Mickey by Patty Panni

“Who did this to you, Mickey?” Detective Jennifer Ulmstead used her most soothing tone as she talked to the small boy. “Who hurt you?”

Mickey looked away. “I’m not ‘apposed to go in the kitchen at night.” He had a battery of bruising in various shades ranging from black to purple to green. Scars and burns provided a roadmap of injuries on his little body.

“Honey,” Jennifer crouched down, eye-to-eye with the little boy. “Nothing you did could ever warrant these injuries. Somebody’s been hurting you for a long time, haven’t they?” Her job as a child protective investigator was tough; it was always hard to see this kind of pain up close.

Mickey wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Jennifer tried a different tack. “Hey Mickey, are you hungry?” His eyes flashed on hers in response. She would’ve known anyway, because the child was obviously underfed. “How about I go find a snack for you?”

He nodded, and she left him with the nurse. The cafeteria was closed between lunch and dinner, so she was limited to vending machine offerings.

She chose a bag of chips, a candy bar, and a Coke. When she returned, Mickey’s eyes lit up at the snacks in her hands. “I get all of that?” he asked, breaking her heart even more.

“Of course. It’s all for you.”

The little boy tucked in and was munching away when a doctor appeared in the doorway.

“I’ll be right back, honey. I want to talk to the doctor for a minute.” Jennifer stepped outside the room.

The doctor consulted the papers in his hand. “X-rays revealed a history of fractures in his left wrist, right radius, and right cheek, as well as multiple burns in various stages of healing. His rape kit was negative for fluids, but there’s scarring to indicate long-term sexual abuse.”

“So, can you tell how the fractures occurred?”

“The wrist looks like an impact fracture, like he was thrown against something with his wrist taking the brunt of the impact. The radius fracture is a spiral-type break, from someone taking his forearm in both hands and twisting.” He made a wringing motion with his hands. “The cheek fracture is from something small making contact…maybe from someone wearing a ring. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a history of concussions, but we need imaging to confirm or rule that out.” The doctor ran a hand through his black hair. “Please tell me you’re going to catch the bastard responsible for this.”

“Tell me about the burns.”

“There are two sizes of round burns, most likely from a cigarette and something slightly bigger – maybe a cigar.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “This boy has been used as a punching bag for years. Has he told you who did this to him?”

“Not yet. He gave me his name, that’s it. The nurse said he was left outside the entrance?”

“Yeah, the security guard saw him and brought him inside.” He hesitated. “This little boy has a lot of healing to do…and not just in his body.” He turned to go.

“Doctor, one more question.”

“Yes?”

“How old would you say he is?”

“Best guess…maybe eight or nine.”

Jennifer was shocked. He looked much smaller.

“I know. He’s seriously malnourished.”

Once she finished with the doctor, Jennifer turned back to the boy. “Hey Mickey, who brought you here?”

Having finished the chips, the boy was working on the candy bar. He looked up at Jennifer as if he was considering whether to tell her anything. Apparently, being the bringer of food worked in her favor. He spoke through a mouthful of chocolate, “Unca Matt.”

“Your Uncle Matt brought you to the hospital?”

The boy nodded.

“Does Uncle Matt live with you?”

“Sometimes.”

“You and your mama?”

The boy nodded.

“And he’s the one who hurt you?”

Mickey nodded, this time emphatically.

“Okay, buddy.” Jennifer turned to the nurse who was standing nearby and spoke quietly. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, we’re finished.”

Jennifer helped the boy into clean clothes. The hospital social worker had furnished a new t-shirt, shorts, and undies. They were a little roomy on him, but it was a big improvement over the filthy clothes he’d been wearing. Those clothes were in an evidence bag.

Her captain had texted the name and address of the foster family who was going to take care of Mickey. As she drove, she couldn’t stop thinking about catching the person or persons responsible for this child’s injuries.

“Hey Mickey?”

He looked at her eyes, watching him in the rear view mirror. He was working on some bubble gum she’d given him when they got in the car.

“Where do you live?”

He chewed for a minute, considering the question. “We live over the store. Close to the trains. They sound like ‘WOOO WOOOOOOO’.”

Jennifer chuckled. “They sure do sound like that.” Good. It was something to go on.

The foster family – especially the mom – seemed happy to have Mickey. He settled right in with their son, playing with cars. Jennifer gave them the scant information she had, with a promise to provide more when she could. She left their house, feeling good that Mickey had a safe, caring environment, at least for the time being.

Jennifer drove to the area near the railroad tracks. There were several blocks in proximity to the tracks, some with businesses that looked like they could have living quarters above. She chose the street directly adjacent to the tracks and walked in the first store. She showed the man behind the counter a picture of Mickey and asked if he remembered seeing the boy. No.

She continued to the next business, then the next, with no luck. Then, stopping short, she saw the sign painted on the next window: Matt’s Smoke Shack. The store sold all manner of tobacco and vape products.

