Page 18 of The Intruder

While the girl—Eleanor—is finishing the spaghetti, I return to my pantry and retrieve a tin full of chocolate chip cookies. I place them on the table in front of her. As she finishes the last bite of her second plate of food, she glances at me, then reaches for a cookie.

“Chocolate chip is my favorite,” I tell her. “What’s yours?”

She lifts a shoulder as she chews on the cookie, her knuckles white as she squeezes the knife with her other hand.

“Oreos?” I ask.

After a long silence, she says, “I really like double chocolate chip.”

We have added six words to the number she has said to me. It feels like a miracle. “I love those too!”

The tiniest smile touches her lips. “Do you have any?”

“No, but I can buy some for you when the storm calms down tomorrow.”

I can see the walls shutting down. I finally got her to open up a tiny bit, but now she’s turning defensive again. “No. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“And where are you going?”

She lifts her chin, flecked with a bit of red sauce. “That’s none of your business.”

Yes, definitely a teenager.

There’s a ribbon tied around the tin with a little card hanging off it. She taps open the card with her fingertip and reads the message inside, “Dear Casey, happy birthday. Lee. Who is Lee?”

“A friend.”

She raises an eyebrow. “A boyfriend?”

“No, not a boyfriend.”

“Then why did he get you a box of cookies?”

“Because that’s what friends do. They buy each other birthday presents.”

She takes a thoughtful bite of one of the cookies as the wind rattles the kitchen windows. “These are really good. They taste expensive.”

“Maybe.” I have no idea how much Lee paid for them, although they do look awfully fancy. But it’s not like it’s jewelry. It’s just cookies! How much could they have possibly cost?

Eleanor polishes off another one and then licks crumbs off her fingers. “My mom said that a boy will never do anything nice for you unless he’s interested in you.”

So there is a mother involved. A mother who is apparently not looking for her. “That’s not true.”

“Does he live nearby?”

“Yes. Just up the road. There’s a path through the woods that leads right to his house.”

“Is he married?”

“No.”

“Does he have kids?”

“No.” Although now that I think of it, I don’t know for sure that Lee doesn’t have a child. I never bothered to ask. “I mean, he hasn’t mentioned any.”

“Is he gross?”

“No!”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s, uh…” I don’t know why I am indulging in this conversation, but I just want to get her talking, even if she’s picking on me about my love life. I don’t mind. When I was teaching, my students used to ask me teasing questions about whether I had a boyfriend. “He’s about six feet tall.”

“Does he have a mustache or beard?”

“A beard.”

“A gross bushy beard?”

“No, it’s, uh, well-groomed.”

Eleanor grabs another cookie from the tin. “What color are his eyes?”

“Blue.”

“Are they soulful?”

“Soulful?” I stifle a laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Is he smart?”

Smart? That’s hard to say. He’s well-spoken though. He seems educated, although we haven’t discussed his educational background. “I think so.”

“Is he nice or a jerk?”

“He’s nice,” I say. “He bought me the cookies, didn’t he?”

The cookies were part of a bigger gesture.

It was my first birthday living out here, the first one since my father died and since losing my job.

I was feeling low and let slip that the day was coming up.

Lee invited me to his cabin, and even though I was extremely reluctant, I finally agreed.

He cooked me a lovely meal of steak and potatoes.

Totally a “man’s” dinner, but it was delicious.

He even coaxed a bit of conversation out of me, although I managed to skirt any serious questions.

He looked really good that night—I still remember. He wore a nice checkered shirt, and his face had this openness when he smiled. It made me want to tell him everything. And his blue eyes were…well, soulful.

Then when we were nearly done eating, Lee ran to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine. I almost forgot about this, he said. Want to crack it open?

I almost said yes. If we opened that bottle of wine, that would open the floodgates.

The evening would end with him kissing me, and while initially the possibility triggered a little jolt of excitement, the more I considered it, the more anxious I felt.

So I made up an excuse and got out of there as quickly as I could.

Lee barely had time to grab his present for me and make sure I took it home.

It was our first and only meal together.

“So why don’t you want him to be your boyfriend?” Eleanor asks me.

“I don’t want a boyfriend right now,” I say. “I’m happier without one.”

“Why?”

I shoot her a look. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, but you’re old.” She shakes the tin and picks out another cookie. She is so tiny; where is she putting all this food? Physically, this seems impossible. “Anyway, my mom wouldn’t let me.”

My ears perk up. Another tiny piece of personal information. “Is there someone you’d like to be your boyfriend…or girlfriend?”

It felt like we were having a nice, albeit slightly insulting conversation, but she shuts down quickly at the personal question. “No. Not anymore.” She shoves another cookie in her mouth.

“Not anymore? So there is someone you—”

A bolt of lightning from outside makes her face glow briefly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you could tell me if—”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it,” she hisses as the entire house shakes with a crack of thunder, loud enough to make me jump. The storm must be very close.

She’s glaring at me now. I’m not going to get any more information out of her about her mother or this potential crush. I am desperate for any little nugget. Where she’s from, how old she is…anything she's willing to tell me.

“Maybe I can give you a ride then tomorrow,” I offer. “Is there someplace you would like me to drop you off?”

“No, thank you,” she says. “I’m almost there.”

That’s very strange. How could she be “almost there” when we’re in the middle of nowhere? It doesn’t even make sense that she’s out here. If she were hitchhiking, it’s not like they would drop her off here, so far off the main road.

She came here intentionally, looking for something or someone. And she’s not willing to tell me a thing.

But of course she won’t. This is a girl who has been burned—literally—by adults. She doesn’t trust me because I’m one of them. And I can’t even blame her. Kids are so vulnerable, and when the most important adult in your life betrays you, it’s hard to ever come back from that.

I have to figure out a way to get her to trust me.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m not going to tell anyone you are here or where you’re going if you don’t want me to.”

Eleanor lets out a loud snort.

“Okay, fine.” I tap my fingertips on the table as rain pounds against the window. “So when I was a kid, my dad and I had something called an infinity promise.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s looking at me with a degree of interest. “What’s that?”

“An infinity promise,” I say, “is a promise that you can never break. Ever. Under any circumstances.”

“Everyone breaks promises.”

“Maybe in your life. But I will tell you that in my entire thirty-five years of life, I have never once broken an infinity promise. Never.”

Eleanor looks skeptical. But at the same time, I can see in her face that she wants to believe it. She wants so badly to have one adult in her life that she can actually trust. Children crave that.

“What happens if you break an infinity promise?” she asks tentatively.

“Well, I’m not sure,” I say. “Because my father never broke one, and neither have I. But I assume you die instantly.”

She arches an eyebrow.

“From dysentery,” I add.

“What’s dysentery?”

“It means you get diarrhea until you die. Death from diarrhea. It’s pretty awful.”

To my amazement, Eleanor cracks a smile. I don’t know at what age poop jokes stop being funny, but she obviously has not reached it yet. More importantly, there are sparks of trust in her eyes.

“So,” she says, “you infinity promise you won’t tell anyone I’m here?”

“Well,” I say, “I won’t tell anyone without your permission.

For the record, I think there are adults out there who could help you, and I’d like to discuss it with you more.

But yes, I infinity promise that I won’t tell anyone you’re here if you don’t give me permission.

On penalty of death from dysentery.” I pause. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she says.

I look down at that knife, still gripped in her hand. Maybe it’s my imagination, but she seems to loosen her grip just a little bit. Maybe she’s becoming more comfortable with me. And she should—I have never broken an infinity promise, and I don’t intend to start tonight. No matter what.