallet off the coffee table, then followed me toward the garage. He didn’t ask any further questions until we were in his car heading across town. The highways were quiet, nearly clear in the predawn haze. A low fog settled in as I told him about the news report on TV, the situation with Cass and Opal, my fear that one or both of them could be involved, perhaps even injured or trapped in the apartment.

“Let’s not think the worst.” As usual, Rob’s course of action was to remain rational, wait calmly for all the evidence before making an assessment.

I turned on the radio and searched for news. “I’m not,” I said. “I know they’re all right. I just know . . .” Emotion choked the end of the sentence, and my mind spun ahead, creating replays of terrible, tragic news reports of children injured or killed during domestic disputes.

Stop it,
I told myself.
Stop.

Please, God, just keep them safe. Take them somewhere safe. . . .
The prayer repeated in my head, spinning faster and faster like a pinwheel in the wind, the colors flashing in rapid succession. Despite the lack of traffic, the drive seemed to stretch on forever. I felt as if I were in a dream, running yet trapped in one place.

The fog had thickened by the time we exited the interstate. The storm clouds were moving away, allowing a vague slice of light to tease the eastern horizon. I held my breath, counting down the minutes, the distance. Two miles, one mile, a half mile, just past the buildings ahead, and we’d be able to see . . .

I stretched toward the window, craned to get a better look, heard the words like a drumbeat in my head,
Please let them be safe. Please let them be safe.

As we cleared the buildings, the street in front of the apartment complex inched into view. Where I’d expected flashing lights and chaos, there was only silence and darkness. The fire trucks were gone, as was the SWAT van, the displaced families, the swarm of police personnel. Only two cruisers remained. They were parked near the Dumpster, the flashers off.

“Turn in here,” I told Rob. The scene was eerily quiet as we rolled past the police vehicles and into the narrow strip of pavement between the buildings.

The door to Cass’s apartment hung ajar, the lights on inside. An officer was stretching crime scene tape over the opening, securing it around the frame.

“That’s it,” I said to Rob, pointing. “That’s the apartment.”

Somewhere not far away, a siren wailed, and then another. The sound rocketed through me, hot and painful, pushing me forward as I exited the car and ran toward the apartment.

Standing in the dim circle of light, the officer held out a hand, stopping me. “Sorry, ma’am. I can’t allow you to enter. We’ve asked all residents to remain inside with doors and windows locked until further notice. We have an armed fugitive at large.”

“Where are the children?” I rushed out. “The children who live in this apartment? Where are they? Are they all right?”

“Are you a relative?”

“Yes . . . no . . . a friend. A close friend of the family. I saw the report on the news. Where are the girls?”

The officer seemed to consider whether or not he should talk. “Just a moment, ma’am.” Ducking under the tape, he went into the apartment and came back with a female coworker, who descended the steps holding a notepad.

“Ma’am, we’re still trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the residents here. We’ve transported one adult female to the hospital, and—”

“An adult?” I interrupted frantically. “Not a teenage girl? Are you sure?”

The officer checked her notepad. “An adult female, African-American. Blond hair, hazel eyes. She was found unresponsive when SWAT entered the apartment. That’s all the information I have. Do you know anything about the children who live here? Is it possible they might have been away tonight?”

“No. They were here. I saw them go home yesterday afternoon.” Was it possible that they had left before the break-in? Could they have gone somewhere with Rusty? “There’s a teenage boy living here also. Red hair, thin, tall. About six feet four.”

“I don’t have anyone by that description.” The officer checked her clipboard again. “Neighbors report that someone may have run from the scene during the fight. If there were children here, do you know where they might go? Are there relatives or friends nearby, some safe place they might try to reach, somewhere they might be hiding?

Some safe place? Somewhere they might be hiding?

Anywhere they might go?

Someplace safe . . .

The officer’s belt radio squawked, and she reached for it.

I turned around and rushed toward my car, yanked open the door, and slid back into the seat next to Rob. “Go to Poppy’s house. Hurry.”

The first rays of dawn sprinkled glitter over the lingering fog and pressed back the leftover clouds as we drove down the street, passing the strip mall, an empty warehouse, the Book Basket, and the little white church, which was hidden in the fog, only the steeple and cross rising overhead catching the light, seeming to promise sanctuary. Any other time, the scene would have been serene, a postcard picture of a night giving birth to a peaceful day.

“Hurry,” I whispered, my fingers tapping rapidly on the console.

Rob glanced sideways at me. “I’m hurrying,” he said, casting a pointed glance at a police car passing by. “What’s going on? Why are we headed to Poppy’s?”

“The police don’t know where the girls are. Nobody’s seen them.” Putting it into words only made it seem more real. “Someone thought they ran out during the fight. They might have hidden somewhere. They play in the drainage ditch sometimes, but they wouldn’t go down there at night.” Right now, the drainage ditch was churning ominously with several feet of water from the storm. I didn’t want to think about what might have happened if they’d decided to try to hide there, or what could happen to two little girls alone in this neighborhood after dark.

Cass is smart. She knows her way around. She’d go to Poppy’s house. She’d know they could hide there until it was safe.

