The Night Visitors

Chapter Three Alice

THE WOMAN STANDING in front of the convenience store, bareheaded in the icy rain, looks like one of those do-gooder old hippie types. Spiky gray hair, fuzzy shapeless poncho, heavy work boots. The poncho may well be purple but it’s hard to tell in the weak fluorescent light of the store windows. She’s holding a cup and a shopping bag.

“Is that her?” Oren asks, woken from his sleep by the shifting gears of the bus as it turned into the parking lot.

“Must be,” I say. “She looks . . . okay.”

“She looks like a social worker,” Oren says, making it clear what he thinks of the profession.

“They’re not all bad,” I say. “Scott was nice, right?”

“Yeah,” Oren says without much conviction. Scott, his last caseworker, was nice, but he hadn’t been much help in the end. None of them are, really.

I get up to grab my pack from the overhead. Oren’s already got his Star Wars backpack shouldered. He’d slept with it crammed between his head and the window, one strap on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around it. When we left I’d given him five minutes to go back to his room and take only what he absolutely needed. I saw the library book sticking out the top when he met me at the door, but now I wonder what else he took—money?—that he’s holding on to so tightly.

We’re the only ones getting off the bus. I glance at the other passengers as we walk up the aisle—the college kid plugged into his earbuds, eyes closed, head nodding to tinny rap; a Latina woman with a baby whose eyes move over me without making contact; an old woman wrapped up in a scarf reading a book. No one who will remember a boy and his mother getting off in a nowhere town in the Catskills. Not even the driver turns to watch us make our way down the steps to the door. I have the creepy feeling that we are invisible. That once we step off this bus we will vanish from the known world, that the purple-shawled woman has been sent to lead us to the underworld like those snake-haired crones in Oren’s book.

Sensing my hesitation, Oren stops at the steps down to the door and turns to look up at me, eyes wide and solemn. I open my mouth to tell him it’s all right but he beats me to it. “It’s okay,” he says. “This is the right stop.” The driver turns his head to us. He’s wondering what’s wrong with me that my son has to lead me off the bus—and he’ll remember us now. I curse myself for hesitating.

“Of course it is. Thanks . . . honey.” I remember at the last moment not to use Oren’s name. I smile at the bus driver. “He’s been studying the bus map since we planned this trip to Aunt Jean’s.”

“Good man,” the driver says. “You take care of your mom, now.”

Asshole, I think, giving Oren a little push to move him along and keep him from answering. He does anyway. “We take care of each other,” he says.

The icy rain makes my eyes sting as we step off the bus onto the pavement, and I have to stop and wipe them. Oren takes my hand like I’m a goddamned invalid and leads me forward, out of the exhaust fumes. The woman is approaching, holding out a white paper bag. “You must be Alice and Oren,” she says, looking first at me and then down at Oren. “I’m Mattie. I’d shake hands but I seem to have a bag full of bear claws. Do you think you could help me with those?” She holds the bag toward Oren.

“Are they real bear claws?”

The woman—Mattie—throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my, do I look like a bear hunter? Even if they do get in my garbage cans and make a stink, I consider the bears my friends.”

“There are bears here?” Oren asks, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Why yes,” Mattie says, “and coyotes and bobcats too. But the only kind of bear claws I eat are of the pastry variety. Here, why don’t you try one?” She’s still holding the bag out to him. Oren looks to me, as if I am the kind of mother who restricts his sweets intake. What a clever touch. I smile to show how much I appreciate it and he takes the bag from Mattie. He digs his hand in and takes out a glazed pastry as big as a man’s fist. He holds it up to me.

“You take it,” I say.

Oren takes an enormous bite, and Mattie looks up from him to me like she’s waiting for me to say something, like I’m supposed to slaver all over her for some cheap pastries from Stewart’s. That’s what these do-gooders get off on. Still, I’d better keep on her good side until we’re safely out of here. “Thanks,” I say. “We had to leave too fast to pack any food.”

“There will be something more substantial where you’re going,” she says.

“And where’s that?” I ask. “It has to be someplace no one can find out where we are. Oren’s father—”

“I understand,” Mattie says. “Everyone in our network understands. Your whereabouts will be kept completely confidential. There’s a convent fifteen miles from here.”

