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Warm

Bob Strother

    Lucas Granger pulled the thin cotton blanket tighter around his shoulders and peered over the back seat. The car, a twelve-year-old ’70 Dodge sedan, sat nosed-in to a row of bushy, red-berried hollies bordering the Walmart parking lot. He shivered despite the blanket and two layers of clothing covering his skinny body.
    For the last three weeks, since they’d been evicted from their tiny apartment, his mom, with Lucas in tow, had applied for work at every business within walking distance of the car—all to no avail. No wonder, he thought. Even at age nine, Lucas knew they looked like what they were—homeless, washing in department store restrooms, sleeping in the car. The little money they’d had was gone within days. Since then, he and his mom made the rounds of the soup kitchens during the day, huddled on benches at the mall between meals, and retreated to the car at night. They’d run the heater off and on until the last of the gasoline played out and the engine coughed, sputtered, and died. That was two days ago.
    “It’s going to be all right,” his mom had told him earlier that evening as he sat with his teeth chattering from the cold. “I’ll find a job soon. In the meantime, I’m going to get us another blanket.”
    “But, Mom—”
    She placed a slender finger to his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.” Then she left the car, walked the hundred or so yards to the entrance of Walmart, and disappeared inside.
    That had been over half an hour ago, and Lucas was worried. He folded the blanket, opened the car door, and stepped out into the parking lot. The wind caused his eyes to tear as he crossed the asphalt, buffeting his small body while he threaded his way among the rows of parked vehicles to the store’s entrance. Once inside, he smelled the aromas from the café located to the right of the doorway: frying hamburgers and fresh ground coffee—a beverage he’d never tried but which now seemed very appealing.
    Ignoring his rumbling stomach and the saliva building in his mouth, Lucas looked first at the line of checkout stations on his left and then down the long row straight ahead. He opted to walk the aisles from right to left, vowing to search the whole store if he had to. His mom had to be there somewhere. After a while, he found himself in the “Home” section, eyeing the selection of blankets and comforters, noting the prices, and wondering how they could possibly afford one.
    It took almost fifteen minutes to search the store, but he saw no sign of his mom. Lucas even checked the restrooms at the rear of the store. He knocked on the ladies’ room door and called out softly, “Mom? Are you in there?” Then, a bit louder, “Mom, it’s me, Lucas. Are you in there?” When he received no response, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and started back up the long aisle toward the cashiers. Disappointed and a little frightened, he decided to stop at the customer service desk. He’d heard the in-store announcements before, like when a kid got separated from his parents. He’d ask them to page his mom.
    He’d covered less than half the distance when he glimpsed a woman who looked like his mom whisked toward the front of the store by a man dressed in blue. It was only for a second, his view cut off by the tall rows of products on either side of the aisle. Still, he recognized the auburn hair and the gray coat. It must be her! “Mom!” he cried. But she was gone. He began to run—twisting and weaving among the shoppers, nearly falling once when he tripped on the wheel of a shopping cart. He slid to a stop at the end of the aisle, his eyes darting in a dozen directions at once. She must be going back to the car. He hurried to the exit just in time to see his mom placed into a police car. No, he thought, this can’t be happening.
    Lucas pounded on the doors—they were supposed to open automatically—and finally realized he was at the entrance rather than the exit, and lunged to his right. The doors eased open, but too slowly. By the time he squeezed through, the police car was halfway across the parking lot. Lucas raced across the blacktop and almost fell again when a car screeched to a halt just inches from him, its horn blaring. He continued on, half-blind with tears, craning to see over the parked cars and trucks. He saw the police car stop beside the old Dodge, saw the officer get out and look inside, then return to his vehicle and pull away.
    Lucas stopped, his breath coming hard, heart fluttering like a caged bird. He stood in the parking lot for what seemed hours but was only minutes, wondering what to do. Somehow, some way, he had to get to his mom. Finally, he returned to the store. In the entranceway, between the two sets of doors, he spotted a wall-mounted pay telephone and, beneath it a ragged copy of the directory. Using his finger to scroll down through the listings, he found the one for the police department. After looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he tore the page free and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
    Lucas thought about asking one of the shoppers for a quarter so he could call the police, but his mother’s words echoed in his mind: We’ll never ask for money, Lucas. We’re down on our luck, that’s all. We may have to eat at the missions, but we’re not beggars.
    He stepped back inside the store and sat down in the café, his mind a jumble. He waited for over an hour, feeling small and scared and hoping his mother might return. He thought maybe he could ask one of the employees there if he could use their phone. But when he looked, the line of shoppers waiting for customer service stretched almost to the rows of product shelves. Lucas glanced at the clock over the desk—almost closing time. He’d probably never make it. Besides, he’d torn the page out of the telephone directory. They’d see it if he used the phone, and maybe have him arrested, too.
    He would spend the night in the car, he thought, just like he’d been doing. And then, in the morning, he’d get directions to the police station, walk all day if he had to, but he’d get there. And he’d be with his mom again.
    As soon as he left the store, Lucas saw the flashing lights at the far corner of the parking lot. For a second, he thought the police had returned to take him to his mother. Then he realized the lights were not like the ones he’d seen on police vehicles; they were yellow—the flashing lights of a tow truck—and they were hauling the old Dodge away. He ran once more across the lot, yelling at the top of his lungs for the truck to stop, but the wind swallowed his shouts. The truck turned out of the lot and onto the road. He’d missed it.
    What Lucas didn’t know—couldn’t have known as he stood forlornly in the middle of the parking lot—was that he’d also missed the arrival of a child welfare worker dispatched to collect him. The call went out over the store’s public address system moments before closing and seconds after he walked outside: “Lucas Granger, if you are in the store, please come to the customer service desk. We have information about your mother.”

