Give a Cry out for Liberty

Part Two

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The rocking chair's creaks filled the room with a heavy tension.

Madame Foster had many unspoken ways to tell him that she was upset, Mr. Herriman thought. All the years they've spent together gave him the near uncanny ability to read even the most subtle of emotions from her.

There goes a missed stitch again. That's one of her tells; Madame Foster was a lot less focused in her knitting whenever something upsetting was on her mind. The jagged, uneven pattern in the fabric told him that her mind was buzzing with countless thoughts. It's only after she misses another stitch that she grows frustrated with her failed project and tosses the fabric, needles and all, into her lap.

"Confound it," she mutters, "Confound it all."

Considering the situation, he's inclined to agree.

"Madame," he calls, knocking on the door frame. Madame Foster turns her eyes from her pile of yarn towards him.

"You're back," she replies, allowing a tense pause to follow, "How is the girl?"

"Stable," Mr. Herriman replies, adjusting his monocle, "As stable as her condition allows, I suppose. I also sent Miss Frances to bed, as you requested. Master Wilt is watching her now."

"Good," Madame Foster sighs, "It's been a day and a half, she needs the sleep." She taps a finger against the armrest of her chair. "And the boys?"

"Master Mac left to go home just a few minutes ago. Those two have been awfully quiet this weekend. I shall keep an eye on Master Blooregard for the time being, just in case."

"Mac and Bloo are so young," Madame Foster laments, "I'd hoped those two would never see the ugly side of our job."

Mr. Herriman doesn't say anything at that, as he can't help but think of all the other Imaginaries that have come though their doors in a similar condition as their latest guest, and the ones that never woke up from it. He makes a note in the back of his mind to have a chat with Master Wilt. He could only guess as to the long dormant and painful memories this incident has brought back to him.

"If it comforts you some, Madame," he says instead, "I was able to acquire the surveillance tape recording of the incident. Its contents very much line up with what Masters Blooregard and Mac have told us. I'm certain the authorities will find whomever is responsible for this accordingly."

Madame Foster's face falls. She closes her eyes and sighs.

"What good would it do?" she whispers.

Mr. Herriman's eyes snap open wide. "Pardon, Madame?"

"Be honest with me, Mr. Herriman," she says, louder now, "What good would it do? Is there a point to it all when we both darn well know the police will hardly to a thing about it?!"

Mr. Herriman dares not say anything to argue against her, because deep down, no matter how much he'd hate to admit it aloud, he knew she was right.

"If that girl were a dog, someone would have been arrested by now," She continued, fuming, "But when it comes to Imaginary Friends, we'd be lucky to get a foot in the door! They're more than glad to arrest an Imaginary Friend when they break the law, but when they're the victims of a crime, it's 'we can't help you!'"

The silence that follows is deafening. Madame Foster lets her head fall into one her hands, shaking it.

"Sometimes I wonder if what I do actually helps anyone."

Oh. Oh no, she's crying, isn't she?

"Alice," Mr. Herriman sighs, "Alice, please don't cry."

He hops across the room and scoops Madame Foster up into his arms; if he had anything positive to say about his creator's advancing age, it would be that it made her small again. If it weren't for the silver hair and the aged wrinkles on her face, it would be like she was a little girl all over again.

Mr. Herriman lets himself fall into the rocking chair, letting the curved feet ease them both into a calm, rocking motion.

"Now, now, Madame," he coos, procuring a handkerchief to wipe away Madame Foster's tears, "That's hardly any way to think. You mean to tell me that after all these years; the awards, the campaigns, the laws you've helped change, the countless adoptions, and you think that you haven't done anything to help Imaginary Friends? I thought that by this point you would have known better."

Madame Foster sighs and lays her head against his chest. "I'm sorry, it's just...frustrating. Frustrating to know that despite everything we've done, there's next to nothing we can do to help that girl now," She pauses. "All we can do is hope she pulls through."

"Perhaps," Mr. Herriman adds, "I shall call the police department again in the morning, and make sure they're on top of this investigation. Will that make you feel better?"

Madame Foster is quiet for a bit. She wraps her arms around her oldest friend. "A little," she finally smirks.

Mr. Herriman would later take a minute to ask Master Wilt to take a break from watching their patient to head downstairs and order pizza for the house. While he didn't particularly enjoy the greasy food, he acknowledged that the residents of Foster's needed a respite from being stretched so thin for the past couple of days. If that meant pizza for dinner, so be it.

However, that would come later. For now, all Madame Foster and Mr. Herriman needed was each other, and the little quiet corner of the house they found themselves in, silent save for the creaking of the chair they rocked in.

Back and forth...Back and forth...