I stared into the mirror, my mind playing with a feeble attempt at humor. I didn’t look empty. But I felt empty. I brushed back my graying hair from my forehead. Maybe I should get it tinted.
Longing to stave off the effects of aging, I fought to stay awake in the evenings, but I often fell asleep in my recliner, a book open on my lap. I wasn’t sick—I just had a weariness. Even my addiction to computer poker games faded out after I’d played a hand or two.
The French class I taught tired me more than anything else. I needed my exercise at the club, and the piano lessons inspired me and kept my fingers nimble. So, I cut the French class, and felt empty.
I turned away from the unreliable mirror. I’ll go for a walk. That always peps me up.
I put on my sandals and walked briskly under the early morning sun, breathing in the fragrance of my neighbors’ climbing roses. Halfway down the street, I heard someone crying. My neighbor’s little boy, about five years old, sat on his front steps, hands over his face, making little mewling sounds.
I turned up the sidewalk toward him. “Ernie, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
He lowered his hands. His face was flushed, his eyes puffy, his t-shirt damp and none too clean. “My mama.”
Bending toward him, I took his little hands in mine. “Is your mama sick?”
“She won’t wake up.”
I straightened. “Is anyone else at home?”
“No.” His hands covered his face again.
His parents had divorced last year. He was an only child.
“Do you want me to see what I can do?”
Ernie nodded.
“Come inside with me.” I took his hand and pulled him up beside me, brushing back his tousled sandy hair. “Do you have a tissue for your eyes, and—uh—your nose?”
He nodded again and led me into the house.
The blinds were closed as if it were still dark, but in the bright summer morning, we didn’t need to turn on the house lights. The dim twilight gave the house a somber feeling. Stark modern furnishings lent a morose but delicate touch to the rooms.
“Ernie, did your mama get up this morning?”
He shook his head.
“Show me where she is.” I released his hand and let him lead me to the bedroom. In the darkened room, I made out the bed, with sheets and a blanket in an untidy pile at its foot.
I never had any medical training, but I knew at once that Ernie’s mother was dying, if she had not already succumbed. She lay on the bed in a thin nightgown, her body straight and her head thrown back over the pillow, her mouth open. I touched her neck, thinking to find a pulse. I felt nothing but the cool skin--too cool, even in the warm, stuffy bedroom. The slits of her eyes in her pallid face showed just a bit of white. I detected an odor, not unpleasant, in the room.
I crouched beside the boy. “We have to call an ambulance. Your mama is very sick. Where’s the telephone?”
Ernie and I sat in silence on the uncomfortable living room couch for the fifteen minutes it took the ambulance to arrive. The young blond paramedic in charge of the crew asked me a few questions, which I couldn’t answer with any authority. When Ernie turned away for a moment, the paramedic confirmed to me in a low voice that the woman was dead. I gasped. Somehow I sensed my life changing.
I turned to Ernie and put my hand on his arm. “Do you want to come to my house for awhile, until we find out more about your mama?”
Another nod.
I told the medic I planned to take Ernie home with me until some other arrangement could be made, and gave him my name and address.
I asked him, “Do you think it would be all right for me to look for the boy’s father’s address and phone number?”
“Ma’am, I’d wait for the police to search for that.” He stooped toward Ernie. “Son, do you know your dad’s phone number?”
Ernie shook his head.
When the ambulance left with Ernie’s mother, I found the house keys on a table near the door and left with Ernie, locking the front door. We walked the half-block back to my house.
I settled him on the sofa, with a pillow and a light blanket in case he needed to nap. He bounced a little on the soft cushions of the sofa, so different from the one in his house. I went to the kitchen, intending to prepare something for his breakfast.
I whirled at the sound of his small voice.
“Que fais-tu?”
I blinked. “Que… What am I doing? I’m making you breakfast.”
“Je ne le veux pas.”
I led him to a chair at the kitchen table and sat beside him. “I know you’re sad. But you need something for breakfast. What about a glass of milk?”
Before he could say “non,” I had the milk poured into a glass and set before him. He looked at it, put his small hand around the glass, lifted it, and took the tiniest possible sip.
“Do you speak with your mama in French?”
He gazed at me without responding. I translated.
