Читать книгу Mulberry Park - Judy Duarte - Страница 11

Even for a Saturday, the park had been pretty quiet. Trevor hung out until after the last kid went home, but why stay by himself here when he could do that at home?

He looked at the sun, saw it slipping lower than the big palm trees near the brick office building. He wasn’t all that good at guessing the time unless there were other things making it easy. Like the old guy who’d packed up his chessboard and was heading toward his red pickup.

It had to be way after five o’clock, so it was time to go—especially if Trevor wanted to beat Katie home, which he did. Some nights she worked really late, but this wasn’t one of them.

Besides, he was getting hungry even though he’d had more to eat for lunch today than he usually did. It was cool having a mom-made lunch for a change. Mrs. Rodriguez had cut the skin off the apples just like Trevor’s mother used to do.

It had been sad, too, and Trevor had gotten pretty quiet while they ate. That happened whenever he thought about his mom. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember what she used to look like, and he was afraid that when he got to be old like the chess-guy, he’d forget he even used to have a mom. That her hair had been blond. That she sometimes sang silly songs when she drove him to school. And that she smelled nice and kind of powdery.

Trevor blew out a sigh. Not having a mother sucked. Katie tried hard, but it wasn’t the same.

As he headed toward the apartment complex where they’d moved a couple of months ago, he kicked a half-crushed beer can along the edge of the road. His shoelaces flip-flopped from side to side, but he didn’t care.

If his dad was here, he’d tell Trevor to stop and tie them. So would Katie. But when Trevor was all by himself, he didn’t have to obey anyone or do anything he didn’t want to do.

A kid at the park once told him that he was lucky, but that wasn’t true. Trevor was probably the unluckiest kid in the whole world.

As he approached the weeded area near Paddy’s Pub, his stomach rumbled in spite of the peanut butter sandwich he’d eaten today, so he considered taking the shortcut home.

“If you go to the park,” Katie always told him before she left for work each day, “you can only stay for an hour. And be careful when you walk. Stay on the sidewalk and don’t cut through that vacant field.”

Trevor didn’t always listen to Katie, though.

As he took the path that wound through the empty lot, a noise buzzed in his ears. Some kind of insects, he suspected, but they had a scary, snakelike sound, and it was hard to tell for sure.

The weeds had grown really high, so he couldn’t see anything to the right or left of him. For that reason, he stayed on the dirt walkway. Rattlers were deadly, but even pet snakes in an aquarium-like cage scared him.

Once, when Trevor first moved to this side of town, he’d asked a younger kid if they ever spotted rattlesnakes in the area.

“No,” the kid had said. “But you gotta be careful of the cobras ’cause they’ll spit in your eye.”

Trevor knew cobras didn’t live in California, so he figured the kid was just dumb.

Still, he watched his step and listened for a rattling sound. He was more than halfway across now, so he kept walking, scanning the field ahead and feeling like Dorothy and her friends in Oz as they chanted, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.”

There wasn’t much Trevor was scared of, so he didn’t like the feeling now. Didn’t like the pounding of his heart, the sweaty prickle that skittered down his spine.

Off to the right, something red and black and shiny lay almost hidden. He stood at a crossroads, tempted to trek through the knee-high brush and check it out, yet wanting to remain where there were definitely no snakes.

It could be junk.

But what if it wasn’t?

He stepped off the path and spotted more and more red. It looked like a…

It was. A skateboard.

How did it get way out here? Had someone thrown it away? Or maybe hidden it for some reason?

He picked it up and turned it over, studying it carefully. The scarred wood base was kind of dirty and banged up a bit. But not that much.

Josh Ryder, his friend from the old neighborhood, was really into skateboarding and had everything that went with it—the gear, the clothes.

Trevor placed his hand on the wheels and made each one spin. The trucks, the part of the board that the wheels were connected to, seemed a little loose. But at least it worked.

Cool.

For a moment, he wondered if his dad would approve of him having a skateboard. Probably. It wasn’t as big as a bike.

Ooh. Wow. That was weird.

Thoughts of the brand-new bicycle he’d always wanted made him remember the prayer he and Analisa had shared earlier today.

Well, this definitely wasn’t a bike.

But it was red and had wheels. It was also kind of magical how it had just appeared on the very same day they’d asked for a bike.

Maybe God didn’t like crossing parents. Maybe He wouldn’t give a kid something a kid wasn’t allowed to ride. Maybe He’d decided to give Trevor something his dad would approve of instead.

How cool was that?

Trevor would take the skateboard home and hide it under the bed until it was safe to bring it out. And then he’d take it to the park each day and practice until he learned how to ride it like the guys in the skateboard magazines at the grocery store.

A grin tugged at his lips. This was the best thing that had happened to him in a long, long time.

Maybe God was looking out for him after all.

On Wednesday morning, after his appointment with Doc Eldridge and a stop at the drugstore to fill a new prescription to control his cholesterol, Walter drove to the park. Along the way, he passed a kid trying to ride a skateboard while keeping one foot practically tethered to the ground.

