car seemed to stretch into infinity, and now that the woman had found someone to focus her outrage on, her temper was visibly rising like the tide. Close up, she was older than she had appeared at a distance, one of those thirtysomething women who took such infinite care with their appeareance that only faint lines at the corner of their eyes betrayed their age when they smiled or frowned. Now indignant anger narrowed her eyes and added years to her face. It didn’t become her, thought Nina, and felt her own muscles tense in response.
The stroller was parked so that it blocked the entire sidewalk, and the woman had her hands set on her hips in a confident stance.
“I’ve stood here waiting for you for nearly twenty minutes,” she announced, pointing demonstratively at her watch. “You don’t just leave a child in a car like this. And in this heat! He might die of heat stroke. It’s completely irresponsible, and frankly dangerous.”
Nina considered her strategy. The woman had not been there for twenty minutes, and Nina had made sure the Fiat was shaded by one of the big chestnut trees along the road, and had left all the windows ajar. The boy was in no danger of dying from the heat in such a short time, and nobody knew it better than Nina. She had seen children lie for days without proper shelter in 120° weather and still live long enough to die from malnutrition. The outraged mother was clearly one of those overzealous idiots who enjoyed showing others what a wonderful parent she herself happened to be. But knowing this was of little use. The main objective was to get away without drawing any more attention to herself or the boy. Nina lowered her eyes and forced a contrite smile.
“I had promised him an ice cream cone, and there was a line at the check-out,” she said, trying to edge past the aggressively parked stroller.
“Oh? And I suppose the Maison Des Petites was terribly busy too?” countered the woman, and Nina cursed under her breath. The big white carrier bag from the fashion boutique was hard to explain away, and she decided not to try. Instead, she turned her back firmly on the indignant woman, unlocked the car—and came close to knocking down both woman and stroller as she took a startled pace backwards.
The boy was sitting up.
The blanket was still wrapped about his legs, and he was staring at her through the half-open window with huge dark blue eyes.
Nina forced herself to stand still while possiblities and halfformed plans flitted feverishly through her head. Should she simply get into the car and drive away? Should she speak to him? And if she did, what would happen if he answered?
Then she recalled the ice cream cone.
She tore her attention away from the confused, fearful gaze of the boy for as long as it took to rummage through the yellow plastic bag and fish it out. She peeled off the shiny blue wrapper and held out the cone to him through the open window, hardly daring to meet his eyes again. Apparently, she didn’t have to. She saw instead how a small pale hand slowly moved toward the rim of the rolleddown window and took hold of the ice cream.
“Atju.”
The boy’s voice was faint, but he spoke the word slowly and clearly, as if to make sure she didn’t misunderstand.
“No,” she said quickly. “They were all out of those. You’ll have to make do with this one instead.”
Then she marched around the front end of the car as quickly as she could and got into the driver’s seat. The indignant voice followed her as she backed and turned, sounding loud and clear through the open windows.
“You don’t even have a proper car seat for him,” shrilled the woman. “I simply don’t understand how someone like you can call herself a mother. I simply don’t… .”
S IGITA WOULD HAVE liked to stay at the police station, but Gužas evicted her politely but firmly. He had her phone number, he would call. He repeated his exhortation to go home.
“But perhaps you shouldn’t
The stroller was parked so that it blocked the entire sidewalk, and the woman had her hands set on her hips in a confident stance.
“I’ve stood here waiting for you for nearly twenty minutes,” she announced, pointing demonstratively at her watch. “You don’t just leave a child in a car like this. And in this heat! He might die of heat stroke. It’s completely irresponsible, and frankly dangerous.”
Nina considered her strategy. The woman had not been there for twenty minutes, and Nina had made sure the Fiat was shaded by one of the big chestnut trees along the road, and had left all the windows ajar. The boy was in no danger of dying from the heat in such a short time, and nobody knew it better than Nina. She had seen children lie for days without proper shelter in 120° weather and still live long enough to die from malnutrition. The outraged mother was clearly one of those overzealous idiots who enjoyed showing others what a wonderful parent she herself happened to be. But knowing this was of little use. The main objective was to get away without drawing any more attention to herself or the boy. Nina lowered her eyes and forced a contrite smile.
“I had promised him an ice cream cone, and there was a line at the check-out,” she said, trying to edge past the aggressively parked stroller.
“Oh? And I suppose the Maison Des Petites was terribly busy too?” countered the woman, and Nina cursed under her breath. The big white carrier bag from the fashion boutique was hard to explain away, and she decided not to try. Instead, she turned her back firmly on the indignant woman, unlocked the car—and came close to knocking down both woman and stroller as she took a startled pace backwards.
The boy was sitting up.
The blanket was still wrapped about his legs, and he was staring at her through the half-open window with huge dark blue eyes.
Nina forced herself to stand still while possiblities and halfformed plans flitted feverishly through her head. Should she simply get into the car and drive away? Should she speak to him? And if she did, what would happen if he answered?
Then she recalled the ice cream cone.
She tore her attention away from the confused, fearful gaze of the boy for as long as it took to rummage through the yellow plastic bag and fish it out. She peeled off the shiny blue wrapper and held out the cone to him through the open window, hardly daring to meet his eyes again. Apparently, she didn’t have to. She saw instead how a small pale hand slowly moved toward the rim of the rolleddown window and took hold of the ice cream.
“Atju.”
The boy’s voice was faint, but he spoke the word slowly and clearly, as if to make sure she didn’t misunderstand.
“No,” she said quickly. “They were all out of those. You’ll have to make do with this one instead.”
Then she marched around the front end of the car as quickly as she could and got into the driver’s seat. The indignant voice followed her as she backed and turned, sounding loud and clear through the open windows.
“You don’t even have a proper car seat for him,” shrilled the woman. “I simply don’t understand how someone like you can call herself a mother. I simply don’t… .”
S IGITA WOULD HAVE liked to stay at the police station, but Gužas evicted her politely but firmly. He had her phone number, he would call. He repeated his exhortation to go home.
“But perhaps you shouldn’t
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