The Best People in the World (24 page)

“Something's happened to Sonya,” said Shiloh.

A soft breeze carried these words, “You idiots!”

I turned on my side.

Alice was jogging toward us, shaking her fists in the air.

Our little houseguest was nowhere.

“Where were you?” asked Alice.

“We swam across the lake,” I said.

“Of course,” said Alice. “And in the meantime Sonya got stung by a bee and her leg has swollen up like you wouldn't believe. I think we have to take her somewhere.”

Shiloh and I stood on our unsteady legs and ran after Alice, back toward the car. She kept turning to berate us for our slowness. Every step on the still burning asphalt was jarring since our bodies were too tired to run right. We came upon Sonya sprawled out in the grass in front of the car. For an instant I thought Alice was lying, that she'd accidentally run over the girl. Sonya's right calf looked as though it had been replaced with the extremity of some squat monster—it was discolored and shiny. Her arms were crossed over her eyes and a trail of red drool ran from the corner of her mouth and down her neck.

“It's horrible,” Alice wailed.

Even all splayed out, this was a catastrophe in miniature. Looking down at the girl created the illusion that her body was still far away. I couldn't figure out what had happened to her leg. Seen beside its twin they weren't recognizable as the same family of thing. I looked at Shiloh; he seemed just as puzzled. We stood right above her and Sonya didn't even look at us. Her resilient heart made her chest thump and her stomach twitched like someone stifling a hard cry. Nobody made a sound.

Shiloh reached down and his probing finger pushed through her calf.

“Fooled you!” screamed Sonya.

I sat in the grass.

“It's clay,” Sonya shouted. “It's clay.”

I tried to remove a sliver of glass that had lodged in the ball of my foot.

The little girl danced around, taunting us for our gullibility.

“What's that horrible red liquid?” Shiloh asked.

“That's just the candy ring,” said Alice. “Look at her leg. Isn't that cool?”

My feet were full of glass.

Sonya kicked me with her clay leg.

I groaned.

“Did you kick Thomas?” asked Alice.

Sonya kicked me again. Then she kicked Shiloh.

“Be nice,” said Alice.

Sonya kissed Shiloh's face.

“Thank you, sweetie,” he said.

Alice knelt down to look at my feet. “You really swam across the lake?”

I nodded my head.

“Did he put you up to it?”

“He just followed along to look out for me. It was my idea.”

“Serves you right,” she said.

Grateful fools that we were, Shiloh and I felt vindicated that the
only people hurt were us. And later we did drive to the pharmacy because Sonya developed such a bad sunburn on the points of her shoulders. As we drove back to the house Sonya fell asleep on my lap, and I would have told Alice and Shiloh about it, only Shiloh had fallen asleep and, in an instant, so had I.

15

Our Lovely Faces

Having the girl in the house gave us the illusion of a purpose. There was this wonderful feeling you got if she asked for a glass of water or a cracker or something. She was very easy to satisfy. After the disaster with the garden, it was nice to see something flourish under our care.

 

On the third perfect day, Shiloh found me alone in the kitchen.

“We need to rethink this arrangement,” he said.

Whatever he was referring to, it was clear he'd been turning the matter over in his head for some time. As far as he was concerned, the rethinking had been done.

Then it dawned on me. “You're talking about Sonya.”

“I'm talking about her alleged parents.” Shiloh had his arms crossed and his chin held up proudly.

We'd had an unspoken agreement not to discuss our guest's departure.

“They'll be here tomorrow.”

“What do you think I'm talking about? I know when they're coming. We have to consider a response.”

I could only look at him and wonder. “You want to charge them a fee or something?”

“I don't need anything from them. I want to save her, Thomas.”

“From what?”

Alice came in carrying Sonya piggyback.

“Are you girls fighting?” Alice asked us.

Sonya grabbed fistfuls of Alice's hair. “Girls!” she shouted.

“Very funny,” Shiloh said in a droll voice.

Alice attempted to lift her passenger over her head. “Let go of my hair, honey.”

“Girls!” Sonya repeated, yanking on the makeshift reins.

