THIRTY-THREE

The line rang once, twice. Sara waited, cell phone to her ear, wondered if she had the right number. The sheriff had run interference with the phone company, backtraced her home phone, gotten the number for her, hadn’t asked why.

She was in the living room, lit by a single lamp. Danny was sleeping, his door half open. The house was quiet.

After the fourth ring, there was a pause and then the woman said “Who is this?”

“Sara Cross.”

Silence on the line, then, “How did you get this number?”

“I just wanted to call, to tell you thanks.”

Another pause. “I didn’t do that for you.”

“I understand.”

“It was for that little boy.”

“I know. That’s why I wanted to thank you.”

“Well, now you have. And there’s no reason to be calling this number again, is there?”

“No,” Sara said. “There isn’t.”

“Then we’re done,” Simone James said, and the line went silent.

The costume wasn’t quite finished. It took her three tries to get the bandana folded right. When she did, it fit neatly over his head, covering the sparseness of his hair. She tied it in back, adjusted the patch over his left eye.

“There you go, Captain.”

He bounded down the hall to the bathroom, pulled up a stool so he could see himself in the mirror.

“Well?” she called to him.

“It’s great!”

She went to the window, looked out. It was almost dark, the streetlights blinking on one by one. On the windowsill, beside the bowl of bite-sized candies, a candle flickered in the jack-o’-lantern she’d carved.

She heard his pounding feet, turned to see him come running back into the living room.

“Easy,” she said.

“I’m ready!”

“Okay, but remember what I told you.”

She straightened the big belt, the plastic sword that hung from it.

“You going to be okay walking in those boots?”

“Sure.”

“You’re going to stay with me now, right? Not run ahead?”

He nodded.

She got a jacket from the closet, pulled it on. He was already waiting at the door, carrying a plastic bag that said PIRATE’S BOOTY.

He turned to look at her, and she stopped. And in that moment, she felt the fear, the uncertainty, the pain empty out of her, like something untangling inside.

“Mom, are you all right?”

She blinked at the wetness, zipped up the jacket.

“Yeah, little guy,” she said. “I’m all right.”

Then she took his hand, and together they walked out into the night.

Wallace Stroby