The Orphan and the Mouse (21 page)

Bayard Boudreau pulled up at the curb outside the Cherry Street Home at 8:05 a.m., only a few minutes—well, half an hour—late. He was unshaven and there were lead-colored bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. Worse yet, the stink of his breath was fierce, on account of his having eaten sausage and sauerkraut for supper the night before.

In the morning light, he would concede that he shouldn't've had that last glass at the bar. The sun was brighter than it had any right to be, and he had a splitting headache.
So help me
, he thought,
if that brat I'm driving today so much as speaks, I am going to clock her
.

A tall, white-haired biddy opened the home's heavy wooden door, and Bayard said good morning just as nice as you please.

“You're late” was all she said—little suspecting how lucky she was he didn't clock her, too, what with his headache and the sticky air and the bright sun and how hot it was. He hated summer. He hated daylight. He hated this evil old woman.

“I'll need some help with that trunk, ma'am,” he told her.

“I'll find someone,” she said. “Meanwhile, this is Carolyn.” With her chin, she indicated a plain-looking girl who had
something wrong with her right hand and arm. Burns, it looked like. She was frowning and pale. “Would you please help her out to the car? You can do that, can't you? Let's get this over with as expeditiously as possible . . . for the child's sake.” The woman smiled a cottonmouth smile.

“Hustle her on outta here, that's what you're saying, ma'am?” Bayard said. “All right. I hope I know my job. Come on then, girly-girl. You're comin' with me. Car's waiting.” He reached for the child's hand, but she stepped away. “Now, that's hurtful.” He frowned and tried to look sad instead of angry.

“Go along with . . . uh . . . Mr. Puttley didn't give me your name, sir?”

“Boudreau.”

“Go along with Mr. Boudreau.”

“Who's Mr. Puttley?” The child took another step back.

Mr. Boudreau looked around him and noticed the marble, the chandeliers, the high ceilings. This was a nice place, quite a contrast to the conditions where the little girl was going. He could already see he didn't like her, not that there were any children he did like. He felt the weight of the gun in his jacket.

“Mr. Puttley is your new papa, dear,” the old biddy said smoothly.

Bayard bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“I'm not going,” the child said, and she planted her feet. “I don't like this man. Please . . . please, Mrs. George, don't make me go.”

A flicker of something—sympathy?—crossed the woman's
face. For his part, Mr. Boudreau felt only irritation. He knew it was important that he not lose his temper. Mr. Puttley had warned him. But honestly, what was a guy supposed to do? Jesus Christ himself couldn't've stayed meek and mild when faced with an old witch and a stubborn little girl who kept you from getting your job done.

As it was, he'd have to drive all night. Mr. Puttley wouldn't like it if he was late.

With his last ounce of self-control, Mr. Boudreau spoke politely. “With your permission, ma'am. I have a schedule to which I must adhere.” So saying, he encircled Carolyn with his arms, picked her up, and heaved her over his shoulder.

The old witch looked startled for a moment, then relieved. “It's for the best.”

The little girl felt placid in his arms as he moved toward the door. He had been wrong about her. She wasn't going to give him any trouble. Maybe the witch had slipped her a Mickey Finn to slow her down.

The woman put her hand on the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door. Oh—the sunlight. Terrible! Mr. Boudreau felt a stab of pain at his temples and in the same instant something else. The girl transformed into a wildcat, kicking, scratching, and punching to get free at the same time she threw back her head and screamed—right into Bayard Boudreau's ear.

Mr. Donald liked the kids at the Cherry Street Children's Home, even admired them, truth be told. Most were a darned sight more confident than he had been at their age. Growing up in a children's home himself, he had learned not confidence but obedience, a lesson reinforced by the United States Army.

Now his superior officer was Mrs. George and his standing order to make sure the Cherry Street kids did what they were supposed to. Usually, he was pretty good at it. The kids seemed to like him okay. He thought maybe in a couple of years he'd take advantage of the GI Bill, go to college, study to be a schoolteacher.

