The woman stepped forward. “Boys, my name is Mrs. Penn, and I’m going to take care of you for a while. But first, I’m afraid I have some very bad news about your mother.”
We were outside where the air was fresh and wholesome, only something about Mrs. Penn’s body posture and facial expression sucked away all breathable air.
Carlo, attuned to the gloom that had settle over us, let out a whimper. Frances took a step in his direction, wanting to soothe his little brother, but I had a bad feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to do that. Some things didn’t improve even with a helping of brotherly love.
Mrs. Penn took a deep breath, like she was the one needing support and said, “You see, your mother apparently took ill and . . . and she died.”
I didn’t know the appropriate way to tell two little boys that their mother had passed on, but I had my doubts that this woman was much of an expert doling it out. But, what could one say to make something that horrible into a more palatable statement?
“That’s a lie,” Frances shouted out, glaring fiercely at the woman. “She had a broken arm or something. She’s not dead.”
Carlo stared at his brother a moment, then turned around so he wasn’t looking at Mrs. Penn. He threw his arms about my waist. His tears accompanied ear-curdling screams. His grip on me was as tight as the vise holding a horse shoe in place when the blacksmith was pounding on it. My mouth dried up from the surge of empathy I felt for his pain. Poor little tyke. What had he done to deserve this?
“Where is the boys’ father?” I demanded, as I patted and massaged little Carlo’s back and tried not to hear the anguish in his sobs.