With the hair on the back of her neck prickling, she went around back. There were stairs leading up to a second floor door. She walked upstairs and knocked on the door. A very young woman with a black eye came to the door. She looked as though she’d been crying.

Jennifer identified herself and got the woman’s name – Ginger – then asked, “Are you alone? Is there anyone else in this house with you right now?”

“No. I’m alone.” Fresh tears sprung into Ginger’s eyes. “I’m not supposed to answer the door, but I thought maybe…” Her voice trailed off.

“Are you Mickey’s mother?”

Her blue eyes widened. “Yes! Do you have him? Is my boy okay?”

“He’s safe, with a foster family.”

“Thank God! I was so afraid...”

“You were afraid Matt killed him? He hurts you too?”

Ginger nodded and looked away, just like Mickey had done earlier.

“You need to come with me. Once you’re safe, the police will arrest Matt. If I have anything to say about it, he’s not going to be able to hurt you or your son ever again.”

“Thank you,” Ginger sobbed, as she shoved some of their clothes into a backpack. She followed Jennifer out to the car, the first steps into her – and soon, Mickey’s – new life. 

An original short story: Jacob by Patty Panni

Big eyes looked up as I bent over the huddled figures in the doorway. As a downtown cop, I was used to seeing the homeless. They were everywhere: panhandling in the subway station, gathered outside soup kitchens, on benches in the park. It was a cold night, though, and I wanted to offer to take them to a nearby shelter.

My partner was in the corner bodega getting us coffee, and if I hadn’t gotten out to stretch my legs, I would’ve missed them. I cast my flashlight over what looked like an adult and two children sleeping in a doorway. Two of the figures didn’t move at all, and – like I said – the other just looked at me with those eyes.

“Hey, you folks all right?” No response. I reached down to the adult’s shoulder, shook it gently. I saw that it was a woman. “Ma’am? Hey, wake up.” I spoke louder and shook her again. “Ma’am! Can you hear me?”

The child with the eyes sat up, scuttled away from me.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Is this your mom?” There was no reply. I reached down, felt for a pulse on the woman’s neck. Finding none, I radioed in.

“This is Unit 802 requesting a bus at the corner of 81^st and Powell. Non-responsive female with two children.”

When the paramedics came, they told me the woman and one of the kids were DOA. I had coaxed the other kid, a little boy as it turned out, into letting me put my coat around him, and he was sipping hot chocolate in the backseat of our patrol car. We drove to the station while I tried to get information from the little boy. He looked to be about four or five, plenty old enough to tell me his name, but so far, he’d remained silent.

At the station I put the little guy in our ‘family room,’ where we had some couches and chairs. I let him choose a stuffed animal while I turned on a cartoon DVD. He seemed to settle in then, sucking his thumb, and holding Leo the Lion with a death grip around his neck. My next call then should’ve been to Social Services, but it wasn’t.

I called my wife. I know nobody likes getting a call in the middle of the night, but a cop’s wife really doesn’t want to hear the phone ring while her husband is out there on duty. My wife answered on the second ring, breathless, as if I’d interrupted her working out instead of dreaming.

“Honey, it’s me.”

“Pete! What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. It’s just…we picked up a homeless woman with two kids tonight. The woman and one of the kids was dead.”

“Dead?! What on earth happened?”

“Well, we don’t know yet. But the other little guy is sitting in our family room watching a movie right now.”

“And you’re telling me this because—”

“—Because we’ve been approved as foster parents. I was thinking maybe I could just bring him home instead of letting Social Services take him.”

She took a deep breath and I knew I needed to talk fast. “Carolyn, I’m the only person he’s let near him tonight. He just lost his mother, for God’s sake, or at least what I assume to be his mother. He’s dirty and cold and all alone—”

“Pete.” My wife had such a gentle tone. That’s one of the thousand reasons I love her. “Bring him.”

“Really?”

“Sure. But you’re going to have to tell Social Services what you’re doing.”

“Absolutely. They’re my next call.” I hesitated. “You should know, he hasn’t said a word since we found them. He hasn’t cried or asked for his mom or anything.”

“Oh wow…” I could picture Carolyn chewing a thumbnail, like she did when she was thinking through a problem. “It’s probably just the shock. I’m sure he’s scared to death. Cold. Hungry. Oh Pete, just hurry.”

“I will. I love you Carolyn.”

“Love you. Hey, do we know his name?”

“Not yet.”

I made the call to Social Services. The social worker I spoke with was only too happy to assign us as his emergency foster parents. As soon as I finished the required paperwork for my shift, I collected the little guy and headed home. In the car, I tried again.

“Hey buddy, what’s your name?”

“Jacob,” he whispered, before popping a dirty thumb back into his mouth.

“Well, all right, Jacob. Let’s go home.”

