Читать книгу Mulberry Park - Judy Duarte - Страница 8

Walter Klinefelter parked his red Ford Ranger at Mulberry Park, then withdrew the worn leather game case and locked the door.

Two spaces down, the old woman and the blond-haired little girl climbed from their white Honda Prelude. They weren’t what he’d call regulars, since they’d just been coming to the park the past couple of weeks, but they showed up about midday. Like he did.

He’d approached them once, trying to make small talk, but the woman snubbed him like he was a dirty old man or something.

Heck, he was harmless. But he supposed they didn’t know that.

“Oh, yay,” the blond pixie said. “He’s here again today.”

“Who, dear?” the granny asked.

“Trevor.” The girl moved the tan-skinned dolly she carried from one arm to the other, then pointed to the child who’d been hanging out at the park a lot this summer, the kid who appeared as though he didn’t have a friend in the world.

In that sense, the boy and Walter had a lot in common.

“I told you before,” Granny said. “That boy is too old to be your friend.”

“He’s not exactly my friend,” the little blonde said. “He just helped me do something yesterday, and I might need him to do it again.”

“He’d better not be helping you climb on those monkey bars. If you fall, you’ll get hurt.”

“I’ll be careful, Mrs. Richards,” Blondie said, as she dashed off. Yet she didn’t run toward the older boy who sat in the shadow of the slide, drawing with a stick in the sand. Instead she skipped toward the center of the park, near the mulberry tree.

Walter probably ought to mind his own business, which he seemed to do a heck of a lot of these days, but sometimes he got sick and tired of hearing himself think.

“I don’t suppose you play chess,” he said to the old woman.

She turned, and the sun glistened off the silver strands of her hair. He suspected she’d been pretty when she’d been younger, but now she wore a pucker on her face that suggested she’d weathered her own share of disappointment over the years.

“No,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t play.”

“Too bad.”

They fell into step together, walking slowly.

“You’re here all the time,” she said. “And you’ve always got that game with you.”

“My last chess buddy passed on a couple of months back, and I’m hoping to find a new opponent.” There hadn’t been many takers, though. Either they were too young or couldn’t be bothered with an old man. That was to be expected, he supposed. There came a time when folks just outlived their usefulness.

The woman glanced at the midday sun, then reached a hand to her head and patted the springy gray curls as though feeling for something and finding it missing.

He did that sometimes, too. Got absentminded and forgetful.

“Oh, dear.” She clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t you know it? I left my hat in the car.”

Walter watched as she headed back to the white Prelude. The girl had called her Mrs. Richards, so the two weren’t related. He supposed that made her a babysitter then. But what the heck. None of his business.

He made his way toward his favorite table, the one that sat along the path to the restrooms. He figured that particular spot saw more traffic than the others and would present more opportunities for him to find an opponent. It happened once in a while. Often enough for him to keep hanging out at the park, rather than whiling away the hours at home, which was merely a short walk from Paddy’s Pub. Too short of a walk, actually.

Walter had done no more than set up the game board and playing pieces, when Mrs. Richards approached. “I don’t suppose you know how to get into a locked car?”

So maybe he hadn’t quite outlived his usefulness after all.

“As a matter of fact, breaking-and-entering vehicles is one of several handy tips I picked up while in the pen.”

Obviously not one to appreciate his sense of humor, she placed a hand on her chest and sobered.

“Not to worry,” he said, getting to his feet. “That was just a joke. I’ve never been in prison.”

He had, of course, spent quite a bit of time in the local jail when you added it all up. The last arrest occurred after he’d gotten drunk while the city had held their annual Founders’ Day parade, but he supposed Mrs. Richards, who appeared too prissy to get a chuckle out of it, wouldn’t appreciate hearing the details.

His old buddies at the pub had thought it was a real hoot. They probably still did. But three years ago, Walter had experienced a sobering epiphany when Russell Meredith hit that kid on the bicycle. Russell swore he hadn’t had a drop to drink that day, but had been so distracted that he hadn’t even known that the bump he’d felt had been a child.

At first, before Russell had come forward and turned himself in, most people assumed the driver had been drinking. Why else would the guilty person have left the scene?

Naturally, since the accident had taken place just a couple of blocks from Paddy’s, the cops had questioned everyone who patronized the pub.

For a while, all the regulars had eyed each other a bit suspiciously, wondering whether the guilty driver had been one of them. In fact, Walter suspected they’d all cast surreptitious glances at the vehicles in the parking lot, looking for new dents or streaks of paint—whatever.

Even Walter, who’d driven home completely bombed plenty of times, had been relieved to see that his truck hadn’t suffered any damage.

He blew out a weary sigh, hoping to shake the memory that had caused him to admit what no one else had ever been able to. That he ought to quit drinking for a while.

One day led to a second, then a third.

