Read Online The Chalk Girl by Carol O'Connell - Free Book Online Page B

‘Mrs Ortega doesn’t carry a vacuum cleaner around with her. That one’s mine, and Coco’s right about the brand name. Excellent auditory memory skills.’ He turned to her. ‘So you recognized the sound of the motor.’
    She nodded. ‘Our upstairs neighbor had one. My granny’s vacuum was an older one, louder – a scary Hoover.’ Coco faked a little shiver for them to illustrate that this was not her favorite noise. ‘That one could suck up the whole world. There were lots of vacuum cleaners in the house, and they all had different sounds and different names.’
    ‘So your granny lives in an apartment building,’ said Riker. ‘Well, that’s something.’
    ‘She couldn’t take care of me anymore. So I went to live with Uncle Red, and I never saw her again.’
    ‘That must’ve happened recently,’ said Charles. ‘Granny’s neighbor had the new canister model, and it’s only been on the market for a few weeks.’ He had finished reading Riker’s paperwork. ‘Hold on. This document requests that custody be awarded to
me
.’
    Both men looked up to see Mrs Ortega pass by with a feather duster in hand. The woman stopped, surprised and wide-eyed. IfRiker had not known how tough she was, he would say she was frightened. Turning away from the little girl, the cleaning lady quickly made the sign of the cross. By Riker’s lights, this was no sign of religion or relief. He had watched her make this gesture once before to ward off the evil of a three-legged cat encountered on a SoHo sidewalk. Apparently, in Mrs Ortega’s native land across the river, a square block of Brooklyn that housed her whole clan, those cats were trouble – and so was Coco.
    Hours had passed since Riker’s departure to join in the park search for more victims. And during this time, Charles Butler had filled a notebook with lines of childish fancy to decode. He had come to a few dark conclusions about the gaps in Coco’s memory, places in her mind where she could not or would not go.
    Such a fascinating mind.
    Mrs Ortega returned from Brooklyn in time for Coco’s bath. She brought with her a collection of clothing culled from relatives with small children. The woman seemed agitated, but the little girl did not mind. The child clung to her when they emerged from the bathroom. Scrubbed pink and clean and dressed in secondhand pajamas, Coco sang for Mrs Ortega, and then she did a little dance, smiling all the while. Growing tired as any child at the end of a long day, she curled up on the floor at the cleaning lady’s feet and closed her eyes – and snored.
    ‘Are they supposed to do that?’ Charles could only wish that the child had come with a manual of operating instructions. ‘The snoring?’
    Mrs Ortega nodded. ‘The kid’s getting over a cold. That’s why I gave her the chicken soup.’ She wagged her finger at him. ‘Do
not
give her any crap from the drugstore.’
    ‘Of course not.’ It would not occur to him to second-guess this woman, who had many children in her extended family.
    He scooped up the sleeping child and carried her to the guest room, where he put her to bed. Mrs Ortega hung back on the threshold, clearly not wanting more contact with this little girl. It was Charles who covered Coco with a blanket and tucked her in. He closed the door softly, and whispered to his cleaning lady, whom he also counted among his friends, ‘Tell me what’s bothering you.’
    She did not speak for a while, not until they were seated in the front room and she had finished her second round of sherry. Mrs Ortega set the empty glass on the table, her eyes fixed upon the etched pattern of century-old crystal. ‘My mother, rest her soul – oh, her and her stories.’ She threw up her hands, exasperated, and then began again. ‘When I was a kid, I lost a lot of sleep ’cause Ma told me that fairies stole kids and replaced them with changelings.’
What if
– that was the question in her eyes. She could never voice this thought,