The Kindness of a Stranger

Author's note:
This is the first bit of fiction I ever wrote. It was back in 2004 or 2005, and I'd just started reading DailyKos.com, a progressive blog. One of the bloggers, a published SciFi author, planned to start a sub-blog for writers and offered to read and critique stories. He specifically invited novices, so I decided to finally give fiction writing a try. I remember thinking it couldn't be hard. After all, I'd already published extensively as a professional mathematician and academic. I was sure I knew how to write. I was correct--I did know how to write effective mathematical exposition. I was wrong that this meant I could write fiction, as this effort shows.

In any case, when decided to write this story, I remember thinking I wanted it to be about a time traveller with a personal mission rather than the usual "critical turning point in history" mission. I thought it might make a more intimate story.

The result was this seriously flawed tale. I don't recall what that author on DKos said, except that he was definitely under-whelmed. Not so much so that I gave up, but he certainly wasn't encouraging. He was right, of course. This story has multiple errors in craft. It would be easy to fix these, but I think it's worth preserving as a marker of how my voice as changed.

I also think, despite it's flaws, that it's valid to declare, on writing this, that I became a fiction author. Not a very good fiction author, to be sure, but a fiction author none the less.

The DKos writing group fizzled pretty quickly, but I set off on a quest to find an online, peer-review group. I did eventually find one, but it was short on mentoring and long on comments that amounted to little more than "this is bad writing." I meant another author in this group, SPACE COBWEBS , who actually gave actionable, useful feedback. She eventually persuaded me to join here, where I soon found true mentors. The old Novel Workshop groups on here were like the advanced seminars in mathematics I'd taken in graduate school, except the focus was on writing. I got almost endless specific, actionable bits of advice from experienced authors and editors. Within three months, I made my first short story sale. It took much longer to fully grasp what they were try to teach me, and longer still to bring it to my prose. In fact, that's still an ongoing process. But it all started with SPACE COBWEBS bringing me here. I'm forever in her debt.

Anyway, this is my first attempt at fiction. If you compare it to more recent efforts--say, "Lauderdale Tales" --I think you'll see a significant difference.

The Kindness of a Stranger

The first thing I noticed about the stranger was that he cursed in Chinese.

I was alone sitting in a crowded Starbucks. The other customers were cramped at tables about me, chatting with vacant expressions. I sipped my latte and pretended to read the paper. My thoughts were elsewhere, on drunk drivers, on hospitals, on loved ones. In the tight space two customers, a young man and a young woman, collided next to my table. His coffee splattered all over my newspaper as he caught his balance. I heard him mutter “Hunzhang!” Then he apologized and started to mop up the mess. “So sorry,” he said. “Please let me purchase for you a replacement, uh, news pod.”

“No problem,” said I. “It’s just the same old crap anyway.” I smiled to let him know it was OK.

The stranger glared daggers at the back of the young brunette who had bumped him and then walked away, oblivious to the random destruction she had wrought. She was giggling with a handsome young man at another table. “Sǐ bùyàoliǎn,” I heard him mutter. Mandarin: Shameless.

So strange. The stranger was lean and blond, almost Nordic in appearance. His speech had a peculiar cadence, not Scandinavian at all, but not Mandarin either. Yet he swore in Chinese. Ordinarily I’d be intrigued, but today I had only the energy for politeness.

“Perhaps you would join me?” There were no empty tables. I would at least return his courtesy and offer him a place to sit.

“Dabuten...uh, I mean, thank you, I shall.” Now Spanish: the young man’s speech was a mystery, a mystery I did not have emotional reserves to pursue.

He settled at my table and sipped at the remnants of his coffee. Preoccupied again, I returned to pretending to read my now soggy newspaper. Shortly I left, with a polite nod, never expecting to see the stranger again.


The next day at the hospital things were much the same as the day before and the day before that. Not knowing was so hard; the only worse thing would be knowing…knowing my worst fears were true. “No news is good news,” I thought bitterly. No news is just no news. I spent most of the day bedside, listening to the mechanical murmur of the respirator, the rhythmic beep of the monitor. Nothing was better, but nothing was worse either. I held her hand and told her I loved her. I didn’t know if she heard me or not.

“Sir, you look so tired.” The nurse was checking her vitals, moving her with gentle, loving care. “I’ve seen these cases. It will be a few days yet before we know anything. You need to be rested then, when we know.” She reached out and stroked the hair of her patient. “Give me your cell phone number. We’ll call if there is any change. Try to get some sleep.”

I rose and scrawled the number on a card for her, my face blank and devoid of feeling. “Thank you.” I sat back down. She sighed and squeezed my shoulder, then straightened the bedside table.

“Do you have friends in the city?” She knew we were from out of town.

“No, none.”

“Strange. A nice young man left these flowers today. He was blond, young, slim. Very handsome – he looked almost like he could be your son. Sound familiar?”

“No.” I was listless.

“He was so nice. He seemed more concerned about you than...well, more concerned about you. He said you were ‘antepasado.’ I supposed that meant you shared ancestors, that he was a relative.”

“No idea.” I reached out and held the still hand.

She sighed again.

