A few summers back, I spent an afternoon on this park bench. A little black dog was playing with a dead bird. Watching felt cruel, like God passively witnessing suffering. Like a cat, yarn twined between his paws, the dog batted the bird.
Quite suddenly, a boy surfaced from behind a tree and moving toward the dog; picked up the bird and pocketed it. He knelt down in the dirt and grass, stroking the mutt. I watched feeling like a voyeur. Eventually the boy grabbed the dog, cradling it against his chest like a football, walking away. Without knowing what I was really doing, I followed the boy, the dog. I kept a safe distance away. I knew my behavior was bordering on stalker. Being discovered would only add to this already awkward situation. Every so often, this boy would stoop down, dog still in tow, and examine the ground. Scavenged little flowers, coins, fallen buttons and zippers were pocketed, just as he had done with the bird.
A library. seemingly the final destination for mysterious trench coat boy. Fourth grade was the last time I was anywhere near this library. Reading was instant popularity Kryptonite at age in fourth grade. Avoiding the library at all costs was my only solution. Popularity means something when you are a 10-year-old girl in Catholic school. Reminiscing distracted my quest to trail this boy. It became apparent that he'd made his way into the library while my focus was elsewhere.
My mind had been made up without any real contemplation. Tomorrow, I would see this boy again. Noon, I was on that bench going through the motions of studying the daily newspaper, waiting on the boy. No one else was in the park. I asked myself, 'Why would he be here? Does e not have a life, prior engagements?' I stopped when I realized I was alone, talking to myself on a park bench. Not the most appealing light for someone to see another person in.
I began to feel as though I imagined this boy. Seeing him would validate my sanity, but he was nowhere. I couldn't be sure I was alright if he was not around. Rustling noises ensued, and just as phantasmically as the previous afternoon, the boy appeared. He flung himself from the lowest branches of the tree. What a beautiful sight it was. Black trench, hair, he could easily blend in with the night. A sliver of blue, his irises, broke up the dark wash. I then wondered if the bird was still in the trench pocket. Rather than ask him, I decided another round of stalking was best.
The boy hurled himself away from the tree, walking drunkenly in te same direction as the day before. I nearly flat tired myself, tripping on my ballet flats, desperately trying to catch up to the boy.
The Library. We meet again. I saw him enter then he was out within minutes, a tower of various books crowding his arms. He set them down at the foot of the library stairs, then made his way to the side alley. I craned my neck to see a Radio Flyer filled with bags of toys. 'Ah, Santa. It is all clear now,' I thought to myself. I felt like diving, right into those toys. To be four again, without the worry of popularity, and mysterious boys with mesmerizing eyes... I thought about traipsing up to this boy, and asking if he would have a tea party with me. That of course would not help my case if he knew I was stalking him. Waved the thought away. The boy began pulling the wagon along the sidewalk, wit the books now added to the toy heap. I saw a book about dogs on the top. Where was his dog?
Brownstone, towering, decrepit described the red wagon's delivery point. A window boarded up here and there, broken beer bottles scattered around. He rolled that wagon up a ramp, knocked on the big rusty door, and disappeared inside the brownstone. An elderly woman, blue hair pearls and all, let him in. I crept to the side of the building, finding a window to peak into.
Rows of children, various ages, sizes, races, clothing preferences, sat cross-legged on a threadbare beige carpet. They faced the boy, seated in a small yellow chair, children's book in hand. Eager faces peered up at him. I found myself whispering along to the books he read aloud. Once again, before life was complicated by peer pressure and the need to fit in. Every ounce of my strength was required to keep me from storming the building and joining them.
When the boy left, I decided to do some recon. I knocked on the rusted door. Te old woman appeared. "Yes?"
"Who was that boy?"
"Colin. Friend of our dear Colin?"
"No. Why was he here?"
"He reads to the children. Little angel."
"Is this a school?"
"School? No, no! Orphanage, yes. Colin lived here."
"Oh. I see. Thank you."
"Oh,Yes. Right then."
I craved more. Puzzle pieces were appearing, fashioning themselves into a whole. I knew more about him. Not enough, but more.
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