Tears ran down Alice's cheeks. “Help get her off me.”

“Serves
you
right,” said Shiloh.

Sonya tried to spur her mount with her heels.

Alice dumped her rider onto the kitchen table.

“You really love her, huh?” said Shiloh.

Alice grabbed the girl's ankle and spun her like a top.

“He thinks we should K-I-D-N-A-P her,” I said.

“That's not what I said,” said Shiloh.

“I won't entertain these ideas,” said Alice.

“That's what I told him.”

“What I'm talking about,” said Shiloh, “is looking out for someone's welfare.”

Sonya took Alice's hand and pulled her upstairs.

 

On the fourth day we let Sonya sleep in while the three adults moped around the kitchen getting in each other's way. Finally Sonya came down.

In our hearts we did not believe we were lucky people.

“Should we tell her?” Shiloh asked.

Alice shook her head.

Sonya stomped her feet. “Tell her.”

“We were sad you slept in,” said Shiloh, “because today is a very special day for you.”

“Birthday?”

“Better,” said Shiloh. “Today is Sonya Day.”

The girl clapped her hands ecstatically. She hopped around on one foot. Then, as though she'd suddenly remembered her manners, she curtsied to each of us.

Sonya Day began. While Shiloh worked on breakfast, Alice took our guest out for a bath. I volunteered for the most difficult job; I went through the house making sure that there would be no signs of her left in the place. I dismantled her blanket nest, collected the few
items of clothing she'd arrived with (we'd found extra undershirts and underpants stuffed in her blanket with her) and piled them together with some things Alice had bought for her, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, Flintstone vitamins.

My job done, I joined Shiloh in the kitchen. He'd made a triangular hat out of newspaper and set it at Sonya's place on the table. I stopped to admire it.

“We might take her farther upstate,” said Shiloh.

“I don't think we can.”

“Want me to tell you how? Because I've already figured it out.”

He measured love by what you'd do for someone—Sonya's family had hidden her to keep her safe, but he was proposing that we destroy the life we made for ourselves just to protect the girl.

“You just want her to know that she's wanted. Is that it?” I asked.

“I know what it's like to be raised without love, Thomas. They left their kid with strangers.”

“And you were the one who defended them. Remember? Alice would have had us return her that same night or take her to the police or something.”

“Do you think I'd make a good father?” asked Shiloh.

The question seemed directed at the surface of the table.

The two of us stared out on the field. We didn't see them anywhere. I asked him if he'd heard any cars. No, he said. Of all the things we might have done, we waited.

“You really care about her,” I said.

“I don't even know her,” said Shiloh. “But she's a kid and someone ought to be thinking about her.”

I went upstairs to find one of the girl's tiny socks, where I knew it would be, where I'd left it.

 

Alice and Sonya came in, damp hair twisted in towel turbans, faces pink, their clothes sticking to them.

I said, “We were afraid we'd lost you.”

Alice glared. She rubbed her hands up and down Sonya's arms.

“I hope everyone's clean,” said Shiloh. He looked resigned to
serving the cold food. Maybe he'd pictured the girl complimenting him, but at her age selfishness is biological.

Sonya began an excited monologue about a fort in the meadow above the house. It wasn't really clear if this was something that she wanted to build or if she was telling us a story about the ancient past. You had to listen carefully because kids always test you to make sure that you are one of those adults who actually listen to them.

I nodded my head while she talked about pillows and walls and ramps. The more she talked about it, the less certain I was that we were really talking about a fort at all. It seemed to me that this was some entirely unfamiliar category of structure. The problem, it seemed, was that no matter what she built, it was bound to disappoint her in some fashion. On the other hand, maybe her imagination would allow her to superimpose her hopes for this place over the place itself.

“Is she talking about a fort?” I whispered.

Alice shook her head.

“That's what I thought,” said Shiloh. “Because of the walls and the tower. But it's beginning to sound like something else.”

“All you two can think about are forts,” said Alice.

Sonya started talking about horses, how they were going to be tied up outside this unnamed structure.