And, thanks to Carl Witherspoon, a do-gooder who’d come to Paddy’s passing out AA fliers after Meredith’s arrest, Walter had kicked it.

So far.

Still, a good laugh and someone to share it with was what he missed the most. More than the booze.

Walter cleared his throat as he shuffled toward the woman’s car. “As luck would have it, I have a coat hanger in my truck. Let’s see if I’ve still got the touch.”

“I appreciate your help,” she said as they reached the parking lot. “It seems as if I’d forget my head these days if it wasn’t connected to my neck.”

“No problem.” Walter went to the toolbox in the back of his pickup, then dug around until he found the bent wire hanger he kept on hand. Every once in a while one of the patrons at the pub had gotten locked out of a vehicle—maybe a good thing, he now realized. So years ago he’d tucked a coat hanger into the toolbox in the back of his truck. It had come in handy a time or two, which seemed to be all he was good for these days.

Hard to imagine that was his sole purpose for being on earth.

Walter Klinefelter, Parking Lot Superhero, who helped people out of a jam, then watched as they sped away in a cloud of dust, leaving him standing by his lonesome.

As he strode toward the Prelude, he wasn’t so sure he could help. These newfangled models had antitheft systems that made it tough to get in. They might have to call the Automobile Club, if she had their service. Or a locksmith, if she didn’t.

“By the way,” he said, reaching out to the seventy-something woman. “My name is Walter Klinefelter.”

“Hilda Richards,” she said, taking his hand in hers.

Human contact was a funny thing. Just an occasional touch could make a man feel alive again.

He nodded toward the blond pixie and asked, “You babysitting?”

“I’m a nanny,” she said, as if there was a big difference.

As she leaned against the side of the car, she winced, and he looked up from his work.

“My arthritis is acting up like old fury today. I hadn’t wanted to come to the park, but Analisa was insistent, and I hate to tell the sweet little thing no. She’s been through enough already.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the child who was now standing near Carl’s memorial bench that rested at the base of the mulberry tree. “Are you new in town? I’ve been coming to the park for a long time and have just recently noticed you.”

“No, I’ve been living here for years. And so has my employer. His brother and sister-in-law died about six weeks ago, and he’s now the guardian of his niece. He’s a busy man, an attorney with a big law firm.” She pointed to the red-brick professional building that sat adjacent to the park. “That’s his office there. On the sixth floor, with a view of the city. Anyway, he needed someone to watch over the girl, and I came out of retirement to do so.”

Walter glanced again at the orphaned child, poor little thing. He didn’t normally dig for information, but death seemed to be an ever-present reality these days, and he couldn’t help his curiosity. “What happened to her parents?”

“They were missionaries in a remote village in Guatemala, where the nearest medical clinic was far away and sorely lacking. Her mother died of blood poisoning, something that could have been easily treated in the States.”

“And her father?” he asked.

“He was going to bring little Analisa back to California, but while giving a tour of the neighboring villages to his replacement, he and the other man made a wrong turn on a narrow mountain road, and the Jeep rolled down a ravine. Her father was killed.”

Walter shook his head. “That’s terrible. Poor little tyke.”

“She’s pretty strong,” Hilda said. “As far as kids go.”

Walter returned to his work, wiggling the hanger between the window and the door.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Hilda said. “Would you look at this? I had the keys in my pocket all along.”

Walter carefully pulled the hanger free, then looked at the key chain that dangled from her hand.

“I’m so sorry for troubling you,” she said.

“No problem.” Heck, he didn’t have anything better to do. If he did, he’d be doing it.

As he left Hilda to open the car and retrieve her hat, he headed back to his table, back to his game.

But not before scanning the park for the orphaned child—poor kid—and spotting her looking up at the mulberry, her mouth open wide.

Analisa couldn’t believe what she saw. Her bright pink envelope now rested on the lowest branch, one that reached down to earth.

Had God read her letter? Had He answered?

Her heart skipped a beat, and she placed her dolly on the bench. Then she dashed off to the playground to get Trevor’s help. Even though the envelope wasn’t nearly as high as they’d put it, she still couldn’t reach it all by herself.

As she drew to a stop near the slide, where Trevor sat in its shadow, he looked up. He didn’t smile or speak, but he didn’t seem to be annoyed, either.

“I need you to climb the tree again.”

“You writing another letter to God?” he asked.

“No. Not until I get His answer.”

“That’s dumb. You’re going to be waiting forever.”

She kicked her shoe at a gum wrapper in the sand, then glanced at Trevor. “Don’t you believe God talks to people?”

“Why should I? He doesn’t talk to me.”

Still, the boy stood and brushed the sand from his pants. Then, with Analisa happily tagging along, he walked toward the tree.

“See?” She pointed. “It’s much lower now because God wrote me back and put it where I could reach better.”

