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Cries of the Children(6)

By:Clare McNally


But when she saw the group of teenagers moving toward her, she knew instinctively that they were trouble. The sight of a knife in one boy’s hand closed the most recently formed gap in her memory. She knew who they were. She could close her eyes and see them approaching her, laughing and threatening and sneering.

“What you got in that suitcase, man?”

No, they weren’t talking to her. They were talking to . . .

Whom?

Who had she been with?

“Step aside,” said the figure next to her. In her mind, she tried to see who it was. It spoke in a man’s voice, but the image was no more than a silhouette.

“Who are you?” Lorraine asked in her mind.

But there was no answer.

“You step aside, shithead,” one of the boys said. “You step aside or . . .”

Suddenly the silhouette produced a gun. In a flash, one of the gang members pulled out his own weapon. There was a gunshot, and cries of dismay, and a scream.

Did I scream? Lorraine wondered.

She remembered now that she had started running, both small suitcases clutched firmly in her pudgy hands. Overwhelming fear embraced her so completely that it began to block out all her memories. She ran on and on, unseen on the empty streets, a small figure lost in the shadows. By the time she stopped, all that was left to her was her name.

It was easy to hide. She was just a very little girl. She waited, biting her lip to keep from crying aloud, until the gang passed by. They never even noticed her.

Time moved slowly, and she felt herself drifting off to sleep. She awoke with a jolt when something warm and furry brushed her cheek. With a cry, she jumped up. Night had fallen completely by now, and the street was black and eerie.

Lorraine moved out of her hiding place as if in a trance, too exhausted to feel fear any longer. She walked like a little robot with no destination. When she turned the corner she saw movement under a lamp halfway up the block. Someone dressed in a big coat was hunched over a trashcan, exploring the inside. Lorraine walked toward this person, feeling none of the apprehension she had sensed when the gang passed her. She didn’t understand why the person was looking in a trashcan, but she was too young to worry about such behavior. She only knew she needed help, and this might be her only hope.

Up ahead, the ragged figure froze, her arm still reaching into the bin. Her fingers were wrapped around a partially eaten hero sandwich. Bettina heard footsteps behind her. They were tiny footsteps, but she knew how tricky these gang kids could be. They’d try to sneak up on her, and if they caught her, they’d beat her. But she wouldn’t let them do that. Bettina might have been a “crazy old lady,” but she had the keen hearing of a much younger person. The footsteps were drawing closer now. She held fast to the hero—nothing would make her give up the only food she’d found in hours. With her other hand she reached deep into the pocket of her tattered raincoat and felt the comforting smoothness of her weapon. She’d found a broken knife behind a restaurant once and had wrapped it with bits of masking tape. Now, as the footsteps stopped directly behind her, she whipped out the knife and swung around with a cry.

But the cry turned to a gasp of horror at the sight of the little girl.

“Holy Mother!” she cried.

She shoved the knife quickly into her pocket. She’d almost stabbed a child! Injuring a mugger was one thing, but hurting an innocent would mean an eternity in hell! Bettina could feel her heart pounding in her frail chest, and she pressed her hand against it. It took a number of deep breaths to calm herself.

“What in the name of the Lord are you doing out here, child?”

The little girl’s eyes were the oddest shade of gray-green Bettina had ever seen. They went very round now, and tears began spilling from them.

“I . . . I’m lost,” Lorraine wailed. “I don’t know where I am!”

Bettina turned for a moment to the overstuffed shopping cart behind her. She put her sandwich in it, then looked at the child again. The necklace she wore glistened in the lamplight, so she knew at once the child’s name was Lorraine. She seemed to be no more than five or six. Bettina knelt down to her height.

“Your name is Lorraine?”

The child nodded, her lower lip quivering as she fought another bout of tears.

“What’s your last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know where you come from?”

The little girl shook her head.

“Well, you sure ain’t from this area,” Bettina said. “Ain’t no kids around here who dress like this.”

She indicated the matching slacks and top Lorraine wore, a fancy outfit decorated with eyelet and ribbons. It was dirty now, and a bit of the trim was dangling from the hem, but Bettina knew boutique clothing when she saw it. Many years ago she’d worked in the garment district.