The blasting wind scoured the empty streets, scoured living flesh on contact, screamed down the darkened avenue of north Broadway.
Someone had a heavy hand in this.
Two small terrycloth slippers crunched lightly the broken ice on the broken sidewalk. A forlorn figure huddled close, bundled against the searing cold in a tattered army jacket many sizes too big. Stubby fingers now red and swollen poked out of a pair of gray yarn mittens that were once pink. Matted blonde hair frenzied in the wind, whipped her face, stinging.
Tears blinded her eyes, and chapped the baby fat of her numb cheeks. Her nose was running and she licked her upper lip tasting the thick sweetness. Her lower lip, cracked and bleeding, trembled. Her ears could have been snapped off like the petals of a freeze-dried rose.
A raw squall smashed against the child, driving deep daggers of ice into her heart, and hissing words of evil sleep in her ravaged ears. The air filled with shredded newspaper, bitter snow, and bits of garbage spinning in the whirlwind.
There was no compassion in that wind.
A brief muffled cry was knocked from the child, and she fell into a deep doorway. She landed against some sack or large bundle of rags in the far corner of the enclosure, but almost swooned in the reek of urine and gin. A low moan and some mumbled curse started from the foul pile. A large cracked claw groped toward her, and a steely grip clasped the bare skin under her pants above the worn argyle sock that didn't match the dirty white one on her other foot.
The little girl kicked wildly, lurched forward in terror, and smashed her left temple on the concrete wall. She put her exposed fingers to her head and they came away red with blood. Crawling forward, she broke the grasp and pulled herself up, stumbling drunkenly out onto the sidewalk. She fell forward into the arms of a large man.
“Ho now! What's this?”
But it was no good. The child was limp in his arms, a battered ragdoll raped by the night. The man cradled the child in his arms, opening his coat and enclosing her within it against his chest. He shivered. The night lay heavy upon her. The man leaned forward against the wind and snow. The streetlights were obscured and cast dim dancing shadows that seemed to give life to the snowdrifts.
Up ahead, the man could see two beams of soft yellow light, and as he got closer saw the light coming through the stained glass windows of a church. The choir was singing “Silent Night” and the pipe organ carried the tune hauntingly into the street.
The green and red and silver decorations on the lampposts, now all gray and tattered, flapped in the wind like the flags of lost armies. The man came to an intersection and squinted at the streetsign: CHURCH and MAIN. He could have sacrificed her there.
As he struggled up the steps of his apartment building he wondered why in God's name a child was alone in the streets on a night like tonight. Tonight of all nights.
He laid her down on a camelback sofa and got some soap, hot water and cotton, and washed the wound on her head. It was a bad scrape, very messy, very painful, but she'd be all right in a couple of days. He shuffled over to an old dresser and took out a clean handkerchief. He placed the folded handkerchief over the abrasion and tied a bandanna around her head to hold the bandage in place.
He went again to the dresser and removed a flannel pajama top. The girl slowly came awake and he handed her the night-clothes. He placed his hand on her shoulder and nodded. The child relaxed and went into the bathroom to change. When she came out, he rolled up her sleeves and tied a soft belt around her waist.
The man took his pillow, changed the pillowcase, and brought it to the child. He covered her not only with his spare blanket, but with his own blanket as well. A beat up clock radio sat on the old Formica table in the kitchen. The man switched it on, and “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” crackled into the room.
In the harshness of the overhead fluorescent light, the girl watched the man pour some milk from a half gallon bottle into an aluminum pot on the stove. The man brought the child a mug, steam slowly rising from the warm milk. He handed it to her, and as she took it, her tiny hands touched his pawlike ones. Their eyes met. Hers were filled with sadness. His held a deeper despair. He lowered his head, nodded, and turned back to the kitchen. She drank the milk while he washed out the pot and put it in a strainer.
He'd decide what to do in the morning.
Somewhere amid the howling of the night, a bell rang twelve times.
