Chapter 1

A NOTE TO THE READER:

Unlike many of the stories found here, this story does not have a lot of sex in it. But then, life is not all attractive people having hot sex (trust me – I know!)

And, like many stories, this one begins with “What if...”

I’d just finished bagging my groceries – sixty-eight dollars and eighty-two cents, probably enough to last me three weeks, maybe four. I have enough money. It’s just that I don’t eat that much these days, and what I do eat isn’t real expensive.

I don’t go into town that often. The gas station-convenience store out on the state blacktop can satisfy most of my needs. When it doesn’t have what I need, I drive into Marshall. There’s a dollar store there, and a small supermarket that has a pretty good butcher counter, probably because they get most of their meats from local farmers. And when I can’t get what I need in Marshall I drive in the other direction, to Pres-lee, which has a lot more stores, plus a Walmart.

Anyway, I wasn’t planning on being in town that day. I was planning on coming the day before, but some critters, probably raccoons, dug up the electricity line to the pump and chewed through it in a bunch of places and I had to spend most of the day trying to scrounge up a long enough piece of cable and then splicing it in. So it was a total accident that I was in town and in the little supermarket that day.

Anyhow, like I said, I just finished putting all my groceries in the big army surplus canvas duffle bag I use when I go shopping and was about to walk through the doors and out to the parking lot when I heard the commotion. I looked in the direction the disturbance seemed to be coming from and saw a bunch of folks standing around looking at a place near the end cash register. From what I was able to see between the people standing there, it appeared that there was a woman lying on the floor. There was foam around her mouth, and she wasn’t moving. Best guess was a drug overdose, some kind of opiate, probably, though I’m by no means an expert on the subject.

Like most of the other folks in the small crowd that gathered, I was trying to get a better look at things, and that’s when my hand felt something. I looked down and was surprised to see a little girl standing there next to me.

Even more surprising was the fact that her little fingers were firmly grasping my much larger, rougher ones.

It took but a second for me to put the pieces together and realize that this child must be with the woman who was lying sprawled on the grocery store floor tiles, dead, or soon would be.

The girl’s small fingers were squeezing mine tightly, almost like she was holding on for dear life. Then it hit me: Maybe she was. Maybe that’s exactly what she was doing – maybe she was holding onto my hand because her life depended on it.

Somehow this child understood what was happening, and what it meant for her.

Or maybe something, some instinct, made her understand that she needed to find safety, and that same instinct told her that I was her best chance for that safety.

And in that instant I had another realization: That I might be the only thing standing between this child and a life of unhappiness, deprivation, and, possibly, the same sad ending as the woman lying there on the supermarket tiles.

Gently returning the child’s grasp, I walked toward the exit doors, my eyes fixed straight ahead, not looking left or right, and not looking at the little girl beside me, who seemed to understand that it would be best if she walked steadily along with me. I thought I heard voices saying “... little girl... “ and “Wasn’t there...?” but I didn’t stop to hear the rest of what they were saying, just kept on walking.

We walked unhesitatingly through the automatic doors and into the parking lot. All the way, we didn’t look at each other or say a word or change our stride – just kept on walking. When we got to my muddy Ford F-150 I dropped the duffel of full of groceries into the truck bed, then continued on around to the passenger door and opened it, and without a word she allowed me to pick her up and put her onto the front bench seat.

I pulled the seatbelt out for her, but she seemed to have no idea what she should do with it. I guess automobiles hadn’t figured prominently in her life so far. I moved her around a bit and managed to adjust the belt ‘til I thought her slight body was reasonably secured and safe. Then I walked around to the driver’s side, got in, started up, and drove – extra-carefully – out of the supermarket lot and onto the highway.

So far, she hadn’t said a single word. If I was expecting that to change once we were out of the parking lot and out on the road, I was mistaken. She just sat there, eyes straight out the windshield, unspeaking

I tried. Even a child can tell you her name, her first name, at least, right? No, even after I said, “My name’s Lucas – what’s yours?” Not a word. On the other hand, she didn’t seem uncomfortable, so I just let it go and concentrated on driving.

