The Dreamer
Chapter Six
In her position at the back of the pack, Olive slowly increases her distance between the rest of the orphans as she runs. Thankfully, Davis has split with another group. Otherwise, she might have his hawk eyes to deal with. They filter out onto a main road, which is now packed with bright-colored cars swerving down the street, narrowly missing drunken pedestrians who laugh each time a mammoth machine races toward them. The clubs are closing, and the last moving picture of the night just finished at the theater. It's as if this generation of partygoers are invincible to the cold. The frost escaping their mouths at each breath just emphasizes their laughter, making it all the more enchanting.
But tonight Olive doesn't have time to stop and daydream, to become one of them for however short a time. She keeps her eyes on the bouncing hat in front of her as the group weaves their way in between people. When the boys disappear into another dark alley, the one headed home, Olive veers away, lost in the crowd of people. The locket is clutched tight in her palm. By the time the boys notice, it will be too late to do anything about it.
Olive ditches her coat and the grungy, knitted hat pulled down over her ears in case it is recognizable by the cops. She runs fingers through her hair and makes an attempt to slow down and walk taller. As long as she acts like she belongs and knows where she is going, there shouldn't be any problems.
Suddenly worried, she checks the note again. It is still there, 424 Cherry. Olive smiles to herself; she can't believe her luck. Cherry Street is just two blocks away from old Mrs. Moe and her house stuffed with orphans. Named for its hallmark decoration, each property has a mid-sized cherry tree in front. During the right season, no matter how bad the hunger got, Olive could always come to Cherry Street to suppress the worst of her appetite.
As Olive walks, the crowd thins and all the houses begin to look the same. Box shapes, off-white siding, and steep roofs. She looks at the addresses as she passes. 420 has pretty pink shutters. Across the street, 419 has chopped down their cherry tree, opening up the yard. 421 still has their lights on. Olive quickens her pace, ducking her head as she moves past. Finally, 424 Cherry stands before her. A picket fence surrounds the property.
Olive looks over her shoulder. There is probably no one else in the house. After all, only the baby's picture was in the locket.
Unlatching the gate, Olive walks inside the yard, and the thought hits her. A key. She should have thought of that. Maybe one of the other boys ended up with it. Jiggling the front door handle, Olive finds it locked. She crosses her arms, huffing.
There has to be another way in. Frozen grass crunches under her feet as she walks to the back of the house. The rear door is locked as well, but there are large, empty flowerpots stacked underneath one of the windows.
Olive steps on top, ceramic scraping against ceramic as the pots shift beneath her weight. Using the ledge for balance, Olive lifts the window up.
One, two, three. Olive jumps, knocking over the stack of pots as she pulls herself in. They clatter and break, echoing the noise of tin cans she accidentally kicks off the kitchen counter. Some empty and some full, they scatter across the linoleum floor. Olive stands up inside, listening for anyone coming to investigate the noise.
Nothing but crickets outside. She hastily pulls the window down, blocking anymore cold air from entering, and turns to the cupboards in the kitchen.
"When was the last time you ate?" Olive asks herself the same question Davis did earlier.
Without hesitation, Olive dives for the pantry. There isn't much, but Olive manages to finish off a half-eaten roll and an apple. She pushes aside a jar of olives—never liked them that much. They are bitter and stringent, reminding her of the ash that coats the basement of the burned out factory. Instead she reaches for a chocolate bar—an entire wrapped candy, not even opened!
"Mmm." Olive melts to the floor as the chocolate slides down her throat, coating the inside of her body in creamy sugar goodness.
She finishes the treat then gathers her trash, depositing it in the waste bin and wiping her face of any leavings. Olive makes her way down the short hallway, flipping on a light as she goes. The living area, bathroom, and first bedroom are empty. No husband, no nanny, no one to look after the baby.
Following the sickly smell of lavender, which now reminds Olive of pale, cold hands, she turns into the bedroom. It is neat, with only a small bed, a bedside table, and a chest of drawers. The lampshade dangling with sequins jingles as Olive flips on the light. Still following her nose, Olive floats to the closet, sliding the double doors open.
"Oh my God." Olive runs the palm of her hand across chiffon, lace, silk, and cotton. Sequins and jewels shine out at her. "I've died and gone to heaven."
Olive pulls out a bright purple, knee-length dress. It is her favorite color, and there isn't one smudge mark or tear marring the dress. She hugs it to her body, spinning across the room toward the mirror.
Fit for a grand dance, the outfit just needs a few accessories, Olive thinks, glancing at the rows of shoes across the bottom of the floor of the closet.
A wide smile spreads across her face. Then she hears it, a tiny mewling coming from inside the house.
It's her, Olive freezes. The cry comes again, louder this time. She glides toward the second bedroom, squeezing the locket in her hand, purple sequined dress forgotten on the bed. Her heartbeat quickens with every cry that rings out, piercing the silence. Pushing open the door to the nursery, light from the hallway illuminates the crib. Olive steps closer, straightening her hair some more. She peers over the edge of the painted white railing.
"Did I wake you, baby?"