“I understand English. Ma mere…my mama is French.” He took another sip of milk.
I found a bran muffin in the cupboard and put it on a plate for him. Slowly, he reached for it and crumbled a bit, putting it in his mouth. A small grin. “Good. Merci.”
“You’re welcome. My name is June. You can call me Aunt June if you want, or just Auntie.”
When he had eaten most of the muffin and drunk the milk, his head started to droop. I took him back to the sofa, took off his shoes, and he lay back and fell asleep.
Here I was, attempting to limit my activities, and stuck with a small boy. I never had children. My short-lived marriage happened thirty years ago, long forgotten, and my teaching career had been in high schools. What would I do with a child? I didn’t even know if he needed help going to the toilet—I had no brothers, only an older sister.
When the doorbell rang, Ernie stirred and stretched but did not wake. The police arrived, wanting more information about Ernie’s mother.
The polite policewoman soon realized I knew nothing about the family. “Usually we take the children to Social Services in a case like this. But I heard from the paramedics that Ernie doesn’t know how to reach his father, so if you don’t mind taking care of him for awhile, I’ll go and search the house, to see if I can find out how to contact the father. We don’t even know the lady’s last name.”
“Officer, I have no experience with little boys, but he seems to be calm and well-behaved. I’ll be happy to have him here for awhile.”
She smiled. “I have two little ones at home. You’ll learn quickly—they let you know if you’re not doing something right.”
An hour later she came back from Ernie’s house. “We found the father’s phone number and called him. He lives about 100 miles away; he’ll be here this evening. Can you keep the boy until then? It would save a lot of transportation and paperwork.”
“Of course. Is there any word yet on the cause of death?”
“Nothing. The autopsy will be later this afternoon.”
When she left, I looked in on Ernie. He was sitting up, with my tabby cat, Jules, purring contentedly in his lap.
Ernie smiled at me. “We never had a cat. Or a dog. Oh, we have some fish—and I forgot to feed them.”
“I’m sure they’ll be all right for awhile. Your papa is coming tonight.”
“No. No, I don’t want to see him.”
“Why not? Your mama can’t take care of you. Your papa will take you.”
He started to cry. “No! Can’t I stay with you?”
My heart lurched. I was too old for this. “Why don’t you want to be with your papa?” I didn’t want to know the answer to my question.
Jules jumped off Ernie’s lap, and the little boy turned his face toward the back of the sofa and sobbed. I sat beside him, rubbing his back and shoulders, ready to weep myself.
My mind was filled with questions and possibilities. I spent the day puttering around the house, doing odd jobs I always put off indefinitely. Ernie slept for awhile, and then tracked me down in an upstairs bedroom where I was changing the sheets on the extra bed for the first time in some months. He sat on the floor near the door.
I bent over him. “I have a can of cream of tomato soup. That would be nice for lunch, wouldn’t it?”
“Je ne sais pas.”
“Well, I know. I’m going to heat it up now. Do you like peanut butter?”
He nodded.
“Did you find the bathroom? I forgot to ask you if you needed it.”
“Yes. I’m okay.”
He ate well—half the can of soup and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Jules.
I heard nothing further until about seven that evening, when Officer Grant, the young policewoman, called me. “Could you keep Ernie until tomorrow?”
“But…”
“I’m sorry, I can’t explain right now, but I’ll stop by in the morning. Would that be all right?”
“Well…If he doesn’t mind sleeping in an old shirt of mine. Could I get some clothes for him from the house? He only has those shorts and a dirty t-shirt.”
“How about if I come by about seven-thirty in the morning, and I’ll go over to the house with you?”
That would have to do. The officer seemed to be in a hurry, and ended the conversation.
I found an old deck of cards and started to teach Ernie how to play poker, one of the few card games I knew. He learned quickly and made some good plays, but only stayed awake another hour. I tucked him into the bed I had just made and kissed him on the forehead.
As I turned to go, he said, “Thank you.”
I no longer felt empty.
My piano lesson was at eleven the next morning, and I didn’t want to miss it. But I felt comforted to have someone else, even a small boy, in the house. If he needed to stay longer, I would certainly offer to keep him. I’d take him along to my lesson in the morning—such a quiet boy would be no bother.
