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Chapter 1 Sneak Peak

1979

The Thanksgiving snow blankets the dense downtown Baltimore streets as dusk approaches, allowing the darkness to spread through the city as it leaves a smoky film. The light of the snow fights the dark of night; the white reflection emerges victorious. The dinge of the harsh downtown streets weighs on the brighter areas of the city, a blight that the upscale folks attempt to ignore at best.

On one of those crowded, crime-infested streets sits a worn, two-story building owned by the Catholic Diocese. The faded yellow paint flaking off the exterior shelters the hollow, vacant sign with a barely visible red paint outline that reads: "Group Home".

Inside the cold, vacuous space, several groups of small children line the hallway on either side just outside the dining area as they wait for their holiday dinner. Their sad eyes mirror the hard, splintery furniture sparsely littering the vestibule and the dining room. A desolate emptiness streams from their little smudged faces as they wait huddled together, their only hope of holiday celebration hinging on this lone meal.

At the end of one of the lines closest to the entrance stands a frail little six-year-old girl. Her dirty hair is pulled up into two make-shift pigtails. She fidgets as she wrings her tiny hands, brimming with anticipation for the cranberry sauce she’s been expecting all day. As her eyes dart up and down the hallway, the awareness of little Natan emerges. She looks down at her balled up fist as one by one her thumb and fingers flip outward as she counts. One, two, three, four. She stops. Her vacant eyes reflect her earliest memories and all that she is missing in her small life.

“I’ve had four cranberry meals,” little Natan says aloud to herself, her small voice echoing off the walls. Some children standing in front of her move away, huddling closer to one another, their stares reflecting their disapproval of her external monologue.

An older girl whispers to a boy standing near her, “She’s talking to herself again.” The little boy’s eyes widen with fear as he wiggles even further away. Little Natan observes their fear and confusion as she shamefully draws her fingers slowly back into her fist.

The line moves forward but Natan only notices a mop and bucket emerge from a room near the end of the hall just yards away from her. The bucket is followed by dark black shoes belonging to the janitor. The line gap of children widens further. She hears the flipping of the broken wheel on the bucket approaching and her face goes pale. Her hands tighten deeper as she squeezes them into firm fists, the blood rushing into the center.

The janitor, a scruffy, young, wiry fellow caught between youth and manhood, dips his dirty mop into the water and wrings it out. He flips the mop onto the gray tile floor just feet from Natan. She shudders when she hears the sound of the mop head meet the tile. The mop strands gently move back and forth across the tile inching closer still to little Natan. The line of children has faded in the distance now as Natan finds her feet planted to the floor beneath her. She looks up, unable to move, as the mop strands envelop her foot.

“Hey there, Katherine,” the janitor says as Natan doesn’t look up. “Kate, Kate, Katie.” As he says her name over and over again, her feet remain cemented to the floor. The janitor jams the mop back into the bucket as his eyes dart up and down the hallway. He takes his fingers and lifts Natan’s chin to have her eyes meet his. His straggly hair hangs over his ice blue eyes. Natan looks at his shaggy facial hair, his unkempt teeth, anything other than those eyes. He pulls her chin closer, forcing the moment. Natan stares into the vast darkness of his soul, her fear unshielded.

“It’s cranberry time, isn’t it?” he says. Natan looks away. He pulls her back to him. “Isn’t it?” he probes. Natan nods yes as her eyes steal away. As the last two children file into the dining area, Natan watches as her safety line evaporates. The visible absence of the others causes her to squirm. Observing her restlessness, the janitor holds her face tightly in his grip as he directs, “Now, now.”

A nun emerges from the dining area in the nick of time. The janitor quickly releases Natan’s face.

“Mr. Carlson,” the nun calls to him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he coolly replies.

“What are you doing out here? And, why is Katherine not inside with the others?” she questioningly demands.

Carlson pulls a nickel from his pocket and hands it to Natan in front of the sister. “She found this,” he says. “She was asking me if I dropped it.” He motions it to Natan.

Natan doesn’t want the coin. Her hand won’t open for it, so Carlson forces it into her palm, patting her on the head once the coin has entered its rightful spot. “I’ll see you very soon,” Carlson whispers to her. His voice reverberates in her mind.

“Well, let’s not dilly-dally. Her food is going to get cold,” the nun interjects. “Chop, chop,” she says, clapping her hands together, as she ushers Natan down the hall. Carlson’s eyes follow her. Natan feels him watching. She doesn’t look back.

1983

A ten year old, kempt Natan sits at a dining room table in front of a large Thanksgiving spread with a full plate, which includes the once sought after cranberry sauce. Natan takes her fork and moves the redness around her plate.

“Don’t you like cranberries?” her adoptive mother, Jacqueline, asks. Jacqueline’s soft, calming eyes dance as she speaks.

Natan looks at her plate again, then replies, “I…I don’t think I do.”

Jacqueline gets up from her seat and reaches over to take Natan’s plate. “Well, okay then,” she says to Natan. “I love cranberries, so I’ll eat yours.” She smiles at Natan as she slides Natan’s portion onto her own plate. “We’re still learning what you like, Katie.” Natan shudders at the sound of her name, even though Jacqueline’s voice is soothing generally. “I’ll make sure to not give you any cranberries next year.”

William, Natan’s adoptive father, winks at her. Natan smiles. I think I actually hate cranberries…but I think I’m going to like it here.

Copyright © 2007 K. Thorpe. All rights reserved.

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