No, not just any kid. The kid. The one who hung out at the park.

Maybe someone had gotten him a birthday gift or something. That was nice, although Walter hoped the youngster didn’t break his neck.

What was he doing? He shouldn’t be riding along the sidewalk on a busy street. Not until he learned how to balance on the blasted thing.

For a moment, Walter thought about pulling over and talking to the boy, but he made it a point not to stick his nose in other folks’ business.

Besides, what did he know about kids? His own stepsons had pretty much disowned him, and he couldn’t say as he blamed them.

He pulled into the parking lot, next to the car Hilda and Analisa were climbing out of. His lips twisted in a crooked grin at the thought of the blond pixie writing letters to God.

It was kind of cute, if you asked him.

“Good morning.” His voice held a friendly tone and boomed as though he was outgoing and had a habit of greeting everyone he ran into. In reality, Walter had always been shy—except when he drank.

Funny thing, though. The other day, after talking to Claire, who hadn’t shined him on like most people did, his confidence level had risen.

“Good morning,” Hilda said.

“Ought to be a nice day,” he added.

She glanced around, as if she hadn’t realized the sky was such a pretty shade of blue and the ocean breeze would make it pleasant today.

The sun glistened off strands of silver and platinum in her hair. She’d be an attractive woman if she smiled more. But then again, maybe—like him—she didn’t have much to be happy about these days.

“I asked God to find you a friend,” the little girl told him. “One who knows how to play chest.”

“You did?” The fact she’d mispronounced the name of the game didn’t faze him, and he’d be darned if he’d correct her. He supposed he ought to thank her. As far as he knew, nobody had ever prayed on his behalf before. Except maybe Margie when she’d been alive. “I appreciate that, young lady.”

“You’re welcome.” She blessed him with a grin that turned his heart to mush, then looked at her nanny. “Can I run ahead to the playground? Please?”

“Sure. Go ahead. But don’t you try to jump out of the swing. If something happens and you get hurt, your uncle will tell us we can’t come back to the park.”

The little cutie pie dashed off, leaving Walter and Hilda to bring up the rear. It was his cue to go his own way, but he didn’t. “How’s that arthritis?”

“Not too bad today.”

“I don’t know about you,” he quipped, “but I used to be a kid not so long ago. And all these aches and pains are for the birds.”

Hilda actually grinned, which took years off her face. “I couldn’t agree more.”

They walked toward the shaded table near the playground, where she and the girl usually sat. Rather than part ways and move on, Walter stuck around for a moment. Maybe she’d flash him another one of those rare smiles.

“Mind if I sit here for a minute or two?” he asked.

“No. Go ahead.”

They didn’t speak right away, which wasn’t surprising. Right now, they seemed to be two strangers treading on shaky ground.

He finally asked, “How long have you been a nanny?”

“Nearly thirty years. I married just out of high school, but when my husband Frank died, I had to figure out a way to support myself. And since I always liked children and we’d never had any of our own…” She dropped the subject, which made him think she was still dealing with either the loss or the disappointment. Maybe both.

“Ever remarry?”

“No.”

That was too bad. The so-called Golden Years were merely gilded without loved ones or friends, and Walter suspected she was nearly as lonely and miserable as he was.

“How about you?” she asked. “Are you married?”

“I was once. She was a pretty gal named Margie, a single mother with two little boys.” Hilda didn’t ask for details, but Walter rarely had a chance to reminisce out loud. “She was a waitress, and I used to eat most of my meals at that little coffee shop where she worked, just so I could see her.”

In fact, when the two of them started dating, he’d curtailed his drinking and settled down, hoping to be the kind of man she and her two sons deserved. And at least while she’d been alive, he’d been able to lay aside his demons and become a family man—for the most part, anyway.

“She was a good woman,” he added. “A fine wife and mother. And she made me a better man.”

“How did you lose her?”

“She had a heart attack.” It had been completely unexpected.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” She’d been on life support for a while, and he’d stuck by her side at the hospital, hoping and praying God would spare her.

But He hadn’t.

Her death had been devastating, and before long, Walter had fallen back into his old lifestyle, resulting in a blur of bars, booze, and brawls.

“Did you two have any children?”

“Just her boys. None of our own. I don’t see much of them anymore.”

“That’s too bad. Families ought to stick together.”

“Yeah. And stepdads shouldn’t drink themselves to death, either.”

Walter usually kept to himself and never shared personal thoughts and pain like that, so why had he now? He wanted to reel in the words, to smother the confession.

But Hilda didn’t seem to be judging him for being either a drunk or a blabbermouth, so he added, “I’ve been sober three years now.”

The tone of his voice, still strong and steady, belied his shaky confidence about staying on the wagon.

“Do the kids know about your sobriety?” Hilda asked.

“No.” He doubted that it would make a difference. He’d been a mean drunk for too many years.

In fact, time and again, he’d been a real embarrassment to the boys and later to their families. But he wouldn’t tell Hilda that. Nor would he admit that Tyler and Blake had become so disgusted with him and tired of his behavior that they’d both shut him out of their lives.

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.