Mulberry Park

by Judy Duarte

  It had shaken him up, of course, but he’d eventually quit approaching them, realizing it was no use.

  How many times could a fellow say he was sorry?

  Over the next week, Claire considered coming clean and telling Analisa that God had neither read nor answered her poignant letters. Yet each time she’d finished her daily run and sat under the mulberry, she’d been unable to find the words that wouldn’t disappoint the child.

  Claire had also thought about just leaving the notes in the branches of the tree so Analisa would grow tired of waiting for an answer that would never come, but she feared someone else might find them, that maybe a predator would take advantage of the little girl. So each time she’d spotted a colorful paper or envelope in the mulberry, she’d taken it home with her.

  In addition to the sketch of Erik the Angel, Claire had found a new letter nearly every day.

  Monday’s had been written on yellow paper with a teal-green crayon and read:

  Dear God.

  I reely wish you wuld give Unkel Sam a angel. I herd him on the fone when he sed he was in trubel becuz Juj Rile was sined. Pleez forgive him for the bad word he sed. Thats why he needs the angel.

  Claire had no idea what kind of trouble Unkel Sam had gotten into. Nor did she know who Juj Rile was. Whatever he or she had done, Analisa seemed to think it was sinful. Hopefully, it wasn’t anything illegal. The orphaned child had been through enough already.

  Choosing not to respond to that particular letter hadn’t been too hard. Even if she’d wanted to, what words of comfort or advice could she have given?

  Then the next day, she’d found another note written on lavender construction paper with a forest-green marker.

  Dear God.

  I no your buzy. But pleez bless Mrs. Richerdz. She has panes in her hands and neez. And she forgits stuff. Can you help her rememer where she put the neklis her huzbin gave her? And the box?

  Claire suspected Mrs. Richerdz was the elderly woman who accompanied Analisa to the park. The arthritis, if that’s what plagued her, was to be expected, as was some memory loss. Even Claire, who was pushing forty, found herself heading upstairs and forgetting why. Or peeking into the refrigerator and unsure of what she’d been looking for.

  Hopefully, Mrs. Richerdz wasn’t actually losing it, especially if she was supposed to be looking after the child. Of course, that wasn’t Claire’s concern; it was Unkel Sam’s—whoever he was. Perhaps he should stay home more and keep out of trubel.

  Late Wednesday afternoon, Claire found another message written with a red crayon on a lime-green sheet of paper.

  Dear God.

  Do you no some buddy who can play with Mr. Klinfelor? I meen someone not in hevin. Can you tell him to come to the park and talk to an old man who sits by hiself?

  Claire, who’d been so focused on her own misery, had neglected to consider how lonely Walter might be. Not that she was in any position to do much about that, but truthfully? Claire wished she knew something about the game of chess. If she did, she would offer to sit with him one afternoon and play.

  Maybe it would do them both some good.

  Interestingly enough, she’d begun to see the world through Analisa’s eyes and found herself more aware of the people she’d merely seen in passing—those she saw regularly at the park. And she’d begun to feel compelled to put a face to the names Analisa had mentioned.

  Yesterday’s letter, a pale blue note with brown writing, spoke of a child named Danny. There was no telling who the boy or his mother were, but apparently Analisa had reason to believe the family was strapped for cash and that they’d have to sell their house and move far away if the woman didn’t marry a hansum prince who liked kids and had a whole lot of money.

  Today, as Claire sat on the concrete bench under the mulberry, her legs still tense and shaky from her run, she read the latest note drawn on pink paper with a green marker.

  Dear God.

  Trever dint use to beelve in you. He duz now. Thank you for the skate bord. Maybe you dint here me good when we prade about it. Trever reely wanted a red bike. The bord is ok. He is happy and rides it all the time. Did he thank you? I told him he shood.

  Claire sat in the shade of the tree, just as she had each evening this week, and pondered whether she should answer this letter or not. Every other night she’d taken it with her, but now she was vacillating.

  If she did answer, maybe she ought to respond as herself, a woman who’d merely found the letters.

  Apparently, the child had a tremendous amount of faith and had been voicing her prayers out loud, too. She’d obviously asked God to give her friend a bike and believed he’d been granted a skateboard instead.

  And speaking of skateboards…

  In the distance, the sound of wheels on rough concrete drew her attention, and she glanced toward the parking lot, where a boy was practicing on a banged-up board—no helmet, no pads.

  And no sign of any adult supervision.

  As much as she’d like to mind her own business, the former mother in her, as rusty as it had become, couldn’t keep still. She folded Analisa’s letter and put it into the pocket of her shorts, then strode across the lawn to where the boy tried to balance on the skateboard, stumbling more often than not.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  The boy, his scruffy brown hair badly in need of a trim, stopped in his tracks and gazed at her, his eyes wide and wary.

  “Is your name Trevor?”

  His brow furrowed as he nodded. “How’d you know that?”

  “Just a lucky guess. I’d heard you had a skateboard.”

