The Boy

The Knock (1)

The Knock

She opens the door and sees nothing. Just as she is about to close it she notices the child, he must only be 3 years old. Mud streaked down where tears have dried amid the dust coating his rounded cheeks. His eyes are red, yet sparkle from the amplitude of excess moisture that had been there. She is speechless as she looks beyond him hoping for a grown-up to explain the turmoil. The streets are virtually deserted with most gone to school or work already this mid-morning. The only movement is the neighborhood stray jaywalking towards Vern’s Deli in hopes of an overlooked scrap of baked ham to settle the constant growl inside him.

Being a week past Halloween the wind decides to invite the brown oak leaves into her home, causing the boy to shiver. Looking back down she notices that although he is wearing a green flannel shirt he appears to have outgrown this one last year. Not yet knowing what has caused the tears, she knew they could not just stand here in the doorway forever. Seeing no other option, she motions the boy in. Without hesitation, he follows.

She tries questioning him of his belonging, “What’s your name?” “What happened?” “ Why were you crying?” With each came the same blank innocence and awe as he watches the words flow from her lips. Realizing he must be hungry, she goes to the kitchen.

The remains of a six-pack… that won’t do. She shakes the milk carton. Doesn’t sound chunky, she thinks to herself. She opens the spout and takes a whiff… “Should be fine.” She says aloud just incase he’s paying attention. She rummages through the cupboard for a cup, not a glass, something small to fit those tiny hands. Not finding anything remotely small, and unbreakable, she settles on a mug, her old coffee mug, the blue letters almost completely worn. The Broncos haven’t won in years anyway, so what would it hurt if he broke it, she decides. She pours the last remaining sips in for him and puts it on the table. “Now for sustenance,” she says. “It’s not like I have peanut butter and jelly lying around.” She opens the fridge again realizing how obvious it is that she needs to learn to cook. “Hmm, where did I go for dinner last night?” She wonders as she stares at the styrofoam stack staring back at her. “Oh yeah, Mama Rosada’s!” “I had the Pasta Primavera with Shrimp, I sure hope you’re not allergic to anything!” She states as she dishes some out onto a plate and warms it up.

She sets it on the table next to the mug of milk as the boy gingerly climbs into the chair without even having to be asked. With that she grabs the phone book and plops herself into the couch to begin the search.