An original short story: Lessons by Patty Panni

 Matilda pasted on a smile as she rang the bell of the stately Boston brownstone. She’d taken care with her appearance, and she nervously tucked a stray hair into place as she surveyed her reflection in the glass side panel. There was an identical panel on the opposite side of the carved mahogany door.

She gripped her suitcase a bit tighter. It was taking a long time for someone to come to the door. Could she have the wrong address? She fished out a paper from her bag and compared it to the numbers mounted above the door. No, this was the right place. She was about to ring again when the door slowly opened and a petite elderly woman peered out.

“Mrs. Englebright?”

The woman nodded.

“I’m Matilda Byrne. The agency sent me?” Matilda had a bad habit of ending her sentences with questions, especially when she was uncomfortable.

“Oh yes, of course. Come in, please.”

As Matilda entered the home, she looked up. The ceiling was fifteen feet if it was an inch. To the right, a curved staircase led to a gallery on the second floor. The black and white tiles of the foyer extended into a parlor and, beyond it, she could see a conservatory with glass doors leading to the back garden.

Mrs. Englebright, who’d been silent as Matilda had taken in the house, said, “Why don’t we have a seat in the parlor where we can talk?” She led the way into the room, furnished in lovely shades of green and gold. They sat in matching wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Englebright reached up inside a fringed lampshade to switch on a light.

“There, that’s better. Now, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” Mrs. Englebright spoke with a decidedly Boston cadence, which made Matilda conscious of her own Irish accent.

Talking about herself was something Matilda particularly disliked, but it couldn’t be helped, so she plunged right in. “Well, I was born in Galway and immigrated with my parents in 1919. My mother was Mrs. Charles Reilly’s personal maid. She traveled with her and took care of her until my mother’s death in 1930. By then I was old enough to begin domestic service, and I worked for Mrs. Reilly until her death last year. After that I signed on with the agency to look for a new placement.” She took a deep breath and shifted in the chair. “I can do almost everything around the house: laundry, ironing, cleaning, serving. Even plain cooking in a pinch. I am a good seamstress and can tat lace – as long as the light is good.” Feeling she’d surely talked about herself enough, she abruptly stopped and waited for a reply.

“Can you read?”

“Beg pardon, ma’am?”

“Can you read?”

Matilda dropped her head. “No ma’am, I cannot read.”

“You’re hired,” Mrs. Englebright said, taking Matilda by surprise. “I’ll show you to your room. You can get settled in and then you’ll go down to the kitchen and meet Mrs. Doyle. She’s our cook. She’ll feed you supper, then you can get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start in the morning.” She rose to her feet and Matilda did the same.

Later that evening, Matilda sat in the kitchen with the chatty Mrs. Doyle as they ate stew and brown bread with butter. The modern gas stove warmed the kitchen even after the meal was finished.

“Mr. Doyle takes care of things around here – the gardening and the repairs and such. He was Mr. Englebright’s valet before his death, bless him. He’d like to still be doing that, but we couldn’t leave Mrs. Englebright. She’s a wonderful lady. Mr. Doyle has his supper early and then straight to bed, because he’s up well before dawn laying the fires and tryin’ to keep the poxy furnace from going out.” She arched an eyebrow toward Matilda and continued. “Before you, there was Mary Margaret. She was a fierce good worker, that girl. Kept things spotless. I hope you’ll do the same.”

“Where did she go?”

“She married a boy beyond in Waltham. Once she learned to read, she wanted to leave the life of service behind. She’s startin’ her training for clerical work and ‘tis only a stepmother would blame ‘er.”

Matilda didn’t have time to respond as Mrs. Doyle barely took a breath before continuing.

“That girl definitely has a grá for learnin’. It’s a nice boy she married, too. He’s a mechanic. Wants to own his own garage one day.”

“Mrs. Doyle,” Matilda said quickly, before she was off again.

“Yes, dearie?”

“You said Mary Margaret learned to read. How did she learn?”

“Why, Mrs. Englebright taught her. It’s something she does with all the help. She tried to teach me, bless her, but I just don’t have the time to spend on it. I know me numbers and can read a few words from the Bible, and tha’s plenty fer me.” She stood and began clearing the table. “She’ll be teachin’ you too; don’t ever doubt it.”

Mrs. Doyle’s heavy brogue and sprinkling of Irish words reminded Matilda of her mother, and it was all she could do not to hug the woman. Over protests, she helped Mrs. Doyle clear and wash, before heading to bed. She was exhausted and her head was spinning. She’d always dreamed of being able to read. Was it actually possible that Mrs. Englebright would open that door for her?

The next morning she was dressed and downstairs early. She had breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, then went into the parlor and began dusting. Mrs. Englebright descended the stairs and entered the room.

“Oh, good morning, ma’am. I’ll get out of your way.”

“Oh no, Matilda. We’ll do lessons from nine until ten-thirty every day. After that, you can attend to the housework.”