  “Yeah.” He glanced down at the board that rested beside his untied shoes, then back at her. “I found it in a field, and I thought…Well, whatever. Is it yours?”

  “No, but I couldn’t help worrying about you. Shouldn’t you be wearing protective gear?”

  He shrugged. “I guess, but I don’t have any. Yet.”

  Claire and Ron had purchased different safety gear for every sport or activity in which Erik had been involved. They were in the garage now, including the helmet and pads he’d used for his in-line skates.

  Ron had packed it all away and told her to give it to the Salvation Army, but she’d been unable to part with anything. Unable to let go.

  She opened her mouth to offer them to the boy, but couldn’t seem to utter the words. Instead, she asked, “Do your parents know you’re here, riding a skateboard in the park?”

  “My mom is dead. And my dad doesn’t live with me.”

  Claire’s heart, once stone-cold and buried with Erik, pulsed like a bleep on a hospital monitor. “Who’s looking after you?”

  “Katie.”

  Claire wanted to ask more questions, but refrained. It really wasn’t any of her business, and she couldn’t believe she’d interfered this much already. Of course, the boy was about the age Erik had been when…

  She cleared the knot of emotion from her throat. “Accidents happen in the blink of an eye, Trevor. People get injured, especially small boys. Please be careful. For me?”

  He shrugged. “Okay.” Then he nibbled on his bottom lip the way Erik used to do when he had something weighing on his mind. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Excuse me?” Did she stink? She’d just finished her run and had been perspiring. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your perfume. I can just barely smell it, but it’s nice. And powdery.” His eyes glistened. “Like the kind a mom might wear.”

  She tried to utter a thank-you, but the words wadded up in her throat, making it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.

  When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to answer his question, even though she’d meant to, he turned and walked away. His feet shuffled, his dirty, frayed shoelaces untied and slapping the ground.

  “Trevor?” she called.

  He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
>
  “My perfume is called Everlasting. My mom used to wear it, too.”

  He nodded.

  “One more thing,” she said before he went on his way.

  She spotted a now-what? in his eyes.

  “Tie your shoes, okay?”

  Their gazes locked, and a warm whisper blew through her chest like a spring thaw.

  Neither of them moved.

  “Please?”

  A wry grin tugged at his lips. “You even sound like a mom.” Then he knelt on the ground and grabbed the strings, tying them into a double knot.

  She wanted to say, “I am a mom.” But that wasn’t true anymore. Instead, she started for her car. As she reached into her pocket for the keys, her fingers brushed against Analisa’s letter. The one she’d found today.

  Unable to help herself, she headed back to the mulberry tree to take a seat and pen an answer to the child’s letter.

  But God only knew what she would say.

  Chapter 6

  As Analisa stood under the big tree at the park on Saturday morning, her heart zoomed in her chest. God did it! He finally did it. He answered another one of her letters.

  Where was Trevor?

  She looked near the parking lot, where he’d been practicing on the skateboard God had given him. He was still there, so she ran along the sidewalk to talk to him. “Trevor!”

  He turned to look at her. Sweat on his forehead made the hair around his face wet. He didn’t exactly smile, but he didn’t look unhappy to see her, either. That was good because she wanted to be his friend, even if Mrs. Richards thought he was too old for her.

  “I need you to climb the tree again.”

  “Oh, no.” Trevor, who had one foot on the board and the other on the sidewalk, frowned and crossed his arms. “You’re not going to stick another letter up there, are you?”

  “I didn’t write one last night. But He answered the one from yesterday. Look!” She pointed to the branch where it now rested. “We put it higher, remember?”

  Trevor blew out a loud sigh, the kind Uncle Sam blew out when he got a phone call after dinner and wanted to watch TV instead. But he didn’t look angry or tell Analisa she was dumb. He just stooped to pick up his skateboard and carried it to the middle of the park, where he rested it against the concrete bench.

  Then he glanced around, as though making sure no one could see what he was doing, and climbed up the tree to get her note. He dropped it down to her, and she scooped it up.

  The writing wasn’t in cursive this time, so she could probably figure it out by herself, but she and Trevor were kind of becoming friends. And since God was listening to both of them now, she thought it would be a good idea if she let Trevor be the first to know what God had said.

  When Trevor jumped down, she handed it to him. “Will you please read it to me?”

  “Sure.” He took the letter and unfolded it.

  Dear Analisa,

  You’re right. God is very busy, so I am answering this for Him. My name is Claire.

  I admire your concern for your friends at the park. I would suggest that Mrs. Richards see a doctor. Perhaps she will get some relief for her pain with medication. The doctor may be able to help her memory, too.

  The best way for Mr. Klinefelter to have a friend is for him to be one. It’s a piece of advice a little birdie once told me. And as far as your friend Danny and his mom are concerned, I’m sure God will work things out for them.

  By the way, if I had been blessed with a little girl, I would have wanted her to be just like you.

  Love,

  Claire

  P.S. Please tell Trevor to wear a helmet whenever he rides his skateboard.