And during the drive, I had time to think about what I’d just done. And what I had done was, I had just taken this child. I had taken another person. As far as the law is concerned, I had kidnapped her. But that didn’t worry me right now. What struck me now was that I’ve taken another person. What I have taken her from was a life with her mother, or whoever that woman lying dead on the supermarket floor was – or maybe even a life like her mother’s. Like I said – deprivation, unhappiness, and perhaps a sad, early, ugly death.

And since I’ve taken her, I’m now responsible for her ... responsible for everything that happens or might happen until ... for the rest of ... the rest of...?

And while I was thinking these heavy thoughts, I was also watching the girl. She looked straight out the windshield most of the time. Sometimes she’d turn her head to look at something that caught her eye, but most of the time she just looked straight ahead, like it was a totally fascinating experience, further confirming my suspicions that she hadn’t spent much time riding in cars.

We drove the 20 minutes to my home, I guess you’d have to call it, the place where I live – something between a cabin and a small house at the end of a gravel driveway about 80 yards off the county road.

The girl didn’t say anything as I pulled to a stop, got out, went around and opened her door. I unbuckled the seat belt and helped her down. I kind of got the impression that she was used to doing whatever she was told – or ordered – to do. On the good side, she didn’t seem to be frightened, either. Maybe she thought that this – coming with me – was the decision she had made, and that whatever I directed her to do must be the right thing. At least, for now.

We went to the front door and I unlocked it – big-city habit, I guess – and opened the door and gestured that she should go in. She walked in a few steps and stood there and looked around. She didn’t seem to have any reaction – just looked and saw what it was and where things were.

And what she saw was the large room we were standing in, with an old sofa, a kitchen table and three chairs, a table in the corner with an old tablecloth spread over it and an old (but working) TV sitting on it. There was a kitchen area in one corner, with an old range and oven, a medium-sized refrigerator, and a sink and countertop.

And several tall shelves full of books – lots of books. She stared at the books a long time.

I took her to the right and showed her the bedroom where I slept (for some bizarre reason, I’d actually made the bed properly this morning), and then left, to the little bathroom, with its small sink, its small toilet, and the small bathtub wedged in across the back of the tiny room.

Then I had a thought: Did she need to use the bathroom? I looked to the toilet, then back to her, and raised my eyes in a questioning way. She immediately understood what I was asking and went in. Without any hesitation, she pulled down her pants, their elastic waist band sliding easily over her slim, almost-skinny hips, then her washed-out underpants, sat down, and peed. I turned my head, but it didn’t seem to matter to her.

She finished, and I pointed to where the toilet paper roll was. She wiped herself quickly, and I looked in the direction of the sink. She seemed to get the idea and turned the old-style faucet handle and rinsed her hands, then looked around. I handed her a towel. She dried her hands, then stood there, like she was waiting for me to tell/show her what to do next.

I didn’t know. But then it dawned on me – kids get hungry, right? I motioned for her to sit on the sofa. I went back out to the truck and grabbed the duffel full of this morning’s groceries. In it, among other things, were a loaf of bread, a package of sliced Kraft singles, some sliced deli Polish ham, two jars of pickles, and a container of Jif peanut butter. As I looked at the spread, I thought, “Pretty stereotypical bachelor fare.” But also, pretty good for a small kid.

I pointed to the groceries and asked, “Hungry?” and raised my eyebrows. And because I still didn’t know how much this silent little girl actually understands, I rubbed my stomach.

She nodded, but nothing more, so I had to guess. I opened the bread and the Kraft singles and proceeded to slap a slice of the cheese onto a slice of the bread. But when I opened the deli wrap and started to put a piece of the ham on it, she shook her head insistently. So, she either doesn’t like ham, or else a ham-and-cheese sandwich was just a little too sophisticated for her juvenile appetite. I put the ham back in the wrap and added a second slice of cheese, a second slice of bread, put it on a plate, and took it over to the table and set it down. Since she didn’t seem sure what to do, I pulled out one of the chairs and looked at it, and I guess that was the permission she needed to sit there and eat her cheese-and-cheese sandwich.

