Page 2 of The Satyr's Guilt
“Jeffrey inside.”
Leslie didn’t look as if she’d brokentwenty. Her mousy brown hair was swept away from her face, exposinga fresh shiner. The bruise was big, as if she’d gone wild withpurple eyeshadow. Then there was the limp. She winced with eachstep across the large area rug while keeping a firm grip on theboy. Her bare upper arm revealed massive contusions in the shape offingers. Large fingers.
Denim pushed the door shut, throwing eachlatch along with the chain.Be prepared. The Scout motto. Girlsor Boys?“Here. Let me take the kid … er … Jeffrey.” Denimhefted the boy into her right arm.
The shelter owner exploded from the kitchenlike a firecracker. The bundle of energy on two legs was all heart,though. “Who do we have here?”
“Marta, meet Leslie. Leslie, this is thecaretaker-in-chief,” explained Denim.
Part Creole, part Cajun but all NOLA, Martarubbed a palm across Leslie’s back. Through squinted lids, sheexamined the arrivals as if she were an emergency room doctor. Herscan took in the young mother from ratty Keds to ponytail, zeroingin on every bruise, every scrape. “Come into the kitchen. We’regonna get you fixed up. Then you’ll both have oatmeal cookies andmilk.”
There was the great thing about Marta.Cookies and milk solved everything. Along with a hug andbeaucoupconversation.
Denim, on the other hand, subscribed toeye-for-an-eye biblical justice. It soothed her soul more thanwords. If she were Leslie, she’d rest better if her fist plowedinto the orbital socket of the guy who’d doled out the shiner.Payback was a bitch, but she was Denim’s bitch.
On the way to the kitchen, the youngmother’s chest heaved until she finally broke down, shaking andcrying. “He’ll find us. I know he will. Then he’ll kill me.” Heraccent was rural Louisiana, making her sound fresh from a dirt-poorfarm.
When the little guy squirmed in Denim’sarms, she bounced him on her hip. “Were you followed?”
Leslie’s shoulders bobbed with each gulpingsob. “I d-d-don’t think so.”
Marta patted the frightened mother’s arm.“Now there, child, you let us worry about that man. You and thisbaby boy are safe here.”
The shelter owner shooed two young mothersalong with their children out of the kitchen. Marta liked to cookwhile she did her intakes. But she didn’t need extra eyes scaringthe new arrivals. “Denim, you do the honors with Leslie while Ifinish making dinner.”
It was the first time Denim flew solo on anintake interview, but she had assisted Marta other times. She setJeffrey in a highchair, giving him an oatmeal cookie. With a secondthought, she snatched a stuffed bunny, its fur patchy from smallhands along with too many washings. She wiggled it in front ofJeffrey, handing it over when his dimpled fingers reached out.Next, she fetched the first aid kit from a cabinet. As she slappedantiseptic and Band-Aids on Leslie’s cuts, she spoke softly to themother who took a seat at the table.
“Did Jeffrey’s father do this?”
“Shur nuff.” Leslie’s pupils stayed glued toa spot on the floor.
Typical behavior. The mother was too ashamedto talk eye-to-eye. “Has he hit you before?” asked Denim.
Leslie nodded. “I landed in the hospital acouple times. Carl made me say I fell down the steps. I don’t thinkthey believed me.”
“Has he hit the baby?”
“Not yet, but he will. That’s one reason Ileft. If he’ll do this to me, no tellin’ what he’ll do to myJeffie.”
Denim walked over to snag a bag of peas fromthe freezer. “Here,cher. Keep this on your eye. How’s theleg and arm?”
“Just sore. Nothin’ too bad.”
“Ribs?”
“Nah. They’re okay.”
“How old is Jeffrey?” asked Denim.
“He’s three. I’m nineteen. Mom and Pa mademe marry Carl when they found out I was pregnant.”
“How old’s Carl?” Marta threw this in fromher spot by the stove while her spoon circled the pot faster andfaster.
“Twenty-nine.”
“Will your mom, dad, or other relatives takein you and the boy?” Denim scooted her chair closer to thetable.
“No. We’re on our own.”