  “Who’s Claire?” Analisa asked.

  “How would I know?”

  “’Cause she cares about you.” The breeze blew a loose strand of hair across Analisa’s face, and she brushed it away. “Claire must be an angel like Erik. I’ll bet she’s probably your angel.”

  Trevor blew out another sigh. “You gotta quit thinking that God is writing you letters and that angels are flying all over the earth trying to spy on people.”

  “God didn’t write this one. It was from His helper angel. And they don’t spy on us. They take care of us.”

  “Yeah, right. There’s no such thing as helper angels.”

  “There is, too. Lots of them. And sometimes birdies talk to them, just like Claire said in the letter. Then, when God gets busy, they work for Him, just like the elves who help Santa when it’s Christmas.”

  Trevor clucked his tongue again like he didn’t believe her, but after she was walking back to the playground, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him looking for something up in the tree.

  For an angel, she suspected.

  Dear God, she prayed, please let Trevor see one. Okay?

  Then he’ll really believe.

  Claire returned to the park late Saturday morning with a contrite heart. She’d tried to make things right with her note to Analisa yesterday, but wasn’t convinced that she had. Hopefully, the pen-pal relationship would stop, but if it didn’t she’d have to speak to Mrs. Richards about it. Of course, she really should talk to the girl’s uncle instead, but she suspected he was too caught up in himself and his work to consider the child—just like her ex-husband had been.

  Ron, a workaholic, had spent most weekends at the office or preparing for a business trip. Claire hadn’t minded giving him up during the week, but on Saturdays and Sundays she’d wanted more of his time. Her childhood had been neither typical nor happy, and she’d wanted the white-picket-fence dream for her son—a dream that had died with Erik.

  A quick scan of the playground told Claire that Analisa was here again today, as she’d suspected, but she sat behind the wheel a moment longer, pondering her reason for coming. She really shouldn’t interfere, but she was in too deep already.

  She climbed from the car and started toward the rolling blanket of freshly mowed lawn. The sun warmed her face, while a red-breasted bird chirped and chattered in the branches of one of the smaller trees. A robin, she decided.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been drawn this closely into the world around her.

  Yes, she could. It had been three long years ago.

  Off to the left, Trevor rode his skateboard on the sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of the park. His balance didn’t appear any better than before, and he still wasn’t wearing any protective gear.

  The boy could really stand a haircut, a bath, and a new pair of shoes. A new outfit, too. The denim jeans he wore sported a frayed hole in the knee, and his blue T-shirt was too small. She wondered who’d chosen his clothing this morning, suspecting he’d dressed himself.

  A sense of unfairness crept over her. She’d had a son she’d adored, but lost. And someone else had a child they should appreciate, but apparently didn’t. As had become her habit, she struggled to shove the negativity aside. Her life was dark enough without adding more.

  As she started down the walkway that led to the playground, the elderly woman who brought Analisa to the park approached with a catch in her gait. Dressed neatly in a pair of pale green polyester slacks and a matching polka-dot blouse, the woman headed toward the parking lot, favoring her right leg.

  With Analisa happily climbing onto a teeter-totter with another girl, Claire had a perfect opportunity to speak to the nanny.

  “Good morning. My name is Claire,” she said, introducing herself.

  The silver-haired woman seemed a bit surprised to be stopped by a stranger, but she managed a smile. “I’m Hilda Richards.”

  “If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you about Analisa.”

  Mrs. Richards stiffened, drawing herself up as tall as her barely-five-foot stature would allow. “What about her?”

  Before Claire could comment, a skid and a swish ripped through the midsummer morning, followed by a gasp and a hard thump. Both women turned to see Trevor crumpled on the ground, his skateboard upsid
e down in the street. They hurried to his side.

  “Are you all right?” Claire asked.

  He nodded, sitting up and cradling his arm, his elbow scraped and bloody. He bit his lip and grimaced as he assessed his injury. Tears welled in his eyes, yet he didn’t cry.

  “Where are your parents?” Hilda asked.

  “I don’t have any,” he said. “Not really.”

  Claire stooped and helped him to his feet.

  “Who’s looking after you?” Hilda asked.

  “Katie, but she had to work today.”

  “I keep a first-aid kit in my car,” Hilda told Claire. “Why don’t you help him wash up while I go get it?”

  Trevor glanced down at his skateboard, then stooped to pick it up. “I have to bring this with me. I don’t want anyone to steal it.”

  “You’d be better off if someone did,” Hilda quipped. “A boy I used to take care of split his lip, chipped his front teeth, and broke his wrist with one of those fool things. I’d been warning his father, but it took an accident to make the man finally see reason and take it away.”

  Trevor opened his mouth to object, then clamped it shut instead.

  Hilda shook her head as she walked away to retrieve her first-aid kit.

  As much as Claire agreed with Hilda on the dangers of skateboards, she sympathized with the child who claimed he didn’t really have parents, and a plan formed in her mind.