A Simple Act of Kindness
It was a Friday morning in September, and Peter had only been a crossing guard for three weeks, but he was already accustomed to the routine which brought him to school forty-five minutes earlier than his friends. His mom dropped him off at the school, and he went around the building to the janitor’s room, the only door unlocked that early. As he pulled open the metal door, he stifled a cough from the overwhelmingly clean stench of disinfectants and detergents. Peter crossed the room to the back wall where, on coat hooks, hung the orange plastic sashes which all of the crossing guards wore. Stan and Molly were already there, adjusting the belts and straps over their sweaters.
“Hey, hey, if it isn’t Mr. Wisdom’s little helper,” Stan joked, “the little man’s little man.”
“Shut up, man,” Peter replied, “you’re just jealous because you’re stuck at the kindergarten gate.”
“I’d rather ride herd on rugrats than rub elbows with that spooky old dwarf.”
“Really, Pete,” Molly said, “I’m all the way on the other side of the playground, but when I watch him staring through the fence, it gives me the creeps.”
“He’s harmless, you bunch of babies. All he does is just stand there. He shows up right at seven forty-five, he never talks, he never bothers anybody, and, right on the stroke of eight, he picks up his bag and scurries back down the alley.”
“I don’t know,” Stan said, rolling his eyes, “you ever see what he carries around in that bag?”
“Just some rags and stuff, some baby books.”
“My dad says that once, when he was a kid, him and some of his friends found out where Mr. Wisdom stayed down in that alley. He says that they went down there one afternoon and caught him napping between some garbage cans. He says that they started going through the bag, to see if the dwarf was really like an old eccentric millionaire or something, see if maybe it was filled with hundred dollar bills or treasure or something. But,” Stan paused, “guess what they found down at the bottom?”
“What?” Peter snorted, “some rags and baby books?”
“A head. An old woman’s head. It was all dried up and the hair was falling out. He says it’s the head of Wisdom’s mother. He says that Mr. Wisdom cut it off to get even with her for making him a freak.”
“Gotta go,” Molly said without looking back. She hit the metal door running and disappeared around the corner.
“What a load of crap.”
“You don’t believe it?” Stan asked, a wicked smile spreading across his face.
“No way. He’d be in jail.”
“Man, even the cops are too afraid to look in that bag.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, that’s how I heard it. Anyway, if I were you, I think I’d stay away from that bag. No telling what he might do if you happened to see that head.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter said sarcastically.
“Well, it’s that time. Let’s go guard the kiddies.”
“You go on ahead,” Peter said, looking around the room, “I’ve got to find another stop sign. A screw’s loose in the handle of mine.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stan said as he smirked from the doorway.
Peter glanced down at his watch. Seven forty-five. The morning was still and somber because the sky was heavy with gray rain clouds. Maybe, he thought, the old man has something else to do today. But, as he looked back up, he saw Mr. Wisdom step out of the alleyway and trot across the street. He wore a long, military-issue trench coat which drug the ground, and the sleeves were rolled up into huge wads around his wrists. Underneath this he wore a dingy white tee shirt and an oversized pair of dress trousers which were held up at his waist with a rope and were rolled up so much at the bottom that the cuffs looked like link sausages hula-hooping around his ankles. He wore a pair of stereo headphones around his neck, attached to nothing, like some futuristic necklace. Peter studied the bag Mr. Wisdom carried hugged against his chest and noticed that the bottom did have a sort of roundness to it. On the side, near the bottom, Peter thought he saw, even from a distance, a greasy stain soaked through the paper. Mr. Wisdom sat the bag down on the sidewalk, as he did every morning, and gripped the chain link with both hands, pressing his nose through one space in the diamond pattern, his eyes lined up with two other spaces so that his view was unobstructed by the wire. Mr. Wisdom stood at the corner of the fence and watched the children converge on the playground from the surrounding neighborhoods and play, and laugh, and call out to one another. He peered through the chain link like an animal at the zoo, curious about this strange world of people.
Peter returned his attention to his post at the crosswalk where a group of third-graders waited for his consent to cross over to the school yard. Peter walked into the middle of the crosswalk with his stop sign, even though there was no automobile traffic, and waved the kids across. As he stepped back up onto the curb on the far side of the street, he heard a shout from near the corner where Mr. Wisdom kept his silent watch. Peter whirled around and saw Kenny James and his buddies, Fred and Rusty, leaping and jumping down the sidewalk in the direction of the dwarf. Peter was surprised to see them coming to school from this way. One reason Peter tolerated his post on the nearly deserted street behind the school was that he was unlikely to run into this threesome.