Matilda could scarcely believe her good fortune. She followed Mrs. Englebright into the conservatory, where a book and slate were on the table. They sat side by side.

“Now, we’ll begin with the alphabet. Once you’ve mastered that, we’ll progress to some easy stories. After that, we’ll enjoy those.” She indicated a short stack of books on a side table. “We’ll read ‘Emily of New Moon,’ ‘The Story of Dr. Dolittle,’ and my personal favorite, ‘The Magical Land of Noom.’” Her eyes twinkled as she took the piece of chalk and began making an A on the slate.

Matilda resolved to do her very best for Mrs. Englebright – both in schooling and housework – and she was a quick study. Evenings would find her bent over the slate, practicing her letters. She worked diligently on her penmanship, and she was soon able to take pen to paper. Sadly, she didn’t know anyone to write a letter to, but she continued her studies in earnest.

Then one morning Matilda waited for Mrs. Englebright to descend the curved staircase and join her in the conservatory, but she didn’t come. Matilda went to the kitchen to see Mrs. Doyle.

“Is Mrs. Englebright all right?”

“No, child, she is not. She was quite ill during the night. I was just about to take a tray to her.”

“Oh, please allow me.” Matilda stretched out her hands for the tray, which held a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, some cream, and a plate of dry toast.

“That’s fine. Now take care you don’t spill.”

Matilda knocked twice on Mrs. Englebright’s door and heard a faint “Come in.” She entered the dim room.

“Oh, Matilda. Thank you, my dear. Please set the tray here,” she waved her hand at the side table, “and sit with me for a while.”

“Of course, ma’am.” She poured a cup of tea and added a splash of cream, and offered it to Mrs. Englebright.

“Not just now, dear. I mainly just want a bit of company.” Mrs. Englebright smiled faintly at Matilda, but it was clear to see she wasn’t feeling well. “I wonder…”

“Ma’am?”

“I wonder if you might read to me a bit, Matilda. I think that might help me feel better.”

“With pleasure, ma’am. Shall I go downstairs for a book?”

“No. Look over there.” Mrs. Englebright pointed to a table across the room.

Matilda sat down with the book. “Gone With the Wind,” she read.

“Yes. It just came out last month. Please begin at the beginning,” she instructed.

Matilda opened to the first page and began reading. “It'll come to you, this love of the land. There's no getting away from it if you're Irish.”

From the first page, she was captivated as she read about the O’Hara family and the fine plantation they owned. She read page after page, until she looked up and saw Mrs. Englebright had fallen asleep. She tiptoed out of the room, leaving the book behind. As she completed her tasks around the house, the story stayed with her, and she wondered what would happen to the family, and especially to Scarlett, the headstrong daughter.

The doctor came the next morning. Before he left, he spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, Matilda standing nearby.

“She has a high fever and aching head. Her joints and muscles are stiff. You can give cold compresses for her head, and it may help to rub her legs. Keep her as comfortable as possible. Nothing heavy to eat. Tea and broth are best.”

“But what’s the matter with ‘er, Doctor?”

The doctor removed his wire glasses and sighed. “It could be several things, but it’s probably sleeping sickness.”

“Oh no! Me dear sister died from the sleeping sickness last year. Surely it’s not that.”

The doctor shook his head. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

After the doctor left, Mrs. Doyle and Matilda shared a cup of tea.

“We’ll take turns seeing to her,” Mrs. Doyle tearfully said. “And you can read to her; she enjoys that more than anything.”

Summer turned to fall, then winter, but Mrs. Englebright never left her bed. Matilda read to her every afternoon. Every evening, she and Mrs. Doyle fretted over what could be done to help their dear employer. The doctor still came, but only twice a week.

One day, Mrs. Englebright didn’t seem to recognize Matilda; then she smiled and said, “My dear Matilda. Promise me you’ll keep reading after I’m gone.”

Swallowing hard, Matilda said, “I promise, dear ma’am. And I thank you for teaching me. It’s meant the world.” Brushing away a tear, she said, “Would you like me to read now?”

“No, not just now. I’m tired. I think I’ll sleep a while.”

Mrs. Englebright passed away in the night. Matilda heard Mrs. Doyle’s scream early that morning and she knew. She said a quick prayer as she made the sign of the cross.

An original short story: The Stalker

 This is a new one. I wrote it last week. Hope you enjoy!

The Stalker by Patty Panni

Don’t get me wrong, I liked Jeff. I did. He kind of reminded me of a big goofy puppy, wanting more and more of your attention. One pat on the head and he thinks you’re his best friend.

Jeff and I were both on the expansion team for a renovation of a historic building in city center. Spider-web-cracked floors had been replaced by gleaming white marble with inlaid blue and gold designs. Interior moldings were rebuilt to original specs and missing or drafty windows had been replaced with updated double-paned versions. On the outside, white Corinthian columns and dentil moldings completed the look of a grand centuries-old building.

