Compassion

by Neal, Xavier

  Compassion

  Xavier Neal

  Compassion

  By Xavier Neal

  © Xavier Neal 2016

  Published by Entertwine Publishing

  Cover by Entertwine Publishing

  All rights reserved

  License Note

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author or Entertwine Publishing. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  Dedication: To the Universe... Thank you for always showing me compassion.

  Jaye

  Moms don't really always know best, but let's keep that between me and you. Hey, if you're a mom sorry. It wasn't meant to offend you. Swear.

  “Don't slouch,” my mother gently reminds me as she places a plate of eggplant parmesan in front of me. “And you should really be careful about adding extra cheese to it. You're jeans are looking a little snug.”

  Maybe I bought them this way. Maybe I ate one too many Christmas cookies that the children from school gave me as a holiday treat. Either way, extra cheese would be fine. I'm not going to explode.

  My mom sits down across from my father and to the right of me. After fidgeting with the wedding ring on her chocolate colored hand, she hums, “Now, what was I saying?”

  You think your child is enormous.

  “The Davis’ are having another grand kid,” my father sighs annoyed with this conversation just as much as I am.

  He however has an easier time tuning it out than I do since most of the shit she says isn't directly attacking him. Is attacking the wrong word? Nagging maybe? Better. That seems better.

  “That's right.” She reaches for her glass of white wine. “I always assumed I would be a grandmother by now. At least to my first grandchild.” There's a tiny pause. “It's probably best I don't have any yet. They bring wrinkles and take up all your time,” she pretends to complain while my father shoots me a sarcastic look over his silver rimmed reading glasses. “Who would want that?”

  This is my mother ladies and gentlemen. She means well. At least I've convinced myself she does.

  I offer her a forced sympathetic grin before taking a bite.

  It's not like I don't want children of my own. It's not like I didn't want them then. It's not like it wasn't in the plans. However, sometimes through no fault of our own, plans change. Everyone knows that.

  Dad shifts the subject. “How's your dinner, Jaye?”

  Not able to recall how any of the bites I've had taste, I simply respond, “Good.”

  “Need more cheese?”

  “Charles!” my mother fusses at him causing us to both snicker.

  After his laughter fades, he scratches at the light beard on his brown skin and asks, “How's the book coming along?”

  Quietly I mumble, “Well...it's coming...”

  I've always wanted to write and illustrate a children's book since my early college days. It was one of those things I let my mind wander to when I tuned out the professor. There was something so incredible about the idea of my own children holding something I created. Something that they could pass down to their children. That they could be proud to say their mother accomplished. I've been working on it since Chris, my fiancé, died about three years ago. All the experts my mother more or less forced me to speak to said focusing on a project would help the healing process. They claimed it would give me control over my life again. Give me a new purpose outside of work. A new vision. Allow myself to plan for the future I wanted. The only thing it has successfully done is give me a reason to buy more wine.

  Mom questions politely, “What about work?”

  The thought of hearing Sandy, the four year old with coke bottle glasses, reading Green Eggs and Ham all on her own makes me genuinely smile. “Wonderful. Never anything less.”

  I'm a librarian at a private preschool. Honestly? It's my dream job! Doesn't sound like it would be, but it's everything I love all rolled into one very nerdy career. The preschool isn't like your average day care. It's more like an academy. Basically a college style design and layout for children whose parents are on the other side of wealthy. The kind willing to shove money down whoever's throat it takes to keep them out of their hair and highly educated to make getting into Yale or Harvard a little less of a challenge. It's my responsibility to pick the books we keep on the shelves, coordinate with the director about the ever changing curriculum, and travel from classroom to classroom reading stories to help drive a literary passion. The older after school children, I occasionally help with additional homework if their after school teacher sends them to me, which she typically does. She doesn't like doing the homework part. She prefers the fun experiments and cooking projects. I also lead the book fairs, the book drives, and a twice a month book club. One is for the children to attend with their parents, which is basically just a set of books they're given every month to read with their kids and then to come for me to read them while enjoying refreshments. It's a bonding exercise. The other book club is for adults who are looking for ways to socialize with other parents without the crutch of their children. Basically the English degree everyone swore would be a joke got me a life filled with books. Working with kids is the bonus. I've always loved being around them.

  My father wipes his mouth. “Anything new?”

  The moment after I shake my head, my mother steers the conversation once more, “Oh! Did I mention that there's this handsome, young doctor down at the hospital? Early thirties...”

  Are you wondering why he sounds like Patrick Dempsey from Grey's Antimony?