Kenny and his two cronies were playing soccer with a stone as they rough-housed down the sidewalk toward Mr. Wisdom. Two of them would try to prevent the third from kicking the rock down the sidewalk, and, when the stone was finally kicked through, two would gang up on whomever got to the stone first. Mr. Wisdom kept his vigil at the fence, totally heedless of the rough-and-tumble play careening toward him. Kenny tripped up Fred as they jockeyed for position around the rock, and, barely missing Fred’s ear with his combat boot, kicked the stone right between Mr. Wisdom’s feet. The tiny man stood as if he were a statue, even as the three boys wrestled and fought one another over his back, their feet dicing between his to extricate the smooth stone. They fell against each other and Mr. Wisdom as he simply clung to the chain link, the wire pressed deeply into the flesh between his eyes. Kenny, with a final, desperate kick, succeeded in both dislodging the stone from between Mr. Wisdom’s feet and toppling Mr. Wisdom’s bag so that the contents spilled out across the sidewalk.
Mr. Wisdom whirled on them, his jaw working with a soundless ferocity. The three boys froze, suddenly aware of the dwarf’s furious indignation, until the sound he uttered caught up with the twitching of his face.
“H-h-h-h-hey-hey-hey-hey,” Mr. Wisdom stuttered, his cracked voice bleating the persistent syllable.
Mr. Wisdom fell to his knees and frantically crawled after the rags and books which Kenny and his friends now scattered with menacing glee. As Mr. Wisdom scrambled after handfuls of bright rags, Kenny retoppled the bag and threw fistfuls of cloth scraps skyward, letting them rain down like giant confetti.
Peter suddenly found his legs propelling him across the street to the corner at top speed.
“That’s enough,” Peter screamed as he threw himself on Kenny.
The force of Peter’s lunge rolled them into the fence, and, as they scuffled to get up, Peter banged the back of his head into Kenny’s nose. Instantly, blood streamed down, and he stepped back and gingerly dabbed at his lip with the back of his hand.
“You’re gonna pay,” Kenny muttered as he wiped a crimson streak along the back of his forearm.
Kenny motioned for his buddies to follow him around the corner, and all three of them sullenly stalked up the sidewalk to the school entrance, Kenny holding his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. Mr. Wisdom still anxiously retrieved the rags and spine-broken picture books, oblivious to the departure of the bullies or Peter’s trembling figure as he fell to his knees and began warily returning the scraps into the righted paper bag.
It took a few minutes for the pair of them to refill the bag, and, when Peter had cautiously placed the last shred into the sack, he looked up to see Mr. Wisdom staring directly into his eyes.
“There you go,” Peter mumbled nervously.
Mr. Wisdom said nothing, but continued to intently observe Peter as he rose from his knees and retreated a few small steps.
“They’re gone now. I’ll tell the principal what they did. You’ll be okay.”
Mr. Wisdom only stared deeper. Peter noticed a small trickle of blood from Mr. Wisdom’s right eyebrow, and, as he stared at it, Mr. Wisdom slowly raised his hand and wiped it away.
“Okay, I’ve got to get back to my post. Be seeing you.”
Peter lowered his head and turned back in the direction of the crossing when he heard a clear, strong voice behind him.
“Thank you.”
Peter spun around to see Mr. Wisdom standing on the sidewalk, the bag clutched in his short arms.
“Don’t loiter after school today,” Mr. Wisdom said, and he stepped into the street and crossed over to the alley where he disappeared behind a dumpster.
Peter looked down at his wristwatch. It was eight ‘o clock.
“You’re kidding me,” Stan said.
“No, really,” Peter insisted, “he spoke to me. He said, ÔDon’t loiter after school today,’ and then he left.”
The two boys unstrapped their sashes and carefully hung them on the coat hooks.
“How did he say it?” Stan asked, “Did he say it mean, like he was threatening you or something?”
“No. He said it really plain and nice. It sounded like he was trying to do me a favor .”
“A favor? He was probably telling you to stay away from him or he’d make sure you didn’t tell anyone about what happened.”
“No way. It was like he was trying to help me out somehow.”
“I don’t know,” Stan said thoughtfully, “did you see what was in the bottom of the bag?”
“Rags and books, you moron, just like I told you this morning.”
“No head?”
“No head.”
“What do you think Kenny is going to do?”
“Well, all he said was, ‘You’re gonna pay.’ I think he’s going to try to beat me up.”
