“Shama,” I said, bowing to the necessity of being honest with an officer of the law. “I was just riding my horse down by the creek, not disturbing anyone when . . .”
The officer took a step closer, making me wish that I could retreat back into the shadows, as was my usual nature. Only I had two young boys draped over me, and I was sitting on the ground in a tear-soaked heap.
“Shama what?” the man barked out, insistent and demanding.
I sighed. I supposed there was no reason to avoid the question, although I didn’t see why he needed to force me to air my personal history. But, if it would stop his belligerence, I suppose the truth was the most practical response.
“I never received a last name. I’m an orphan that no one claimed.”
Having to confess that stirred up more than personal disappointment. There was a certain bitterness that came with such a revealing. I’d been given a short wick in life, Old Mother used to say. Even when the candle wax was of the finest quality, a candle was still limited without a proper wick. A last name and someone to stand up for me would have given me that support, and Old Mother had intended to do that. She’d promised to adopt me, but then her lungs had filled with the sickness that swept through the town that year, and her life had sputtered out.
But what business was it of this officious male anyway? I’d be out of his hair as soon as the boys were taken care of.
My words apparently had some kind of impact on him. He retreated several steps as if he’d suddenly inhaled some empathy. More likely, I’d become a threat, a contamination to his sensibilities. His next words would probably be, “We don’t want you here. Get out of whatever this town was called, and don’t come back.”
I’d be happy to oblige such an order, except that I couldn’t leave the boys at the moment. I identified too much with their grief. They were almost orphans, just like me.