The Orphan Keeper by Camron Wright

Author:Camron Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Deseret Book Company
Published: 2016-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

When Chellamuthu walked in from wrestling practice, Linda already had dinner on the table. After the family had finished eating, she pointed toward his room. “You need to clean your room and make your bed.”

When Chellamuthu didn’t understand his new mother—which was most of the time—he had two choices: shrug in ignorance, which caused her to repeat what she’d said, each time louder, as if the problem were his hearing; or nod with enthusiasm, giving her the impression he’d understood her English to perfection.

Each option had its advantages. While the latter was preferred, the long-term consequences were unpredictable. Tonight, he was too tired to play the game. He shook his head back and forth, hoping she’d go away.

No such luck. Linda repeated her command with more volume than expected.

Chellamuthu met her volume with more rigorous head wagging.

Linda, obviously exhausted from her day’s work, signaled for Rux to take Chellamuthu by the hand and show him what to do.

No hand-holding was necessary. Chellamuthu stood and followed Rux into their room. There, waiting for them on top of their bare mattresses was a stack of freshly washed sheets.

Chellamuthu’s mouth ripped open. He shoved Rux aside and rushed to the bed.

“No. No! NO!” he shouted in English, as he tore apart the pile of linens. When he found nothing, he raised the mattress with two hands and scoured beneath.

He had already learned that hiding food wasn’t necessary, that it annoyed his mother when she found it. But he’d never told her about the picture he’d drawn of his family.

Everyone holds secrets that need protecting.

Chellamuthu had received a flashlight for Christmas, and on occasion, after Rux had gone to sleep, he would pull out his drawing from beneath the mattress and shine the light across familiar faces.

Last night, he was too cold to climb out of bed, and so he placed his carefully folded picture between the sheets at the foot of his bed, promising himself to put it back under the mattress in the morning.

He’d forgotten.

Now, shaking the uncaring sheets like a wolf might shake a rabbit, he was screaming phrases in Tamil that no one in the room—or likely the city—could understand.

Enga! Enga!

What had she done with his picture?

Linda dashed in, at first confused by the fevered scene, until a vague notion of her potential wrongdoing soon gelled. Her chin lowered. Her eyes squinted. Her guilt-ridden face flushed with fear. She motioned for her son to follow her.

They trekked together to the laundry room for a joint investigation of the crime scene. When she lifted the lid of the washer, both peered inside.

What they saw wasn’t blood, but it might as well have been.

On the inside of the drum were four small scraps of limp and tattered paper clinging to the side for dear life—but there was no life left in them. Each was about the size of a mangled thumb, with the faint remains of lost lines that nobody, including Chellamuthu, could make out.

He carefully peeled the scraps away from

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