time,” my passenger informed me, motioning to the kids as she opened the door and swung her legs around. “Be careful when you back out.”
I put the car in Park, intending to help her, but she braced her canes and hauled herself from the seat before I could get there. After thanking me for the ride, she moved across the parking lot in a stiff, swinging gait, then disappeared into an apartment with lace-edged curtains that looked out of place against the clouded windows and weathered stucco.
Opening the driver’s-side door, I checked the alley to make sure the children were out of the way. A young woman in tight flowered shorts, high heels, and a tank top came out of the end apartment. She balanced a laundry basket on her hip, her blond hair swirling in the breeze as she teetered down the steps, the shoes not suited to the heavy load. She was thin, long-legged, and gangly, her body hardly seeming strong enough to carry the overflowing basket.
When she reached the bottom step, she looked over her shoulder and saw me watching. The wind lifted her hair, and in a freeze-frame of an instant I remembered her from the night before. Up close, it was obvious that she was much younger than the clothes made her seem. She looked like a contestant in some beauty pageant gone too far, a child dressed up in the trappings of a woman.
Lifting her chin, she leered at me silently, as if saying, What’s your problem, lady? Then she tottered toward the street on her high heels, waited for the traffic to clear, and crossed to the strip mall parking lot, where the men whistled and catcalled as she passed the convenience store.
I stood watching, feeling sick to my stomach, thinking perhaps I should drive over, just to make sure she was all right, but she quickly disappeared behind the building, and the men returned their attention to the street. I climbed back into my car and scanned the rearview mirror, waiting for her to reappear. Finally I gave up and put the car in Reverse, letting it drift along the narrow pavement. Movement caught my attention as I passed the end of the building, and I hit the brake, looking around for the children. The smallest of the three was a few feet away, trying to shinny up the side of a Dumpster surrounded by a tumbledown fence. His dark hair caught the light, making a raven halo as he slipped and hit the concrete. Frustrated, he scrambled to his feet and kicked the Dumpster, ringing it like a metal drum.
What in the world . . .
The mother in me sounded a note of alarm and reacted. Cutting the steering wheel, I bumped onto the curb, threw the car in Park, and got out. The little boy saw me and froze where he stood.
“You get out of there,” I scolded. “This isn’t a good place to play.” As I moved between him and the road, he withdrew, then sidled up to the apartment wall and stood with his back pressed against it.
A head popped out of the Dumpster, then vanished again. The toddler’s wide dark eyes followed me as I walked to the edge and peered inside. In the narrow strip of light, the two older children were playing in the trash, their thin brown legs buried in offal as they tore open sacks and spread the contents around. A sickening smell assaulted me, and my stomach roiled. The myriad of potential dangers flashed through my mind—germs, rats, disease, broken bottles, used syringes. This was no place for children to play.
“You two get out of there.” My voice echoed into the Dumpster, and both children stopped moving at once. They turned to me, their hands rising from the trash bags, still gripping the contents, their faces moving from the shadow to the light. For an instant we stared at each other, motionless like figurines in a shoe-box diorama.
The toddler squealed and ran away, the sound of his footsteps disappearing around the corner of the building. “You two kids come on out of there,” I repeated. “Come on out, now. You shouldn’t play there.” I tasted the odor of trash,
I put the car in Park, intending to help her, but she braced her canes and hauled herself from the seat before I could get there. After thanking me for the ride, she moved across the parking lot in a stiff, swinging gait, then disappeared into an apartment with lace-edged curtains that looked out of place against the clouded windows and weathered stucco.
Opening the driver’s-side door, I checked the alley to make sure the children were out of the way. A young woman in tight flowered shorts, high heels, and a tank top came out of the end apartment. She balanced a laundry basket on her hip, her blond hair swirling in the breeze as she teetered down the steps, the shoes not suited to the heavy load. She was thin, long-legged, and gangly, her body hardly seeming strong enough to carry the overflowing basket.
When she reached the bottom step, she looked over her shoulder and saw me watching. The wind lifted her hair, and in a freeze-frame of an instant I remembered her from the night before. Up close, it was obvious that she was much younger than the clothes made her seem. She looked like a contestant in some beauty pageant gone too far, a child dressed up in the trappings of a woman.
Lifting her chin, she leered at me silently, as if saying, What’s your problem, lady? Then she tottered toward the street on her high heels, waited for the traffic to clear, and crossed to the strip mall parking lot, where the men whistled and catcalled as she passed the convenience store.
I stood watching, feeling sick to my stomach, thinking perhaps I should drive over, just to make sure she was all right, but she quickly disappeared behind the building, and the men returned their attention to the street. I climbed back into my car and scanned the rearview mirror, waiting for her to reappear. Finally I gave up and put the car in Reverse, letting it drift along the narrow pavement. Movement caught my attention as I passed the end of the building, and I hit the brake, looking around for the children. The smallest of the three was a few feet away, trying to shinny up the side of a Dumpster surrounded by a tumbledown fence. His dark hair caught the light, making a raven halo as he slipped and hit the concrete. Frustrated, he scrambled to his feet and kicked the Dumpster, ringing it like a metal drum.
What in the world . . .
The mother in me sounded a note of alarm and reacted. Cutting the steering wheel, I bumped onto the curb, threw the car in Park, and got out. The little boy saw me and froze where he stood.
“You get out of there,” I scolded. “This isn’t a good place to play.” As I moved between him and the road, he withdrew, then sidled up to the apartment wall and stood with his back pressed against it.
A head popped out of the Dumpster, then vanished again. The toddler’s wide dark eyes followed me as I walked to the edge and peered inside. In the narrow strip of light, the two older children were playing in the trash, their thin brown legs buried in offal as they tore open sacks and spread the contents around. A sickening smell assaulted me, and my stomach roiled. The myriad of potential dangers flashed through my mind—germs, rats, disease, broken bottles, used syringes. This was no place for children to play.
“You two get out of there.” My voice echoed into the Dumpster, and both children stopped moving at once. They turned to me, their hands rising from the trash bags, still gripping the contents, their faces moving from the shadow to the light. For an instant we stared at each other, motionless like figurines in a shoe-box diorama.
The toddler squealed and ran away, the sound of his footsteps disappearing around the corner of the building. “You two kids come on out of there,” I repeated. “Come on out, now. You shouldn’t play there.” I tasted the odor of trash,
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