Free Liberty or Death by Kate Flora Page A

don't come back." It was an awful speech for a little child, but before I could think of anything to say, he started talking about something else.
    We rolled on, Lyle's words washing over me, but I wasn't really listening. I was thinking about Andre's child, about how surprised I'd been when I told him I might be pregnant and discovered he'd already made a list of names. He'd be delighted to be here with a great kid like Lyle. I'd be delighted to have him here. And there was still no news. The state wasn't likely to satisfy a bunch of terrorists by releasing a prisoner, even if it meant getting Andre back. And just how likely was it that the militia would give him back, no matter what the state did about Jed Harding? They'd shot Gary Pelletier, hadn't they? But I couldn't let myself start thinking like this. Hope was what I had. Just about all I had. I stumbled on through a blur of tears.

 
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    Chapter 6

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    Some fitness queen I was. By the time we reached his house, I could barely wheel boy and chair onto the porch, even with the help of a ramp. I was parboiled by the heat and had to catch my breath before I knocked. The woman who answered the door looked like she'd been dipped in bleach. Colorless hair, colorless skin, colorless clothes. Her lips were almost bloodless. Even her blue eyes were faded. Her hand dropped from the knob as soon as the door was wide enough to admit us and it stayed at her side even when I offered my name and my own hand. Not, I thought, because she was unfriendly, but simply because it was too much effort to raise it again. Even the few shuffling backward steps she took to let us pass seemed difficult. She so entirely embodied the word "weary" that I was surprised when she managed a smile for the boy.
    "Look at you, child. You're dirty as a pig. Where were you this time?" she asked. Her voice was thin and weak. "Trying to visit Mindy again? I told you she doesn't work there anymore."
    Lyle stared down at his lap, all his ebullience suddenly gone. "I'm sorry I'm so much trouble, Grandma," he said. "I wasn't going to the restaurant. I didn't mean to go there." He pointed a grubby hand at me. "She took me there. I was running away..." His voice faltered and there was a muffled sob as he covered his face with his hands. From between the fingers he said, "I was trying to go see Daddy."
    "Oh, Lyle..." Mary Harding sighed and gave a little shrug of her shoulders, looking at me apologetically. "I'm sorry to be dragging you into this," she said, "when it's got nothing to do with you." She glanced down at the watch that flopped loosely on her skeletal wrist. "I'm sure you've got to be getting back to the restaurant. The lunch crowd will be coming in and I know how Theresa is. She's a fair woman but she works her people hard." She looked down at the boy. "Lyle, tell the lady that you're sorry and thank her for bringing you home."
    He raised his tear-stained face. "Thanks for bringing me home," he said. "Sorry if I was any trouble."
    She was right. I did have to get back to work. "It wasn't any trouble," I said. "He's a nice boy." I turned to go, hating to leave her. She looked like someone needed to be caring for her, and there she was with a sobbing child to clean up, comfort, and care for. According to Suzanne, Andre, and my mother, one of the flaws in my character is that I always think I have to help people smaller and weaker than myself. It's the result of spending my childhood as "Thea the fixer," the role that my family assigned me because they couldn't get along. Unless it's because I am, quite literally, a "big girl" at five eleven, and big girls have to look after the others.
    As Thea the human tow truck, I keep finding people broken down on the road of life, and stopping to see if I can help. I often have cause to regret it, but it seems I'm a slow learner. Not this time, I told myself resolutely. In my current circumstances, I had absolutely no time or energy left over for other