5A Story Contest

     I stare out the car window at the drizzle coming down. I can’t stand looking out the windshield. Shaun is driving us around on our Sunday afternoon errands, and he never runs the wipers enough. The raindrops pile up, gradually blotting out the view until I feel trapped and claustrophobic. Better to just look out the passenger-side window of the yellow VW Rabbit.

     “Where do you want to eat lunch?” Shaun asks.

     “I don’t care.”

     “I don’t care either.”

     “I picked last time.”

     “Uh, OK, I picked the ten times before that. It’s not that hard. Just pick somewhere.”

     “I told you, I don’t care. You just pick somewhere if it’s no big deal.”

     We see something white on the sidewalk, flapping in the wind, and forget about our fight. It’s a bathrobe, I think, streaming out behind a tall, thin boy. He doesn’t look as old as a teenager, but I wouldn’t call him a little kid. He looks old enough to be out alone. Still, it’s odd.

     Shaun and I look at one another with the question in our eyes. We don’t want to be THOSE people; you know, the ones who ignore the screams while a young woman is being stabbed to death right next door. The thing is, you don’t know she’s being stabbed. People fight all the time. Maybe she’s just screaming mad and not being killed at all. This boy might be just a strange kid running out to get a gallon of milk for his mom. It’s risky, stepping in.

     We continue down the street, slower now, sitting in silence as we pass the gas stations, strip malls, and 50’s-era gingerbread ranches of charmless Buena Park. We passed the boy at least a mile ago, but his image stays with me; his lurching but purposeful walk, his wet, stringy brown hair, the threadbare bathrobe, the dark sweatpants, his mud-splattered white socks…

     “We have to call the police.”

     “What?”

     “We have to find a phone and call the police. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.”

     Shaun pulls into a Thrifty’s parking lot and parks the car. He turns off the motor and steps out into the rain, headed for the pay phone at the entrance of the store. We don’t discuss who will make the call. I have the better sense of direction when it’s a question of taking a right or a left; but, while Shaun may not know how to get where he’s going, he always knows where he is. He’ll be able to tell the police what direction the boy was walking in.

     It must have been ten minutes ago now that we saw him. What if he’s changed direction? What if he wandered off into one of those neighborhoods instead of staying on the main road? Has anyone even noticed that he’s missing yet?

     Now that we’re making the call, I’m excited. Maybe the story will be on the news tonight. But then I feel bad and creepy for getting excited. There’s no guarantee our tip will help. Maybe they won’t be able to find him after all. Maybe a bad guy will find him first.

     The rain beats down on the roof of the car. Who was watching the boy? Does he escape often, or was this the first time? How dangerous is it for him to be out alone? What is his home like? I want to know his story, but I guess the knowing is what we forfeited when we chose to drive on by instead of stopping to help.

     It’s a let-down when Shaun returns to the car with no new information. Yes, the police will look into it. That’s all we know. Feeling guilty, I ask Shaun to drop me off at my great-grandmother’s place in Whittier. Neither of us is hungry for lunch any more. He lets me off on the sidewalk and I walk up to the boxy 1980’s-era stucco apartment building, the lone eyesore on a street of cozy craftsman bungalows and Spanish colonial revival duplexes.

     Huge raindrops slide from the shaggy palms overhead and splash onto my hair. I brush them off with my hand and ring the doorbell to apartment 5A.

     Marta answers the door and invites me in with a smile.

     “Lenora, there’s someone here to see you.” A single amber-colored glass lamp lights the dim living room. My great-grandmother sits in the corner on a wooden spindle-back chair; it’s easier to get out of than the overstuffed sofa. I lean down to put my arms gently around her and then straighten up after the hug; her knobby fingers reach up for my damp hands.

     “And how are the children today?” she asks with a knowing smile. “The deaf children at the school—are they behaving for you?” I should visit more. But I never know how to answer these questions. I’ve never even met any of the people she mistakes me for. Today I’m Mary, her roommate from sixty-five years ago.

     “How are you?” I ask awkwardly. She starts to answer but is interrupted by the call of a mourning dove from the birdcage that stands by her chair. She looks at the gray-brown bird until I think she has forgotten I’m there, but she finally turns her face back to me. Her lower lip is trembling, and tears spill over from the round violet saucers of her eyes.

     “I would like a snack,” she says. By now, I’m used to the emotional and verbal non sequiturs of her dementia. But today, I’m captivated by her eyes. And I realize that that’s what I’m missing from the boy’s story. His eyes.

     If only I’d seen into his eyes, I’d have the answer to the question that bothers me the most: Was he lost and cold and afraid out there, walking along the street all alone? Or did he wing down the street in that bathrobe—free—and lift his face to the rain?

Tags: Gypsy Martin, Rainy Day

This entry was posted on Monday, October 5th, 2009 at 5:25 pm and is filed under Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.