“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Did he say when?”
“No. I’m just going to watch out for him. I don’t think he’d try to fight me while I was on crosswalk duty.”
“Probably not,” Stan agreed, “but, if I were you, I’d watch out during lunch tomorrow and on the way home. Are you going to tell Mr. Patterson about what happened?”
“I tried to this morning, right after duty, but he was busy with this new kid. Old Lady Robinson wouldn’t let me see him.”
“Hmm, maybe Kenny’d go easy on you if you just forgot about it.”
“I don’t know, Stan. I really hate that guy. Ever since he stole my gym uniform out of my locker and broke my glasses when I tried to get it back.”
“He might break more than your glasses this time.”
“I don’t care,” Peter blurted, “I’m really sick of him.”
Peter sat on his hands on a hard, wooden chair in the long hallway outside of Mr. Patterson’s office. He shifted his weight from one arm to the other, but the chair was impossibly uncomfortable. As he wriggled, he upset his book pack from where he had hung it on the back of the chair, and it fell to the polished floor in the empty hallway with startling bang. Mrs. Robinson poked her head around the corner from where she sat at her desk. She tilted her head back so she could see Peter through her bifocals which had slid down her pointy nose. Her hair was brilliantly white, and she turned her head back and forth, first looking at Peter through one eye and then the other. Peter watched her expectantly, a nervous knot hardening in his stomach. She looked like a giant, inquisitive rat.
“Are you still here, Peter,” she nasally keened in the emptiness of the hallway.
“Yes, ma’am. I need to speak with Mr. Patterson.”
“Well,” she said, drawing out the syllable as if she doubted his request were possible, “let me go in and see if he will be available today.”
Peter watched her slide past the door she opened just enough to allow herself through, but he still caught a glimpse of Mr. Patterson sitting idly behind his huge desk, staring absently out of the window. She closed the door behind her, and, after a few minutes of muffled voices on the other side of the door, she reappeared.
“Mr. Patterson is going to be busy for a while longer, Peter. Can you tell me what this is all about, so that maybe I can help you?”
“No, Mrs. Robinson.”
“It’s nearly four. If you come in tomorrow right after you finish with your crosswalk duty, I’ll try to make sure you see him then.”
“Okay,” Peter mumbled.
“Run along home, now, before your mother gets worried.”
Peter picked up his book pack and trudged down the long hallway to where the afternoon light dimly shone through the glass window of the exit door. Peter peered out the window, trying to see if anybody was waiting outside, and he noticed that it had begun to lightly rain. Peter pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck and raised the book pack over his head as a makeshift umbrella. He pushed open the door with his foot and ran down the stone steps. He turned right and jogged along the side of the building, and, when he got to the tall bush at the corner of the building, he turned right again and collided head-on with Kenny James coasting on his bicycle. The mishap threw Kenny over the handlebars and knocked Peter flat on his back in the middle of the sidewalk. As Peter lay there, his eyelids fluttering from the rain falling in his face, he was aware of two more bicycles skidding up to within inches of his legs, and then he saw the faces of Rusty and Fred grinning down at him.
“Welly, welly, well,” Fred chortled as he planted his boot on the wet sidewalk by Peter’s ear, “look who’s still hanging around so late.”
“Yeah,” said Rusty, placing the toe of his shoe on the point of Peter’s jacket collar, pinning it to the ground, “we figured you’d have run home right after you finished your sissy job at the crosswalk.”
Peter lay motionless, shallowly panting from having the wind knocked out of him, and he heard Kenny’s voice approach from over his head.
“We weren’t planning on beating the crap out of you until tomorrow, snitch,” Kenny muttered.
Peter tried to roll over, but he was trapped by his pinned collar. Kenny sauntered around and straddled Peter then sat down heavily on his chest.
“I didn’t tell Mr. Patterson anything. Really.”
“Is that so, snitch?” Kenny said, bending down his head within a foot of Peter’s.
“Really. He was busy all afternoon, and he didn’t have time to see me.”
“Oh, so. you were going to tell, but he didn’t have time for you.”
“No. No. I mean, as I was just leaving, I heard Old Lady Robinson tell someone that.”
“Sure, snitch. How come you stuck up for the dwarf, man. He someone special to you? Who is that crazy runt? Your dad?”
Fred and Rusty cackled at the joke, and Kenny leaned back, laughing, his weight crushing Peter’s sore stomach.