But this was the kind of morning that made a guy rethink his future. Matron Polly didn't feel well. Mrs. George was busy upstairs. In other words, Mr. Donald was flying solo . . . and wouldn't you know, something had gotten into these kids.

There had been Rice Krispies cereal for breakfast that morning, along with eggs and toast. The children had just been served when Jimmy and Melissa pushed back their chairs, stood up from the table, and walked out of the room. Did they so much as pause to ask permission? Not those two. And Mr. Donald couldn't very well follow them either. Who would have minded the others?

A short time later, the miscreants returned . . . but no number of demerits would induce them to say where they had been. When at last breakfast was over and the dishes cleared, Mr. Donald felt relieved. Fairmount Park would be just the thing for these characters. Let them run off their orneriness in the great outdoors.

“Line up two by two,” he told them. “Our bus will meet us in the alley. We're going to leave through the kitchen and then the back door.”

“Why are we going out the back door?” Virginia wanted to know.

“Where's Caro?” Betty asked.

“Want Caro!”
Annabelle shouted.

So that was it, Mr. Donald thought. The kids were upset after all that business with Caro and her shoes last night. He didn't know where the girl was, either. The whole thing was mysterious. Mrs. Spinelli, like always, had a raft of dark theories, but none worth crediting.

“Something's going on out front,” Jimmy said.
“Who's with me?”

“Me!”

“Me!”

“All of us!”

The door between the dining room and the foyer was closed, but Jimmy raised his hand, and the children—by now an enthusiastic mob—advanced in his wake. Mr. Donald had lost control.

First in dismay, then in panic, Mrs. George watched events unfold.

That fool of an unwashed driver dropped Carolyn to the floor, where she landed with a
thump
. Then, from behind, came children's voices, followed by a veritable herd blasting into the foyer, shouting and carrying on.

Hurrying after, ineffectual, came Mr. Donald.

“We want Caro! Where's Caro?”

What had come over her model orphans? This was too much to absorb all at once.

And Carolyn, sweet, responsible Carolyn, had become a screaming banshee! Mrs. George's well-controlled world was turning topsy-turvy at the worst possible moment.

Caro had read the word
hysteria
in books but never understood it till now when she was fully in its grip—fighting the horrid smelly man who had dared to pick her up like a sack of vegetables. Then he dropped her, and she hit the floor—
Ow!
—and after that she heard Jimmy's voice shouting, then all the kids'.

The horrid smelly man, now in the doorway, shouted in fury over the din. “Shut up! For the love of Pete, would you all just—” And out of his jacket, he pulled something black and shiny—a gun.

For a moment, time stopped to accommodate this new reality. Then Annabelle burst into noisy tears, and Jimmy rushed forward as if fists were an adequate defense against bullets.

“Just you wait right—” Mr. Donald tried and failed to restrain Jimmy.

Meanwhile, from her vantage on the floor, Caro was the only one to see a soft gray form streaking toward Mr. Boudreau's unsuspecting shoe.

Mrs. George saw Jimmy elude Mr. Donald's grasp and rush forward.

She saw Mr. Boudreau raise his gun. She saw the flash and heard the report, so loud it seemed to suck the air from the room as it echoed in her skull. For a moment, she thought she herself had been shot.

Then the ringing in her ears was replaced by renewed shrieking, wailing, and shouting. Someone was on the floor, someone else was caterwauling—having a fit.

This last was Mr. Boudreau, but what in the world asked him?

He was jumping, stomping his feet, and shrieking like a bee-stung two-year-old.
“Make it stop—get it away from me—help me-e-e!”

At that moment, the front door opened and light flooded in. “My goodness—Mrs. George, what is going on?”

Frank Kittaning had arrived.

Mrs. George didn't stop to answer, didn't look back to learn the source of Mr. Boudreau's distress, didn't even look down to see who it was that lay on the floor with a bullet in him. Instead, she turned on her high heels and ran.