We passed another police cruiser, and with it came the obvious question: If Cass was waiting until it was safe to come out, why hadn’t she? There were police cars combing the streets. She could run to any one of them.

Something warm touched my hand, blanketed it, stilled the frenzied movement. I felt Rob’s fingers close over mine. I grabbed them, hung on. In the past, he would have told me everything would be all right. He would have said it in a tone promising that, whatever the problem, he would take care of it. But this time he just held my hand.

We turned onto Poppy’s street, and I looked ahead, counted the houses. One, two, three, four. . . . I could see the park. We passed it and crossed the bridge. The creek was rushing underneath, the sandbar where Opal had left her doll now hidden by several feet of floodwater.

Ahead, Poppy’s house sat dark and quiet, a little island above the fog that had settled over the creek and the low end of the lot near the back, where the railroad tramps left their marker for a safe place.

A safe place . . .

Rob pulled into the driveway, and both of us exited the car. He followed me to the porch to check underneath it. I peered into the shadows, called Cass’s name, then Opal’s, and looked under the oleander bush.

“Maybe in back,” I said, trying to maintain hope. “She knows the key to the shed is hidden in the bushes. She might have thought of that.”

“No way anyone could get into the house with all the burglar bars,” Rob observed, scanning the darkened windows as we went by.

Plants and garden tools cast eerie shadows as we passed through the gate and entered the yard. The gate was open. I always left it closed. I was certain we’d shut it before we went home yesterday. The wheelbarrow lay overturned and Teddy’s conglomeration of pots were scattered around by the shed. Had the storm blown them, or had someone been here? By the back fence, the poles from the old washing lines stood like eerie sentinels in the fog, their arms stiff at their sides. Overhead, the pecan trees moaned softly, the branches heavy with wet foliage, slowly releasing drops onto the grass, showering us as we walked underneath.

“Cass?” I called. “Opal? Are you out here? Are you here?”
There’s a fugitive on the loose, Sandra. There’s more than one reason the gate could be open.
The thought sent a shudder down my spine.

We searched the yard as the sky brightened, a timid morning glow probing the pecans, pressing occasional shafts of light toward the ground.

“There’s no one here,” Rob said finally. “The shed’s locked, too.”

“Wait.” A faint noise caught my ear, the softest rustle of leaves. “The summer kitchen!” I rushed toward the wall of hollyhocks. The plants parted easily, and I passed through, falling drops of water raining over me as I stepped into the damp green room within. “Cass?” I whispered, my feet disappearing into the mist. “Opal?”

Something stirred in a corner the sun had yet to touch. I moved closer, stood and looked down. Wrapped in the pale green lace of the plastic cloth from the yard table lay Cass and Opal. They were curled together against the old foundation, fast asleep. At any other time, the scene would have been peaceful and sweet, but all I felt was a flood of relief.

“Cass,” I whispered, squatting beside her and touching the dampness of the tablecloth, then the warmth of her skin. I let my hand linger there a moment, felt her breaths rising in and out. “Wake up. It’s all right now. We’re here. It’s all right. Wake up.” All I wanted to do was gather them into my arms and take them inside, where they would be warm, and dry, and safe.

Chapter 24

Cass

One night a long time ago, Mama and Rusty and me sat out on the porch watching for shooting stars, and then the clouds rolled over the moon, and it rained soft and gentle. I thought we’d go inside, but instead, Mama got one of the old quilts my grandmother’d made and she wrapped her, and me, and Rusty in it. He must of been about fifteen by then, too big to snuggle, but he sat there with us anyway. We all rocked slowly back and forth in the swing, a little ball of family with the chains creaking overhead.

I didn’t hear Mama at first when she started talking. I was listening to the swing sing its lazy song.

Mama’d brought us out there to tell us she was sick again, and it was bad this time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, like it was something she’d done on purpose, then she squeezed us tight against her. “We’ll get through this, okay? No matter what happens, we’re a family. Always.” Her tears were wet on my head. “I’ll always take care of you two,” she whispered. “No matter what.”

I closed my eyes and rested calm inside the blanket of that promise. One thing I always knew about Mama was that she kept every promise she ever made to us.

When me and Opal ran down the street with Uncle Len’s truck after us, I knew Mama was right there. It was her that made him run up on the curb, hit something and get stuck for a second. She kept my legs strong under me, made my feet land steady in Kiki’s tennis shoes as I splashed through the water and the wet leaves that had washed over the sidewalk. Mama whispered in my ear where a safe place would be. She kept my mind clear and sharp as I turned onto Poppy’s street, my legs pumping and my throat burning so it seemed I couldn’t get another breath.

The truck was after us, then. I saw it turn the corner, heard the engine roar as we got to the creek. The water was rushing wild so that the bridge shivered under my feet. I thought the truck might catch us and hit us, knock us off into the water, and we’d wash away and drown, but then we were over the bridge, and I was running through Poppy’s yard. The truck bumped up onto the curb, slinging mud and gravel. Uncle Len yelled, but the words got lost in the thunder. I couldn’t hear him then. I could only hear the sky. I thought he’d catch us at the backyard gate.