Fragment #80

The ground smell, raw and pungent, snaps him back to the now. He suddenly remembers his father saying: “If you fall, son, don't cry, and get up.”

So he dontcrys and getups. Unsure of what next, he thanks everyone around and runs. Runs till the streetlines blur.

He smells metal, earth, his own fear. He stops at the deli, panting; leans on the window but bangs his back, then folds on the floor like a rag doll.

Wipe nose, check clothes – tear on the front, mom will go bananas – bananas! He feels like crying, he does when he's bored, or when he's scared. He feels like peeing, again.

The deli man walks out, takes the boy's hand, pulls him up. Takes his chin, between thumb and index, turns his head left, then right.

Makes a face like Doctor Sullivan. “Come, sonny, we'll clean that up. Your mom's heart won't take it.” Mom's heart is big as a balloon in the sky – balloon! The deli man speaks funny. The deli wife takes his hand. Sits him on a stool in the bathroom.

The mirror shows a boy he doesn't recognise. There's blood trickling down his nose. Tufts of grass sticking out of his hair. And mud all over his face.

Poor boy. He cried too. Not a good day for anyone. Deli wife smells of soap, and lavender – lavender! Her hands are soft and busy. Mom's hands are rough like a brush.

“Why did they do this to you, mh? Can't they see you are what you are. Your mom is a good woman, but she can only do so much, on her own like that.”

Her voice is like a flute, it gets stuck in her apron, in her shoes, in her grey moustache. She brushes his hair, takes a washcloth, she lets her finger under the running water so the washcloth is warm. He likes it – warm!

Clothes will be mended. Stains will be washed off. Bruises will go away, and wounds will heal. But what about her son. He'll always be the special kid that end up beaten up. That's no life for a kid.

He likes her. The lightbulb makes his skin yellow – yellow! – like hers. She could be his second mom. He feels like hugging her, but mom said “No, you can't hug everyone like this.” He feels like crying.

“Does it hurt?” The boy shakes his head. She thinks he's trying to be brave but she can tell he's about to burst into tears. That's no life for a kid. She feels like crying herself.

Always feels like sleeping when his mom washes his face, and the washcloth roughing his face. Eyes closed. Water gurgle. Splash splash. More washcloth. Head bobbing. Whispers. Hands. Lifted, and eyes open light, light too bright. Light!

Hand the boy to the officer, he thought, it's none of your business. Nothing you can do about it. She was a decent woman his mother was, shame. Shame for the poor kid too. Like his life wasn't hellish enough already. “Did they catch the driver?”

Lots of words he doesn't understand. Never needed to understand them, really. His face is still rough from the cleaning. Rough like the policeman's hands. Rough the light he's brought in. It's a policeman's car. Car! And the flute voice says goodbye son. On! On!

“Take care of that little boy, will you, he has no notion of what's going on. Find him a good home. God knows what's going to happen to him.”