Our job was finding new tenants for the building. We had pitched the building to law firms, design companies, and architects, along with other businesses. Sometimes the pitch was done over drinks or dinner, and yes, Jeff and I carpooled more than once to these meetings. With occupancy near capacity, we were all assigned other projects. I thought that was that until Jeff stopped by my desk late in the day.

“Hey Chelsea. How about dinner tonight?”

I looked up in surprise. “No, thanks. I’m kind of in the middle of something, so I’ll be here another hour or two.” Now I ask you, wouldn’t a normal person take this as a no and be on his way? I know I would.

Jeff, however, sat in front of my desk. “I could help you, Chels. That way we’d still be able to have dinner together.”

I lower my eyebrows. “No, Jeff. Thanks. Another time.”

He smiled his goofy puppy smile and said, “Oh sure, another time.” He left and I went back to work. It was about an hour later when I was interrupted again. Jeff carried a big bag from Russo’s, my favorite Italian place.

He looked really pleased with himself. “Since the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, I brought Mohammed to the mountain! Now we can still have dinner together.”

So, first of all, what an idiotic use of that statement. Second, I don’t react well to manipulation. And that’s what that was, right? Clear manipulation. I decided to make myself clearer. I stood and grabbed my purse.

“Jeff, it’s been a long day. I’m just not interested, okay? Now, I’m heading home.” There was a big glass of Merlot with my name on it waiting for me.

“But Chelsea…” His voice trailed off as I walked away.

And I thought that was the end of it. I really did.

But of course, it wasn’t. By the time I reached my car in the parking garage, Jeff was following me, carrying the stupid Russo’s bag like a puppy carrying a squeaky toy. The garage was eerily empty, with only one car parked close to my silver Prius – a black Ford F150. Jeff’s.

“Chels, wait up!” Jeff called. I was honestly beginning to feel a little threatened; I really was. And can I just say that I hate being called Chels? Just for the record?

So I charged him. He was so startled he dropped the Russo bag and tomato sauce spilled out of some container. It looked like blood, which kind of freaked me out.

“Back. Off!” I spoke forcefully enough to get my point across. I glared at Jeff, until he took a step back.

I reached my car, beeped it open, got in and put the car in gear. I opened my window just enough for him to hear me as I drove past him. “You stay away from me, Jeff. I mean it.”

When I got home, I checked every door and window lock and armed the alarm system. Honestly, isn’t it enough we’ve had to live through a worldwide pandemic without me gaining a stalker? I have to admit, I was rattled. I poured a large glass of Merlot, lit candles, and took a bath with a Zen bath bomb. I had my hair wrapped up in a towel and was wearing my favorite Nickelback tee shirt when my phone rang. Feeling relaxed from the wine and bath, I didn’t check to see who it was before I answered.

“Hello.”

“Chelsea, I don’t understand what I’ve done that is so wrong.”

“Jeff—”

“—No, don’t hang up. I just need to understand. We’ve gotten so close. I’ve never had someone like you in my life. Beautiful, smart, a good kisser—”

“—Kisser? We’ve never kissed, Jeff.”

“But we have. Remember the night I drove you home and you fell asleep in the car?”

I didn’t say anything. I vaguely remembered it. It had been a grueling day of back-to-back meetings. We had carpooled because Jeff said it would be simpler that way.

“When we got to your place, you were so relaxed, with your head tilted toward me. I knew you wanted me to kiss you. So I did. And Chelsea, it was magical. I’ve never had a kiss mean so much.”

This guy was nuts. I spoke through gritted teeth. “I was asleep, Jeff. If you kissed me then, that’s an assault. I mean it, you stay away from me. Don’t make me go to the cops, because I will.”

I put the phone down then and went to bed. Of course I tossed and turned all night. I mean, life with a stalker, right?

I almost called out of work the next day, but I decided he was not going to keep me from doing my job. If he so much as looked my way I was going to HR with the whole story. Thankfully, Jeff wasn’t there. Apparently he called out sick. Good. It turned out to be a pretty good day. My “work bestie” Sara and I decided to hit a Happy Hour on the way home for nachos and margaritas.

On my second margarita, I leaned close to Sara and said, “So, did I tell you I have a stalker at work?”

“Oh my God. Tell me it isn’t Jeff.”

I stared at her. “How the hell did you know?”

“Oh God, Chelsea! He did it to me last year! We were both on the Benfield project, and when it ended, he wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept calling and coming by my house. 

“No way!?”

“Oh yeah. I finally sicced Mr. Pauling on him, and whatever he said did the trick because he hasn’t even looked my way since.”

Mr. Pauling is our executive director. My boss’s boss.

“Oh wow. Maybe I should talk to him.”

“I would if I were you. Because Jeff will just keep coming until somebody stops him. Guy doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no.’ Who knows…maybe Mr. Pauling will fire him.”

