Free No Shelter by Robert Swartwood Page A

Baron raises his old head off the floor, panting with his tongue lolling from the side and slapping his tail on the floor.  
    I lean down and give Baron a good scratch behind the ears, the hound closing his eyes and groaning with pleasure. Then I pull out the only remaining chair and sit down, smile at Casey beside me as she busily eats her bowl of Cheerios with her Big Bird spoon.  
    David says, “Holly, what happened to your face?”  
    Marilyn had nodded to me briefly before, but now she pulls down her newspaper, squints to give me a closer look. Forty-four years old, she looks ten years younger, this woman with high cheekbones and blond hair, who does yoga and pilates in what little spare time she has. She works as a grant writer and deals with mostly nonprofit organizations. If I were a normal person leading a normal life, I’d want to be just like her.  
    “Oh my,” Marilyn says, real concern in her voice. “That’s a nasty boo-boo. Are you okay?”  
    I touch my cheek. “Yes, I’m fine. Just had a little accident over the weekend.”  
    “Can I touch it?” David asks. He’s six years old and apparently acts just like every other boy his age, and while he can be a brat most times, I love the kid.  
    “David,” Marilyn says, turning back to her paper, “don’t be crass.”  
    Casey says, “What does crass mean?”  
    “It’s the green stuff outside, stupid,” David says.  
    “David,” Marilyn warns.  
    “Don’t call me stupid!” Casey says, tears already threatening in her blue eyes.  
    I turn to Casey just as Marilyn stands and turns to David. Marilyn does her stern mother thing while I do my gentle nanny thing. I smile at Casey and tell her she’s not stupid, of course she’s not. Then I widen my eyes, jerk my head back toward David, and whisper that if anyone’s stupid, it’s her brother.  
    Casey giggles, the tears forgotten.  
    Sylvia comes over to the table with a cup of coffee. “Here you are, Miss Holly, with cream just like you like. Would you care for anything else?”  
    “I’m good. Thanks, Sylvia.”  
    Sylvia smiles, nods and turns away, becomes part of the background like she’s paid to be.  
    Whatever Marilyn said to David, it seems to have had the proper effect. The boy has his head lowered, nods once, then twice. When Marilyn steps back she says, “Now, David, what do you have to say to your sister?”  
    He mumbles, “I’m sorry, Casey.”  
    Casey looks at me, the ghost of a smile on her soft face. I nod at her and she looks back at her brother across the table. “That’s okay.”  
    Marilyn is already sitting down, giving me that look of hers that says Just wait until you get a pair of your own . It must be a mother thing, something I’ve seen many times from other women, but the truth is I don’t plan on ever becoming a mother.  
    “Oh yeah, before I forget,” she says suddenly, looking back up at me. “Walter told me he’d like to see you when you got in. Something about this month’s pay.”  
    As far as Marilyn knows, all her husband ever talks to me about is my monthly rate. At the start she had wanted to hire someone with experience, who had a degree in child psychology and whatever else, but Walter had done his best to convince her that I would work out and while she had had trepidation at first, she now seems happy with me.  
    God only knows what she’d think if she knew I almost always carried a gun with me while I watched her children.  
    “Where is he?” I ask.  
    “He should be in his den. Don’t bother knocking. He’s expecting you.”  

 
     
     
    16

    But I do knock. I knock and then I wait and then I knock again. Finally I hear Walter’s deep voice—“Come in”—and then I open the door and step inside.  
    Walter sits behind his large oak desk, typing at his laptop. The window is behind him, letting the morning light sprinkle in, making it impossible at first to see his face.  
    “Shut the door,