I made myself a ham-and-mayo sandwich, then saw the jars of pickles. I opened both, took out two of each kind – the sweet and the dill – put them on my plate, and went out to sit at the table with her.

She looked at my plate. She seemed puzzled by the pickles. Can it possibly be that this child has never seen pickles before? I thought I’d try to make a game of it.

I picked up one pickle – one of the sweet ones – and held it up where we could both see it. I made a show of examining it carefully, then took it between my thumbs and fingers and snapped it. The pickle was fresh, and it made a distinct popping sound when it snapped. Bless her, the dear girl actually jumped at the sound.

Then I took one of the halves and brought it to my mouth. Again, I made a show of opening my mouth, s-l-o-w-w-l-y inserting the pickle in my mouth – and chomping on it, resulting in a splendidly audible “crunch.” It must have delighted the girl, because she almost smiled. Almost.

I put the remaining half of the pickle on her plate next to her sandwich, along with a half of one of the dill pickles, and nodded to her. “Yes, it’s OK – go ahead and eat it.”

She picked up the sweet pickle half and tentatively put it to her mouth. I nodded. She opened her mouth and carefully inserted the pickle – and attempted to duplicate my crunch. And when she got it to make a nice little “pop,” she almost smiled again. She stopped, like she was trying to put this new taste into context, and to decide whether she liked it or not. Apparently deciding she did, she took another small bite, and then the final bite of that half pickle.

But then there was that other pickle half I’d put on her plate. I looked at her, then down at her plate and the untouched pickle, and nodded again. This time she picked up the half-pickle and put it to her lips and crunched – and screwed up her face at the sour taste surprise. She yanked it out of her mouth and looked at me like, “What was that?” and also maybe an expression of “That was a mean trick to do!”

I smiled and took the remainder of the dill half from her fingers and gave her the untouched sweet pickle that was still on my plate. She seemed to like that resolution, and I guess I was forgiven.

Still, not a word, and not even a real smile yet.

We finished eating our sandwiches – and our pickles – in companionable silence. When we finished, I took our two plates over to the sink and showed her how I washed them, then said, “Next time, you can wash the plates.” She seemed to be okay with that. I guess – it was hard to tell.

Then, for some reason, I had a thought: What’s she going to wear tomorrow?

I told her, “Let’s go back into town and get you some things to wear.”

Her face suddenly got this frightened look. She shook her head, “NO!” and It looked like she was almost in a state of panic. Then I realized – she was afraid we’d go back – that I’d take her back – to the supermarket, and to the woman lying on the floor there.

“No, no – we’re not going to that supermarket, we’re not going anywhere near that store. We’re going to a different store, far away from that one. I promise.”

This seemed to calm her, somewhat, but she still acted uneasy. I held out my hand. “Promise – nowhere near there, okay?”

She took my hand, and like that we walked out to my truck, so I guess things are OK now. But this brief episode told me two very important things: One, that despite her silence, this little girl understands everything I say. And two, she understands the implications of what I say.

So once again, I lifted her in and fastened the seat belt around her. And I realized – I’m probably going to be doing this many, many times in the coming ... the coming ... how long?

We drove the 25 minutes to the dollar store back in Marshall, taking a route that would keep us well away from that little supermarket where...

I helped her out of the truck and took her hand, and we went into the store.

The motherly sixty-ish lady behind the cash register greeted us and asked how she could help. And that was when I realized that I didn’t know how to talk about the girl, about how to present us, the two of us, to other people.

I decided on something friendly and “familiar,” but unadorned.

“The little lady here is in need of some underwear and socks.”

She pointed to a place toward the rear of the store, “On the other side of the kitchen utensils, Dear.” We found a rack of young children’s “basic” apparel, which meant underwear and socks.

