Fox greets me simply from his side of the fence. “What’s up, little man?”
“I’m good.” Then I ask, “What are you doing here? I’ve never seen you out this way before.”
“That’s because you didn’t know me before.”
“Where do you live?” I ask.
Fox points in the direction of the dingy tower off in the distance.
“So, you’re from Gilead, too?”
“Who do you know from over there?”
“Everybody. I know Tum Tum, and Pretty Girl, and a few other kids from my school. And now I know you.”
“That’s not everybody.”
“My mama works over there, too.”
“She’s a teacher.”
I can’t tell if he says this as a fact or question. It’s kind of creepy that he would say it at all. So, I ask him “You know her?”
Fox looks over in the direction of Mama. It looks like she’s talking to Pastor from our church. Fox points to her, “That’s her over there, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is. Perhaps not.”
Fox smiles for the first time. He seems pleased. “You have some smarts. I guess you know it’s bad enough that you’re talking to strangers.”
“You’re not really a stranger to me.”
“I doubt that’s what your mother would think if she saw me talking to you.”
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks. What matters is what I think. What matters is what I know.”
“And what is it that a little boy like you knows?”
“I know you are in no hurry to get home if you’re hanging out in this deserted park talking to me. Is there nothing waiting for you in Gilead?”
“Nothing, and no one.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Only a kid thinks that everything must be ‘right’.”
“Well, that’s what I am... a kid... remember.”
Fox laughs and says, “True. Just don’t end up grown and still thinking and acting like a child.”
I look over to where Mama is sitting. She is now alone. Pastor has left her. And now she is looking around the park with concern in her eyes. She is searching for me. But Mama doesn’t see me just yet. I know it’s best I get back to her before she finds me. I tell Fox that I have to go.
As I start to ride away, Fox calls to me, and says, “There’s a reason why I came this way. Just wanted to pass on some advice. A warning.”
Fox is sounding scary. “A warning?”
“Yeah. Be careful, little man. Be mindful of everybody and everything around you.” Fox then looks over in the direction of Mama. “Go, she needs you.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
The Old Man sits alone on the front steps of Hannah’s home. He tells himself, be patient. The time has not arrived for him to go back home yet. But the Old Man knows he could do so now while Hannah and child are away. He could do so without so much as a goodbye. The Old Man knows he could slip back into the shadows from whence he came. He could go back home where life is simple. He could go before someone here can remind him of who he is.
“What’s up, Killer?”
The Old Man looks up and sees the Merchant standing by the front gate. The Old Man had not seen or even heard him approach. But there the Merchant stands. The sight of this stranger doesn’t startle the Old Man. The Old Man calmly asks, “Do you know me?”
“Nah, I don’t know you,” says the Merchant. He pulls out a Black & Mild. He lights up the white-tipped cigar. “But I know what you are.”
“You speak in riddles,” says the Old Man. “Tell me, what is it that I am.”
“I believe I just did... Killer.”
“You don’t know me.”
“You can tell yourself that if you like. But perhaps I’m not here to share with you those things that I know to be true about you.”
“Then why come at all?”
“To share this knowledge with those who don’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“No, Killer, I think you do.”
The Merchant takes a long, hard look down the street. The Boy is approaching on his bike. Hannah has yet to turn the corner. “The Boy doesn’t know what you are. And I doubt the mother, Hannah, knows either. That’s who I’m really here for. They ought to know the truth. Unless we can come to an agreement that the silence of that truth has a price.”
“More riddles.”
“Riddles. Truth. You will acknowledge to me what you are. And you, and perhaps Hannah, will pay me well for that truth.”
The Merchant turns and walks away, leaving the Old Man to wonder just what price must be paid to keep the truth hidden from Hannah and child.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Boy rose, still hungry, and continued on his way. Soon the path grew steeper and rockier. As the sun was moving high and the day was warming, the boy noticed a flock of birds swooping and playing in a small pool beside the road.
The boy rushed to the water, fell on his belly and drank his fill. When he rose, the birds were watching him silently from a nearby tree limb. Realizing he had interrupted their play, he smiled and thanked them for letting him drink and continued on the path. Though his thirst was slaked, the emptiness was still burning deep in his belly. And as he walked, once again thoughts came to him of quitting; of just sitting down under a tree to wait for whatever might happen to happen. And what if he never got up again? Would anyone miss him or come to find him? But something told him, this was not the end of his journey. If he did not continue, he would never know what was at the end of the path or why the wolf cried in the night. And so, he decided to continue walking, knowing not what lay ahead of him.
∏
The Old Man is distracted. So, I stop reading Wolf and Boy. I ask the Old Man, “Should I continue?”
“You can stop there,” he says.
I close the book and start to head inside. But the Old Man stops me, and asks, “What has your mama told you about me?”
