Free Now You See Her by Cecelia Tishy

with two children about six and eight years old and a baby
     in arms. “LaBron, get that bag. Anissa, come on back here. Carry that bag in. Where you think you’re going, girl? Get a move
     on, I got to get to work. I’ll be late for work.” The car pulls away. Each child stares at a grocery bag set on the curb.
    LaBron, the eight-year-old, pouts. The heels of his new sneakers flash bright red with every step, but he’s unhappy. “They
     didn’t give us no Devil Dogs. We didn’t get no chips.”
    “Hush your mouth. Get that bag.”
    “Excuse me,” I say, “I’m looking for Kia Fayzer. Does she live here?”
    “No Pepsi neither.”
    The woman shifts the baby on her hip and looks me up and down. She looks weary but wired in grass-green capris and a cropped
     pink sweater. The baby sucks her tiny fist, leaving an epaulet of drool on one shoulder, an insignia I well remember. “You
     a caseworker?”
    “I just want to talk to Kia.”
    The little girl stares at the bags. “They too heavy. Make my arms hurt.” She wears white rubber rain boots, a long purple
     gown, and a macaroni necklace. Her short black braids are topped with a rhinestone tiara held fast with sparkly butterfly
     barrettes.
    “Make like you’re hugging it.”
    “Hug and kiss an ol’ bag? Yuck. Princess don’t kiss a bag. Princess Anissa kiss a frog tha’s a prince.”
    “Frog kiss, yuck.” LaBron squats, begins hopping. He leapfrogs over the grocery bags back and forth.
    “Stop that, LaBron. Grab the bag. Put your arms around it and lift up.”
    I try to get her attention. “I just want to talk to Kia for a few min—”
    The little girl’s bag rips as she tugs it. Canned goods spill out: beans, spaghetti, soup.
    “Look now, what you did.” LaBron gloats at his sister’s mishap. Cans of food are rolling into the street. I grab one. It’s
     sauerkraut. I catch a can of chili as a car swerves to miss it. LaBron puts a package of buns on his head. “Bet you can’t
     do this, Nissa.”
    “I don’t care.” She stacks two cans atop one another. “You don’t got no buns. I got ’em all.”
    This is too much for Princess Anissa, who begins to cry. “Mama, make LaBron gimme the buns.”
    “No buns for crybabies, nah nah.”
    “LaBron, you torment your sister, you go to bed with no TV.” But he’s become a bear, maybe a tiger. Paws out, buns clenched
     in his teeth, he’s on all fours nosing the one intact grocery bag.
    I help gather the cans. The mother says, “We got it ourself. LaBron, get up and behave yourself. Pick this up.”
    “Where’s the hot dogs? They didn’t give us no hot dogs, just buns. And powder milk.” His face is a map of fury. “I hate it
     there. I wanna go to the real store.”
    “Quit your fussin’. Get on upstairs.”
    “Excuse me, about Kia Fayzer—”
    “I don’t know nothing ’bout where she is.”
    LaBron picks up the sauerkraut and makes a face. “How come we don’t go to the real store? Kia took us to the real store.”
    “Kia lived here?”
    “Hush your mouth, LaBron.”
    “I wanna go see Kia. She fix me a hot dog at her house.”
    “Boy, shut your mouth.”
    “Where is her street?”
    “Like a farm.” He moos and bellows, then makes horns and charges his sister. The mother glowers and slaps the air halfheartedly
     as LaBron ducks. The baby starts to cry. I hustle to the Beetle and can’t wait to check the city street atlas.

Chapter Seven
    T here is no Farm Street in metro Boston. I pore over the atlas and stare at Mattapan. A farm street, what would it be? Old
     MacDonald Avenue? I’ve tried to find Kia Fayzer online and in the phone book, but no luck no matter how I spell the name.
    LaBron was a cow … No, a charging bull. This feels like charades. Or is it…Yes, here’s Angus Street, also in Mattapan.
    It’s almost 3:00 p.m. Monday when I drive solo to have a look. I’m deliberately drab in navy slacks and a sweater. Biscuit
     rides in the backseat. Stark wants to