“Well, we can understand a kid sticking up for his own retarded dad, snitch. Fred, hand me his backpack.”
Kenny got up from his seat on Peter’s chest and took Peter’s pack, ripping open the top and peering inside.
“Anything good for us today?”
Peter lay on the wet ground, motionless. He wished Kenny would punch him in the face, or kick him in the stomach, anything, just to get it over with.
“Nothing but trash, as far as I can see,” Kenny stated and emptied the contents of Peter’s pack into a puddle, “there, we cleaned it all out for you.”
Peter closed his eyes and waited for them to leave. Suddenly, he felt a sharp jolt in his side, and he opened his eyes to see Kenny standing over him, his leg drawn back to kick again.
“Don’t ever mess with me or my friends, snitch, or we’ll make sure that you started looking like your daddy, the freak.”
Peter closed his eyes at the second blow to his ribs and curled up on his side, the cold rain, falling harder now, soaking through the denim of his jeans. He waited for another kick, but, instead, he heard Kenny’s voice grow fainter as the three boys picked up their bikes and walk them down the side of the building. Peter lay quietly until their voices receded in the distance, and then he heard another voice, but this one, he knew, was only in his mind. He heard Mr. Wisdom’s voice, surprisingly clear and strong, utter the same sentence he had said that morning, Don’t loiter after school today, Don’t loiter after school today, until Mr. Wisdom’s voice went silent also, and all he could hear was the pelting of the rain on the concrete sidewalk.
* * *
One week before Christmas, Peter stood in the bitter wind blowing down the deserted street behind the school and thrust his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his parka. He looked across the street and knew that it was seven forty-five, because Mr. Wisdom trotted with his odd, short-legged gait from the alley to the schoolyard fence. Peter had wondered if Mr. Wisdom might acknowledge their acquaintance after the Kenny incident by waving from his watch at the fence corner, or maybe crossing the street at Peter’s post, exchanging pleasantries as he trotted by, or maybe even standing with Peter at the crosswalk to watch the children as they frolicked on the playground, but three months had gone by, and Mr. Wisdom had not once shown the slightest sign that he even knew Peter stood there wondering across the street. Every day, the old dwarf appeared out of the alley at seven forty-five, like a bizarre cuckoo emerging from its door in the clock, watched the children, and then promptly disappeared at eight.
Today, Peter could not help but notice, as he studied the old man from across the street, that Mr. Wisdom’s trench coat was threadbare across his back, over his hunched shoulders, and that his hands were as red as lobster claws as he clenched the frosty chain link. When the wind died between frigid gusts, Peter could hear the fence rattle against the metal posts from Mr. Wisdom’s tight grip as he shivered. In the calm, Mr. Wisdom’s breath rose in a vaporous wreath around his head, but, when the icy wind blasted down the empty street, it tore his breath away, and there was no sign that Mr. Wisdom was even a living man and not the husk of a scarecrow clinging to the fence.
Peter, again, in spite of himself, found his legs stiffly carrying him across the street to the corner where the old man stood. He stopped about ten feet from Mr. Wisdom and slowly pulled his thick scarf out from around his neck and his parka hood.
“Here,” Peter said, much more loudly than he had intended, and he waved the muffler at arm’s length toward Mr. Wisdom.
Mr. Wisdom said nothing. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see who was yelling at him. He didn’t move at all from his watch at the fence, but it wasn’t as if Mr. Wisdom were ignoring Peter so much as it seemed that Mr. Wisdom lived in a world in which Peter were unrecognizable, a parallel reality where crossing guards were merely mechanical servants trained to assist in the marvelous spectacle of children playing on a playground.
“You can have this to keep warm. I have another one at home,” Peter said as he hesitantly walked closer to Mr. Wisdom, still waving the thick scarf.
Still, Mr. Wisdom remained motionless except for the occasional shiver which would start in his knees and rise up through his back to his shoulders and arms and end in a faint metallic rattle of chain link against steel post.
“Please take it. I can see you shivering from all the way across the street.”
When Mr. Wisdom continued to stand there, oblivious to Peter’s nervous entreaties, Peter exhaled a huge frosty breath, half in exasperation and half in apprehension, and stepped up behind Mr. Wisdom and warily placed the scarf around his trembling shoulders.
Peter immediately took two quick steps back and said, “You keep it. I want you to have it. It’s really getting cold.”
Peter continued to walk backward until he stumbled off the curb into the street, but Mr. Wisdom remained motionless at the fence.
