would tell me more, if I asked him in a quiet moment. I moved on to the next item on my agenda. "Anyplace in town where I might find a fan?"
"Hardware store might have 'em, if they're not sold out," she said. "You'd better go now. A day like this, lotta people gonna have the same idea. Some of those camps get real hot and stuffy, especially to folks used to air-conditioning." She pointed toward the dining room. "Things are quiet right now. Out the door, turn right, and it's two blocks down on the corner."
Sidewalks in Merchantville were a hit-or-miss kind of thing. There was one in front of Mother Theresa's, but it petered out at the end of her building, then a cinder track meandered along past her parking lot and past a gas station, and then there was some sidewalk again. I limped down to the hardware store, got the last fan in the place, and started limping back. Almost back, passing the broad, weed-strewn gravel lot that served as parking for the restaurant, I heard something that sounded like a cat crying. I stopped and listened and decided that it sounded more human than animal. Maybe someone had left a baby in a car. I'd read about that. Terrible things happened when it was hot. Babies died.
Lugging my fan and limping along, I checked all the cars. I found nothing, but I could still hear the crying. It seemed to be coming from the back of the lot. Behind the lot, there was a steep hill, and between the lot and the hill, a weed-filled ditch to catch the water that flowed down the slope to keep it from flooding the parking lot. I walked slowly along the edge, peering down into the ditch, hoping I wasn't going to find some poor animal tied up in a sack and left to die, or an abandoned baby. At the far corner of the lot, where it ended and the ditch disappeared behind a shabby brick building, I found the source of the noiseâa small towheaded boy in an overturned wheelchair.
He was sweaty and dirty and bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but otherwise seemed to be all right. I dropped my fan, climbed down the bank, picked up the boy and the chair, and carried them back to level ground. Then I set him back in the chair and knelt down in front of him, the million questions of a worried adult bubbling to my lips. Two escaped before I could stop them. "What were you doing there?" I asked. "Are you all right?"
He stared at me but didn't answer. His dirty face was smudged with tears. I pulled a napkin from my pocket and carefully wiped off the worst of the dirt. "I'm Dora, and you?"
"I was running away from home," he said.
"You chose a pretty odd way to do it."
"I didn't know about the ditch. You got anything to drink? I'm thirsty."
"I haven't, but I work over at the restaurant. Mother Theresa's. Bet we could find you something there. You like lemonade?"
"Don't got no money," he said.
"Well, I've got lots. I'll treat you. But first, we have to get you over there." Something of a problem. I had one boy, one wheelchair, and one fan to get across a rutted gravel lot. "Tell you what." I picked up my fan. "If you can hold this on your lap..."
He grinned up at me. Even red-faced and dirty, he was TV-camera perfect, right down to the missing front teeth. "You'll push the chair, right?"
"Right." I set the fan in his lap. "Hold on. It's going to be a bumpy ride."
We clattered back across the lot and I lifted him, the chair, and the fan up onto the back porch of the restaurant. I wheeled him into the kitchen and up to the table. Took the fan off his lap and set it on the floor. Then I poured a glass of lemonade, stuck in a straw, and sat down beside him, steadying the glass with my hand.
"I can do it myself," he said impatiently. "I'm not a baby."
Theresa came in with her coffeepot, set it down, and stared at the two of us. "What in tarnation's going on here? Dora? We can't be having children in the kitchen."
I got to my feet, instinctively planting myself between Theresa and the child. "I found him in a ditch. I
"Hardware store might have 'em, if they're not sold out," she said. "You'd better go now. A day like this, lotta people gonna have the same idea. Some of those camps get real hot and stuffy, especially to folks used to air-conditioning." She pointed toward the dining room. "Things are quiet right now. Out the door, turn right, and it's two blocks down on the corner."
Sidewalks in Merchantville were a hit-or-miss kind of thing. There was one in front of Mother Theresa's, but it petered out at the end of her building, then a cinder track meandered along past her parking lot and past a gas station, and then there was some sidewalk again. I limped down to the hardware store, got the last fan in the place, and started limping back. Almost back, passing the broad, weed-strewn gravel lot that served as parking for the restaurant, I heard something that sounded like a cat crying. I stopped and listened and decided that it sounded more human than animal. Maybe someone had left a baby in a car. I'd read about that. Terrible things happened when it was hot. Babies died.
Lugging my fan and limping along, I checked all the cars. I found nothing, but I could still hear the crying. It seemed to be coming from the back of the lot. Behind the lot, there was a steep hill, and between the lot and the hill, a weed-filled ditch to catch the water that flowed down the slope to keep it from flooding the parking lot. I walked slowly along the edge, peering down into the ditch, hoping I wasn't going to find some poor animal tied up in a sack and left to die, or an abandoned baby. At the far corner of the lot, where it ended and the ditch disappeared behind a shabby brick building, I found the source of the noiseâa small towheaded boy in an overturned wheelchair.
He was sweaty and dirty and bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but otherwise seemed to be all right. I dropped my fan, climbed down the bank, picked up the boy and the chair, and carried them back to level ground. Then I set him back in the chair and knelt down in front of him, the million questions of a worried adult bubbling to my lips. Two escaped before I could stop them. "What were you doing there?" I asked. "Are you all right?"
He stared at me but didn't answer. His dirty face was smudged with tears. I pulled a napkin from my pocket and carefully wiped off the worst of the dirt. "I'm Dora, and you?"
"I was running away from home," he said.
"You chose a pretty odd way to do it."
"I didn't know about the ditch. You got anything to drink? I'm thirsty."
"I haven't, but I work over at the restaurant. Mother Theresa's. Bet we could find you something there. You like lemonade?"
"Don't got no money," he said.
"Well, I've got lots. I'll treat you. But first, we have to get you over there." Something of a problem. I had one boy, one wheelchair, and one fan to get across a rutted gravel lot. "Tell you what." I picked up my fan. "If you can hold this on your lap..."
He grinned up at me. Even red-faced and dirty, he was TV-camera perfect, right down to the missing front teeth. "You'll push the chair, right?"
"Right." I set the fan in his lap. "Hold on. It's going to be a bumpy ride."
We clattered back across the lot and I lifted him, the chair, and the fan up onto the back porch of the restaurant. I wheeled him into the kitchen and up to the table. Took the fan off his lap and set it on the floor. Then I poured a glass of lemonade, stuck in a straw, and sat down beside him, steadying the glass with my hand.
"I can do it myself," he said impatiently. "I'm not a baby."
Theresa came in with her coffeepot, set it down, and stared at the two of us. "What in tarnation's going on here? Dora? We can't be having children in the kitchen."
I got to my feet, instinctively planting myself between Theresa and the child. "I found him in a ditch. I
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