A pile of snow had crusted on the lid of an old washing machine on the side of a house up the street from the factory. A small boy of twelve stood beside it shuffling his feet and knitting his eyebrows. A man with a green cap walked up the sidewalk toward the boy. He wore coveralls under a worn, dirty jacket and carried an empty black lunch pail, just off his factory shift. As he approached, the man recognized the boy as the one he’d seen slinking around the neighborhood. The man stopped when he reached the boy and looked hard at him. The boy stood up straight. It was cold, and their breath hung in short clouds between them. The late afternoon’s gloaming had already begun; headlights on a passing car glared dimly.
A long moment passed before the man continued up the street and turned onto the cracked walk of a small green house. A calico cat crouched in the shadows among the eaves of its sagging porch. The front door groaned as the man pushed it open, and the cat jumped off the eaves into the snow.
The boy stuffed his hands down into the pockets of his Mackinaw coat. He waited a long moment, staring down the hill and past the factory where the Cuyahoga River ran with its icy banks in the dwindling light against the hills. Then he crossed the street and headed up the sidewalk. When he passed the man’s house, he didn’t glance over. He was a boy who put candies into the desks of girls at school in the hopes that they would like him. Instead, most said nothing to him about the gifts, but ridiculed him behind his back. He continued up the street with his disheveled hair and brown glasses past the plain box houses and dead front lawns cluttered with patches of dirty snow, and he was aware of warm, soft lights in many of the front windows.
The man switched on the wall heater in the hallway and went down it to his bedroom closet. Brown slippers with flannel lining, brown oxfords, and a pair of black sneakers with graying laces cluttered the floor of the closet. The man took off his work boots and put on the slippers. He leaned the boots against a curtain rod that had fallen down a long time before and hung his cap on a hook on the back of the closet door.
He entered the kitchen in his jacket and pulled the cord on the gooseneck lamp on the table. After putting water on the stove for tea, he took a loaf of bread and a roll of liverwurst from the refrigerator and made himself sandwiches. The kettle began to whistle. He took it off the stove and stirred his strong, steaming tea into a large brown mug with a checkerboard pattern on one side. The man took his dinner over to the table and sat down. Through the window over the sink, he watched the calico cat slink through the bare, hanging branches of a willow tree and drop off the short back fence into the alley.
The boy walked up the hill and around the corner clenching a paper bag in one of his coat pockets. He stopped in front of an Episcopal church where children’s choir practice was going on, looked in both directions, and then crept along the building until he could peak through one of the stained glass windows. Disfigured in the uneven, colored glass, he could see children on risers and the tall, thin girl among them that he was looking for, the one who had twice thanked him for the candy. Organ music and high choral voices resounded in the big, empty church. The boy slipped back through the bushes, crossed the street, and sat down on the curb across from the church’s doors.
He sat waiting, hunched down in the cold, looking across the street. The auto body shop lot next to the church held old, rusted cars. A diner next to the lot had a pink neon sign in front of it that said: “Eat”, and a cardboard sign in the window announced: “Dinner Special: Chicken Kiev.”
The boy watched the lights blink off in the variety store next to the diner. A woman in a blue cloth coat left the store and locked the front doors of it from a jangle of keys. She dropped the keys into a black purse, clicked it shut, and tucked her brown hair under a red, woolen scarf. She crossed the street. He watched her start down the alley in her goulashes, and then turned to focus his attention on the front doors of the church.
The calico cat jumped behind a garbage can as the woman’s footsteps crunched past in the gravel. The man looked up at the same sound and stopped stirring his tea. As he watched her go by in the alley, his heart, as always, jumped. He stood up quickly and stepped to the side window where he strained to see her continue down the alley.
“Hello,” he said quietly, something he could never bring himself to say to her directly. “Hello, you. Hello, there.”
He watched her walk briskly into the thin fog drifting up the alley from the river until she disappeared into it towards the factory and the soot-stained rooming houses and apartment buildings nearby. The dusty smell of the factory hung in the air, and he could just make out the last of the nightshift workers entering through its gate in the rusted cyclone fencing. The man sat back down to his dinner slowly, but didn’t resume eating.
A long moment passed before the man continued up the street and turned onto the cracked walk of a small green house. A calico cat crouched in the shadows among the eaves of its sagging porch. The front door groaned as the man pushed it open, and the cat jumped off the eaves into the snow.
The boy stuffed his hands down into the pockets of his Mackinaw coat. He waited a long moment, staring down the hill and past the factory where the Cuyahoga River ran with its icy banks in the dwindling light against the hills. Then he crossed the street and headed up the sidewalk. When he passed the man’s house, he didn’t glance over. He was a boy who put candies into the desks of girls at school in the hopes that they would like him. Instead, most said nothing to him about the gifts, but ridiculed him behind his back. He continued up the street with his disheveled hair and brown glasses past the plain box houses and dead front lawns cluttered with patches of dirty snow, and he was aware of warm, soft lights in many of the front windows.