  “Doesn't he sound perfect?” She drops her coffee colored face into her opened hand. “I think he you two would make a great pair. Maybe not as perfect as you would've been with the accountant I tried to set you up with...”

  Or the lawyer. Or the marketing manager. Or the dentist. The dentist was by far the worst. It's so weird having someone stare at your mouth not because they want to kiss you but because they wanna clean your teeth.

  She continues, “But still an amazing pair. You know what? The two of you together might even be better than the men I've tried to set you up with in the past.” When I don't respond, her voice drops to a softer tone. “Jaye, you're going to have to start dating again eventually.”

  I whisper, “I date...”

  Hardly. Not enough to actually call it dating, but whose side are you on?

  “Barely,” she echoes my thoughts. “You shouldn't be wasting your life. You should be-”

  “Baby, can you grab me another serving?” My father interrupts her.

  She pauses the beginning of her tirade. “Of course. You want more bread too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Quickly she rises to her feet, grabs his plate and heads for the kitchen.

  In a faint audible tone, I sigh, “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome, sugar.”

  Offering him a warm smile I take another bite of the meal that lost its appeal two bites in.

  I'm working on moving past Chris. I've been on a few dates in the last three years. Aside from the ones my mother keeps stuffing down my esophagus, I've gone out on a couple blind dates courtesy of my bored co-workers who have nothing else to talk about other than who in the building is not sleeping with anyone. All the dates failed for the same combination of basic reasons. I don't open myself up. I don't talk enough. I don't look interested. Generally I haven't been interested in the person seated across from me. Not
. Once. You know, I'm not sure any more if I haven't moved past him or if I just haven't met anyone just as great. Should I settle for less? Wait. Don't answer that.

  After managing to survive a meal with my mother's unsubtle hints for me to date more and my father's many rescue life lines of trying to change the subject, I make the drive home, thankful it's not that far. As soon as I'm inside I drop my work bag beside the door and head straight for the kitchen. Seeing one last bottle in the fridge makes me smile in relief.

  Don't worry. I'm not going to drink the whole thing despite the fact my mother makes me want to. Just one glass. Well maybe two. And before your worrying gets out of hand, no. I didn't have any while I was over there. I think the road has enough dangers without adding drinking and driving.

  I grab the chilled bottle of wine, spotting the two day old pizza I know I'm not going to eat in the process. On a deep sigh, I remove it from the fridge.

  To the trashcan it goes. I'm not that anal retentive, I swear. When Chris was alive he had a strict 'no more than two days' policy for old food. It stuck. I try to make just what I'm going to eat, but sometimes shit happens. Like having the neighbor next door rub her award winning husband in my face every chance she gets. I may have eaten some of my anger that night while watching Netflix. Like you've never done it?

  I open the front door to a sight that freezes me in place. A tall man with tattered clothing, a beanie, an old backpack, and a slight naturally tanned complexion that's covered in facial hair is digging through my trashcan. My face instinctively winces.

  Do you blame me? How unsanitary and disgusting is that? No. Not him. The shit in the trashcan!

  Instead of instinctively fussing at him to get away from my garbage, I continue to silently watch. He rummages around, eventually pulling out the almost stale loaf of bread followed by the wedge of cheese that was too close to its expiration date to stick around.

  The lectures my mother and Chris both put me through on what is in your food or can start to grow in your food were numerous. Eventually I discovered it was just easier to follow his food requests. Her on the other hand? Smile and nod until my father intervenes.

  My bottom lip slips between my teeth while I continue to stare at what would be considered an act of invasion to most, but is clearly nothing more than an act of desperation. Hopelessness. The man stuffs the discovered items in his back pack along with an apple I don't recall chucking.

  For a moment it entirely escapes my mind that this man is a complete stranger, someone I should possibly fear. Should most likely fear. Someone who could harm me without reservations. In a gentle tone I call out, “Would you like some pizza?”

  The man looks up at me, his features sharp and hardened. His face unclean and worn. Slowly he lowers the lid to my trashcan, picks up his backpack, and darts his eyebrows down.

  I did ask that question out loud, right?

  He warms up his hands with a big breath, shoves them in his pockets, but leaves his feet grounded in place.

  Please say a silent prayer for me that this isn't some clever rouse to break into my house then rape and murder me. Also, remind me no more Law and Order: SVU this close to bed.

  Cautiously, I approach him. “It's um...Pepperoni, sausage and mushroom.”

  His face twitches yet he remains reticent. He gives the object in grasp another glance while his tongue wets the pair of perfect lips on his drained face. His simple action causes my body temperature to waver.