“Nothing really,” I say. “She’s letting me get to know you on my own.”
“And what have you come to know about me?”
“You’re pretty serious. I guess that comes with being a soldier. But everyone loves a soldier. That should always make you happy.”
Old Man smiles, and says, “It all depends on what war you’re fighting. If people don’t approve of the war, they tend to judge you harshly. They’ll call you killer.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“In time, you will.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
“. . . Never tire of doing what is right.”
—2 Thessalonians 3:13
Upstairs in her studio, Hannah has a large cardboard box where she keeps every note handed to her by a child, and every modest, heart-felt drawing done on loose-leaf paper. The box also contains special writings that have been left behind in dog-eared marble notebooks. The writings and drawings remind her that these children will always have a voice. These students will always be of worth. These children have not been lost.
They remind Hannah, too, that she teaches in an unforgiving world, in which children come and go. Sometimes, they leave without warning. Sometimes, they leave without ever saying goodbye. Some are children of shelters whose families pick up and flee at a moment’s notice in search of a home. Some are foster children moving from family to family. And then some are children who simply disappear and vanish.
“Beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Hannah knows that there are words, often cited but rarely heeded. There are words that hold the key to keeping the children out of harm’s way. “Beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Hannah often wonders, why did I not accept this
as truth?
∏
Princess was a quiet girl, smaller than most of the other children her age. Hannah loved the child’s pleasant ways. Princess was a bright student with an artist’s spirit. If Hannah is honest with herself, she’ll admit that Princess was her favorite.
And one afternoon, Princess was stolen away.
Hannah remembers having seen Princess with the man before. She had seen him along with the Mother. He had been introduced to Hannah as the Father. But the Father always stayed a few steps behind. He was always slightly out of the picture. The Father would lurk in the background and look at Hannah with a disarming smile. On many occasions when school was over, Hannah would see the Father, and the Mother, and they would take Princess and walk out of the schoolyard together—like a family.
Hannah remembers that there was nothing scary about the Father. He was tall and slender, and wore loosely fitted clothes. Hannah never looked directly into his eyes because he always donned tinted eyeglasses or shades.
On this day he came alone. And Princess ran into his arms, which were opened wide. And together, Princess and the Father began to walk out of the schoolyard. Then with a simple glance back, followed by a wave, Princess disappeared holding his hand.
The Mother came shortly thereafter, and asked, “Have you seen Princess?”
Hannah remembers looking back at the Mother with a quizzical look. “Don’t you know? Princess left with...” Hannah remembers not knowing what to say next. She remembers how foolish it would sound for her to continue on and say, “. . . with a stranger.” For that was what the father was to her—a stranger.
Later, under the scrutiny of a Detective’s disapproving glare, Hannah was asked a flurry of questions.
“What was he wearing?”
“I don’t remember.”
“The little girl, did she seem afraid?”
“She ran into his arms.”
“Did he say why he came for the girl?”
“No... no... he just appeared.”
“Did he say where he was taking her?”
“No.”
“Is it common for you to hand over a child to anyone who comes for them?”
“No... no... I thought I knew him. He is her father.”
Hannah soon tuned out the questions. She answered with long blank stares, subtle nods of and shakes of her head, and outright silence.
They have no right to judge me because monsters exist in this world.
∏
Hannah keeps Princess’ artwork away from the other children’s work. She has it hidden deep inside the middle pages of a black portfolio that she keeps buried away behind a stack of easels in her studio. She tells herself, this work does not belong to me. Every night she takes time to read about Princess’ Quiet Place. Hannah takes a long look at her drawing of a family. And she cries.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
It’s easy to fall into a routine in summer: wake up, go to the park, come home, have dinner, go to bed. Wake up; go to the park, and so on, and so on. Routines aren’t bad. The sun rises every morning in the East and sets in the West. The Earth spins on its axis in the same manner every day. “Routines remind everyone that there’s order in the world.” That’s what Mama says.
But she’ll also tell you, too, that if you’re not careful, they can lead to a life of no imagination. In my little world of school and church, it’s all about routine; doing and saying the same things, all the time. In school, it’s the morning lineup, word study, reading period, writing workshop, math, and a little science and social studies thrown in every now and then. And the class right next door to me, they’re required to follow the exact same routine as us. I imagine that’s why so many teachers are grumpy, it’s like they’re going to work at a boring, old factory every day.
And each Sunday, at church, I witness another routine. Service starts with praise and worship, followed by prayer, then a skit by the drama ministry, then offering time, then finally, the sermon. There’s even a routine in the Word. At some point near the end of Pastor’s sermon each and every Sunday, he is going to talk about giving thanks to God for waking you up this morning; for that job He got you; for how He helped you with your rent; for how He helped you when you didn’t have a job or the rent. School and church should be the last places on Earth where you have the same old, same old. Mama says, “Anything dealing with knowledge and getting one’s mind right, and anything having to do with the spirit and the soul, shouldn’t be concerned about routine and the clock.”