The man switched on the wall heater in the hallway and went down it to his bedroom closet. Brown slippers with flannel lining, brown oxfords, and a pair of black sneakers with graying laces cluttered the floor of the closet. The man took off his work boots and put on the slippers. He leaned the boots against a curtain rod that had fallen down a long time before and hung his cap on a hook on the back of the closet door.
He entered the kitchen in his jacket and pulled the cord on the gooseneck lamp on the table. After putting water on the stove for tea, he took a loaf of bread and a roll of liverwurst from the refrigerator and made himself sandwiches. The kettle began to whistle. He took it off the stove and stirred his strong, steaming tea into a large brown mug with a checkerboard pattern on one side. The man took his dinner over to the table and sat down. Through the window over the sink, he watched the calico cat slink through the bare, hanging branches of a willow tree and drop off the short back fence into the alley.
The boy walked up the hill and around the corner clenching a paper bag in one of his coat pockets. He stopped in front of an Episcopal church where children’s choir practice was going on, looked in both directions, and then crept along the building until he could peak through one of the stained glass windows. Disfigured in the uneven, colored glass, he could see children on risers and the tall, thin girl among them that he was looking for, the one who had twice thanked him for the candy. Organ music and high choral voices resounded in the big, empty church. The boy slipped back through the bushes, crossed the street, and sat down on the curb across from the church’s doors.
He sat waiting, hunched down in the cold, looking across the street. The auto body shop lot next to the church held old, rusted cars. A diner next to the lot had a pink neon sign in front of it that said: “Eat”, and a cardboard sign in the window announced: “Dinner Special: Chicken Kiev.”
The boy watched the lights blink off in the variety store next to the diner. A woman in a blue cloth coat left the store and locked the front doors of it from a jangle of keys. She dropped the keys into a black purse, clicked it shut, and tucked her brown hair under a red, woolen scarf. She crossed the street. He watched her start down the alley in her goulashes, and then turned to focus his attention on the front doors of the church.
The calico cat jumped behind a garbage can as the woman’s footsteps crunched past in the gravel. The man looked up at the same sound and stopped stirring his tea. As he watched her go by in the alley, his heart, as always, jumped. He stood up quickly and stepped to the side window where he strained to see her continue down the alley.
“Hello,” he said quietly, something he could never bring himself to say to her directly. “Hello, you. Hello, there.”
He watched her walk briskly into the thin fog drifting up the alley from the river until she disappeared into it towards the factory and the soot-stained rooming houses and apartment buildings nearby. The dusty smell of the factory hung in the air, and he could just make out the last of the nightshift workers entering through its gate in the rusted cyclone fencing. The man sat back down to his dinner slowly, but didn’t resume eating.
The cat crawled up the alley and around the corner where it brushed against the boy’s leg. The boy stroked its rough fur. He took a butterscotch-flavored candy from his bag, unwrapped it, and held it out on his open palm. The cat licked at the candy, then turned away and slithered across the street into the lot next to the auto body shop. A streetlamp blinked on in front of the shop throwing tepid yellow light, and the smell of fireplaces wafted on the small breeze.
All at once, children burst through the doors of the church. The boy stood up and let the candy fall into the gutter’s slush. He saw the girl come down the church steps with a friend and cross the street towards the alley. He took the bag from his coat pocket, but the girls hurried past him and headed into the alley. The boy stood on the curb looking after them with his bag and his stricken face. He watched the girl turn in through a gate across from the man’s back fence as her friend continued on. He stood looking until her friend had disappeared at the end of the alley into the low fog. His heart was beating.
The boy walked slowly down the alley to the girl’s gate. It was bordered on one side by a juniper bush gone brown, snow at its base. He knelt in the alley against the bush and wrote a message with a pencil stub on the paper bag in the dwindling light. He folded the bag carefully and set it on the gatepost.
The man watched him from of his kitchen table. He stood up and went to the back door. The boy heard the latch click open and turned, wide-eyed.
“Hey, boy, clear out of here.”
The boy stood frozen in the alley.
The man scowled, “What do you have there?”
He stepped out onto his back porch, and the boy ran off down the alley. The man walked out in his slippers and jacket through the back gate into the alley. He could not see the boy through the fog, but he could hear the footsteps die away in the gravel. He picked up the little bag and read what the boy had written. He held the sweet-smelling bag up to his nose and felt a pain grip him. He replaced it gently on the post and walked back inside the house trying to swallow over the hardness that was like an egg in his throat.
The woman from the variety store stood at the tiny kitchen stove in her upstairs apartment and stirred pea soup that was heating in a pan. The television was on faintly behind her in the living room. When the soup was hot, she carried it in the pan over to the tray table in front of the couch that she’d already set with a napkin, spoon, and short glass of rye whiskey. There were doilies that she’d crocheted on the arms of the couch, and the stand-up lamp next to where she sat had a curling brown-paper shade with a picture of Venice on it. From her window, she could see smoke lifting from the factory chimneys and, in the distance, lights from cars on Route 20.
