Free Power in the Blood by Greg Matthews Page B

with your ma being sick and all.” Zoe thanked her, and the wave she delivered as the train began moving was sincere. She would not, however, place her trust in grownups again, no matter how concerned they might seem.
    Zoe had made up her mind, on the moonlit ride across the state line from Indiana to Illinois, to be her own mistress from that night forward. Her sole concern would be to care for Omie and move westward in hope of finding Clay and Drew. She knew this last aspiration was near to impossible in so vast a land, but what else was she to do with her life, if not attempt reunification among the carriers of Dugan blood?
    Zoe hadn’t attended sufficient Sundays in church to believe with any certainty in the accepted God, but she placed great trust in a concept more ancient than Jehovah; she trusted in fate, the inexorable grinding of wheels within wheels. Her need, her passion, was for her brothers. Since so strong an emotion as hers could not simply fly away into an empty sky, the thing she desired must eventually come about. She knew it with the certainty of all believers. It was the rock of her soul, excluding all others.
    The wide streets of Springfield intimidated her with their neatness and order. A general air of prosperity gave the people on those streets a quality Zoe could never hope to imitate. Where could she and Omie possibly fit in? The answer was clear; they simply wouldn’t try to fit into this bustling town. Springfield would be the place where they transferred from railroad to something else in their journey west. Clay would never have settled hereabouts, only one third of the way across America.
    A nearby restaurant wafted the tantalizing odor of food to Zoe’s nostrils. She approached it, examined the menu hung in the window, and was shocked at the prices listed beside each dish. Made aware of her hunger and her limited resources, she passed along several more streets, to an area less salubrious in appearance, and entered a chophouse.
    The place was nearly empty, the lunchtime trade having departed, the dinner regulars yet to arrive. Zoe chose a corner table and set her baby down. She had never entered such a place before, but was aware someone would eventually come and ask her what she required. The person was a young man, and Zoe selected plain chops with a side dish of potatoes; she declined a pitcher of beer. Her waiter went off with the order, then returned for conversation. His oiled hair was parted in the center and arranged in two remarkable wings over his temples. His mustache was similarly spectacular, reaching almost to his ears.
    “Your kid?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    Zoe knew Mrs. Ringle hadn’t believed her denial, and so had decided to speak the truth.
    “How old are you?”
    “I don’t see why you need to know.”
    The waiter smiled. He knew people, could judge them by their face, their hands and clothing, above all by their voice. He calculated the girl before him was fifteen, appealing in a half-starved, elfin kind of way. The waiter had recently left his wife for just such a toothsome waif, only to have her taken from him by a peddler passing through to Kansas City. His wife wouldn’t have him back, but the girl might be replaced, if he kept up a smooth flow of words. The fact that his customer had a child would make the waiter’s seduction of her that much easier; no girl so young and in need would think to question a helping hand. The waiter had been abandoned only a week ago, but restitution was on its way, if only he trod lightly enough.
    He fetched Zoe’s chop and set it down with a flourish. “You’ll be wanting pie after that,” he said.
    “No pie. I’d like some water, though.”
    He supplied a brimming glass, and a generous wedge of pie. “It’s on the house.”
    Zoe looked up, her mouth full. “On the house?”
    “No charge. A gift, see?”
    Zoe didn’t see. “Why?” she asked.
    “Because, excuse me for saying so, you look real hungry, more than