Cherish by Catherine Anderson Page A

street corners to feed me. Most times we went hungry. When there was food, she didn’t take much for herself, and she got real frail.”
    Rebecca found herself staring at him again. He was gazing at something above her head, a distant expression in his eyes. A muscle along his jaw ticked, indicating that he was clenching his teeth.
    “Right before she died, we went through a lean spell. No food, period, for three days.” He shifted his gaze to look at her. “I don’t reckon you’ve ever been on the streets and starvin’. You get to a point that you’ll eat damned near anything. We dug through garbage in the alleys to stay alive quite a lot, but for that three days, we couldn’t find nothin’ in there to eat. She got real frantic, worryin’ about me dyin’ on her. So she stole some roses outta some rich man’s walled-off garden. She tried to sell ’em for a penny each on a street corner, me sittin’ there watchin’ and prayin’ she’d sell enough of ’em for us to buy some eats. The men who passed—they didn’t want her roses, and they wasn’t inclined to throw coin away on no Apache squaw and her brat. So they just kept walkin’, some ignorin’ her, some shovin’ her outta their way.”
    He fell silent for a moment, his gaze locked on hers.
    “Then along come two drunks from a saloon up the street.” His throat convulsed as he swallowed. His gaze wavered, and he directed it at the floor again. “They was real interested in a rose,” he said tautly. “Just not the garden type. Somehow, even bein’ so young, I knew when I saw ’em that they meant trouble.” He smiled slightly. “My ma—she used to say I was born with a real old soul. I reckon in a way she was right, ’cause I was leerious oflots of things she wasn’t, and most times it turned out I was right to be. She had a pure heart, my ma. You know what I’m sayin’?”
    He repositioned his arms on his bent knees and lifted his shoulders as if to work out a muscle cramp.
    “She didn’t have no ugliness in her, so she didn’t see ugliness in other folks.” He scratched beside his nose. “Me—I guess I got a ugly streak. I ain’t never had a problem knowin’ ugly when I see it.” He hauled in a deep breath, as though to brace himself, then slowly exhaled. “Anyhow, them fellas laughed and throwed her roses down and tromped on ’em. And then they dragged her off into the alley. I tried to stop ’em, but I was smallish from lack of grub and only seven, so they just knocked me away and—” He closed his eyes and just sat there for a moment, his face unnaturally still. “And they just went on about their business,” he said hoarsely, “havin’ themselves a real fine time.”
    The images that flashed in Rebecca’s mind made her stomach lurch and her blood run cold. The very air seemed suddenly thin, and she grabbed a little frantically for breath, feeling dizzy.
    “When they finished, they just left her lay, like as if she was a dog they’d kicked senseless. She was bleedin’. Bleedin’ real bad. I knew she was gonna die if I didn’t get help so I ran up the street, poundin’ on doors. But it was a Sunday and the shops was all closed. I wound up at the saloon, but the men in there was too busy playin’ poker to bother with a snot-nosed Injun brat, and they didn’t give a shit about some Apache squaw who was dyin’ out in the alley. So I went back to her without no help, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do but kneel there beside her and watch her life bleed outta her into the dirt.” His mouth twisted with bitterness, and his black lashes lifted to reveal eyes gone glittery with anger. “A fittin’ end for an Injun squaw. Right? Dirt to dirt. It was a full day before the law even saw to it she got carried away, and I never got told what they done with her. I figure they buried her, but I don’t know where.”
    Rebecca felt a ticklish sensation on her cheek and realized it was a tear. She said nothing.