I looked at a mural on the wall across from us while I pondered that statement. It was of a Day of the Dead motif with bright reds and oranges. The dead were all playing the guitar, tambourine, and saxophone. They seemed to be in high spirits for dead souls. It’s not that I wanted Jeff fired; I didn’t. I just wanted him to leave me alone. I decided I’d see what the next day brought before I made a decision.

An original short story: Aiden

 This is a 1500-word story I wrote a few months ago. Hope you enjoy!

Aiden was small for his age, which I’d been told was six. He carried a backpack almost as big as he was. It was unusual, but not unheard of, to get a new kid this late in the evening. My other three were already in bed, which was a shame because they usually eased the transition process and helped make a new child more comfortable. They also kept the newbie busy so I could talk with the social worker to get any verbal information and instructions.

Terri was the social worker who delivered Aiden to me. I’ve worked with her for years and know her to be genuinely caring but overwhelmed at times by the workload. She looked harried. And exhausted. Ordinarily I would offer her a cup of tea but I had a feeling she just wanted to get home, so I didn’t.

I crouched down to Aiden’s height.

“Hello Aiden, I’m Nita. You’ll be staying with us for a while. I have three other kids, but they’re already in bed, so you’ll get to meet them in the morning. Are you hungry?”

Aiden had yet to look at me. To look at anything. His eyes were glued to the floor.

“Aiden?” Terri’s voice was gentle. “Are you hungry, love?”

He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Terri looked at me, shrugged.

“All right then, how about a cup of hot chocolate? I think I’ll have one too.” I put the kettle on. “Do you want to take off your backpack and sit at the table?” I made a move to help him slip off the huge backpack, but he backed away.

“It’s okay, you can keep it on. Just sit down right here.”

Terri shot me a grateful look. “I’m going to go, then. Okay if I call you in the morning?”

“Of course. We’ll be fine.”

She crouched down to Aiden’s eye level next to the table. “Aiden, I’ll see you soon. Nita will take good care of you, okay?”

He nodded, once.

“Okay then, good night.”

Once I’d seen Terri out, I returned to the kitchen. Aiden hadn’t moved. I made two small cups of hot chocolate and sat down across from Aiden.

“Here you go, Aiden. You’ll need to be careful, it’s hot.” I made a show of blowing on my cup before taking a small sip. “Mmm, it’s good.”

He glanced up at me, then slowly moved his hand toward the cup. I kept sipping mine. I was encouraged to see him take a small sip.

“You’re going to like my other kids, Aiden. My oldest is Jenny. She’s fourteen. Then there’s Grace. She’s eleven. And Tony is just a bit younger than you. He’s five. They’re really looking forward to meeting you.” I kept up a steady chatter while we finished our cocoa, then yawned widely as I put the cups in the sink.

“How about I show you to your room, Aiden? Come with me.” We went upstairs and I pointed out the bathroom and the other kids’ rooms.

“Your room is right here, next to mine.” I had left the bedside lamp on, and the circle of light showed a small, neat room.

“How about we get your pjs on, then you can go to the bathroom before bedtime?” I figured there was plenty of time later to work on toothbrushing and bathing. “Do you have pajamas in your backpack?”

Aiden nodded and we unzipped the bag and got out his pjs, which were threadbare, but clean. He quickly undressed and slipped into the pjs, then we went across the hall to the bathroom.

“Want me to come in with you?” He nodded, so I came in and stood by the door while he peed. I helped him turn on the faucet to wash his hands, then led him back to his room and got him settled in bed.

“Now, there’s a night light right here by the door, you see?” I turned off the lamp and said, “Good night, Aiden, see you in the morning.”

“G’night.” It was the first word he’d spoken.

I left the door slightly ajar and went back downstairs. Since it was an emergency placement I hadn’t yet received paperwork on Aiden. All I knew was what his caseworker had told me over the phone earlier in the day: that he was six years old and had been removed from his mother’s care following her arrest for drug possession with intent to sell. No siblings, and father was not in the picture. Although heartbreaking, it wasn’t an unusual story. I didn’t expect to learn much more from the paperwork or from Terri, but of course any information I could get might help me to better foster Aiden.

The next day was Saturday, so my kids were out of school. Jenny and Grace took to Aiden from the first moment and got busy acclimating him to our home and schedule. Tony was as shy as Aiden when he had come to me a few months earlier, so I was pleased to see that the boys seemed to hit it off right away. They were playing in the fenced-in back yard when Terri called.

“Hey, Terri. Hope you were able to get some good rest. You looked pretty beat last night.”

“Thanks, I was. It was a long day. How did Aiden do last night?”

“Great. He slept through the night. The other kids seem to be happy he’s here.”

“I’m so glad. So, his home situation was not good. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look in his backpack.”

“Not yet.”