Officer Grant arrived a little early. Ernie looked up from his bowl of corn flakes. I told him we were going to find his clothes, and he nodded, spooning more cereal into his mouth.
“He doesn’t talk much, does he?” The officer led the way to Ernie’s house, keys in hand.
I frowned. “No. I don’t know whether he’s been affected by these events, or if he’s just that way. I don’t really know him well. But he’s a sweet boy.”
“Our problem now is that Ernie’s father can’t take him. He has a medical condition. Ernie’s mom has no relatives here—she came from France. The father has a sister living here in town. We’re trying to contact her now.” She turned the key in the lock and we went in. “By the way, the autopsy reported her death due to a massive stroke.”
“So young?” The young mother had seemed so healthy.
Officer Grant looked at me and nodded. “I think there may have been some medical history.”
A voice bleated through the radio on the officer’s belt. “We’re coming to meet you at the house. Miss Bryant is with me.”
“Ten-four,” replied Grant. She turned to me. “That was my partner. He’s with Ernie’s aunt and they’re on their way here. Will Ernie be all right in your house for awhile?”
“I believe so. I’ll check on him again in a few minutes.”
She walked toward Ernie’s room. “I’d like for you to be here, to meet Miss Bryant.”
“Is that Ernie’s last name?”
“Yes. His aunt is unmarried. That’s what his father told us.”
We gathered a couple of sets of clothing for Ernie. I found a plastic bag in the kitchen to pack them in. I looked around for toys and games he might want and added an intricate transformer shaped like a dinosaur and some movie DVDs. Whether he stayed with me for a few days or left right away with his aunt, that would have to do. We couldn’t spend time packing up his things now. I envisioned taking him to the mall to look for some new toys. My throat tightened.
The police unit pulled up in front of the house. A tall, dark-haired woman, dressed in jeans and a bedraggled t-shirt, got out, accompanied by the other officer. She walked toward the door with a slight swagger.
“Hi, I’m Gail Bryant,” she moved through the open door with her hand out toward me. I took it, returning her strong grip. “You must be the kindly neighbor. Thank you for taking care of Ernest. I’m so sorry to put you to this trouble.”
I smiled. “He’s been no trouble at all. I’m sorry about your sister-in-law.”
“Thanks. We were not close, but it was a blow. Problem is, I can’t take Ernest either. My brother is a drug addict—that’s why they divorced—and my lifestyle does not lend itself to caring for a little kid.”
“Oh. Is there anyone else?”
“No one. I would have no problem taking legal custody, but he couldn’t actually live with me. My partner is an activist and rather flamboyant. It would be uncomfortable.”
Officer Grant stepped between us. “I think we’d better take him to Social Services until this gets straightened out.”
I brushed back the hair from my forehead. I was getting a headache. “I’d hate that. I’m willing to take care of him, at least for a few days. He’s such a sweetheart.”
Miss Bryant grinned at me, a loose, joyful expression on her face. “Perfect, if it’s legal. Mary—that’s my partner—is a lawyer, and she could take care of the paperwork. I’m just a simple landscaper.”
“Then let’s leave it at that for now,” said Officer Grant. “I’ll talk to my chief about it, and to the Social Services representative. And I’ll be in touch.” She began to herd us out of the house.
“Wait. I need to feed the fish.” I glanced at Gail Bryant. ‘Would you like to see Ernie? I could take you home later.”
“I’d love that.”
****
Gail and Mary came to visit us often, happy for a home-cooked meal. All of us enjoyed a trip to Burger King occasionally.
I’m back to teaching French, and I’ve conquered my evening lassitude. I no longer feel empty. A small boy, becoming livelier every day, has entered my home and my heart. He goes to school, and has learned to speak only English to others, but at home we speak a mixture of English and French. He goes to the French class with me, plays online poker, and he’s even taking piano lessons. My cat Jules is fond of the aquarium we moved from his house.
Maryetta lives and writes in Merida, Yucatan, Mexico, where both the people and the weather are warm. She published her first novel, "Georgia's Hope," a couple of years ago. She has a book coming out soon, entitled "Hope Abides, a Dallas Story." She has published a number of short stories online.