For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [4]
“You hungry, boy?”
He nodded slowly, just once.
“Stupid of me. I can go all day without food and not give it a second thought. I forget sometimes that others have not that tolerance in their bellies.” She nodded toward the doorway. “Well, what are ye waiting for?”
She followed him into the restaurant, then led the way to a quiet booth set against the wall. A circular console rose from the center of the table. She studied the menu imprinted on its flank, compared it with the stature of the child seated expectantly next to her, then punched several buttons set alongside the menu.
Before too long, the console sank into the table, then reappeared a moment later stacked with food; a thick, pungent stew dimpled with vegetables, long stalks of some beige tuber, and a mass of multistriped bread.
“Go ahead,” she said when the boy hesitated, admiring his reserve and table manners. “I’m not too hungry, and I never eat very much.”
She watched him while he devoured the food, sometimes picking at the colorful bread to assuage what little hunger she felt herself, barely acknowledging the occasional greeting from a passing acquaintance or friend. When the bottom of the stew bowl had been licked to a fine polish and the last scrap of bread had vanished, she asked, “Still hungry?”
He hesitated, measuring her, then gave her a half nod. “I’m not surprised,” she replied, “but I don’t want ye to have any more tonight. You’ve just downed enough to fill a grown man. Any more on top of what you’ve already had and you’d end up wasting it all. Tomorrow morning, okay?” He nodded slowly, understanding.
“And one more thing, boy. Can ye talk?”
“Yes.” His voice was lower than— anticipated, unafraid and, she thought, tinged with thankfulness.
“I can talk pretty good,” he added without further prompting, surprising her. “I’ve been told that for my age I’m a very good talker.”
“That’s nice. I was starting to worry.” She slid from her seat, using her cane to help her stand, and took his hand once again. “It’s not too far now.”
“Not too far to where?”
“To where I live. To where ye will live from now on.” They exited the restaurant and were enveloped by the wet night.
“What’s your name?” He spoke without looking up at her, preferring instead to study the dim storefronts and isolated, illuminated shops. The intensity of his inspection seemed unnatural.
“Mastiff,” she told him, then grinned. “ ’Tis not my real name, boy, but one that someone laid upon me many years ago. For better or worse, it’s stuck longer with me than any man. ’Tis the name of a dog of exceptional ferocity and ugliness.”
“I don’t think you’re ugly,” the boy replied. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She studied his open, little-boy expression. Dim-witted, dim-sighted, or maybe just very smart, she thought.
“Can I call you Mother?” he asked hopefully, further confusing her. “You are my mother now, aren’t you?”
“Sort of, I expect. Don’t ask me why.”
“I won’t cause you any trouble.” His voice was suddenly concerned, almost frightened. “I’ve never caused anyone any trouble, honest. I just want to be left alone.”
Now what would prompt a desperate confession like that? she wondered. She decided not to pursue the matter. “I’ve no demands to make on ye,” she assured him. “I’m a simple old woman, and I live a simple life. It pleases me. It had best please ye as well.”
“It sounds nice,” he admitted agreeably. “I’ll do my best to help you any way I can.”
“Devil knows there’s plenty to do in the shop. I’m not quite as flexible as I used to be.” She chuckled aloud. “Get tired before midnight now. You know, I actually need a full four hours’ sleep?