I'll never let you down
No harm will ever come to you
As long as I'm around
I am not afraid of what people say or do
The only thing I fear is being here
Without you
--from Bobby by Reba MacIntire
I stared down at Isaac in disbelief.
"Honey," I whispered. "What are you talking about?" A cry from the crowd startled me from those big dark eyes.
"But it couldn't have been Mary!" It was Mrs. Smith, staggering towards us in her robe and slippers. I thought it might've been the first time she was out of her trailer in years. "It couldn't, it couldn't! I saw one of the Morgan girls walking outside while I was talking to Mary! She couldn't have done it!" Another whisper went through the crowd. Despite the thoughts rushing through my mind, I gripped Isaac's hand even tighter.
"Then who?" shouted someone. I stared straight ahead, but my eyes were being tugged towards Isaac.
No, my mind screamed. If you look at him, they'll know you know! Even though I wasn't sure if I did know, my gaze trailed down to Isaac. Another ripple of sound went through the crowd. I dropped slowly to my knees, still feeling rather numb and distant.
"Isaac," I said slowly, taking his hand gently in mine. It took me a moment to pry my other hand from his. "Isaac, honey, what do you mean that you did what I asked?" He stared innocently back at me.
"You said they needed to get what they deserved." I stroked his hand lightly with my thumb, turning it over to rub his palm soothingly. It was something I had done since he was little, when he had nightmares or got upset. It always seemed to calm him down -- but right now he wasn't upset or afraid. Isaac was perfectly complacent. I rubbed his palm anyway. Maybe it was more for me than him.
"You're not saying that," I whispered. "Don't sound like that, Isaac--" And then I looked down at his hand. There was something... wrong with it. I squinted and leaned closer.
There was dried blood under his tiny, perfect nails.
"Oh, God," I choked, and the mob shifted threateningly.
"He did it, didn't he?" murmured someone. I swallowed thickly and released his hand. I pulled myself slowly to my feet and looked around. More people had moved towards the trailer. Those people were gasping and clutching their stomachs and scurrying off towards their own trailers. To call the cops, my mind said harshly. They're going to call the cops.
"No," I whispered, glancing around the crowd.
They're going to take him away.
"No," I said again, louder this time. "No, he didn't do it!"
"My girls!" Mrs. Morgan sobbed. I groped blindly and felt something soft-- Isaac's jacket. I took hold of it and pulled him in front of me, dropping to my knees again.
"No!" I wasn't even sure of what I was doing anymore. All I knew was that when things like this happened, they took the child away from the parents. The parents never saw him again. It would be a punishment for Isaac -- but even moreso, it would be a punishment for me.
They'll take him away and you'll never see him again.
"He didn't hurt anyone!" I cried. The crowd shifted again and moved closer. I pulled Isaac to me in a tight hug, pressing his face into my shoulder. "He's just a baby!"
"I called the police," someone whispered. "They're on their way." That wasn't meant for my ears, but I heard it anyway. I pulled the little boy even closer, my heart pounding in my throat.
"He's just a baby!" I shouted again. "Please!" Mrs. Smith stepped out of the crowd.
"Mary," she said kindly, wringing her hands. "Please, Mary. Just let us see little Isaac and we can help."
They're going to take him away.
"NO!" I screamed, and did the only thing I could think to do. I ran.
It was a good thing I ran when I did. It caught the crowd by surprise, and Isaac and I were a good fifty feet ahead before they figured to go after us. By then, we were already out of the trailer park and into the woods.
"Hurry," I gasped, pulling him along behind me. "Hurry, Isaac, you have to go faster!"
"I'm going as fast as I can," he complained, and there was a little yelp. It took me a moment to realize that the firm grip on my hand was gone. I whirled quickly, staggering back to where Isaac lay hunched on the ground.
"What's wrong?" I panted as I took him by the arm. Isaac looked up and sniffled.