“I promise I’ll call.”

She waited. I made no move to leave. “Get some rest.” She squeezed my hand and left.


* * * *



It was an eternity later; it was hours later. Still no news. The police officer and I were alone in a small, insipid conference room, a table dividing us. There was a framed poster on the wall, one of the ones that were supposed to uplift employees in order to inspire productivity and profits. The officer was not unkind, just matter of fact and officious. “I know this is difficult sir.”

I held my head and nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Yes sir. Just tell me, as best you can, what happened.”

I knew she had to investigate, had to hear from the closest eyewitness what had happened. In a monotone I told her. She asked her questions once again, going back over details, clarifying those frightful moments.

Then it was over. She clicked her recorder off. “Thank you sir. We’ll have this typed up and ask you to sign it.” I nodded. She hesitated, as if unsure whether to say more. “How is she, sir?”

“Don’t know yet.” I looked up. “You know she's pregnant?

“Yes sir, I had read that in the medical report.”

“At least the baby is fine. The injuries were all to her skull.” I started to cry.

“I understand sir.” She hesitated again. “Thank you for your help sir. We’ll be back in touch.” I nodded again. “Would you like us to take you someplace? Are you staying someplace?”

“No, thank you.” We were in a conference room in the hospital complex. I could walk back to the trauma center. Maybe there would be something new.

The hospital was huge, almost a small campus, with several buildings. I strolled along the walkways, pausing here and there, not wanting to face the silence that awaited in her room. The hospital grounds were like a garden, with flowers and shrubs and quiet nooks with benches, solitary little sanctuaries. I stopped at one of these and sat alone on a bench, looking at the flowers without seeing them.

The young blond man ambled by. He hesitated as though wondering if he would be welcome on my bench. He looked familiar in that way that most faces look familiar. The young man from Starbucks? He seemed to make up his mind and approached the bench.

“Hello,” he said, sitting down. I nodded. I didn’t really want company.

“I apologize again for disturbing you yesterday.”

“S’all right.”

He sighed. “These gardens are lovely, so peaceful. So many different kinds of plants.” His voice held wonder. “People now are lucky to have such a beautiful place.”

I said nothing. I didn’t feel lucky at all to be in this place.

“In my home, we have not so many different plants or animals. People would be surprised to see so many kinds.”

I nodded again. A jet airplane roared overhead, relieving me of the need for polite chitchat. He looked up in wonderment. “So much noise, people in so much hurry.”

“People aren’t in a hurry at your home?” If only we hadn’t hurried those few days ago, things might have been different.

“Some of us still hurry. But time is cruel to those who rush through it.” Cruel indeed.

A robin landed on a branch nearby and began to serenade us. The stranger looked around for the source of the song, his long hair sweeping across his face and masking his countenance. “How wonderful, a bird flying free right here in this place. I have not seen before.”

“No birds where you live?”

“In zoos, not flying free. Its song is beautiful.”

“You know it's just challenging any bird that threatens its territory? More like a war song.” I felt a morose need to puncture his wonder.

“Really? Birds make war? But not like humans, no?”

I snorted. “No, with humans war is less personal.”

“Ah,” he said. “With humans everything is ultimately personal.” We sat like that for a while longer, in silence. Eventually I rose and left, without a word.


* * * *



Late that night the hospital cafeteria was filled with darkness and shadows. Random trash was scattered here and there, the detritus of busy day sustaining the hospital staff -- sustaining the staff who saved the lives. I hope and yet I despair. There were staff on break here, clustered in one corner chatting in Spanish. I did not have the energy to listen. I poked at the casserole and green jello on my plate, not hungry. My fingers trembled. I knew I should eat.

I didn’t see him come in, not really. I sensed a customer go through the line, sensed one of the serving staff leaving the Spanish Corner to help. Fatigue and stress frayed my awareness.

He sat in my view, a few tables away. I spooned some limp jello into my mouth. I knew I had to eat. I stared at him without seeing him until he smiled and nodded. I started and nodded back, more in reflex than in response. He looked familiar in a passive kind of way, sitting there in the shadows. He pushed his shock of blond hair back on his head and stood. It was the stranger once again. I remember thinking “What a peculiar haircut.” It was so long in front and so short in back. Almost a like a reverse ponytail. Strange I hadn’t noticed before. But then young people today always seemed to be doing strange things with their hair.

He carried his tray my way. “It is lonely late at night in the...hospital. May I humbly join you?” His voice was soft, respectful, yet with that eccentric modulation. His voice, so soft, sounded lost and alone.

I shrugged, then said “Sure.” I didn’t really want company but didn’t have a good reason to say no and even now couldn’t bring myself to be rude to a stranger.

“M’goi.” He sat and quietly began to eat.

I began to eat too, mostly to avoid having to make conversation. No news is certainly no news, but the uncertainty consumed my soul, like a voracious black hole devouring everything nearby. So we sat there, me behind an armor of silence, sharing solitude and a meal.

He sighed. “This place is so strange to me.”

I didn’t really want to talk, but couldn’t be rude even now. “Oh? Do you...have someone here?”

“Yes, a relative. Two relatives in truth.”

