Read Online Waiting for Christopher by Louise Hawes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Hawes
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tickling, laughing, faint with relief. “You sure like blue, don’t you?”
He giggled, shifted wildly in her hold, pushing against her, walking on air like a tiny robot. Feena set him down and then retrieved the crackers. She chose four small milk cartons from the case, handing him two to carry. “There,” she said. “Make yourself useful, Whiz Kid. And while we’re at it, what color are the letters on your milk?”
“Bwu!”
They said it in unison, then said it again. They chanted it all the way back down the aisle to the counter. It was only when they reached the magazine rack that Feena remembered who they were. Remembered she couldn’t relax into this love. She could never relax.
But the morning’s papers told her nothing. While the woman added up their purchases, Feena even picked one up and leafed through it. As if she had all the time in the world. As if she weren’t really interested. There were no headlines, no articles about a missing boy. Why hadn’t Christy’s mother gone to the police? Wasn’t it news anymore when a little boy disappeared?
She put the paper back, then took the bag the woman handed her. She paid with the last bills she had, wondering how they’d manage tomorrow on the forty-five cents in change she got back. She’d talked Christy into surrendering his milk cartons and dropping them one after the other into the bag, when the woman surprised them both.
“Here.” The frown line was still there, but she wore a smile like a thin seam across the bottom of her tanned face. She held out a lollipop in a see-through wrapper. “On account of you like blue.”
Christy stared at the blue pop, eyes wide. But he made no move to take it from the woman’s hand.
“Here,” the woman repeated, leaning down, wrapping his fingers around it. “It’s for you. On account of you’re such a sweet little girl.”
Christy held the pop and checked in with Feena, his whole face a question mark. “I’ll bet it’s blueberry,” she told him. “And you can have it with your milk, okay?” She turned to the woman. “Thanks,” she said, meaning it. “Thanks a lot.”
Outside, Feena stopped, tried to decide what to do. It was Wednesday. Her mother was at work, and in less than an hour, she was supposed to be in school. Clearly, she was going to skip, but school made her think of books. And books made her think of the library.
So that’s where they ate breakfast—under a tree behind the branch library they’d seen near the park yesterday. As he had last night, Christy ate ravenously, finishing the plums, the milk, and half the crackers. By the time the library opened, his face was smeared, the heat was intense, and they were both glad to head for the basement restroom.
Afterward, cool and clean, they sat in baby-size chairs in a corner of the children’s reading room. Christy, his ponytails freshly combed and tightened evenly on both sides, looked almost too precious in Lady Macbeth’s jumper. For the first time, Feena wished his face were a little less appealing, his hair not quite so bright. Proud as she was of him, the last thing they needed was to call attention to themselves.
Afraid to use her library card, in case it might be traced later, she began to choose books to read right there. At first he was afraid to touch them, settled for watching her as she brought them to him one by one, opened them across his lap. But soon he learned he could take them himself—stacks of them, plucked off the low shelves and piled on a table close at hand. Big books, little books, books with red and yellow and (of course) blue covers, books with bright bold water-color splashes for pictures, books with delicate, careful illustrations as detailed as photos. Like the fruit and the milk and crackers, Christy devoured them all.
One book in particular, though, seemed to pull him back again and again. Even when they were reading another, Feena would notice his gaze wander, stealing a look at the cover
He giggled, shifted wildly in her hold, pushing against her, walking on air like a tiny robot. Feena set him down and then retrieved the crackers. She chose four small milk cartons from the case, handing him two to carry. “There,” she said. “Make yourself useful, Whiz Kid. And while we’re at it, what color are the letters on your milk?”
“Bwu!”
They said it in unison, then said it again. They chanted it all the way back down the aisle to the counter. It was only when they reached the magazine rack that Feena remembered who they were. Remembered she couldn’t relax into this love. She could never relax.
But the morning’s papers told her nothing. While the woman added up their purchases, Feena even picked one up and leafed through it. As if she had all the time in the world. As if she weren’t really interested. There were no headlines, no articles about a missing boy. Why hadn’t Christy’s mother gone to the police? Wasn’t it news anymore when a little boy disappeared?
She put the paper back, then took the bag the woman handed her. She paid with the last bills she had, wondering how they’d manage tomorrow on the forty-five cents in change she got back. She’d talked Christy into surrendering his milk cartons and dropping them one after the other into the bag, when the woman surprised them both.
“Here.” The frown line was still there, but she wore a smile like a thin seam across the bottom of her tanned face. She held out a lollipop in a see-through wrapper. “On account of you like blue.”
Christy stared at the blue pop, eyes wide. But he made no move to take it from the woman’s hand.
“Here,” the woman repeated, leaning down, wrapping his fingers around it. “It’s for you. On account of you’re such a sweet little girl.”
Christy held the pop and checked in with Feena, his whole face a question mark. “I’ll bet it’s blueberry,” she told him. “And you can have it with your milk, okay?” She turned to the woman. “Thanks,” she said, meaning it. “Thanks a lot.”
Outside, Feena stopped, tried to decide what to do. It was Wednesday. Her mother was at work, and in less than an hour, she was supposed to be in school. Clearly, she was going to skip, but school made her think of books. And books made her think of the library.
So that’s where they ate breakfast—under a tree behind the branch library they’d seen near the park yesterday. As he had last night, Christy ate ravenously, finishing the plums, the milk, and half the crackers. By the time the library opened, his face was smeared, the heat was intense, and they were both glad to head for the basement restroom.
Afterward, cool and clean, they sat in baby-size chairs in a corner of the children’s reading room. Christy, his ponytails freshly combed and tightened evenly on both sides, looked almost too precious in Lady Macbeth’s jumper. For the first time, Feena wished his face were a little less appealing, his hair not quite so bright. Proud as she was of him, the last thing they needed was to call attention to themselves.
Afraid to use her library card, in case it might be traced later, she began to choose books to read right there. At first he was afraid to touch them, settled for watching her as she brought them to him one by one, opened them across his lap. But soon he learned he could take them himself—stacks of them, plucked off the low shelves and piled on a table close at hand. Big books, little books, books with red and yellow and (of course) blue covers, books with bright bold water-color splashes for pictures, books with delicate, careful illustrations as detailed as photos. Like the fruit and the milk and crackers, Christy devoured them all.
One book in particular, though, seemed to pull him back again and again. Even when they were reading another, Feena would notice his gaze wander, stealing a look at the cover
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