.....

    Lucas couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet. The wind, now full of snow, howled around him, burning his ears and adding to the tears he cried in frustration. He’d walked in what he figured was the general direction of downtown, searching the streaming traffic for a police car. If he could spot one and flag it down, they’d take him to his mother. But the task had proven futile.
    After a while, his whole body trembling with cold, he spied a large single-story building set back from the roadside. The sign, mounted on a tall metal pole read “Comfort Inn” and promised single rooms for only fifty-nine-ninety-five a night. With that much money, Lucas thought, we could have bought lots of gas for the car, maybe have gone for weeks running the engine on and off like we did. Oh, how he missed the old Dodge now, his thin cotton blanket, and the smell and feel of his mother’s warm body next to his.
    Inside the building, behind the big plate glass window, a man sat at a counter, drinking from a white cup. Lucas remembered how the coffee had smelled back at the Walmart, imagined how the liquid would feel warming his belly. He might let me have a cup if I ask nicely. Maybe he would even let me sit for a few minutes in the lobby, just long enough to stop shivering.
    Lucas wove his way through a bed of small junipers, stepped out onto the motel’s paved parking area, and was heading toward the front door when he noticed a shadowy figure stumble around the far corner of the building. The man had wild eyes and carried something by his side—something that glinted in the light, sharp and dangerous-looking. A knife! Lucas thought.
    He ran as fast as he could and spun around the corner of the building farthest from the man, his eyes searching frantically for a place to hide. He spotted a small alcove between the office building and nearest motel room, ducked into the darkened recess, and sat down in the corner, curling his body into a tight ball. It was quiet, protected from the blowing wind and snow. Lucas breathed shallowly, trembling now from fear as well as cold. A few seconds later, a figure appeared at the mouth of the alcove, silhouetted against the wan light creeping in from the parking lot. Lucas drew himself up even tighter, closed his eyes, and waited.

.....