“I’m sorry.” I wouldn’t ask how they were: my fears might confront his reality.

“I am here for the one, the one I knew about. But now I worry about the other.”

I couldn’t quite follow, whether from his tortured syntax or from my own fatigue I could not say. “You only knew about one? Are they both here?”

“Yes, both in this place, hospital.” He said the last word as though he were tasting something new and not entirely pleasant. “I can help one, I know. She will be well. But I did not hope to find the other. And his pain is so great. I hurt with him.”

“The doctors know what they are doing, I think.”

“Oh yes, they help the injured and the...sick.” He had to search for the word. “But they seem not to help other hurts, hurts in here.” He touched his forehead, then his heart. “They care, but they not help.”

Then I got it. “So one of your relatives is a patient and the other is here, in the hospital, visiting with you?” They must be taking turns in the room, relieving one another. Would that I had such relief.

“Yes, yes. The first one will be well, I know. But no one touches the injuries for the other, and his heart is so heavy.”

I sighed. “Some wounds only heal with time.” If ever.

He hung his head. “Time can be cruel.” His voice was a whisper. His hands clenched in fists at the side of his tray.

I didn’t know what to say. Remembering the kindness of the nurse, I reached out and squeezed his fist. He grasped my hand and then his tears flowed. “You are a good man, a kind man. I am proud to meet you.”

Random visions scattered across the surface of my mind: alcohol, accidents, and the gentle soul upstairs, clinging to life. “Nothing special,” I choked out, my own tears welling. “Just a guy.”

He shook his head, his hair hiding his eyes. “A good man, I know.”

We sat like that, together, for a while longer, saying nothing.

“I am so sorry. I have added to your burden.” He stood. “You are good man. Your loved ones lucky to have you.”

I could only shake my head. He nodded. “I must go now. My time here is so short, so short.” He picked up his tray and walked away, his back square and his gait stiff.


* * * *



The chairs in hospital rooms are not good for sleeping. The nurses were kind, giving me blankets and pillows, but two chairs shoved together were not a bed. I was exhausted, but with drugs managed a fitful if restless sleep.

I stirred, neither awake nor asleep. The monitors and the light from the hall cast a ghostly effulgence across the still form resting on the bed. Then did a figure coalesce out of the shadows, his face solemn behind blond locks heaving over his brow. He reached and with the softest of caresses touched her hair. Something in his hand seemed to glow with a faint luminescence. The glow grew and surrounded her head like a halo. I stirred but couldn’t seem to wake. His hand rested on her brow, his face so full of loving kindness. His other hand reached into his pocket and he pulled out a small device. His face was lit by the glimmer from the screen. He gazed at it for several moments, then stroked her hair again.

Then he did the most extraordinary thing. He touched her face, then he touched her womb. I thought I heard him whisper “Moma mia” but I couldn’t be sure. I stirred, by force of will came awake and stared at the stranger. “What?” I tried to speak, couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

He looked again at his device, nodded and slipped it back in his pocket. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He walked to me and held my hand. “I wish I could ease your pain. I didn’t expect you. I am so sorry.”

I shook my head but couldn’t release the cobwebs. What was he talking about?

“What can I tell you? That you will know joy again? That you will see her smile again? But how could you believe a stranger such as this one? I didn’t expect you. I am so sorry.”

My will was failing, drugs and fatigue and grief poisoned my awareness. I remembered now. After the doctor had spoken with me he had given me a pill, had insisted on seeing me take it. That was what was stealing my ability to think, to feel. Despairing, I remembered everything now.

The baby, the baby we had rejoiced over short days ago, that new life would survive. But her smile would never again surprise me, her laugh would never again make my heart light. The heart monitor, the respiration monitor, those pulsed in steady rhythm. But the brain monitor, that one was flat, steady, a perfect Euclidian line. She was gone even though a husk remained, a husk that would nonetheless nurture a new life.

The stranger spoke in soft cadences. “I came prepared. She was still in there, for a while longer, in that damaged container. I have her, all of her, in here.” He showed me the little device from his pocket. “A long time from now, and far from here, she will smile again, breathe again, laugh again. We have her copy, her...clone in that place, and now I have her..her soul to take back to that time and place.”

I felt myself spiraling down again. Despair at my loss, even with hope for the life inside. Confusion, and anger. She was gone, the doctors said so. How could he be so cruel to give such false hope?

“Cruel. Liked you. Why?”

“I’m sorry, I should have known you would be here, I’m so sorry.” He looked at his device again. “I’m sorry, I have to go now. Please, myantepasado, I love you. I am honored beyond my worth to have met you now, in this time of your sorrow. Your strength will sustain future generations of your family.” He squeezed my hand again, then backed away, fading into the shadows. I heard him whisper. “Time is not cruel after all, I think. Time gives us hope.” He hesitated. “As it was in the beginning, so it is now and ever shall be.” He dissolved into shadow for the last time. I saw the faintest glow, felt a rush of chill air, then, nothing.

Awake, I don’t know what was dream, what was reality. Perhaps time holds cruelty, perhaps time holds hope.

Perhaps, just perhaps, time holds both.