Alone in that little room, it was close and warm. She looked at the television while she sipped her soup and considered how she might fill the time before bed.
In the girl’s kitchen, a blue vase of artificial flowers sat on the yellow oilskin tablecloth: white carnations with a backing of ferns. The girl was setting the table carefully for dinner as her mother gave her spelling words from her school list while peeling carrots in the sink; the list was spotted with water on the countertop. Once again, the girl’s father hadn’t come home yet from where he went after his shift at the factory ended, but neither of them spoke of that.
The scouring powder sprinkled in a small ring on the bottom of the sink was blotted blue from the dripping faucet in the boy’s kitchen. Damp towels hung hissing on a drooping cord over the radiator in the bathroom. His parents hadn’t been home when he arrived, but had left him a pot pie on a plate that was still warm turned upside down under foil. The boy hadn’t stopped to eat, but had gone into his bedroom where he lay on the bed with his face in the pillows and the blinds drawn. In the gathering darkness, he was surrounded by his models and books and the boxes of old toys that he’d packed away the year before in the closet.
The man had his head down on the back of his hands on his kitchen table. His tea had grown cold. The cat crawled by silently in the coating of snow on the windowsill and stopped to look in at the man. The cat licked its chest. It crawled down the porch railing and dropped onto the back step.
The factory whistle blasted in the cold evening. There were not many cars in the streets of that town where many people were in flight, but few ever left.
All at once, children burst through the doors of the church. The boy stood up and let the candy fall into the gutter’s slush. He saw the girl come down the church steps with a friend and cross the street towards the alley. He took the bag from his coat pocket, but the girls hurried past him and headed into the alley. The boy stood on the curb looking after them with his bag and his stricken face. He watched the girl turn in through a gate across from the man’s back fence as her friend continued on. He stood looking until her friend had disappeared at the end of the alley into the low fog. His heart was beating.
The boy walked slowly down the alley to the girl’s gate. It was bordered on one side by a juniper bush gone brown, snow at its base. He knelt in the alley against the bush and wrote a message with a pencil stub on the paper bag in the dwindling light. He folded the bag carefully and set it on the gatepost.
The man watched him from of his kitchen table. He stood up and went to the back door. The boy heard the latch click open and turned, wide-eyed.
“Hey, boy, clear out of here.”
The boy stood frozen in the alley.
The man scowled, “What do you have there?”
He stepped out onto his back porch, and the boy ran off down the alley. The man walked out in his slippers and jacket through the back gate into the alley. He could not see the boy through the fog, but he could hear the footsteps die away in the gravel. He picked up the little bag and read what the boy had written. He held the sweet-smelling bag up to his nose and felt a pain grip him. He replaced it gently on the post and walked back inside the house trying to swallow over the hardness that was like an egg in his throat.
The woman from the variety store stood at the tiny kitchen stove in her upstairs apartment and stirred pea soup that was heating in a pan. The television was on faintly behind her in the living room. When the soup was hot, she carried it in the pan over to the tray table in front of the couch that she’d already set with a napkin, spoon, and short glass of rye whiskey. There were doilies that she’d crocheted on the arms of the couch, and the stand-up lamp next to where she sat had a curling brown-paper shade with a picture of Venice on it. From her window, she could see smoke lifting from the factory chimneys and, in the distance, lights from cars on Route 20.
Alone in that little room, it was close and warm. She looked at the television while she sipped her soup and considered how she might fill the time before bed.
In the girl’s kitchen, a blue vase of artificial flowers sat on the yellow oilskin tablecloth: white carnations with a backing of ferns. The girl was setting the table carefully for dinner as her mother gave her spelling words from her school list while peeling carrots in the sink; the list was spotted with water on the countertop. Once again, the girl’s father hadn’t come home yet from where he went after his shift at the factory ended, but neither of them spoke of that.
The scouring powder sprinkled in a small ring on the bottom of the sink was blotted blue from the dripping faucet in the boy’s kitchen. Damp towels hung hissing on a drooping cord over the radiator in the bathroom. His parents hadn’t been home when he arrived, but had left him a pot pie on a plate that was still warm turned upside down under foil. The boy hadn’t stopped to eat, but had gone into his bedroom where he lay on the bed with his face in the pillows and the blinds drawn. In the gathering darkness, he was surrounded by his models and books and the boxes of old toys that he’d packed away the year before in the closet.
The man had his head down on the back of his hands on his kitchen table. His tea had grown cold. The cat crawled by silently in the coating of snow on the windowsill and stopped to look in at the man. The cat licked its chest. It crawled down the porch railing and dropped onto the back step.
The factory whistle blasted in the cold evening. There were not many cars in the streets of that town where many people were in flight, but few ever left.
