In Search of Eden Read Free Page A

leaned forward, as if the weight of all his noble deeds rested heavily on his back. His small face was knit into a frown of concern. It undid her.
    â€œYou have been good. Oh, my goodness, there never has been a group of children more cooperative and well-behaved!”
    Their faces lit with hope, and she, as always, plunged toward it despite her intention to do otherwise. “As Hero was telling me the other day, not all children are as lucky as you are.”
    Their faces shone with happiness, hope barely saved from being dashed on the rocks, and her own heart eased. They cupped chins in hands, sprawled down more comfortably on their resting mats, and Dorrie grasped something and pulled it down from the air—a gift, as all stories were.
    She paused, groping for a plot, catching one from the whirring in her mind. “There was one little girl Hero knew in a town far, far away who wandered away one day and couldn’t find her way back home.”
    A slight rustle, a shift of warm bodies. She heard their quiet breathing, felt the warmth of their bodies and their love, and her heart eased.

    It was nearly three-thirty before the classroom was empty. Roger, her favorite, although she tried hard to hide that fact, was the last one to leave. His mother was barely out of her teens, and Dorrie had been suspicious of her immediately. Today she arrived late, in a flurry of hair and exposed midriff under a black leather jacket. Dorrie stood at the doorway and continued to hold Roger’s small hand in her own, not realizing what she was doing until she became aware that both Roger and his mother werelooking at her in puzzlement. She released him and took a step backward.
    â€œBye, teacher,” Roger said with a squinting grin, pushing those glasses back with his small hand.
    Dorrie felt another twist of anxiety. He was so small and vulnerable. She looked at his mother. The woman’s bangs hung down in her eyes. She was much too young to have such a responsibility. Who was she really? Who had qualified her for this? You ought to have to pass a test or something in order to raise kids. They were such little souls, children, and so desperately helpless.
    â€œYeah, thanks,” the girl said brightly, and Dorrie had a flash of hope that she was, in fact, an older sister with her platform shoes and short skirt.
    â€œLook, Mom,” Roger said, squashing her hopes. He held up his artwork as the two of them walked away. Dorrie forcibly put Roger out of her mind, repeating a familiar refrain. He is not your child. He is not your child.
    She turned around to survey the room. It was a disaster, as usual, so she took a few minutes to put it in order, then turned out the lights and left the classroom.
    She walked the few blocks to the bus stop and paced to stay warm. It was bitter cold. Sometime since recess, it had begun to snow. Tiny, mean flakes hurtled sideways through the frigid air. The bus arrived, warm and well lit inside. Dorrie took a seat near the middle and looked around. Her eyes brushed over the middle-aged men and college boys without thinking, coming to rest on a young girl. She looked about eleven. She was sitting with an older man who looked a little dissolute. Dorrie frowned. She took another look at the girl’s face and was somewhat reassured. The child looked happy enough. Yes. She supposed so. She had brown hair and pale skin, and her pink coat looked dirty but warm. She studied the girl’s features but looked away before she crossed the line to rudeness.
    She deliberately turned her gaze out the window. They passeda bookstore, a few coffee shops, a car dealership, and after a few more turns, the church that had once been a theater. The Father’s House it was called now instead of the Rialto. Services Sunday at 10 A.M . and Thursday at 7:00 P.M . Open each morning for prayer. This week’s message title was featured on the other side of the marquee. “A Place at Abba’s