Necessary Lies by Diane Chamberlain

“You don’t want to step in a cow patty with those pretty things on.”
    “A cow patty?”
    “That’s—”
    “I know what it is. I just didn’t realize that would be a risk.” I laughed.
    “You need a sense of adventure for this job.”
    “I can see that.”
    I picked up my own light briefcase with its one notepad inside and followed her out of the car. From the trunk, we lifted a couple of bags of donated clothing we’d picked up that morning from a church. Then we set out on a path that ran through the woods, the trees and vines so thick that sunlight only penetrated the canopy here and there. I couldn’t imagine walking through these woods alone. We came to an open pasture, a couple of cows at one end.
    “Watch where you step,” Charlotte cautioned me.
    I hoped the cows would always be at the other end of the field. What would I do if I arrived here one day and had to walk past those huge animals? I’d never been much of a country girl.
    Once we crossed the pasture, we were back in the woods again. The ground was uneven and my legs ached by the time an old unpainted wooden house, nearly identical to the Jordans’, came into view. We walked into a dirt clearing, chickens scampering out of our way, and climbed the one step to a lopsided porch. Charlotte knocked on the open door. “Mrs. Hart?” she called.
    “We’re here!” a voice shouted from the woods behind us, and we turned to see a teenaged girl running from the greenery, a little boy clutched under her arm like a football. She set him down on the packed earth and he started running in our direction on wobbly legs, giggling, his dark curly hair bouncing. William, I guessed. “I just finished up at the barn,” the girl said. “Nonnie’s right behind me.” She looked into the woods toward the path, then back at Charlotte. “We been waitin’ for you,” she said.
    “Have you, now,” Charlotte said, as we set the bags on the porch. “Why is that, dear?”
    “We need diapers and clothes and a window fan.” The girl spoke to Charlotte but her gaze had moved to me, clearly curious.
    The little boy had reached us and he banged his palms against Charlotte’s legs.
    “Hello, William!” She bent over and lifted him high in the air and he laughed. A string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth, threatening to fall onto Charlotte’s face, and she lowered him just in time. “How’s my boy?” she asked, trying to nestle him in her arms, but he squirmed to get down and she lowered him to the ground again, where he took off after one of the chickens. I couldn’t imagine myself in Charlotte’s role. She was so comfortable in it. So mature. Playing with the toddler like she’d known him all her life. Calling the girl “dear.” I was only seven years older than this girl, much closer in age to her than to Charlotte.
    “This is Mrs. Forrester,” Charlotte said.
    Ivy nodded at me. “Ma’am,” she said.
    “Hello, Ivy,” I said. “I’m happy to meet you.”
    “Is Mary Ella inside?” Charlotte asked. “We knocked but there was no answer.”
    “No, ma’am. She’ll be home soon, I’m sure.”
    “William!” Charlotte called to the little boy as she pulled a lollipop from her purse. I was going to have to get a supply of those lollipops for myself.
    William ignored her and I wondered about his hearing. Charlotte had told me he wasn’t “reaching his developmental milestones.” She was concerned he wasn’t being properly cared for and that we needed to keep a close eye on him to be sure he was safe. She said we might have to consider a foster home for him. “And when he’s old enough,” she’d added, “I’d like to see him in a residential school for the feebleminded, where he could reach his full potential. That won’t happen at home.”
    Now Charlotte sat down on the stoop. “William,” she tried again. “Come see what I have for you.”
    “William, you get over here!” Ivy said sharply. “Mrs. Werkman’s trying