mother’s name, isn’t it?”
He glances at me. Nods.
“But it wouldn’t be her,” I say quickly.
No response.
“I wonder who he is?” I say, as if I suspect nothing.
“A vagrant.”
My heart starts jumping. “From another country?”
“Search me.”
“What’s a vagrant?” I ask then.
“Somebody with no place to live.”
I sigh. “A hobo.” Obviously, he’s a hobo.
“I’ve seen him before.”
“You have?”
“Down by the factory. One of the men who works there gives him cigarettes.”
I am reluctant to abandon the spy angle. “I think he’s holding something. A grenade, maybe.”
Abel doesn’t even consider it. He crouches and places his hand on the man’s upper arm. “He’s not cold.” Politely, to the man, he says,“Sir? Sir?” He shakes the shoulder. When nothing happens, he presses two fingers under and at the side of the jaw.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeling for a pulse.”
I look from the man to Abel, and automatically start assessing him. At such close range he becomes merchandise, the orphan among all the other orphans whom Mrs. Richter chose. The dimple in his chin … she’d have liked that, people like dimples. His hair would have been the clincher, though, the same dark brown as hers.
“He’s alive,” Abel says, straightening.
“Injured though, I’ll bet.” It’s a pitiless conjecture. Now that the man is neither a spy nor dead I find him repulsive.
“He didn’t fall, not from the top.”
“How do you know?”
“There aren’t any broken branches.” He indicates the hill above us. “You’d see the slide he made.”
“So he
climbed
up?”
“Probably looking for a place to sleep. Where nobody’d pester him.”
“So he climbed all the way up and then threw himself flat on his face?”
“Not on purpose. He was drunk. That’s what that smell is.”
“He’s a lush,” I declare. It’s a term my mother used to apply to Mrs. Bendy.
“Well …” Abel hikes up his jeans. “I guess we should just leave him.”
“Are you crazy?”
He looks at me.
“What am I supposed to do?” I cry. “Stand here and wait? What if he goes to the bathroom in his pants? What if he rolls over? He’ll wreck my tee-pee!”
Abel blinks and folds his arms across his chest. I realize I’ve scared him. I have. There’s a huge drunken man on the ground, but
I’m
the one he’s scared of. It’s insulting. It’s flattering, too, though. “Why don’t we set his pants on fire,” I say recklessly. “We could use your magnifying glass.”
He moves his hand to the glass, as if I might make a grab for it. This only provokes me. “We could
kick
him in the pants!” I say. I swagger closer. And then, surprising myself, I do kick him, not very hard, in the rear end.
“Hey!” Abel says.
I go to kick again.
“Don’t,” Abel says painfully.
I hesitate, affected by his tone. “Don’t
what?”
But I kick my knapsack instead. “I hardly touched him.”
Abel picks the knapsack up. “Do you have any water in here?”
“Why?”
“If we can get him to drink something, that might wakehim up. He’s probably dehydrated, and that’s a dangerous state.”
“I only have grape Freshie.”
“That’ll do.”
“No.”
He waits.
“His germs,” I say. “They’ll get all over my cup.”
“We don’t have to touch it to his lips. But that’s okay, I have water. I’ll run and get it.”
“No!” Horrified at being left alone. I sigh. “He can have my Freshie.”
Abel opens the knapsack, removes the Thermos and sets it on the ground. “We’re going to have to get him on his back. We’ll roll him over, then I’ll get his mouth open, and you can pour in the Freshie.” He moves to the man’s side. “I’ll push his shoulder. You push there,” nodding toward the man’s legs.
I go down on my knees. The smell is overpowering. “I’m going to throw up,” I mutter, resting my hands on the overalls.
“No, Louise, like this.”
He knows
He glances at me. Nods.
“But it wouldn’t be her,” I say quickly.
No response.
“I wonder who he is?” I say, as if I suspect nothing.
“A vagrant.”
My heart starts jumping. “From another country?”
“Search me.”
“What’s a vagrant?” I ask then.
“Somebody with no place to live.”
I sigh. “A hobo.” Obviously, he’s a hobo.
“I’ve seen him before.”
“You have?”
“Down by the factory. One of the men who works there gives him cigarettes.”
I am reluctant to abandon the spy angle. “I think he’s holding something. A grenade, maybe.”
Abel doesn’t even consider it. He crouches and places his hand on the man’s upper arm. “He’s not cold.” Politely, to the man, he says,“Sir? Sir?” He shakes the shoulder. When nothing happens, he presses two fingers under and at the side of the jaw.
“What are you doing?”
“Feeling for a pulse.”
I look from the man to Abel, and automatically start assessing him. At such close range he becomes merchandise, the orphan among all the other orphans whom Mrs. Richter chose. The dimple in his chin … she’d have liked that, people like dimples. His hair would have been the clincher, though, the same dark brown as hers.
“He’s alive,” Abel says, straightening.
“Injured though, I’ll bet.” It’s a pitiless conjecture. Now that the man is neither a spy nor dead I find him repulsive.
“He didn’t fall, not from the top.”
“How do you know?”
“There aren’t any broken branches.” He indicates the hill above us. “You’d see the slide he made.”
“So he
climbed
up?”
“Probably looking for a place to sleep. Where nobody’d pester him.”
“So he climbed all the way up and then threw himself flat on his face?”
“Not on purpose. He was drunk. That’s what that smell is.”
“He’s a lush,” I declare. It’s a term my mother used to apply to Mrs. Bendy.
“Well …” Abel hikes up his jeans. “I guess we should just leave him.”
“Are you crazy?”
He looks at me.
“What am I supposed to do?” I cry. “Stand here and wait? What if he goes to the bathroom in his pants? What if he rolls over? He’ll wreck my tee-pee!”
Abel blinks and folds his arms across his chest. I realize I’ve scared him. I have. There’s a huge drunken man on the ground, but
I’m
the one he’s scared of. It’s insulting. It’s flattering, too, though. “Why don’t we set his pants on fire,” I say recklessly. “We could use your magnifying glass.”
He moves his hand to the glass, as if I might make a grab for it. This only provokes me. “We could
kick
him in the pants!” I say. I swagger closer. And then, surprising myself, I do kick him, not very hard, in the rear end.
“Hey!” Abel says.
I go to kick again.
“Don’t,” Abel says painfully.
I hesitate, affected by his tone. “Don’t
what?”
But I kick my knapsack instead. “I hardly touched him.”
Abel picks the knapsack up. “Do you have any water in here?”
“Why?”
“If we can get him to drink something, that might wakehim up. He’s probably dehydrated, and that’s a dangerous state.”
“I only have grape Freshie.”
“That’ll do.”
“No.”
He waits.
“His germs,” I say. “They’ll get all over my cup.”
“We don’t have to touch it to his lips. But that’s okay, I have water. I’ll run and get it.”
“No!” Horrified at being left alone. I sigh. “He can have my Freshie.”
Abel opens the knapsack, removes the Thermos and sets it on the ground. “We’re going to have to get him on his back. We’ll roll him over, then I’ll get his mouth open, and you can pour in the Freshie.” He moves to the man’s side. “I’ll push his shoulder. You push there,” nodding toward the man’s legs.
I go down on my knees. The smell is overpowering. “I’m going to throw up,” I mutter, resting my hands on the overalls.
“No, Louise, like this.”
He knows
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