And that raised the next problem. I know nothing about children’s underwear (and I thought, “Once there might have been a time...,” but quickly shoved those thoughts back down to where I’d kept them all these years). I know nothing about children’s clothing sizes, and nothing about this girl’s size in particular. So I’m 0-for-3 in this area. Fortunately, the selection wasn’t large. I took a few packages of plain white panties and a few with little blue print flowers on them and a few with little pink flowers. Then I had the girl stand there while I held the different sizes up to her waist, until I realized that she would require the very smallest size. I took one pack of each kind.

Then the socks. The same problem, of course, except that socks, fortunately, fit a range of sizes. I went to look at her foot, and for the very first time I realized that her “shoes” consisted of a pair of yellow and once-white flip-flops that had been worn so long they were almost flat. As with the underpants, I held several socks against the delicate, dirty feet, trying to mentally adjust the two-dimensional socks to the three-dimensional foot. I ended up buying a 3-pack of socks that looked like they’d fit and another 3-pack of the next larger size.

Then I noticed a bin of remnants, and in it were two pairs of cheap canvas tennis shoes that looked like they would fit. I asked her to choose between the traditional navy blue canvas and the pair that were white with little Minnie Mouses (unlicensed, I’m sure) on them, and I was surprised when she pointed to the plain blue ones.

Another thought, and I picked up a medium-sized bottle of children’s shampoo that could also serve as a body wash until we figure out ... until we figure out a lot of things.

We went up front to pay for our stuff, on the way passing through the small selection of groceries. I realized that I’d be “cooking for two” from now on, and that meant breakfast, so I picked up a half-gallon of milk. I looked over the five or so different types of breakfast cereals, finally settling on a box of Honey-Nut Cheerios that was close to its sell-by date but appeared to be reasonably nutritious and not loaded with sugar.

I paid and we got back into the truck. She was getting used to the routine, and once she was in and seated, I slipped off her dirty flip-flops and helped her put on the new blue tennies. I looked around for a place to dispose of the old flip-flops but then realized that we don’t have a lot of ... a lot of anything ... for her to wear, so better hang on to them ‘til we get something more.

We drove back to my place. Or our place, I guess it is now. And on the way, I started thinking of all the things I’d need – we’d need – now that she was going to be with me: more clothes for her, extra towels, toiletries suitable for a child’s skin. And maybe games and ... I had no idea of all the things I’d need now that Annie was living with me.

And it dawned on me. She’s never told me her name – or any name, for that matter. I even began to wonder if she was used to having a name, or if around whatever home she’d known she’d simply been referred to as “the girl.”

Anyway, since she never told me a name, I found that I’d started thinking of her as “Annie.” Why, I don’t know. There might have been a hint of “Little Orphan Annie” lurking in the background, but I don’t think that was it. I think she just struck me as an Annie – a plain, straightforward name for a little girl who is, well, plain and straightforward.

And another thing, and this is a big one. And that is just how quickly I have come to accept that this little girl, whose existence I was completely unaware of just four hours ago, is now a part of my life – and of my future, I guess. It’s like I’ve gone from absolutely nothing – zero – to 120 in 1.2 seconds. And the strange thing is, I’m not even giving it a second thought. This girl – “Annie” – is now an unalterable fact of my life.

We got back home and unloaded our modest purchases when something made me think: this child has had an extraordinary day (to say the least), and that she must be exhausted, whether she realizes it or not.

As soon as we finished putting stuff away, I gently took her little hand and led her to “my” room. I pulled down the cotton spread and got a light blanket out of the closet and said, simply, “You’ve had a busy day – you must be tired. Here – you can take a nap here.” I pulled the curtains closed to make the room dark enough that she could fall asleep, if she wanted to.

Then I thought to add, “And don’t worry – I’ll be right in the other room.” Than another thought. “Look, see – I’ll leave the door open – like this – so you’ll be able to see me whenever you want.”

She got onto the bed – almost obediently, it seemed. I helped her slip the new tennis shoes off her feet, then unfolded the blanket and pulled it up over her. I turned and went out, leaving the door open – just the way I told her I would.