“Well, all I could find for him was a dirty pair of jeans and a couple tee shirts that have seen better days. No underwear or socks, except for what he’s wearing. Also, there were no toys in the house. Poor little guy, I don’t know what he did with himself all day.”

“Well, you know I keep extra undies and socks in various sizes just for this kind of situation, and there’s certainly no shortage of toys. I can take care of getting him some new clothes. Has he started school?”

“No, and I’m not sure he’s ready for that. His socialization skills might need some work. My sense is that this is a pretty neglected boy.”

My heart went out to Aiden. “Well, we’ll take it slow. When he’s ready, we can try a couple mornings a week at Tony’s preschool.”

“That sounds good.”

“Is there any history of abuse?”

“There’s nothing in the file, but we both know it’s a possibility. This is his mom’s first offense, so we just don’t know what Aiden’s life has been like.”

I sighed. “I understand. Anything else?”

“No. I’ll bring by his paperwork later this morning if that’s okay, but I won’t come in.”

I understood why Terri didn’t want to come in. It could upset Aiden’s settling-in process if he thought Terri was there to take him away again.

“Perfect. See you soon.”

I let the kids play outside for a while before calling them inside.

“Who wants fruit?” I had diced apples and oranges and mixed them with some blueberries in a big bowl.

“I do!” Tony said.

“Me too!” echoed Grace.

Jenny, who was my quiet one, just nodded.

“Aiden, how about you? Do you want some fruit?”

“What’s fruit?” he asked, his brows furrowed.

“What’s fruit?” Tony laughed. “You know, bananas and oranges and stuff!”

They sat at the table and Jenny helped me serve.

“Here you go, Aiden. This is fruit. You’ll like it.” Jenny said in her soft voice.

We watched as Aiden put a piece of apple in his mouth, chewed it. A smile broke on his face and he said, “I like fruit!”

The kids laughed and talked while they ate. It did my heart good to see them like this. With foster kids, I’d learned early on to take my joy wherever I could; it made the hard times a bit easier.

That afternoon, I loaded up the kids in my van and we went shopping. Because of a recent growth spurt, Grace needed some longer jeans. I also got new jeans, shorts, and shirts for Aiden, along with new pjs that matched the ones Tony had at home. The boys got a kick out of knowing they both had dinosaurs. Afterwards, we stopped for frozen yogurt. “This is good!” Aiden said, as he licked his chocolate cone.

After his bath that evening, and wearing his new pjs, Aiden climbed into bed. I sat on the edge and said, “Good night, Aiden, sleep tight.”

“G’night.”

As I walked to the door, Aiden said, “Hey Nita?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Can I have fruit tomorrow?”

“You sure can. We have fruit every day.”

 I made it to my room before the tears fell. Such a simple request. If it were up to me, I’d make sure Aiden had fruit every day for the rest of his life.

An original short story: Courage to Change the Things I Can

I wrote this in response to the prompt "Tempted." Hope you enjoy!

Courage to Change the Things I Can by Patty Panni

Instead of walking past Chic Retreat as she’d been doing for weeks, Claire walked into the upscale boutique located on the Village Square, just around the corner from the dry cleaners where she worked. The fabulous clothes and shoes in the window had called to her like a glorious siren song, beautiful but dangerous.

I will not buy anything. I will not buy anything.

“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice came from behind her, and Claire startled to hear it.

“Oh no. I’m just looking,” she replied.

“We’re having a sale today. All our bags are fifteen percent off. Also, there’s a rack of sale items in the back.”

Sale. Claire licked her lips. She strolled over to the handbags. There were designer canvas satchels, small jewel-toned clutches, and what looked to be a hand-painted leather hobo. She touched the hobo bag, fingers stroking the painted image of a peacock, brilliant blues against the fine cream leather. What would it look like, slung over her shoulder? She glanced at the price. $285. Her mind calculated the sale price automatically: it would still be $242 and change. I can’t.

She walked to the rack of clothes in the back marked Clearance. Ooh, a navy silk tee. Is it in my size? No…I can’t!

Shaking her head, Claire backed away, heading to the door.

“Come again,” the woman called as she left.

Not if I can help it. Claire fast-walked the four blocks to the church and ducked in a side door, greeting a few people. She sat in the circle of chairs just as a woman began speaking.

“Welcome to Spenders Anonymous. My name is Gina and I’m a compulsive spender. I have over $78,000 in credit card debt.”

“Hi, Gina,” Claire said, along with the rest of the group.

An original short story: Boots

For those who love romance, here's a short story I wrote earlier this year. Hope you enjoy!

Boots by Patty Panni

He watched her walk away. It was usually one of his favorite past times, especially when she wore those jeans and cowboy boots, but not today. Today he watched her walk away towards the security check line that would take her far from him. Far from their life together.

