I first saw him with his mother, his small hand grasping tightly to her slender ones. He was scared – but of what and of whom, I didn’t know. There was a haunted look in his eyes; but that look did not and should not belong in an eight year old.
I knew he was eight because in his other hand he clutched a balloon shaped in an 8. The balloon was a cheap bright blue and yellow; the kind you get from a thrift store. The kind you get when your birthday was celebrated in a fast food chain and the only present you get is yet another colouring set.
I stopped to smile at him, and his mother, who was a young and pretty thing with the same sad look in her eyes. She smiled back, tremulous, but nonetheless pleasant. Perhaps she was pleased to have someone smile at her son. He clearly didn’t get a lot of those, being a rather skinny, fragile-looking thing with a pronounced overbite and a sallow tinge to his skin. She put her hands protectively on his mop of brown hair, and said a small ‘Hi’.
I nodded, returned her greeting and got down on one knee. I looked at the little guy and said ‘Hi’ – he was biting his nails now.
He looked at me shyly and grinned. I saw his teeth were crooked, possibly a headache in braces very soon. His eyes were blue and grey at the same time. They stayed on my face for a split second before those eyes flicked over to the large Golden Retriever next to me.
“He won’t bite, would he?”
I shook my head, all seriousness. “No way, he’s more friendly than I am.” The boy smiled again, reassured. “Can I touch him?”
I gently nudged the long-suffering mutt in the direction of those too-small hands. It gave me a look as if to say ‘No seriously, first chicks now little boys?’
I ignored its brown eyes and focused on the blue-grey ones instead. “Go on. Give him a pet. He won’t bite you.” The hands reached out, fingers hesitant until it touched warm flesh and fur. The grin that spread across his face made him all the less attractive, but the delight was undeniable. His mother looked on, a little anxious but glad that my docile canine would not be taking her sons’ hands for dinner anytime soon.
She smiled at me again. “He likes dogs.” I cocked my head to the side, my attention slight distracted by the fidgeting of my dog. I patted its head to calm it down, even as the boy fondled its’ ears – something that it hated. “Why don’t you get him one? The pound has puppies which are good for adoption.”
She scoffed. “No, I live in a one-bedroom flat, it won’t be possible. Any dog would howl in misery at the thought of being in my house.”
She looked embarrassed for a while, but hey, I wasn’t exactly wearing a Rolex.
“Yeah, I keep ol’ Maya here in the neighbourhood park because my flat is only big enough for me to stand upright and no more. I don’t sleep and I don’t need to eat either.”
She eyed me a little warily suddenly, unsure if I were joking. I was, I assured her. I lived in modest three-bedroom terrace home in the dodgier part of town. Maya was meant to keep the dodgy bits out, but so far, the recalcitrant creature only barked at lizards, which she deemed enemy numero uno.
It was then she laughed, an unusually loud sound for a woman so thin. “Yeah, Oliver has issues with lizards too. Maybe Maya would be good for him – if you can spare her?” She looked as if she overstepped her bounds.
“No that’s fine,” I shrugged. “I take Her Majesty for walks here and two streets away every Monday, Tuesday and Friday. Sometime ‘round six in the evening. If you can bring him out from time to time, he can throw her a stick. Or a dead lizard. Whatever rocks their socks, I suppose.”
She nodded, even grinned a little. For some reason, like her son, smiling made her look less pretty somehow. Perhaps the inherited overbite, I mused.
She called out to Oliver anxiously when suddenly Maya barked, once, annoyed, loudly. I quickly tightened my grip on her leash, pulling her away from the boy, who was looking intensely puzzled as to why she wouldn’t let him sit on her back.
“She’s so big!” he defended himself. The sad, scared look came back into his eyes. I tapped the mutt on the nose, whispered some admonishments and turned to Oliver. “Don’t worry, she just didn’t feel like a piggy back ride. But if you see me on Monday, I will have something for you.”
He pouted slightly. “Okay.” I looked apologetic, but his mother immediately waved my look away. “It’s alright, I suppose we’ll see you on Monday .”
I nodded. “Yeah.” I reached down to Oliver and slowly put my hand over his hair. “You take care now.” I ruffled his hair a bit, and stood up. His mother led him away, and I watched him walk with a pronounced limp to his left foot.
I looked down to my hands. In my clenched fist was a lock of the boy’s soft brown hair. I glanced at my faithful companion.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “We can do something for him.”
No comments:
Post a Comment