“A convent?” I ask.

“The sisters are committed to protecting women and children. No one could be more confidential—most of them don’t even talk!”

I think of the last time I was in a church and begin to shake. “I—I’m not religious.”

“Me neither,” Mattie says. She looks down at Oren, who has finished the bear claw and is licking icing off his fingers and studying me. “Let’s get out of this sleet,” Mattie says, turning toward her car, an old rusted-out Honda.

“Nuns are for orphans,” Oren says, not budging. “And I’m no orphan.”

Where on earth did he get that? Did some social worker threaten him with an orphanage? A swell of hatred for the profession overwhelms me and makes me want to tell this do-gooder with her sugary snacks to get lost. A convent! They’ll probably try to convert us like the born-again foster parents I had one year.

I put my hand on Oren’s shoulder. “The woman on the phone didn’t say anything about a convent. We’ll wait for the next bus and take our chances elsewhere.”

Mattie gives me a level look and I can tell she sees right through me. I don’t have the money for another bus and I don’t have any idea where else we’d go. We’re fresh out of chances. It makes me angry that she’s so sure about me. Who is she to judge me? Now that we’re closer I can see that her purple shawl is moth-eaten and there’s an odor coming off her that smells like wet dog. She looks like she’s getting ready to tell me to lump it, but then Oren pipes up.

“Couldn’t we just stay with you? I bet that convent is far away and hard to get to in the snow.”

Her brow creases. “We’re not supposed to . . . ,” she begins, but then she looks up at the sky. The driving sleet has changed to heavy wet snow as we’ve been talking, and it’s sticking to the top of Oren’s bare head and the black tarmac of the parking lot. I can see her thinking about the roads and wanting to get back to her nice, snug home. “I suppose if it’s just for tonight. My house is closer . . .”

Oren grins and runs to the Honda. Mattie watches him go with a puzzled look on her face and then turns to me and offers me the cup of coffee she’s holding. “He’s one persuasive little guy,” she says.

I nod and take a sip of the too-sweet coffee, turning away so I don’t have to answer the question in her look. I imagine she’s wondering, as I am, how Oren knew her house was closer than the convent.

WHILE WE WAIT for the windows to defog Mattie offers me more coffee from the thermos, explaining, “It’s not sweetened.” She must have seen me wince when I took a sip from the cup, which makes me feel guilty for turning my nose up at this woman’s coffee when she’s come out in the middle of the night to help us—but then angry at having to feel bad. That’s what these do-gooders do, they make you feel like they’re better than you.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Just help yourself if you want more,” she says, settling the thermos in the well between our seats. “I’m afraid I develop a sweet tooth around this time of year. Starts at Halloween when I eat all the leftover candy, builds at Thanksgiving with all those pies, and reaches a peak when we do our Holiday Cookie Walk.”

“What’s that?” Oren asks sleepily from the backseat.

“Oh, that’s a tradition around here. On the day before Christmas everyone bakes up their favorite cookies. You buy a ticket at Sanctuary for a box and then you go house to house until your box is full. All the money goes to the local food bank. And there’s hot cider and cocoa and skating on the pond. If you’re still here next week I’ll give you my box and you can collect the cookies and we’ll split the booty. How’s that sound?”

When there’s no reply we both look back. Oren is slumped over his Star Wars pack, sticky mouth open.

“Poor lamb,” Mattie says. “Have you traveled far?”

“From Newburgh,” I say, remembering what I’d told the woman on the phone.

“We’ve got a donation center down there. Second Chances? My friend Ruth runs it.”

Is she testing me? “We don’t need to shop secondhand,” I tell her.

“No, I can see that. The Star Wars pack is this season’s. I bought one just like it at Target for my godson. The boy’s jacket is new too. But your clothes”—she glances over at me, assessing my threadbare peacoat and worn jeans—“aren’t.”

“So?” I snap. “You’re not exactly a fashion plate yourself.”

She laughs so hard she starts coughing. When she recovers she says, “I like you, Alice. You’ve got fight in you. Just for the record, I wasn’t criticizing. I was noticing you pay more attention to your son’s clothing than your own. I bet you put him first in other things as well.”

