Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer

would have no other choice.

       As for himself, he would do just as he always had. Things would turn out well. He had organized everything so carefully, putting the building blocks in perfect order, setting each of the safeguards in place. He was cautious at all times, so that nothing could catch him by surprise.

       Still, he jumped when his cell phone rang. Turning from the window, he put the phone to his ear as he dropped to the edge of a chair. “Yes?” Keeping his voice low, he spoke into the receiver.

       “Hey, this is Sam Hawke over at Haven. How are you today, sir?”

       The light tone jangled his nerves. He frowned. Not the call he’d been hoping for.

       “Fine, and you?” he responded, forcing civility.

       “Good.” There was a brief pause. “Listen, I thought I’d better let you know that someone from the Post-Dispatch dropped by today.”

       “A reporter?” His nostrils flared as he took in air. “Why? What did he want?”

       “It was a woman. She’s doing an article on our lead paint problem. I think Davidson may have put her up to it.”

       “Davidson? Why would he do that?”

       “I don’t know, sir. I can’t see how that kind of publicity can be good for us.”

       “Absolutely not.”

       “Maybe Davidson doesn’t see this situation the way I do, but I chose not to cooperate with the lady. We’re having enough trouble raising money without the newspaper dragging our name through the mud.”

       “What did you tell this reporter?”

       “That we’re aware of the problem and plan to fix it.”

       “Good.” He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. The pain behind his eyes was intense. “I affirm your decision completely, Sam. You don’t need reporters nosing around there, that’s for sure.”

       “I agree. I thought I’d better let you know in case Davidson mentions it.”

       “Certainly. I’ll make sure he understands our point of view. I may give him a call right now, in fact. We need to be on the same page.”

       “Great. Thanks, sir.”

       “Listen, Sam…if she comes around again, let me know.”

       “I doubt she’ll be back. I made my position clear.”

       “Excellent. And again, thank you for the call. You were right to bring me up to speed. Anything like this…don’t hesitate to phone.”

       “Will do. Better run.”

       As the phone went dead, he let out a hot breath. Lovely. A reporter. He should have gotten a name. Clenching his fist around the phone, he turned back to the window.

       He stood, stretched his stiff muscles and crossed toward the door. He needed to make some phone calls, but they could wait. Right now, he was going to have to do something about this headache. He hadn’t visited his special closet in many months, and he preferred to keep it that way. But commonplace antidotes didn’t work for him as they did for others. He was unique in so many ways. As usual, he would have to take care of himself. He always had.

      Again I see the lightbulb, and I am glad. I close my eyes. Maybe if I close them, I can hide. I want to hide, because I am afraid. Afraid of the room. The terrible room. And the man. The good mean kind cruel love-me hurt-me man.

      I say a prayer now. Thank you, God, for the lightbulb.

      This is not a prayer I learned in church. My mother used to take me to church, but now we do not go. I have forgotten all those prayers.

      I have not forgotten God. Has He forgotten me?

      No. I know He is with me, because He gave me the lightbulb. When the pain begins, I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling. The white ceiling. Swirls and patterns, like a white river. Like snow on a river.

      I see that lightbulb, and I am not afraid. It glows, shining into my eyes, and I stare at it. I stare and stare until my head hurts. I stare until the blackness comes. I command my eyes to travel into the light, into the whiteness of the bulb, the roundness, the glass, the ceiling, the swirls…

      …and it is the sun, the bright sun, and I am running up the hill with my little sister. Come, Aurelia! Hurry up! Mama is calling. Can’t you hear her? We will be late for supper! We will miss our beans and tamales.

      Green grass cools our bare feet as we run. Our wet skirts slap against our thighs. We played in the stream near our house today, looking for treasures. We found a tire and a shoe. We found a plastic bottle. We found a battery. Oh, such treasures!

      Hurry, Aurelia! I hear her laughing behind me, and I tug on her small hand.

      We reach the lane, warm brown stones under our feet. Hot dust swirling around our ankles. Broken glass—be careful, Aurelia! Watch where you are stepping! Don’t hurt yourself!

      I take care of Aurelia, and she is safe with me. She laughs and laughs, as though missing our supper is part of the great adventure of this wonderful day. She knows I will get food for her, even if we miss the supper. Even if Mama puts everything away, I will find something for us to eat.

      My feet bounce and skip and sing up the path, past the houses, past the wide porches and the children and the mamas and papas and the grandmas. I feel the sun shining on my face, warming my cheeks, kissing me with love. Oh, God, thank you for the sun! For the bright light. For Aurelia and the dusty path and the tamales waiting for us in our home.

      Do I hear my mother’s voice? She calls! The smell of roses curls around me, and I am nearly home. Nearly there. I am coming, Mama! I am bringing Aurelia! She’s safe with me.

      We run through the light, the heat, the brightness. We run up to our front door, out of breath, laughing, too silly to worry about tamales. I throw my head back, and my hair tumbles down behind me in a waterfall. The sun dances across my cheeks. I open my eyes and look into the sun, the bright white shining sun, the glowing glaring gleaming sun…

      …and now I see that the sun is a round, white glass. It is small, and it hangs from the sky by a single black cord. It is the lightbulb. It has saved me again.

      Thank you, God.

       Chapter Two

       S am spotted her the moment she stepped through the metal detector at the front door of Haven.

      “Great,” he muttered.

      Raydell Watson scowled as he followed the direction of Sam’s gaze. The brawny eighteen-year-old usually asked to work guard duty at Haven’s front door, and Sam had come to rely on him to keep troublemakers out of the recreation center. Despite Raydell’s youth, his dreadlocks, gold tooth and massive tattooed biceps made him an imposing barrier. He loved rap music, and his foul mouth had gotten him into trouble at the center more than once. A life spent mostly on the inner-city streets had hardened the boy at an early age. But to the best of Sam’s knowledge, Raydell had no gang or drug ties, and his loyalty to Haven was unquestionable.

      A few minutes before, Raydell had relinquished his responsibilities to a younger boy and had come inside to cool off. Standing beside Sam, he watched the basketball game.

      “It’s that newspaper reporter,” Sam said. “I’m supervising practice, and I don’t have time to talk to her this afternoon.”

      Hadn’t he made it clear there would be no interview? Of course he had. But here it was just two days later, and she was back, sniffing around like a hound dog on a hot trail.

      “Lucius, pick up your feet!” Sam barked as a boy barreled past, nearly tripping on his own sneakers.

      “What’s a reporter want with you, man?”