So, Mama is getting us away from the summer routine. Mama’s says we’re going to take our Quiet Hour away from home, and go take it in peace and quiet down by The River. Usually anything related to the Quiet Hour is just Mama and me. But Mama is not sticking to the routine—she is inviting the Old Man to come with us. Maybe she also sees that the Old Man is distracted.
∏
I don’t think the Old Man is used to being asked for his company. It is taking him forever just to change and get dressed. But eventually he finishes, and he comes out looking crisp. He has on this lime-green silk shirt, his jeans, and a pair of brown loafers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he is headed out on a date.
Where we are going is beyond the Road Less Traveled. We’re going down to the River. It’s a short bus ride and an even shorter walk through quiet, tree-lined streets in a quiet part of the City called the Heights. The streets are narrow and though the homes are brownstones like ours, they’re grander with large bay windows that allow you to peek inside and see fancy chandeliers that hang from ceilings so high they seem to reach to the sky.
Mama and the Old Man don’t say much on our way to the River. And neither do I. Mama has taught me that it’s not my place to speak and bring attention to myself when I’m around adults. Keep a respectful silence. That’s what Mama has taught me. So, I just listen to Mama and the Old Man talk. The Old Man does most of the talking. And I begin to learn more about him as he does. I hear him talk about the City, a city he says, “I really know so little about.” I listen and I hear him talk of rarely stepping beyond that part of the Madness where the Candy Man’s shop was.
We arrive at the promenade. There is a bench, one of many that line its bank. We take a seat and look out onto the River. Mama tells the Old Man how she likes to come out this way when the weather is nice. The waters of the River are calm most days. I’m feeling a little tired and I place my head on Mama’s lap. I curl up and fold my legs under me on the bench. I watch the Old Man gaze out at the skyline of the main city that’s across the water.
I hear him say, “God gave men the vision to create monuments that reach up to the heavens.” The Old Man stops for a moment. When he continues, it’s almost as though he’s talking to himself. “Where I come from, men don’t have such dreams.”
Mama wants to know more about the Old Man. She wants to know about this place where men don’t have such vision. I’m slowly drifting into sleep. But I hear Mama ask the Old Man, “Tell me your story.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
The Old Man has a story to tell.
But the Old Man says, “I don’t tell my story to everyone. I only tell those who are believers. You must believe in miracles.”
∏
There once was a Young Girl. She was a runaway. Her father had abandoned the family. No one knew what happened to him or what became of him. But he left this Young Girl alone with a mother disinterested in loving and caring for her in a meaningful way. So, at the age of fifteen, the Young Girl ran away. She roamed the backcountry roads of the South. Her life was just about finding food and shelter. To do so, she sought out extended family and the kindness of strangers. She’d sleep in their barns, or an extra room, if it was available. This went on for some time.
The Young Girl eventually journeyed to the next town over from where
she was born. She wandered upon a little country diner and the small home settled in the backfield behind it. The young girl didn’t ask for food and a place to rest right away. She spent a day just watching the place from afar. She came to see that the diner belonged to an older couple. She saw that they were some twenty years or so older than she was. They were childless.
Spider is what everybody called the man. He was long and wiry, with arms and legs that went on for days. And he had a pockmarked face, always covered by the stubble of a two-day old beard. The runaway girl approached Spider long after the wife had gone off to the home out back. She had seen how the couple worked so hard running the business by themselves. Surely, they needed help. Spider was tying up the trash when the Young Girl came up to him. He wasn’t surprised to see her. It was almost as though he was expecting her. His first words to her were, “Do you know me?”
The runaway told him, “No.”
“Then why are you here, young girl?”
“You and your wife need me. I’ve seen how you both work so hard. You won’t have to pay me. All I need is food and a place to rest my head.”
It must have been the Young Girl’s boldness. Maybe it was her pretty smile, or her light brown eyes. But Spider took her in. He didn’t ask the wife what she thought. He simply told her, “This pretty girl is here to help you. See that she has enough work to do.”
People called her ‘Miss Radiance’, because as a little baby lying in her cradle, she had the brightest, most beautiful smile one could ever see in a child. Miss Radiance grew to be a dutiful wife, who did what she was told by her husband, because she had resigned herself to a life mainly meant to support Spider’s ambition to work for no man but himself. Miss Radiance told the Young Girl when to clean and what to clean. She told her who to serve and when. Miss Radiance kept her busy. For the first few months, Miss Radiance didn’t speak a word to the Young Girl other than to give her an order. The Young Girl was nothing more than a servant to Miss Radiance.
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