him, trapping his arms at his sides and pulling him close. She
smelled like flour and brown sugar.
What mothers are supposed to smell like.
His had always smelled of smoke and fear. The latter was her
gift to him, his only inheritance. Her fear had chased her to the
end of a rope. Arthur kept his fear at an angle, tucked it around
himself. It was his friend, his constant companion.
Mrs. Johnson’s white cotton cap rested against his chin and
he didn’t know what to do, how to move, how to accept this.
He’d been uncomfortable in his body ever since he’d begun to
outgrow the adults around him. Being a small boy had been eas-
ier. Quicker. There’d been more places to slip through, more
places to hide. His mother had chided him for growing straight
and tall, so he’d cultivated a talent for making other people’s
eyes slide past him. But how could he be unnoticed while being
embraced?
Sniffling, Mrs. Johnson pulled back, keeping her hands on his
arms and looking up into his eyes. Her face rearranged itself into
a determined warmth. “Well, then. Come in. I’ll make something
for you to eat while I read this, and then we’ll get you settled.”
“Where is Mr. Johnson?” Arthur asked, nervously pulling on
his tie, trying to tuck it into his vest, though both were too small.
He wanted to leave. This town was beautiful, homes and a main
street idyllically curled around the bay like a sleeping cat. But
Arthur knew better. This was one of the bad places. One of the
??
worst. His mother’s voice whispered frantically in the back of his
head, telling him to run, run, run.
Mrs. Johnson’s expression deepened in its determination, more
an act of will than anything else. “Mr. Johnson’s been dead going