A tall man in a dark suit brought the angry-eyed child to the church door. The man was silent, red-faced, and his lips were turned down into a "professional" scowl. The boy at his side, no older than five, was also very silent, very red, and scowling at the habited woman who came to them. The child stood stiffly, his coffee-brown gaze leveled and blank. He was a cold child, with cold hands, and a particularly cold shoulder. The woman smiled; she had a kind face, and the boy noticed with some contempt that her wrinkles made her smile seem permanent. He had not smiled in a long while.
"I've brought you another."
"He has a good chance," she cooed, "They favor boys so young."
"I doubt that he'll be leaving you."
The boy wet his lips and turned his eyes to the ground. There was a caterpillar crawling across the cemented step, and he lifted a red-sneakered foot to crush the insect. Neither the nun nor the dark-suited man noticed.
"His mother was hit by a bus," the man said, and then, in a more hushed voice, "missed him by a meter; he was chasing a ball." nun nodded, understanding that the woman surely ran to save her child. He had a skinned knee. Perhaps she threw him.
"And where's your father, young man," she asked him gently, kneeling to look at him. The boy's head jerked up, eyes accusatory, as he said, "Dunno' him."
The woman was afraid, and hesitated to touch him. He smiled at her, but there was no mirth in it; he dropped the façade quickly, and knew that she would be grateful. They always were.
"Introduce yourself, son," the tall, suited man said, a hand fluttering about the boy's shoulder.
"I ain't your son," was his only answer, before he shoved his way inside the church. "And I don't pray."
He would cry in private, hugging the pillow they gave him, and ask his mother if it was his fault she was gone, too. She'd always said, his father had left because of him, though she hadn't meant to hurt him. The tall man at the door watched his back get smaller, and shook his head. The nun sighed sadly.
"We have our work cut out for us, I see."
"His name is Ken," the social worker said, bowing his head to the woman. "I'm sorry he'll be such a bother."
The nun shook her head, and bid the man farewell. She found Ken in the empty room they had prepared for him.
"You'll be comfortable here," she told him, though he did not look at her, "and soon you'll feel we are your family."
Ken did not say anything.
"You're a good boy," she said, nodding. "At heart."
When the door closed, he let his fist lash out at the pillow. He knew that he would not feel at home among strangers. He was an angry child, and would be for a long, long time.
"I've brought you another."
"He has a good chance," she cooed, "They favor boys so young."
"I doubt that he'll be leaving you."
The boy wet his lips and turned his eyes to the ground. There was a caterpillar crawling across the cemented step, and he lifted a red-sneakered foot to crush the insect. Neither the nun nor the dark-suited man noticed.
"His mother was hit by a bus," the man said, and then, in a more hushed voice, "missed him by a meter; he was chasing a ball." nun nodded, understanding that the woman surely ran to save her child. He had a skinned knee. Perhaps she threw him.
"And where's your father, young man," she asked him gently, kneeling to look at him. The boy's head jerked up, eyes accusatory, as he said, "Dunno' him."
The woman was afraid, and hesitated to touch him. He smiled at her, but there was no mirth in it; he dropped the façade quickly, and knew that she would be grateful. They always were.
"Introduce yourself, son," the tall, suited man said, a hand fluttering about the boy's shoulder.
"I ain't your son," was his only answer, before he shoved his way inside the church. "And I don't pray."
He would cry in private, hugging the pillow they gave him, and ask his mother if it was his fault she was gone, too. She'd always said, his father had left because of him, though she hadn't meant to hurt him. The tall man at the door watched his back get smaller, and shook his head. The nun sighed sadly.
"We have our work cut out for us, I see."
"His name is Ken," the social worker said, bowing his head to the woman. "I'm sorry he'll be such a bother."
The nun shook her head, and bid the man farewell. She found Ken in the empty room they had prepared for him.
"You'll be comfortable here," she told him, though he did not look at her, "and soon you'll feel we are your family."
Ken did not say anything.
"You're a good boy," she said, nodding. "At heart."
When the door closed, he let his fist lash out at the pillow. He knew that he would not feel at home among strangers. He was an angry child, and would be for a long, long time.