Bunny Man's Bridge

by Ted Neill

  For a moment, I can see what he sees, as my reflection is staring back at me in the window: a dad in a collared shirt, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his hair with flecks of premature gray, and an eye patch. Who knew what the manager thinks of that, but hopefully I give the kids’ story some credibility as a responsible-looking guardian. But I don’t want to intervene. Nick is feeling out his autonomy. I respect that.

  The manager reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bunch of keys that he spins around his fingers, like a nervous tick, then shoves them back in his pocket. The motion reminds me of a gunslinger twirling his gun, for some reason. It was an empty gesture though, done out of habit, without much thought or meaning, I realize. He shakes hands with Nick and Gi, then walks away, pushing the cart into a line of other identical ones. Nick and Gi sense that they had been dismissed, their orphaned cart returned to its herd. They trudge out to the car and get in the backseat without saying a word.

  I start the car and wait until they are belted in.

  “Did he give you a reward?” I ask.

  “No,” Nick says.

  “He didn’t walk back to the office to get you something?”

  “He said, 'thank you very much’ and that he hoped it wasn’t too much trouble. Then he said to have a nice day.”

  “Like the teacher does when you go home for the day,” Gi says.

  “It was just like that,” Nick says.

  “He was grumpy.”

  “He was,” Nick agrees.

  I can tell they are both disappointed. If I had been that manager, I would have just pulled out a fiver and given it to the kids for their honesty.

  “We should have made it into a go-cart,” Gi says.

  “No, we did the right thing. We returned it to its owner,” Nick says like a little sage, like he is trying to convince himself.

  We drop off Gi. As we drive down our block, I say, “Well, I think you and Gi deserve a reward, Nick. What you did was really good, and I’m proud of you.”

  “Why didn’t he give us a reward though?”

  How do you tell your son that the world isn’t fair, that sometimes you do the right thing, and that’s its own reward?

  “We’ll get ice cream this weekend,” I say, to buy myself some time, but it doesn’t matter to him. Things that far away don’t, to kids

  “He didn’t even seem to care,” Nick says.

  “I know. I know. But I do. Your mom and I do. We’re real proud of you.”

  He smiles a bit after that. I still want to take him for ice cream though. He deserves it.

  Nick is quiet at dinner, like he is trying to process his afternoon. Afterwards, I do dishes and talk to Elaine about how hard it is for kids to be good in today’s world. Elaine listens and drinks some lemon ginger tea before she kisses me and heads upstairs to put Nick to sleep. I follow her up when I am finished. She is getting ready for bed herself. I go to check on Nick. He is sound asleep, but his face looks different from the night before. It looks as if he has worn his disappointment to bed. It was his first great hurt from a world that will just keep hurting him. I know then that my words can only ameliorate it so much.

  I’m sorry Nick, I’m sorry. I wish I could protect you, your heart, your idealism, from it all—keep you precious and innocent. I wish I could give everyone who ever disappointed you and will ever disappoint you a beat down. Bad teenagers, vandals, grumpy managers, even me.

  You’re better than me. You’re better than us all.

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