When I didn’t hear a sound from her for a while, I peeked in, and as I suspected, she was sound asleep.

The little moppet snored like a truck driver.

And while she slept, I got on the Internet – yes, I have Internet out here – I got satellite Internet and TV a few years ago when I decided to continue my writing, and also to keep up with what’s going on in the world, such as it is. Anyhow, I got on the Internet to find out anything I could about what a five- or six-year old girl needs.

And the answer was, she doesn’t need much – and she needs a lot!

There was the obvious. Clothing – shoes, socks, underwear (check, check, and check!); jeans or other pants, any maybe some shorts; T-shirts and pull-over tops; pajamas and maybe a robe; and for colder weather, one or two sweaters, and at least one light jacket and one heavy coat.

And then there’s the personal care stuff: shampoo (check – maybe), a milder soap, a toothbrush that’s the right size for them, and maybe some kind of cream or lotion for if and when their skin gets dry. And, of course, the usual first-aid supplies.

As for food and diet, the main message seemed to be “Lotsa luck!” Ideas that appeared frequently were cereal, french fries, pizza (plain cheese only! – anything more complex is an invitation to disaster). And for some reason, something called “nuggets.” I have no idea, but I guess I’ll learn.

Then there was “that other stuff.” Communicating to her that she is safe, and cared for, and valued. And how to behave with other people, and how to get along with them, and how to make friends, and what friends do. And on and on and on.

I guess it’s going to come down to a combination of good sense, patience, trial-and-error – and lots of luck.

I heard some rustling from the bedroom, but then nothing more, so I looked in. The girl – “Annie” – was sitting on the bed, like she’d finished napping but wasn’t sure it was OK to get out of bed. And I wondered for a moment what that said about her life – her prior life now, I guess.

“Hi. Did you have a good nap? You can get up and come out, you know.”

She waited a few seconds, like she was making sure she’d gotten the message right, then got off the bed and came out to join me in “the big room.”

Thinking that it must be close to time for dinner and that she might be hungry (I was), I thought we could talk about that – and about a name.

“Are you hungry now? I know I am. It’s getting real close to dinner time. Would you like some supper – should we make some supper?”

As I was coming to learn, I’m going to have to be especially alert to her reactions. She still hadn’t said a word, of course. But also, she was not openly expressive, with nods or smiles or shakes of her head, or any of those other conspicuous gestures that most of us use to communicate or to bolster our words.

But even in the short time I’ve been with her, I’ve started to learn the very subtle expressions – “micro-expressions,” I guess you could call them – that cross her face and motivate her small body. This time it was the widening of her eyes and the increased alertness that told me that, yes, it was time for food.

“I was thinking – I have a pizza – would you like to share a pizza?” No verbal response, but there was a flicker of reaction to the word, ‘pizza,’ which I took to mean (1) that she liked pizza, or (2) she may have never had pizza in her life but she recognized the word as a good thing. “Okay, pizza.” Then, with the faint flicker of adult responsibility, I added, “And we...,” we, “have some fresh tomatoes, and maybe a cucumber.” No reaction.

I made sure she saw how I turned on the oven and put a baking sheet in it to pre-heat, then let her see where I got the pizza from. I sat down at the table and asked her to help me open the slim cardboard box. She got the idea, and so we each worked at opening opposite sides of the square pizza box. The oven “clicked” that it had reached 425 degrees. I carefully demonstrated getting a dish towel and reaching into the oven to grasp the baking sheet, making it a point of saying “Hot – very hot!” before setting it on the stove top and carefully putting the still-frozen pizza on it.

“Would you please open the oven door for me?”

I waited, and she stood there, not like she didn’t know what I was asking or how to do it. It seemed to me more like she was puzzled by the fact that a grownup would ask her for help in doing something. I gave her some time to process whatever it was that she needed to process. Then I looked at her, the question in my eyes, and leaned forward like I was expecting something, and it was then that she grasped the oven door handle and opened it. I slid the pizza sheet in, then looked at her with expectation. She watched my every gesture, but she didn’t do anything. Then I said, “Could you close it, please?” and as if she had been waiting for just that go-ahead, she closed the door, without hesitation, and without slamming it.”

