It was a typical fall day and I was typically stoic and boarder-line complaining as I finished my shift. The evening was partly clear with the hint of a cool snap ready to descend as night deepened. Leaves had already been showing hints of turning in the wondrous display of autumnal colors and the ground was still damp from an earlier rain shower. The clearing of the sky would definitely help the temperatures drop quickly.
I pulled my jacket tighter around and zipped it up a little tighter. Being all day in a climate controlled workplace made the transition to fall and winter temperatures that much harder. I didn't have too much further to go. The bus dropped me off five blocks from my house. It provided me a chance to have a little exercise and the cool air always helped clear my mind from work. Now for preparing some dinner and the quiet of my home.
Work was a noisy place. There were instruments and motors and fans and people talking and against it all was the insipid radio playing whatever station was least offensive. And that meant that it played drivel. Musical drivel that was written to control the masses and keep them from thinking by merely giving them replacement emotions and memories for all those that they didn't have.
Yeah, I was in my early sixties, but was as big of a curmudgeon as someone in their eighties. “Eh? Kids, get off my grass!”
That's why I was looking forward to being in my home where I played my music if I wanted to play any at all. I talked to co-workers occasionally and I saw their eyes glaze over as I explained how classical music was infinitely better and more complex than anything that pop music offered—especially the stuff that was played on the top-ten commercial stations.
But as I walked from work a certain melancholy reverie washed over me. I was not one usually given to reflecting on the past. No, for me, the past was a toxic mix of pleasantness and painful memories; thus I lived in the present and stayed day-to-day.
But the memories pushed at my mind and triggered long-repressed thoughts. Memories that recalled back to my teenaged years. I recalled walking this very same street as a sophomore coming home from high school.
High school! Oh, now there was a memory that I hadn't actively thought of in years. I had even purposely avoided going to my fortieth year reunion to skirt around the bad memories associated with that time in my life. I couldn't believe that I was recalling the memories of Kelly and James and Joey! What was this!?
I suddenly thought of my wife. My eyes misted up. I felt her hand squeeze mine. And I heard her voice whisper in my ear, “My love, I pray you will find peace in God.”
I stopped walking—the memory was so overpowering. My wife had passed away not even eight years before. After her death I became a recluse of sorts. My two grown children didn't know what to do with me and as I became increasingly unresponsive, they slowly communicated less and less. Oh, they sent greetings at Christmas and on my birthday, but it had been years since I had heard their voices. And even longer since I interacted with my grandchildren.
At that point I saw Clarissa, my oldest grandchild. There she was at age nine or ten. Sweet and trusting with long brown hair cascading down over her shoulders in a tumble of curls and motion. Her face was upturned toward mine and she said, “Please? Please, Grandpa?”
Of course, I would. I loved my family so much. My grandchildren were so adorable and precious. My heart actually ached at that point. What was I thinking? What was happening to me?
This was so out of character. I shook my head and reset my thoughts.
“No, I have to get dinner ready,” I spoke resolutely to myself.
That's when I heard a noise, a rustling in the nearby bushes that sounded like a small animal but with a moan that was almost human.
I stepped close to the bush and tried to peer under it in the gathered darkening of twilight and a street lamp a half block away. I saw little.
“Anyone there?” I asked tenuously.
There was no response so I slowly unbent.
“Please, mister?”
The voice was plaintive, weak and small. I was so surprised that I said nothing.
“Please? So cold!”
“I can't see you,” I finally answered. “Where are you?”
The young voice didn't answer, but my eyes adjusted to the gloom under the bushes. There was a form under there—a young child!
“Oh, my gracious!” I suddenly exclaimed. “Are you okay, child?”
“So cold.”
I noticed that the voice seemed girl-like and very young. Perhaps it was because I was just remembering Clarissa when she was about that age, but a paternal instinct took over. “I'll help you. Let me lift you up out of here.”
The sudden memories of picking up Clarissa washed over my mind as I drew the young child toward me then cradled her in my arms. “What happened?” I whispered.
“Umm. Don't know.”
“Let's get you home. Okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
I picked this child up and carried her the remaining three blocks to my home. She was so light and waft-like. I was worried about malnutrition and abuse. Images of deformed children flashed through my mind before a profound sense of “stop” entered. After that I was able to function. I held this child in my left hand while I fished in my pocket for my house key.
“You okay?” her voice whispered. Her head rested on my shoulder.
“Yes. I have my keys now.”