Trevor climbed on the bench, then stuck the scuffed toe of his sneaker into a little hole in the trunk. He reached for a branch, pulled himself up, and plucked the envelope from the spot where it rested.

The flap was open, like it had been read.

Trevor dropped it to her, but she missed, and it landed on the lawn. So she picked it up and pulled out the folded pink paper.

She gasped when she saw the writing below her own. God had answered. But there was a big problem.

Trevor jumped to the ground. “What’s the matter?”

“God wrote in cursive, so I can’t read it.”

The boy took the letter from her hand and looked at the handwriting on the bottom of the page and also on the back.

“What did he say?” Analisa hopped and clapped her hands. “Tell me.”

Trevor scratched at his head, then read God’s words to her.

Dear Analisa,

I’m sorry that your mother and father couldn’t stay long enough on earth to see you grow up, but I needed their help in Heaven. They miss you very much and send their love. We all hope that your uncle is giving you lots of hugs and finding time to take you to the park.

Your mom and dad have met an angel here. His name is Erik, and he looks a lot like you. They told him how they miss you and want to know that you are happy and safe.

Erik asked if he could be your guardian angel, and I have granted him permission to watch out for you. But please be careful when you’re climbing trees or crossing streets. Erik is still learning how to use his wings.

Your mom and dad send their love. And so does

Erik.

Love,

God

Analisa quickly scanned the treetop in search of her angel, but all she saw was an empty bird’s nest and a broken kite. Then she searched all around her.

“What are you looking for?” Trevor asked.

“Erik.”

“Aw, come on.” Trevor scrunched his face and shook his head. “You don’t really think God answered that letter, do you?”

Analisa scrunched her face right back at him. “Yes, I do. Who else would know the name of my very own guardian angel?”

Trevor opened his mouth to say something, then clamped his lips shut.

Maybe he realized he was wrong.

She looked from one side of the tree to the other, checking all the branches and hoping to spot a flutter of white wings or the sparkle of a gold halo.

“You’re not going to see anything,” Trevor said.

Analisa crossed her arms and frowned. She opened her mouth to stick out her tongue, but decided not to.

Once, when she and her friend Soledad were arguing about who got to keep the pretty blue marble and who got to keep the plain brown one, Analisa had gotten mad and stuck out her tongue. But Mommy had scolded her, saying it wasn’t very nice.

“Even if there is such a thing as angels,” Trevor said, “I don’t think you can see them unless they want you to.”

Trevor might be right about that. She wondered if Erik would ever decide to show himself to her. She hoped so.

As Trevor stooped to tie his shoe, she picked up Lucita from the bench.

“Do you believe me now?” she asked.

He shrugged, then got to his feet. “It’s going to take more than one little letter for me to believe God can do things like that.”

Analisa laughed. “Then I’ll meet you back here tomorrow and the day after that.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to write another letter to God tonight.”

“How come?”

“To thank Him.” She hugged the letter and Lucita close to her heart. Then she looked at Trevor. “Want me to find out if you have a guardian angel?”

“Nah. Don’t bother. There isn’t anyone looking out for me.”

After her usual five-mile run, Claire made her way across the lawn at Mulberry Park, her body cooling down from another heart-pounding workout.

Yesterday, while catching her breath and resting, she’d sat beneath the mulberry, looked up and scanned the foliage for the neon pink envelope. But she’d seen only leaves fluttering in the afternoon sun and a torn, wind-battered kite dangling by its tail.

She had no way of knowing what had happened to the letter she’d left for Analisa. The little girl could have taken it, of course. Or it could have blown onto the ground, where a park maintenance worker might have found it and tossed it into the trash.

There were a hundred different scenarios, and she decided it was ridiculous to give the unconventional correspondence more than a passing thought.

Still, as she neared the stone bench that rested in the shade of the tree, she couldn’t help but search the vast array of leaves and branches again. This time something small and blue caught her eye.

Another letter?

Whatever it was rested too high to reach unless she climbed the tree, which Claire wasn’t about to do. Talk about unconventional. Climbing a tree to retrieve a letter to God bordered on crazy.

Yet she continued to study the blue scrap of paper overhead, the message to her.

Well, not exactly to her, but since she’d answered Analisa’s last letter, this was a response to what she’d written.

Claire scanned the park and found herself alone. A vacant red pickup sat in the parking lot, but there was no sign of the driver. It looked as though everyone who’d visited the park today had already gone home.

But Claire had no one to rush home to, no one to smile at her from across the table.

For reasons she didn’t want to contemplate, that scrap of blue paper continued to call to her, and a strange compulsion settled over her, a growing urge to do something she wouldn’t normally do.

Without any further consideration, she stepped onto the bench and reached for the lowest branch, then she placed a sneaker on the concrete backrest and pulled herself into the tree.

The bark scraped against her knee, and she grumbled under her breath. Still, she pressed on.