“So I’ve passed some kind of good mothering test with you?” I say, making my voice angrier than I feel so she doesn’t guess how relieved I am. “Is that what I have to do to earn a meal and a bed for the night?”

“No,” she says, all the laughter gone from her voice. “All you have to do for that is need it. You don’t have to prove anything to me, but if you want to talk to me I’m here to listen.”

“And if I don’t?”

“That’s all right too. I will assume you have a good reason to keep your and your son’s location confidential.”

“Oren’s father hit him,” I say suddenly. “And he hit me. He threatened to kill me if I took Oren away . . . I . . . I . . .” I find it suddenly hard to talk. I feel as if Davis is in the car with us. Lying cunt-faced bitch, I hear him swear. I’m coming for you.

Although her eyes are on the road, Mattie must see me flinch. She lays a hand that feels like worn velvet on mine. “It’s okay. You may hear his voice in your head but he can’t hurt you anymore.”

No, I think. No, he can’t.

MATTIE’S HOUSE IS at the end of a long, wooded drive. I’m expecting some run-down shack or derelict mobile home, but it is instead an elegant Victorian with gingerbread trim and turrets and a wraparound porch.

“You own all this?” I ask, surprised.

“Me and the bank,” she says, getting out.

I reach into the backseat to wake up Oren. He rubs his eyes, looking eight instead of ten, as if sleep has washed away the last two years of his life. If only it really could. As I watch, he remembers where we are, grasping his backpack and looking out the window warily.

“This lady’s house seems okay,” I tell him, “but if we don’t like it here we can leave in the morning.”

I wait for him to ask me how we’re going to do that with no money and no car, but he only nods and gets out of the car. I get out and follow him up the ice-rutted path, watching my feet, so I bump into Oren when he stops in the middle of the path. He’s staring up at the house, as surprised as I am to find ourselves at such a big fancy place.

“Do you live alone?” he asks Mattie, who’s on the porch waiting for us.

Mattie looks surprised, but then she shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “I know what you’re thinking: it’s a crime for an old spinster like me to use up all this space.”

Oren shakes his head. That’s not what he meant. “Aren’t there other kids here?”

I look at the house and notice now that although it’s big and fancy it’s also falling apart. Shutters hang crooked and the paint is faded and chipped. Plastic crates and black garbage bags—donations, I’m guessing—clutter up the porch. I’ve seen enough of these kinds of places in upstate New York to know what it looks like: a group foster home. That must be what Oren’s picked up on. He thinks I’ve taken him to a foster home.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, laying my hand on his shoulder. He flinches at my touch and fuck me if I don’t immediately look up to see if the old woman has noticed. But she’s looking at Oren, her face pinched and white.

“What do you mean?” she asks, all the treacly warmth gone from her voice. “It’s just me and Dulcie here.”

“Dulcie?” Oren asks.

“My old dog. Do you like dogs?”

He shrugs. Davis would never let him have a dog. But the old woman probably can’t imagine a boy who doesn’t love dogs. She turns and opens her front door—it’s unlocked, I notice—and an old yellow Labrador comes limping out. She shambles down the porch steps, tail wagging, and butts her head up against Oren’s chest. Oren stumbles back a jot so he’s next to me, then steadies himself by putting his hand on the dog’s head. After a second, he rubs the dog’s ears. The dog lets out a sigh and then so does Oren.

“Good girl,” Mattie says. “How ’bout we go inside and find her a treat.”

Oren looks up at Mattie. “Are you sure there aren’t any other kids here?” Something about the way he says it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. The old dog shifts her weight and leans against me.

“No,” Mattie says. “No kids. I’m afraid I’m just an old spinster.”

“What’s a spinster?”

“Someone who talks too much while folks are standing cold and hungry on her doorstep. How ’bout we get inside where it’s warm and I’ll make us some eggs and pancakes?”

“With syrup?”

“And chocolate chips,” she replies.

Oren nods and walks straight up the porch steps. He turns to see that I’m following. His face is tight, jaw rigid. A brave little soldier. It’s like he’s daring me not to follow him. For a second I think of turning around, getting back in the car, demanding that Mattie take us to that convent. How much worse can it be? But of course I don’t. We both know I’ve come too far to turn back now.