Suddenly I thought of all the places that I used keys. Keys for home, for my car and for work. Keys for passwords to access secure places within work or the computer. Keys to tests that I graded when I was a student assistant in college some forty years before.
Inside my home, I clicked the light on, closed the door and locked it, then walked up the half flight of steps to the living room and gently placed this young girl on the couch.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I reached for the blanket that rested next to the couch—the blanket that I hadn't used since my wife had passed away—the blanket that probably had years of dust hanging on it, and spread it out over this child. At that point, in the light of the entryway, I examined her face. She looked like a ten year old. Long, dark brown hair and fair features with a summery dress. “Oh, my Lord, she looks just like Clarissa!”
I stepped back in shock of memories that flooded my mind.
“You okay?” the girl asked.
“Um, yeah, maybe,” I finally answered. “How 'bout you?”
She shook her head and shivered. I could tell that she was nearly suffering hypothermia or shock or some such medical condition as that.
“Very cold,” she whispered. “Need replen...um, food.”
“I was going to make dinner. You'd like some?”
“Um, yes?”
“Okay, you wait here and I'll start fixing it.” I tucked the blanket in around her and added, “Go ahead and sleep if you'd like.”
Now, perhaps that was the thing about my generation. If someone needed help, you just helped them the best you could. You didn't go involving the government unless it was something huge like a land invasion from another continent or something. It never crossed my mind that I would need to call the police or protective services because there was a child who was lost. The child needed food and shelter—that was something I could provide, so there was no question that I would help. That's just the way I was raised. Of course, I knew that I would eventually have to contact the police, but lands sakes, the child needed to warm up and have a good hot meal first.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Sure thing. By the way, I'm Seth. Seth McClure.”
“Seth.” She nodded and closed her eyes.
“And what's your name?”
She opened her eyes again and said, “Too long to tell you the whole thing.”
“So how 'bout a nickname or something.”
“Lannie. Call me Lannie.”
“Okay, Lannie. I'm gonna get you some hot soup and a nice toasted cheese sandwich.”
I left her on the couch then went and opened up a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup. As I smelled the soup, wave after wave of memories washed over me. I sat down at the kitchen table and remembered warming up a couple of cans right after we had first been married—my wife had taken ill and was just feeling better so I did the best I could to make her feel right. Her smile as I handed her the warm cup still warmed my heart forty-two years later. But the soup smell brought back images of feeding our two children around the very same table. And then, some years later, watching as my granddaughter, Clarissa, ate crackers and soup.
“What is wrong with me tonight?” I whispered. “Get a grip!”
A few minutes later, the soup was in two separate mugs and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches were cooking on the range.
“It smells nice.”
I jumped at the sound of her soft voice. I thought she would have gone to sleep.
“I did not mean to scare you,” she added and she sat down on the chair I had just occupied and drew the blanket around her shoulders.
“I thought you'd be asleep.”
“I'm getting warmer. Thank you.”
I flipped the sandwiches over. “So where are ya' from and what're ya' doing out tonight?”
She sighed and looked off into the distance. “Elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” I almost laughed. That reply was totally unexpected. “What sort of answer is that? Aren't your parents worried 'bout where you are now?”
“They're looking.”
“So what happened?”
“I tripped and fell.”
“So should I drive you back to your folks place?”
“Can't. Too far.”
This conversation was going much differently than I had imaged. “So, I should call the police and let them help you.”
She stood up suddenly with fear in her eyes and said, “No. Please, don't, Mr. Seth.”
That response surprised me very much. “Okay, I won't call right now. Here's a sandwich and I'll just get our mugs of soup.”
She sat back down and looked at the plate with the sandwich on it. She waited till I placed the soup mugs on the table and sat down.
“Aren't ya' hungry?” I asked taking a bite.
She nodded and picked hers up and started eating.
“Do you miss her?” she suddenly asked.
I snapped out of my reverie. “Who?”
Lannie pointed at the refrigerator where I had an old picture of my wife holding Clarissa. I had grown so accustomed to it being there on the side near the flour canister that I had basically forgotten that it was there at all.
“Yes,” I finally answered and slurped another spoonful of soup.
“Both?”
I looked intently at this child. She looked ten, but she was now acting much older with far more experience.
“Yes. But that was a long time ago.”
She nodded and ate more of her food. “Thank you. I should sleep now.”
“What are we going to do about your parents?”
“They will come for me.” She picked up the blanket and walked back to the living room, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a world of thoughts swirling around my head.
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