She had gotten the call in the middle of the night. Calls in the middle of the night are never good news, and this one fit the pattern. It was her brother, telling her their father was gone. Suddenly and irretrievably gone. She didn’t cry last night as she set about doing laundry and packing, but he knew the tears would come. Tears for all that had been and all that would never be. She didn’t ask him to come with her. He would have. God knows it would’ve been torture, but he would have if she’d only asked. Maybe he should’ve offered. Too little, too late. Maybe all the way around.

She had come into his life in an accidental way. He certainly wasn’t looking to meet anyone and neither was she. But meet they did, over a crowded lunch counter. In his corner of Wyoming, Murray’s Diner was the only decent place to get a noon meal. His usual midday meal was a sack lunch he packed each morning. Riding fence lines didn’t exactly afford a set lunch hour with a kitchen. It was always a sandwich and a thermos, which was fine by him. But on that particular day he’d been in town. The court was scheduled to finally close his wife’s estate, and the lawyer had wanted him to be there just in case the judge had any questions. He did not, and the matter was officially closed.

When he left the courthouse, for some reason he just didn’t want to go straight back to the ranch; he suddenly couldn’t face the solitude, so he’d stopped into Murray’s. The place was crowded. Too crowded. He had placed his order to go and figured he’d eat in his truck, when a voice said, “Wow, is it always this crazy busy here?” He had looked up into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, looking directly at him.

“Well, I can’t say for certain. I’m not usually here.”

“What’s your name, cowboy?”

“Dwight. And yours?”

“Josephine. Jo.” They smiled tentative, polite smiles. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we take our lunches over to that little park a few blocks away. I saw it when I was coming into town. It sure beats trying to get a table here.”

He was about to say that he had to be getting back to work, but something made him stop. “Sounds like a fine idea.”

They spent the next hour talking. She made him laugh, something he hadn’t done in a very long time. When the food and coffee were gone, she took his hand. Said it had been a pure pleasure to meet him and that she hoped life was good to him, that she supposed she’d better be getting back on the road.

“It’s getting kind of late in the day to be heading out. Maybe you could postpone your departure,” he had said, surprising himself at his boldness. She smiled that golden smile at him and said she supposed that could be arranged.

And that was that. She followed him out to the ranch. He bustled around trying to find a set of clean sheets to put on the guest bedroom bed, but she took his hand. Said “I don’t want to put you out,” as she led him to his bedroom. She never did sleep in that guest room. Turns out her visit had lasted a lot longer than either one of them could have imagined. Turns out she was a balm for his weary soul.

As weeks became months, he would hear her on the phone with her brother, her father. They couldn’t understand why she didn’t come home from her vacation out west. Her explanations were never good enough. She didn’t share a lot with him, but he knew things were tense. She was from a small town in Ohio, which was just about as far away from Big Sky Country as you could get. She said she felt like her life began the day she met him.

She got a part-time job in town. Said she didn’t want to be a burden, that she wanted to contribute. He told her she didn’t have to, but every week, her paycheck went for groceries, flowers, something pretty for the house. Little by little, the house started feeling like a home again. Why didn’t he tell her how much it meant? How much she meant? How before she came his life had been cold and empty and he’d never thought he would find love again, but she changed that.

It was later that evening when she called to say she’d made it. She missed him, missed the ranch. She was exhausted and they didn’t talk long. There wasn’t much to say. The next day she was busy with funeral preparations and he was busy with the horses, trimming hooves. They didn’t talk until late and again, it was a short conversation.

He lay in bed that night missing her, wondering if she was missing him or if she was settling back into a life there. Usually he was out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow, but not that night. It was a long night, but he made a decision.

The next morning was the day of the funeral. He was up and out early, giving his ranch hands instructions for the next few days. He packed a duffel bag and headed to the airport. He knew it was crazy. She might not even want him there; she might even be angry at him for coming, but he couldn’t stay away. He had to go, had to see her, tell her how he felt. He was a fool for not telling her before.

He took an Uber from the airport. First time he ever did that. A kid on the plane helped him download the app. Walking to her front door, his stomach was jumping. What if she wasn’t glad to see him? What if she didn’t want him there? He didn’t know if he could bear that.

When no one answered the door, he realized they must still be at the funeral service. Nothing to do but wait. He found a bench in the side yard and sat. It was nice there, shaded, birds singing. He wasn’t used to sitting around, though, and it didn’t take long for him to get restless. The sun was beginning to set when he saw the car pull up to the house. The butterflies returned to his stomach. She’d never looked more beautiful. She was halfway up the sidewalk before she saw him. Her mouth formed a perfect O as he walked up to her, wrapped her in a hug.

“You came. I never thought you’d come.”

“I came.” There was so much more he wanted to say but somehow when he was with her the words were slow to come.

“I never thought you’d come,” she whispered again, before he covered her mouth with his own.

“I couldn’t stay away. I need you. I love you.” There. He said it.

She took his hand. Smiled that golden smile, and he just knew. Everything was all right.