The child and the man each said a little prayer in their hearts, and it was one prayer.
Someone had a heavy hand in this.
Two small terrycloth slippers crunched lightly the broken ice on the broken sidewalk. A forlorn figure huddled close, bundled against the searing cold in a tattered army jacket many sizes too big. Stubby fingers now red and swollen poked out of a pair of gray yarn mittens that were once pink. Matted blonde hair frenzied in the wind, whipped her face, stinging.
Tears blinded her eyes, and chapped the baby fat of her numb cheeks. Her nose was running and she licked her upper lip tasting the thick sweetness. Her lower lip, cracked and bleeding, trembled. Her ears could have been snapped off like the petals of a freeze-dried rose.
A raw squall smashed against the child, driving deep daggers of ice into her heart, and hissing words of evil sleep in her ravaged ears. The air filled with shredded newspaper, bitter snow, and bits of garbage spinning in the whirlwind.
There was no compassion in that wind.
A brief muffled cry was knocked from the child, and she fell into a deep doorway. She landed against some sack or large bundle of rags in the far corner of the enclosure, but almost swooned in the reek of urine and gin. A low moan and some mumbled curse started from the foul pile. A large cracked claw groped toward her, and a steely grip clasped the bare skin under her pants above the worn argyle sock that didn't match the dirty white one on her other foot.
The little girl kicked wildly, lurched forward in terror, and smashed her left temple on the concrete wall. She put her exposed fingers to her head and they came away red with blood. Crawling forward, she broke the grasp and pulled herself up, stumbling drunkenly out onto the sidewalk. She fell forward into the arms of a large man.
“Ho now! What's this?”
But it was no good. The child was limp in his arms, a battered ragdoll raped by the night. The man cradled the child in his arms, opening his coat and enclosing her within it against his chest. He shivered. The night lay heavy upon her. The man leaned forward against the wind and snow. The streetlights were obscured and cast dim dancing shadows that seemed to give life to the snowdrifts.
Up ahead, the man could see two beams of soft yellow light, and as he got closer saw the light coming through the stained glass windows of a church. The choir was singing “Silent Night” and the pipe organ carried the tune hauntingly into the street.
The green and red and silver decorations on the lampposts, now all gray and tattered, flapped in the wind like the flags of lost armies. The man came to an intersection and squinted at the streetsign: CHURCH and MAIN. He could have sacrificed her there.
As he struggled up the steps of his apartment building he wondered why in God's name a child was alone in the streets on a night like tonight. Tonight of all nights.
He laid her down on a camelback sofa and got some soap, hot water and cotton, and washed the wound on her head. It was a bad scrape, very messy, very painful, but she'd be all right in a couple of days. He shuffled over to an old dresser and took out a clean handkerchief. He placed the folded handkerchief over the abrasion and tied a bandanna around her head to hold the bandage in place.
He went again to the dresser and removed a flannel pajama top. The girl slowly came awake and he handed her the night-clothes. He placed his hand on her shoulder and nodded. The child relaxed and went into the bathroom to change. When she came out, he rolled up her sleeves and tied a soft belt around her waist.
The man took his pillow, changed the pillowcase, and brought it to the child. He covered her not only with his spare blanket, but with his own blanket as well. A beat up clock radio sat on the old Formica table in the kitchen. The man switched it on, and “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” crackled into the room.
In the harshness of the overhead fluorescent light, the girl watched the man pour some milk from a half gallon bottle into an aluminum pot on the stove. The man brought the child a mug, steam slowly rising from the warm milk. He handed it to her, and as she took it, her tiny hands touched his pawlike ones. Their eyes met. Hers were filled with sadness. His held a deeper despair. He lowered his head, nodded, and turned back to the kitchen. She drank the milk while he washed out the pot and put it in a strainer.
He'd decide what to do in the morning.
Somewhere amid the howling of the night, a bell rang twelve times.
The child and the man each said a little prayer in their hearts, and it was one prayer.
No comments:
Post a Comment