Kiyanna laughed. ‘Let’s get in there and have a drink on it,’ she said.
Hannah felt something she hadn’t felt in such a long time. A festive evening unfolding. Friendships being forged. It was almost like being home. ‘Yes, let’s,’ she said.
Mamie had made them a supper of macaroni and cheese with some applesauce. Sydney had eaten heartily but still eagerly attacked the piece of cake when Mamie put it in front of her on a little plate.
‘Aren’t you gonna have cake?’ the child asked Mamie.
Mamie grimaced and rubbed her chest. ‘Not right yet,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling a little . . . something . . . indigestion.’
Sydney finished her cake and carefully carried her plate across the room. She had to stand on tiptoes to put it on the counter next to the sink. Then she turned to look at Mamie. ‘Can I watch TV now?’ she asked.
‘You sure can.’ Mamie struggled to her feet, and glanced at the sink. ‘I’m gonna leave them dishes till later,’ she said apologetically.
Sydney had already scampered out into the living room and was pushing buttons on the remote.
‘Now just stop that,’ said Mamie. ‘Let me do that.’ She took the remote from the child and aimed it at the TV.
‘Come on, now. Oh, what’s wrong with this thing?’ Mamie shook the remote, frowning at it.
‘I can do it,’ said Sydney.
Mamie shook her head. ‘You probably could. Better than I could.’ Mamie peered at the remote, and then suddenly, she squeezed her eyes shut. She let the remote fall from her hand. It clattered on the worn wood floor beyond the Oriental rug.
Sydney rushed to pick it up. ‘You dropped this, Miss Mamie.’ She held it up to the old woman, and then took a frightened step back. There was a terrible look on Miss Mamie’s face, and she was clutching her chest. Her warm brown skin had taken on a grayish cast.
‘Oh, Lord,’ Mamie whispered. ‘Something is wrong.’ And then she collapsed on the floor.
Sydney began to whimper. She cautiously approached the woman lying on the floor. ‘Miss Mamie,’ she whispered.
The old woman did not answer.
‘Miss Mamie, wake up,’ Sydney pleaded, pushing her shoulder with her pudgy fingers. But the old woman did not stir.
‘Miss Mamie,’ she cried, and then, when there was still no answer, Sydney began to wail.
TWO
Dominga was nodding off. The empty pint bottle of Night Train had slid off her lap and landed, still in the brown-paper bag, on the dry grass beside the wall. Every so often Dominga started, and had to right herself on the low wall where she was sitting, but then the haze would return. She had the dream that she often dreamed. She was back in the desert camp, dry and dusty. The men around her were strangers, not the buddies she knew. Everywhere she looked guys were maimed and bleeding. Dominga knew it was her responsibility to go after the enemy, but her arms and legs would not move. It was like she was paralyzed. The sergeant was yelling but Dominga couldn’t figure out what he was saying.
Someone in the camp began to cry. It sounded like a child crying, and Dominga knew she had to find the child, to help. But where? She jerked awake. The wailing did not end with the dream. She heard it still. The frantic cries were coming from the window of the house behind her. Dominga blinked a few times, and forced her eyes to stay open. The child’s cries were piercing, jangling her nerves. Dominga stood up unsteadily.
As she gathered her wits, she realized that it was the voice of a little girl, a little girl calling for help.
Unlike in the dream, all her training, so long ignored and forgotten, seemed to return to her in a torrent of protocols which she needed to remember. She struggled to pull herself together. Weaving slightly, she made her way to the break in the wall, and up the walkway to the front stoop of the old house. Carefully, she climbed the steps, and hesitated. The cries came again. She leaned over and peered into the bay window, her eyes blinking to adjust to the light within. Then she saw where the cries were coming from. A little blonde-haired girl was huddled on the floor, next to the body of an old black woman with gray hair. The child was crying out at the old woman, ‘Miss Mamie, Miss Mamie!’
Dominga felt a rush of pity for the child. She knew how it felt to be left alone like that. She had felt that way for much of her young life. She did not want to frighten the child any further. ‘Hey, little one. It’s OK,’ she called out as kindly as she could. ‘It’s OK. I’ll help you.’
The child looked up, perplexed by the voice coming through the window.
For a moment, her sobbing stopped.
‘Listen to me,’ Dominga said. ‘Do you know how to unlock the front door?’
The child’s eyes were wide and filled with abject terror. ‘Nooooo . . .’ She began to sob again.
Dominga thought about it. The child was pretty small. She probably wouldn’t be able to reach the lock and turn it. The woman on the floor was lying still. She might be dead. If she had a phone, she’d use it, but Dominga was using tracphones that she bought at the bodega, and the last one she had just ran out of minutes. Dominga had to make a quick decision. In a way it felt good. The adrenaline was pumping through her, and her head felt clear. She hesitated, and then she decided.
Years of living in the neighborhood had taught her to keep a weapon handy when she was on the street. A switchblade rested in the zippered pocket of her nylon jacket. She pulled