  Let's not judge the fact I find the homeless man I'm about to feed attractive. That's just...unbalanced body chemistry or something.

  I clear my throat in an attempt to sound less like Bambi and more like a woman who can hold her own. “It's only a couple days old.”

  The way his green eyes soften acts as a clue that I'm not the only one trying to not to appear terrified.

  “Take it,” I demand.

  In a slow motion he removes his hands from his jacket and surrenders them, proof he doesn't have a weapon, that's he's not here to harm me.

  See. I knew that...okay, so I assumed that.

  While reaching for the box he maintains a safe distance from me. Once the box has been transferred, I back up bit by bit, the fear of startling him still a possibility. He remains unmoved though the winter air viciously howls on it's attack, making me regret not grabbing my jacket first.

  It's not like this was planned!

  Our eyes stay locked on each other until I shut the door with me safely on the other side. As soon as I've locked the door, including the deadbolt and the chain, I crack the white blinds that cover my large bay window with two fingers.

  The homeless man lingers for a moment, checks his surroundings and then places the box down on top of the trashcan. Suddenly his entire face irradiates. His expression reminds me of the one children get during the holidays every time they see a present wrapped in shiny paper for them. He has a large bite of a slice and tosses his head back, the gratulation of the bite so prevalent, I find myself grinning widely, genuine delight falling over me. Rudely, I continue to invade his moment of satisfaction, watching his face intently as it cycles through numerous emotions, all of them revolving around pure joy.

  Craziest thing? Giving him that pizza has brought a bigger smile and happiness to my world than any date since Chris' death has. Geez...What the hell does that say about me?

  Archer

  Pizza. People take this shit for granted. All of it. The bread. The sauce. The cheese. Oh and if you're lucky the meat. The sheer combination of ingredients, hot or cold is like sex for your tongue. It's something when you're getting it on a regular, you can't fucking be bothered to care about the effort that's really required to be put out for it or how easy it is to get. No...it's not until it's gone you even think about appreciating it. No...it's not until it's rare like the Holy fucking Grail that you stop and begin to really want to pay tribute to the creation. You're probably wondering if I'm referring to sex or pizza now huh? This time it's pizza.

  Still in slight disbelief, I give the door guarding the gorgeous woman who gifted this to me a glance.

  Did you see her? She was fucking beautiful. Her creamy coffee shaded skin. That curly bouncy hair. And her eyes...did you see those toffee colored eyes filled with warmth? Not an ounce of disgust in them. Believe it or not, that's not the emotion most people offer me.

  Finishing the slightly hardened crust of the last slice, I stroll away towards the hiking trail just on the other side of her home. The drop in temperature causes a sharp pain to rip through my right leg, my slightly noticeable limp more apparent.

  Most of the time I forget it's even there. Only time it bothers me is when it starts to get too cold. Or when the memories start to strangle me. Hurts like a motherfucker then.

  The winter wind kicks up and I slip my hands back into the jacket someone tossed out right before Christmas last year.

  I assume his wife got him a new one. This was left in the box but didn't match the picture. Grabbed the box too. Made for an all right place to store food. Well it did until someone ratted me out to the cops and I was forced to move without my belongings that weren't on me. After that I guess I learned it's best to keep everything I need in my backpack. People think the only battlefield worth talking about in this world is the one we fight with assault rifles over bullshit politics, false ideologies, and greed. Trust me. The one you face when every person you counter is just as desperate to live another day as you, you see the real war we should be fighting. The real soldiers.

  Quickly, I hustle across the park, dodging windows and street lights to best of my ability.

  Neighborhoods like this loathe people like me in it. Even if we're just passing through. Apparently the sight alone of our ugly mugs decreases the value of their million dollar homes.

  After checking both directions, insuring I'm alone, I climb the fence on the side of the pool that the camera doesn't monitor. Once I'm on the other side, I take a minute, dip my hands in the heated pool wate
r, and scrub away the crumbs that may have gotten into my beard.

  I'll bathe in the morning. Don't worry about me. No one else does. I'm not worth the effort.

  Patting my hands dry on the outside of my coat, I sneak over to the storage room that the new hire forgets to check.

  As long as everything is generally back where it belongs and nothing is missing, there's no reason anyone knows the difference if the door was locked or not. Besides, his inability to give a fuck about his job has allowed me somewhere warm to sleep every other day for the last few weeks.

  Inside the small room, I rearrange some empty buckets and slide around to the other side of them.

  If anyone comes in before I have a chance to sneak out I won't be the first thing they see.

  I dig the fleece blanket out of my backpack, the sound of my tags clinking against something inside mocking me.