Claire hadn’t done anything remotely unladylike in ages, not since she’d been a kid. This was so not like her.

What would her coworkers at the savings and loan think if they could see her now?

She braced her feet on the sturdy bough and rested her fanny against a slanting branch. Then, even though she felt like a nosy neighbor opening someone else’s mail, she reached for the card-shaped envelope, withdrew the letter, and read the child’s words.

Dear God.

Thank you for Erik. I tried to see him but he hides good. Is Erik sopose to be a seekret? I dint tell any one abowt it. But Trever nos cuz I cant read cursev. Trever is nice, but Mrs. Richerdz doznt want me to play with him cuz he is old. Can you give him a angel to? No one looks out for him.

Love Analisa

Claire studied the rudimentary handwriting of a stranger, a little girl seeking God and finding Claire instead.

The first letter had gripped her heart, had made her want to protect the child from grief, but now she feared for Analisa’s safety.

Who was Trever? A dirty old man who’d set his sights on an orphaned child?

Claire shuddered at the thought. Good Lord. Little Analisa was worried about Mr. Trever, but who was looking after the trusting child?

Before she could ponder her growing concern, a graveled voice sounded from below. “Lose something?”

Claire’s heart thumped, and she jerked back, nearly losing her balance. She grabbed a branch to steady herself, inadvertently crushing the letter in her hand.

On the ground, an elderly man stood, one hand on his hip, the other holding the leather handle of a worn brown satchel. His hair was white and thick, and he needed a shave.

Her embarrassment ran amok.

“Crazy fool woman. What are you doing up there?” A sparkle in his eyes suggested he was teasing, although she couldn’t be sure.

“I’m…” She glanced at the blue letter and envelope she’d crumpled in her hand. “Just reading.”

He humphed, then shook his woolly head. “There’s probably a law against climbing trees in the park. And if there isn’t, there ought to be. You could fall and break your neck.”

The man looked as old as creation, and an aura of bright light lit his head like a halo or some kind of heavenly crown. She could almost imagine that God had taken human form and come down to earth to punish her for reading His mail, for pretending to be Him.

When the man shifted his weight to one hip, eliminating the reflected glare from the sun and revealing a pair of wire-rim glasses perched on his head, the pseudo-divine aura completely disappeared.

“I don’t suppose you have a ladder?” she quipped.

“Not with me.”

She watched him for a while, expecting him to move on and go about his way, but he continued to study her. “You’re watching me as if you haven’t been entertained in years. Don’t you have a television at home?”

“Nope. Got tired of all the dang reruns.” A teasing glimmer lit his eyes, and humor tugged at his lips. He nodded toward the case he carried. “I don’t suppose you play chess.”

“Afraid not. I never could figure out how to balance the game board in a tree.”

“Too bad.” His grin broadened to an outright smile. “If you ever get it figured out, just give me a holler. My name’s Walter.”

“Mine’s Claire. And I’ll do that.”

He nodded, then turned toward the parking lot, heading for the red pickup with the American flag decal displayed on the rear window. She’d seen it here before. It had a bumper sticker that claimed he was one of The Chosin Few.

A Korean War veteran, she suspected. A man who’d proudly fought at the Chosin Reservoir.

She tried to smooth the letter, then carefully tucked it into the waistband of her shorts.

As the pickup roared to life, she lowered herself to the ground. Her legs were still a bit rubbery from her run, and her foot slipped, causing her ankle to twist slightly and her knee to scrape against the bark.

“Ouch.” She regained her footing, but grumbled again at the stupidity that had put her in this position.

The old man had called her crazy, and she had to agree. All she needed was a broken neck. Or to get laid up and be unable to work. Or worse. God forbid she’d be unable to run anymore. The rigorous daily jog was what kept her sane and her life on track.

Once safely out of the tree and seated on the bench, she pulled out the letter, reread it, and considered her response. Then she took the marker Analisa had again provided, printing this time so the girl could read the words all by herself—without Trever’s help. When she finished, she dropped the marker back into the envelope, folded the wrinkled paper, tucked it inside, and placed it on the lowest branch.

As Claire drove toward the small condominium complex just off Chinaberry Lane and the three-bedroom place she called home, she again recalled the old man’s words: Crazy fool woman.

For a moment, she’d wondered if maybe he’d been right. After all, how many grown women climbed into trees and responded to letters addressed to God?

There was a time when Claire might have called Vickie, the woman who’d once been her best friend.

“Hey, Vick,” she would have said. “You’ll never guess what I found today. And what I did.”

But Claire had lost her connection to Vickie when Erik had died. Not that Vickie had been the one to pull away; she hadn’t. It’s just that one of the many things they’d had in common had been children the same age, and Claire hadn’t been able to face the constant reminder of what Vickie still had.

And what Claire had lost.