I got a tomato and a cucumber out of the refrigerator, then motioned that we should go sit down at the table. And then it was time.

“You know, it looks like we – like you and I – are going to be together for a while...,” and her face started to get that panicked expression I’d seen earlier, when she thought we were going back to the supermarket in Marshall, “ ... we’re going to be together for a long time...” The panicked look began to fade, “ ... and since we’re going to be together for a long time, I think you should have a name that I can call you. So, ... how about it – what’s your name?”

There was absolutely no response from her. I tried another way.

“Do you have a name? If ya’ do, maybe you could tell me, so I could say it when you and I talk with each other. So, do you...?”

Again, not a flicker of response.

“That’s okay. But I have an idea – how about I call you ‘Annie’ – would that be OK, that I call you ‘Annie’?”

She – I don’t know – and it might have totally been my imagination – but she all of a sudden seemed to perk up.

Trying to communicate the idea just one more way, I reached out to her, and she flinched. Alright, that told me something. But then, apparently sensing no threat in my gesture, she relaxed. I put my hand lightly on her shoulder. “You’re Annie, OK?” and patted her shoulder to emphasize my words. “And I’m...,” I took my hand off her shoulder and pointed to my chest, “I’m Lucas. You’re Annie...,” I put my hand on her shoulder again, “ ... and I’m Lucas,” tapping my chest again.

I could almost see her nod. At least she understood. How she felt about it, I had no idea, but for now – at least to one of us – she was Annie. And again, it might have been my imagination, but there seemed to be this slight look of ... I don’t know... satisfaction?... like something important had just been established.

Also, I learned something else: That she – “Annie” – understands the implications of “a long time” versus “a while.”

And, now, so do I.

I went and got a cutting board and a serrated steak knife and came back to the table with ... Annie. I sat down and started slicing the tomato. When I finished, I took the cucumber and carefully sliced off a piece. The another. And then I took a chance – an experiment.

“Annie, would you like to help me slice this cucumber?” Again, she seemed puzzled. I stood up and walked around behind her. I put the steak knife down, handle toward her. She looked almost ... horrified – totally taken aback that a grownup would entrust her to do something – with a sharp object!

“It’s OK – here, I’ll help you get started. I put her left hand on the cucumber – well away from where I was going to show her to cut – and picked up the knife and eased it into her right hand and wrapped her fingers around the handle. Then, with her hand in mine, I lifted it into position, and with my other hand helping her hold the cucumber steady, together we sawed the knife through the fat cucumber. We sawed, and we sawed – and the first slice fell over onto the cutting board.

She seemed stunned – that something she did had caused something – something desirable – to happen! She actually turned her head to look up at me, the expectation of ... of... something ... in her expression. I smiled. Yes, Annie, you did it – you did well.

Together, we did two more slices. Then I took my “knife hand” away. Again, she looked up at me, almost in wonderment. I was going to let her use the knife? By herself? I smiled and nodded. While still helping her hold the other end steady, I let her cut another six or eight slices before taking her knife hand again, and together we finished cutting all of the cucumber that we could safely hold onto. She – Annie – looked at me – and she smiled! Yes, a real, honest-to-god smile! I don’t know who was more proud.

The oven timer dinged. I asked her to open the oven door for me while I carefully removed the pizza sheet and put it on the stovetop to cool. I got two plates out of the cupboard (and thought, “I can’t remember the last time I needed more than just a single plate), handed them to her, and asked her to hold them “for us.”

When I thought the pizza had cooled enough for a child’s mouth, I said, “Annie, hold out your plate and I’ll put a piece of pizza on it.” She cocked her head, like the name was registering, then held out her plate. I put two small pieces on her plate. “Okay, go sit down.” I cut two pieces nearly identical to Annie’s and joined her at the table.