Chapter 26

The first call came on Halloween night. Alma Gordon waited at her door for Ben to come, then almost cried when she saw him, small and morose, his lion costume hanging on his little body. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at her, barely stuck out his pumpkin bucket for his licorice whips. Julia Blackwell smiled sadly, and they continued down the hall.

Mrs. Gordon untwirled a licorice whip to eat herself. Ben had changed so much since she last took care of him, just a month ago. At first she’d helped Julia several times a week, but Julia didn’t need her now that Paul Blackwell’s case had petered out. Ben had been somber but interactive when Alma last saw him, easily losing himself in the hide-and-seek game they played, even laughing when Alma tried to squeeze under the desk. What a dreadful change. Poor little boy.

The phone rang and she thought it might be Frances Noonan calling to compare notes about Ben. But it was not.

It was silly to think Frances would call anyway. Frances would come in person, knock on her door with a plate of pumpkin bread, and they’d sit together and talk. Or they would have. They hadn’t done much sitting together lately. Or talking.

Part of the reason was Mr. Glenn. Alma did a lot of sitting and talking with Mr. Glenn. He was full of stories and interesting ideas about the world. Frances would knock on her door, see Mr. Glenn, and say she’d come back later. Alma actually thought she was being polite, allowing them their space. But those visits were a while ago. When she thought seriously about it, she realized she hadn’t had a chat alone with Frances Noonan in a long time. Earlier that week, Frances had opened the lobby door while Alma and Mr. Glenn waited for the elevator, but she shut it again and turned back toward the street.

Alma saw Mrs. Noonan with the Fog Ladies, of course, but that wasn’t the same. She jumped toward the phone, longing for her old friend.

At first she heard only a wailing girl. She couldn’t make out any actual words. Then the wailing stopped, and the girl took a ragged breath.

Mrs. Gordon’s heart pounded, forgetting all about Frances Noonan. Chantrelle! What was wrong?

Now Chantrelle was crying and saying Baby Owen vomited on his bear costume and cried every time the front doorbell rang. He refused to drink from a sippy cup and wanted to drink from a glass like she did, but he spilled when he tried it. He had a diaper rash that was oozing and screamed every time she changed him. Big Owen was no help and was never around when she needed him. Her housemate Inez could get her a job at the restaurant where she worked, but she couldn’t start yet because there was no one to watch the baby. His supplies cost almost as much as her monthly check, and how could anyone think you could live on that, and who knew diapers were so expensive?

Mrs. Gordon heard Baby Owen crying in the background, a whining cry that changed to a shriek when the doorbell rang. She heard adult trick-or-treaters at the door and imagined the type of scary costumes they might wear. She listened to Chantrelle without saying much. Her heart ached for her little boy, ached to hold him and comfort him and love him.

“I feel better after talking to you,” said Chantrelle.

“Please call any time,” Mrs. Gordon said. She reminded Chantrelle about the diaper rash cream. She told her Baby Owen liked to have his back rubbed and that might help to calm him down.

“Oh, yeah, you wrote that on the papers.”

Mrs. Gordon was happy to hear the girl had at least read them. The doorbell rang again and Baby Owen shrieked, and Chantrelle said she had to go.

Mrs. Gordon lay in bed that night worrying about Baby Owen and worrying about Frances Noonan. She could talk to Frances about Baby Owen, soothing both her worries at once.

She took the elevator up to see Frances Noonan first thing the next morning. She felt so formal, not like she’d been doing this day in, day out for years. She stood in front of Frances’s door, hands at her sides, not able to knock.

The door flew open and Frances Noonan almost bowled her over.

“Alma! Good heavens, what in the world are you doing lurking out here?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Alma squeaked.

“Not now, not now, dear. Sorry. I’m in a rush. Perhaps later.” Mrs. Noonan headed for the elevator and was whisked away before Alma could think what more to say.

Alma returned to her apartment and retrieved the phone number Chantrelle had given her before she left. She dialed with shaking fingers, ready to tell Chantrelle to bring the baby back, to come home, both of them.

The number was disconnected without a forwarding number. Mrs. Gordon set down the telephone and cried.