“Maybe a tent?” I asked.

“A tent. Exactly!” Shiloh clapped his hands together. He got up and patted Alice on her back—a gesture that she didn't seem to appreciate.

“Let her finish her story,” said Alice.

In Shiloh's defense, Sonya was hardly telling a story.

“I've got a better idea,” said Shiloh. He crouched down so that his face was just inches from Sonya's. “Instead of talking about it, honey, Thomas and I will help you to build your tent.”

Sonya's head snapped sideways. She gave me such a look. I didn't know what I'd done to betray her. “Alice makes it!” she roared.

 

Shiloh brought me up to his bedroom to show me a junker bicycle he'd rescued from the dump. I don't know what he hoped to make of it. But he said if we could fix it, it might be a nice gift for Sonya. He'd
managed to correct a bend in the frame simply by standing on it, and maybe he hoped the rest of the repairs would come as easily. We attacked the bike with a few wrenches, a can of solvent, and a hammer. The oak floorboards accepted errant hammer blows. Black crumbs fell from the tires. Rubbing solvent into the rust-welded chain, I broke it in two places. Shiloh refused to recognize the hopelessness of our situation. “A bike's about the best thing a kid can have,” he said. “It's their first taste of freedom.”

There was a knock on the door. Alice came in with a particular windmill focus. She didn't even acknowledge us. She grabbed two pillows before blowing out.

Shiloh said, “What does your girlfriend know about tents?”

“You don't think she could screw it up. Do you?”

“I've made tents. I've made them with carpet scraps and garbage bags and things most people wouldn't even touch.”

“If they need to make it more disgusting, I'm sure they'll ask you.”

He turned and smiled at me. “I forgot you can be funny sometimes.”

I could feel myself blush.

We returned our attention to the bike.

“There's no way for us to fix this,” I said.

“I don't have the right tools.”

Even then.

“Do you suppose anyone's ever taken her picture before?” Shiloh asked.

My mind wandered to Pawpaw, who used to cut paper profiles of the veterans at the old soldiers' home. Once he'd made a cutout seven feet long of a circus parade, complete with elephants marching trunk to tail and acrobats doing handsprings, lions pacing in wheeled cages, the huge shoes of the clowns, and up front the top-hatted ring master, and, before him, leading the parade, a single boy beating a bass drum. I wanted to tell Shiloh that the boy was me.

After retrieving his camera from the cigar box, we went downstairs. In the kitchen Alice assembled cucumber sandwiches.

“We're going to take her picture,” announced Shiloh.

Alice looked up from her task. “You got film for that thing?”

Shiloh and I shared a look.

By draping a sheet over three intersecting clotheslines, Alice had created a child-scale space. Breezes pulled ripples across the walls of the tent. At the entrance a burgundy runner extended like a tongue. Shiloh got down on his knees and crawled in. Inside, the light filtering through the sheets made the rug look as dark as blood. Sonya had taken her turban off and draped it over a bank of pillows where she reclined. Her posture suggested royal casualness. She'd placed eight white flowers in the eight creases between her toes. I didn't crawl inside; there was no room for me. I know what he saw because it was preserved in the picture. Shiloh backed out of the tent and flapped the sheet of milky emulsion in front of me. What emerged first was a composition of dark and light—the bright slash of the girl suspended over a pit that would become the rug, a single slim shadow indicating the vertical on the radiant scrim walls. When the film finished developing, there was something wrong with it. The only color on her face was dots of pink, no bigger than thumbprints, right beneath her eyes. Her body wasn't draped over the pillows as much as pitched over them, with her bony knees, hard belly, and its knot of navel. We looked at her pinched nose, at the shadows in her eyes. The photo made clear that what we'd mistaken for beauty was a fleeting prettiness. It showed that her eyes weren't totally under her control. Her sadness was too close to her skin, and she had a crooked smile. Even at four Sonya seemed aware of these shortcomings. Her gaze was all boudoir, as if she believed that she would be forced to gift those minor fortunes of youth and prettiness to hungry, inexpressive men, for them to squander.