Free Flying Changes by Sara Gruen Page A

I scream back at him. “The second I dialed it, they traced the call. They’re already on their way and they’re listening to every damned word you say!”
    “Eva! Eva! Get my cell phone! Schnell! Schnell! ” screams Mutti from the other end of the phone. “Annemarie,” she continues, her voice an urgent whisper, “I’m calling nine-one-one on my cell phone. I’ve got your instructions. They are coming. They are coming! Do not hang up!” Then again, her mouth away from the receiver, “ Schnell, Eva! Schnell! ”
    The man drops Eugenie, who crumples to the floor like a rag doll. He turns and stares at me, his expression frighteningly blank. He takes a step toward the top of the stairs. Then another.
    The little girl whimpers, her face still buried in the back of my legs. I reach around and press her against me.
    The man comes to the top of stairs, slowly, his eyes locked on mine, his massive hand gripping the banister.
    “They’re listening to the whole thing,” I say, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My voice is hollow and deep, fueled by God only knows what. “The dispatcher confirmed your address. It’s all over,” I say.
    He stares at me for what seems an eternity. Then his face falls, his shoulders slump, and he comes down thestairs slowly, one at a time. When he reaches the bottom, I take a couple of steps backward, still pressing the child against me.
    But we might as well not be in his world anymore. He passes right on through the open door, which is still impaled in the wall, and takes a seat on the top step of the porch.
    “Mutti,” I whisper into the phone. “I’m hanging up now. I’m calling nine-one-one for real.”
    “I already have, Schatzlein, ” she hisses. “They are already coming, and so am I.”
     
    Twenty minutes later, the police arrive. I’m sitting on the tattered couch with both arms wrapped around the child. She’s curled into a ball on my lap, sucking her thumb. She still hasn’t said a word, but her little body is relaxed. Her head is tucked beneath my chin, and I stroke her hair even though the scent of unwashed scalp is overwhelming.
    Eugenie is still upstairs, crouching against the wall where she fell. She appears catatonic. The man is still on the top step of the porch and has dropped his head into his hands. Because of the open door, I have a clear view of him and I wouldn’t have it any other way. His shoulders are rounded, and he may be crying. I don’t know and I don’t care.
    At first there are two cruisers, but before long other vehicles start to arrive. The man is handcuffed and bundled into the back of a car. Kindly women in plain clothes pry the little girl off me—it takes some doing, since she seems to have associated me with safety—and take her into another room. Others go upstairs andkneel beside Eugenie. I am taken to the kitchen by two uniformed officers to fill out a statement.
    When I’ve added every last detail I can think of, I sign it and push it across the table at the officer sitting opposite me.
    “What’s going to happen to them?” I ask as he picks it up.
    “He’ll be cooling his heels for a while, that’s for sure.” He runs his eyes across my handwritten statement. “What’s this say?” he asks, leaning forward and pointing at a word.
    “Sockless.”
    “And this?”
    “Unwashed. Sorry. My writing’s not great at the best of times, and I’m still a bit shaky.”
    “That’s understandable,” he says. He clicks his pen open and prints both words above my loopy handwriting. Then he hands the sheet back to me. “Here. Initial both places.”
    “What’s going to happen to the little girl?” I say, taking the pen.
    “Child Protective Services is evaluating the situation now.”
    “And Eugenie?” I say.
    The other officer, who is filling out a form, sets his pen down and looks at me. His stark gaze is accusatory. “Why do you want to know?”
    “No reason. Just curious,” I say quickly, looking from officer to