"My knee," he whimpered, showing it to me. It was only a scrape, but bloody enough to look like it hurt.
"Honey," I murmured, but the police sirens caught me offguard. I hooked my hands beneath Isaac's arms, hoisted him up, and held him tightly as I began running again. We were halfway through the straggly trees -- it was an urban forest, after all -- when the sirens stopped and it didn't seem that anyone was following us.
I dropped to my knees, panting. Isaac was still cradled tightly against my chest.
"You didn't do it," I gasped, pressing his face to my shoulder. "I know you didn't. You couldn't have."
"My knee hurts," Isaac sniffled. I sobbed quietly, but pulled him away and sat him down on the ground. I had to regain composure -- I was the adult, after all.
"Let me see," I said softly. He bent his leg to expose the rip in his jeans. The scrape was still bleeding, but not too much. "It's not that bad." Isaac sniffled and wiped his face on his sleeve.
"It hurts." That struck me as rather funny; the little boy might have committed murder, and his biggest worry was his scraped knee. I laughed -- a high, hysterical sound -- and Isaac scowled. "It's not funny," he muttered. I recovered quickly and shook my head.
"No, it's not." I paused, wondering what to use for a bandage. His scarf, I thought suddenly, and began pulling it off of him. "Here, sweetheart," I murmured, dabbing at his injury. "I'll make it better. Just hold still." Isaac wiped his eyes on his sleeve again and whimpered.
" 'Kay." I wiped up the little amount of blood and began wrapping the scarf around his knee.
"It's not that bad," I said in a soft voice, winding it tightly around the wound. "I promise, it's fine." I tied it off carefully, then bent forward and gave the scarf-wrapped knee a light kiss. Isaac sniffled quietly.
"Thank you." I gave him a weak smile and suddenly felt very depressed -- this was how things went normally. I did this only two days ago when he'd hurt his finger in the door, but this time we were on the run from the police. For murder.
"You're welcome," I said tearily, and put my face in my hands.
Stop, you're supposed to be strong!
But I started crying anyway. There was a long period of silence before I felt a little hand on my shoulder.
"Don't cry, Mary," Isaac murmured. I shuddered a little, unable to repress a sob.
"I'm... sorry," I whispered, and the little boy pulled one of my hands away from my face.
What's he going to do, chop it off?
I pushed the dark thoughts away.
No, because he loves you. You love him, and he loves you.
Isaac rubbed my palm gently, and I felt a weird sense of deja-vu.
"Don't cry, Mary," he said soothingly. "I didn't think it would make you sad. I thought it would make you happy." I shook my head a little, looking at the ground instead of his face.
"Don't say things like that. It makes it sound like you did it." Isaac paused, then returned to stroking my hand carefully.
"But you said," he insisted. "You said they should get what they deserved, and they called me a little monster--" The tears were there again, hot and painful.
"Stop it!" I gasped, looking up at Isaac at last. "Stop it! You didn't do it, and you can't let them make you think otherwise!" I couldn't help it now -- I was supposed to be strong, to be the adult, but it was all too much. I surrendered to the quiet sobs, pressing my face against my free hand. Isaac hesitated again. He released my hand and sat back for a moment before crawling forward and leaning against me.
"Don't cry, Mary," he said again, and snuggled against my chest. I immediately put my arms around him in a tearful hug, pressing my cheek against the top of his head. I was nearly ready to stop crying when Isaac spoke again. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee." I swallowed, frowning in confusion, but smoothed his hair anyway.
"Isaac," I said slowly, but the little boy went on.
"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus." Isaac nestled into me gently and sighed. "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners -- now and at the hour of our death." I frowned in earnest confusion, stroking his hair carefully.
"Isaac," I repeated. He looked up at me with big dark eyes.
"Amen."
"Isaac," I said again, and he leaned his cheek against my shoulder.
"What?" Isaac asked innocently. I shook my head slowly.
"We're not Catholic." He gave me a sweet smile.
"I know."
