Still Rusty

He checked his watch irritably. It was already ten past seven. Without moving his head, he scanned the park over his newspaper.

No sign of the boy. Such a waste of time.

He frowned and uncrossed his legs. Recrossed them.

A mother pushing a stroller walked past him, tugging a reluctant toddler with uneven pigtails behind her. He watched them without moving his head until they were out of sight.

He folded his newspaper and tilted his wrist to glance at the time.

7:13.

He heard the boy coming before he saw him. He was hurrying up the walkway towards him, holding a closed umbrella in his hand. The sound of his sneakers slapping the pavement was as awkward as his youth. The boy could not have been older than twelve, and it was clear from the way he ran that he was still getting used to his limbs. He stopped short in front of the man, bending over to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he panted as he stood. “I’m really sorry-”

The man uncrossed his legs and gave the boy a one-over. There was a small blue stain just above the breast pocket of his faded white-and-navy striped shirt. The man stared at the stain long enough for the boy to stop talking and follow the man’s gaze. He quickly scratched at the blue stain until it came off in a powder, leaving a ghost of a stain behind. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and rubbed at the stain that the man was still staring at disdainfully.

“Toothpaste,” the man commented matter-of-factly.

The boy nodded, and the action made his hair fall into his eyes. He swept it aside carelessly.

The man grit his teeth.

Such a waste of time.

“Well.” He stood up and dusted his clothes off before reaching over and untying the dog leash that was knotted around the rusty metal of the bench’s arm rest.  The dog, that was so quiet earlier, wagged its tail as the boy eagerly took the leash from the man. “Forty-five minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy half-walked, half-skipped away with his umbrella awkwardly tucked under one arm and the dog leash in hand.

The man didn’t watch the boy disappear down the walkway, around the trees and shrubbery of the park. That would be a waste of time, and quiet honestly, he had already wasted so much time with this boy. He picked up his briefcase and glanced at his wrist watch. 7:17.

The clouds gathered over head as the man set out towards the boy’s house.

*          *          *

The rain came down heavily, lifting leaves off the ground and sailing them along the curbs of the sidewalks. The man had just about caught the worst of it when he entered the house he had been watching religiously for the past six weeks. It was empty, just as he had known it would be. He stood with his back against the kitchen door as the rain dripped off the brim of his hat and hem of his coat. His eyes missed nothing.

The mess of letters on the small table in the center of the kitchen.

The mismatched chairs around it.

A half-full glass of chocolate milk, now warm, on the kitchen counter.

The container of Nesquik powder next to it, still open.

A fruit basket nestled in the corner.

He walked towards it for closer inspection. It contained two apples and an orange. He set his brief case down on the counter top and pulled the basket towards him. He turned the apples over in his hands, inspecting the skin for bruises and holes. He picked the better of the two and scratched at the sticker on it. He then rinsed the apple briefly before sinking his sharp teeth into its ripe flesh. It wasn’t as sweet as it looked, but it was still juicy. He took another large bite.

Still chewing, the man picked up his briefcase again and set the half-eaten apple down on the kitchen table.

The bathroom would be small, he imagined. But he couldn’t see any other appropriate place to carry out his work. Bathtubs, he’d learned, always make for an easy clean up.

He had just made his way up the creaky stairs when he heard the sound of sneakers slapping the wooden porch outside.

That stupid boy! He glared at his wrist watch. He was back too soon! The rain, he thought.

Such a waste of time. He’d have to improvise.

He could hear the sound of the rain amplify as the front door opened, and then die down again as it closed.

The boy entered the warm kitchen and shivered. He shrugged out of the rain coat that was starting to show too much of his wrists. He tried untying his sneakers, but he had tied them too tightly and now it was impossible to untie them when they were wet. He pulled up a chair from the table and sat on it to yank his sneakers off. They came off with some effort, and he slipped them under the table. Next he peeled off his socks, balled them up, and tucked them into one of his sneakers. The floor was warm beneath his feet.

He thought about calling the man’s cellphone and explaining to him that he would bring his dog back to the park once the rain had subsided.

“C’mere, boy.” He took the leash off the small dog and tossed it onto the kitchen table. That was when he saw the half-eaten apple. Little beads of water still sat on the waxy surface. The flesh was still pale and glistening under the dim lights.

The lights. Had he turned them on when he came in? He couldn’t remember.

“Mooooom?” He called out.

He stood up and walked towards the cordless phone on the wall. He should really call the man.

The dog barked and the boy punched in the man’s number. The line rang once.

Twice.

That was when the boy saw the small puddles that went across the kitchen floor, the unmistakable prints of a man’s dress shoes soaked into the beige carpeting of the living room.

The line rang a third time. “Mom?” the boy whispered, his voice shaky.
This time when the line rang, it was from behind him.