    Hoyt Williams chewed and swallowed the last bite of his Cantonese chicken, pushed back from the motel room desk he’d used as a dining table, and carefully folded down the cardboard flaps of the grease-stained take-out containers. The fast food Chinese restaurant wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it was cheap and within walking distance. He dropped the remnants of his dinner into the wastebasket and tied the edges of the thin plastic basket liner into a tight knot. Didn’t need a smelly reminder of dinner plaguing him through the night; the acid reflux he suffered on the road would be quite enough.
    He went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and thought about calling his wife, but it was already close to eleven, Chicago time. In Atlanta, it was almost midnight. The kids were long asleep, and Dianne wouldn’t be happy if the phone woke them on a school night. He sighed. Three client calls in the morning, then a late afternoon flight from O’Hare to Hartsfield International would get him home by nine o’clock if he was lucky. A hurried weekend—soccer and karate with the kids on Saturday, a family dinner and TV that evening—and then back to the grind with a flight out to St. Louis on Sunday afternoon. Not exactly the life he’d dreamed about as a young man, but it paid the bills.
    Hoyt removed his shoes, shirt, and trousers and placed them in the closet. He was peeling back the bedcovers when he heard a knock on the motel room door. That’s odd, he thought, wondering why anyone would knock at this time of night. He stepped to the door, squinted through the peephole, and saw a man standing on the concrete walkway fronting the row of rooms. Hoyt thought of cracking the door—the chain lock was engaged, and the man didn’t immediately appear threatening. But he changed his mind and, instead, pulled aside the drape from the window near the door.
    The shaft of light from Hoyt’s room bathed the man’s grizzled face in a harsh yellow glow. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair stringy and disheveled, and the wind lashed his tattered coat like the banners flying over Soldier Field. The man held the top of a broken whiskey bottle in his hand, one shard protruding from the bottle’s neck like the glistening shaft of a dagger.
    “What do you want?” Hoyt shouted through the glass.
    The man staggered backward, as if caught off guard by Hoyt’s voice, and it was then that Hoyt noticed the stranger’s feet were bare. No shoes? It must be fifteen degrees out there!
    Then the man lurched toward the window, steadied himself with a hand on the glass, and locked his vacant eyes on Hoyt’s. “Do you believe in heaven?” he asked.
    Hoyt stared at the man and finally said, “What?”
    The man stared back. “Do you believe in heaven?”
    Obviously, Hoyt thought, the guy’s drunk. He wondered if he should call the motel manager—get the police to come pick him up. But the guy’s eyes weren’t that of a drunk’s. What Hoyt had imagined as alcohol-induced redness now seemed like something far more complicated: lost, soulless, damned. “Sure, I guess so. Why?”
    The man nodded, torrents of tears flowing down his stubbly cheeks. “Do you think kids go to heaven? All kids?”
    A picture of Hoyt’s own children flashed through his brain, snuggled safely in their beds, dreaming maybe. He wanted more than anything else to be home with them, to pull the bedcovers up around their shoulders and give them a goodnight kiss. “Yeah, yeah, I do. I believe all kids go to heaven.”
    The man nodded again and backed away from Hoyt’s window. He turned, stumbled, and caught the portico railing to steady himself. Then he trudged into the parking lot.
    Hoyt let the drape slip back into place and stood there for a full minute before sitting down on the side of the bed. He couldn’t get those eyes out of his head. And his feet—no shoes in this weather! Pushing himself off the bed, Hoyt went to the suitcase sitting on the foldout luggage rack. He dug around until he found a pair of sneakers—the ones he kept for the rare occasions when he mustered enough energy to use a motel exercise room. He slipped into his slacks and shirt, shrugged into his overcoat, and opened the door to his room. He was probably crazy, but damned if he’d let the guy walk away without something to put on his feet.
    Flashing red, white, and blue lights painted the row of motel rooms like a 1970s disco. The patrol car sat in front of the office, exhaust fumes whipping into the air and then disappearing into the maelstrom of driving wind and snow. Hoyt pulled the coat tighter around his neck and made his way toward the lobby. As he passed, he saw the shoeless man in the back of the cruiser. The guy stared straight ahead, like he was somewhere else, his cheeks still glistening with tears.
    Inside, the manager leaned on the counter, talking quietly with one of the two police officers. Hoyt waited until they were through and the officer stepped outside to use his radio. “I brought some shoes for that guy. He knocked on my door. I saw he was barefoot.”
    “Well,” the manager said, “yours wasn’t the only door he knocked on, and somebody wasn’t nearly as compassionate. They called the cops.” The manager sidled closer to Hoyt and lowered his voice. “I feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch. Seems his trailer burned to the ground early this morning while he was at work—faulty kerosene heater, or something. Anyway, his two kids were inside. They didn’t make it out.”
    Hoyt thought again about his own kids, thought he’d call his wife after all, regardless of the hour. He set the pair of sneakers on the counter. “See that the cops give him these, will you?”
    The manager nodded his agreement, and Hoyt stepped outside into the near blizzard. As he rounded the corner of the lobby, he glanced into the alcove, walked on a few more feet, then paused and came back. He leaned in for a closer look. At first it looked like a pile of rags, but in the scant light, he saw the curvature of a pale forehead. He moved all the way inside and sank to his knees next to the figure. Hoyt brushed a stray lock of hair from the boy’s forehead and touched his cheek. It was cold, freezing cold. He felt for a pulse at the boy’s throat. Was it there? Did he feel something? He couldn’t tell. Hoyt swallowed hard as he hefted the frail bundle and struggled back to the lobby.
    The two patrolmen were just getting into their car when Hoyt rounded the corner.
    “I need help,” Hoyt yelled and pushed through the double entrance doors with the officers trailing behind him.
    “What happened?” asked the first officer through the door.
    “I don’t know. I just found him.” Hoyt lowered the boy to a lobby sofa, slipped off his overcoat, and tucked it around the boy’s narrow shoulders.
    The second officer, the older of the two, frowned. “Is he alive?”
    Hoyt knelt and put his hand on the boy’s chest. He noted the lack of color in the boy’s face and the thin blue lines forming his lips. He looked up at the cop and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

.....

    Lucas kept waiting, expecting at any moment to hear the footsteps of the man who had sent him running for the alcove. But when he dared to open his eyes, the man was gone. After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal. The wind raged outside his dank refuge, snow swirling like a swarm of mad moths. Lucas tucked his hands under his armpits. He wanted—no, desperately needed—to get up and find his way back to the motel office. But what if the guy’s waiting just outside the alcove, ready to grab me? No, it was safer there, in the dark. He closed his eyes again.
    At some point, he felt a hand on his forehead—not the gnarled, calloused, claw-like hand he imagined his pursuer would have—but soft, like his mom’s. He opened his eyes and she knelt beside him. Mom! I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me.
    It’s all right, Lucas. I’m here now. We’ll be fine.
    She lifted him and nestled him in her arms. Together, they emerged from the alcove and made their way out into the gale. Despite the cold, the wind, and the frenzied snow, Lucas smiled. He looked into his mother’s face and saw that she was smiling, too, the kind of smile a mother reserves only for a beloved son.
    And, for the first time in what seemed like ages, Lucas was warm.

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