He’s got dark hair like me, ill-fitting clothes like I did at that age, though at least his are clean, and I can see from a few steps away fingerprint bruises around the back of his neck. I sported those once or twice in my childhood as well.
I glance around but there is only me and him. The overcast day makes it seem like a dream or maybe a hallucination.
“Hey there,” I call out to make sure I’m not crazy.
He flinches and when he turns I know why. The last time this kid saw me I was beating his dad half to death right in front of him.
“This bench taken?” I ask, pointing to the other half.
He doesn’t answer, just returns his gaze to the empty field behind the house.
I take that as permission to sit.
Well . . . this is fucking awkward. Dixie was wrong, I’m not kid friendly at all.
A small flock of birds take off nearby as if we have offended them with our presence.
“Guess the birds didn’t want to hang with us,” I say, hoping to show him I’m not the monster I probably seem like.
He turns dark eyes briefly on me then goes back to staring. “They’re blue finches.”
“Yeah, I know.” I remember a day when Dallas and I found one by a pond where we mowed grass for summer money. It was beautiful and delicate and despite seeming as if it was done for, it eventually chirped loudly at us and flew off. That day I understood something, something about myself and about Dixie.
As long as she had hope in me, I would have hope in myself.
I’ve called her Bluebird ever since.
I tell my unexpected company the story about the bird and when I’m finished he actually looks slightly interested.
“What do you think happened to it? After it flew away?”
I think on this for a long minute. “I think it explored the world for a while until it met another bird to explore the world with it.”
“Or maybe it died. Everyone dies. My mom died.”
Fuck. Me.
I suck at kids.
I have no words for this. Except, “I’m sorry to hear that, man. That was probably tough to handle.”
He doesn’t respond. Taking a closer look, I realize he can’t be more than six or seven or so. I try to remember what that is. First grade maybe? Second?
“Hey, what grade are you in?”
“First,” he says quietly. “But I don’t really go to school much. They don’t like me there.”
I remember that. Being the addict’s kid, being dirty, being made fun of. You learn how to use your fists instead of your words pretty quickly. “Well, I like you. And I know Miss Dixie likes you. Maybe we can just have school right here. I bet she could teach us some stuff.”
He actually almost smiles. He wants to smile.
I know why.
It’s her. If anyone could reach this kid, it’s her.
She reached me, after all.
“Have you seen her out here recently?”
He nods. “She went for a walk. She asked me to go but Mrs. Lawson told me not to go past this point and I didn’t want to get . . .”
“Punished?” I finish for him because I know exactly what he’s afraid of. Thankfully I put what he’s afraid of in the hospital.
He just nods and looks away again. My instinct is to nudge him lightly but I don’t because I know better. It took me years before I was okay with unexpected physical contact.
I glance over my shoulder and see Mrs. Lawson standing at her back patio door talking on the phone. I wave and she lifts a hand in response.
“For the record, Mrs. Lawson’s brand of punishment isn’t so bad,” I say instead. “She’d just make you let her cat tell you your future.”
One corner of his mouth perks up. “She already did. He’s over there.”
The darker of the two cats belonging to Dixie’s neighbor is hiding under a patio chair.
“I think my future was bad,” the kid next to me says. “Mrs. Lawson wouldn’t tell me what it said but she’s been on the phone crying for a long time.”
“Liam,” I hear Dixie say in my head. “His name is Liam.”
“Nah,” I say with a shrug. “Mrs. Lawson gets emotional sometimes. I wouldn’t worry about it, Liam.”