Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [73]
“Did you see him bring anything back out?” Lee asked.
“Nope. I saw a guy light up on the corner, bummed a smoke from him. Didn’t see anything after that.”
“Do you remember how he was dressed?”
“Mmm…dark clothes. Raincoat sort of like the ones the Feds wear, except this guy was no Fed—not well enough fed for that. Hey, that’s not bad,” he said, smiling broadly, displaying a mouth badly in need of dentistry. Several teeth were chipped; others were missing altogether. “Not well enough fed for a Fed—hey, not bad.” He gave a chuckle, a low rumbling sound of phlegm rattling in his lungs.
“Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah—there was one thing.”
“What?”
“His breathing. It was wheezy, you know? Like a guy who’s been smokin’ too long—except he didn’t light up or nothin’.”
“Do you think you could identify him from a police sketch?”
Willow picked at a scab on his chin. “I don’t know. Maybe. What’s in it for me?”
“Okay, look,” Lee said, “you’ve been really helpful. Is there anything we can get you—some food, a place to sleep?”
Willow held up the carton of cigarettes. “More of these?”
“Hey, look,” Lee said, pulling five twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. “If I give you this, will you promise to spend some of it on food and shelter?”
Willow took the money and counted it. “You made a mistake, man—these are twenties.”
“It’s not a mistake. I want you to have them. But please buy some decent food for yourself, will you? And maybe a room at the Y?”
“Y-M-J-A,” Willow sang softly as he stuffed the money into his shoe. “I can stay at the Y-M-J-A. Da da da da da da, I can get anything I want, at the Y-M-J-A.” He looked at Lee. “I’m Jewish—get it?”
“Yes,” Lee said. “I get it. You will? Promise?”
“Sure!” Willow sang out, but his attention was drawn by a passing jogger, a well-built young black man in red spandex.
“Now he’s a Fed,” Willow whispered. “You see? They’ve found me already—they move fast, lemme tell you.” He began singing again. “Who needs a bunker in Iraq-aq-aq-aq-aq-aq?” He sang to the tune of the Billy Joel song, “Movin’ Out.” “If that’s what’s movin’ in, I’m gettin’ out.”
Without saying good-bye, Willow stood up and wandered off in the direction of the boathouse.
Eddie looked at Lee. “Well, I guess that’s all she wrote.”
“Yeah,” Lee said. “Listen, how can I reach you?
“You can’t,” Eddie replied. “I’ll call you.”
Lee wanted to protest, but he knew there was nothing like pressure to drive Eddie even further away. And, as they walked out of the park, he was busy thinking about why someone would drag a trash can into a church in the middle of the night.
Chapter Thirty-one
Surely his mother wouldn’t object to his spending time with this girl. She was so slight, so frail, more like a little bird, really, than a girl. A little sparrow—yes, that was it. She was exactly like a tiny, underfed sparrow, and he longed to take her in his arms and feed her until she fell asleep, contented and safe in his gentle embrace. It was nothing lustful; it was more like the feeling you might have toward a beloved pet, a desire to take care of them, to nurture them the way you might a puppy, or any helpless creature. What could be the harm in that?
He screwed his face up and put his hands over his ears, as if that would drown out the voice in his head, but the voice burrowed all the way through to his eardrums, making him dizzy. The memory of that first awful humiliation played like a tape in his head, from beginning to end.
Sam-u-el! How could you do that? How could you touch that nasty, nasty creature, that filthy little harlot? How could you do that to me—to Him? Do you want to make Jesus cry? Do you?
The wooden figurine of Jesus on the cross above her bed looked down on him, disappointment carved into the wooden face. The tortured eyes implored him—him, Samuel—for help as if he could ease Jesus’s suffering.
Sam-u-el! Look at me when I’m talking to you! Did you think Jesus wouldn’t see you, wouldn’t know what filthy thoughts you were thinking?
He didn’t think his thoughts were filthy, but maybe he was wrong. His mother