Peter turned to cross back to his post at the crosswalk when he heard the strong, clear voice call to him from the corner. Peter whirled around to see Mr. Wisdom facing him.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Wisdom.
The muffler was pulled tight around his collar and up over his ears and tied under his chin.
“You’re welcome. If you want...” Peter began.
“At the assembly today, don’t stand under the bleachers,” Mr. Wisdom said as he bent down to pick up his bag.
“Don’t stand under the bleachers?” Peter asked, puzzled, “There’s no assembly today.”
But Mr. Wisdom had already crossed the street and disappeared down the windy alley. Of course, it was eight o’clock.
* * *
As Peter sat at his desk in Mrs. Whybrew’s class and absently gazed out of the window at a pair of starlings hunched into black knots on a swaying branch, the intercom at the front of the room crackled, and the classroom windows rattled from the amplified squeal of Mr. Patterson clearing his throat.
“Good morning, students,” Mr. Patterson’s voice boomed from the small box on the wall, “I have an announcement concerning the scheduling of a special assembly in the auditorium this morning.”
Peter felt the skin on the back of his neck tighten, and all of his tiny neck-hairs stood up and tingled.
“Because of the added security needed for the governor’s visit to our city this weekend, Deputy Dogue has come to give his safety talk today instead of Friday. We will be leaving our classrooms to fill the auditorium...”
As Mr. Patterson droned on about assembly procedure, Peter slowly turned in his seat toward Stan, who sat two desks behind him. That morning, as soon as Peter had returned to the janitor’s room after morning duty, he had told Stan what Mr. Wisdom had said. Now, Stan sat at his desk with his eyes fixed, his mouth hanging open and his face deathly pale.
“Stan!” Peter whispered under the monotone of Mr. Patterson’s instructions,”Stan!”
Stan shook himself out of his stupor and focused on Peter.
“This is too weird,” he whispered back.
Students were already leaving their desks to line up at the classroom door, and Peter and Stan hesitantly joined the end of the line. They silently trooped down the hall to the auditorium, and just as they stepped into the huge room, they both stopped.
“Where are you going to sit?” Stan asked Peter.
Peter only stared under the bleachers.
“The usual?” Stan inquired uneasily.
Peter continued to stand soundlessly, peering into the gloom of the metal mazework beneath the tall bleachers. The usual was the top row in the corner, and, when Mrs. Whybrew wasn’t looking, a climb down the back of the bleachers so that they could sit on the hardwood floor with their backs against the cool concrete block wall, relaxing in the shadows under the highest seats.
“No way,” Peter whispered.
“I’m not sitting down here in the front row with the first graders, prediction of doom or not,” Stan muttered impatiently. “At least let’s sit on the top in the middle.”
Peter looked at the uppermost seats in the middle of the bleachers. A massive steel I-beam that supported the corrugated ceiling was bolted to the block wall just above the seats in the center of the bleachers. The beam was so low that Peter’s father, during the Christmas concert the year before, had banged his head on it when he stood up to videotape Peter playing trombone in the band.
“Maybe we could jump up and grab that beam if the bleachers fell,” Peter offered.
“C’mon, c’mon, the assembly is about to begin.”
Peter and Stan clambered up the bleachers to the spot by the beam and sat there uneasily, their bodies tense, their hands resting nervously in their laps, ready to grab the steel beam in a dangerous gamble to save their lives. They noticed every slight vibration of the wooden bleachers through the rubber soles of their sneakers and through the corduroy of the seat of their pants. They were so alert to every creak and groan of the wooden planks that they paid no mind to Deputy Dogue as he took the podium and began lecturing on the virtues of looking both ways before crossing the street. Peter and Stan edgily waited as the speech droned on, but nothing happened. They scanned the crowd to see if they could detect an apparent sag in the bleachers anywhere, but everything was maddeningly normal. The assembly wore on the same way that assemblies always wore on, kids shifted uncomfortably as the wooden seats grew hard under their bottoms, and the teachers swiveled their heads to make sure Deputy Dogue was uninterrupted.
“Nothing is going to happen,” Stan whispered sullenly. “Mr. Wisdom is just a crazy old nutcase.”
“Be quiet, man, don’t tempt fate.”
“He’s just a lunatic, man, a loony little...”
They both felt it simultaneously. A sharp, hard jolt through the strap metal they leaned their backs against. Then another, and another. Peter and Stan, in frantic unison, jumped up from their seats and grabbed the bottom lip of the I-beam, their fingers grasping for a firm grip in the greasy dust that covered the top of the rafter. They both squeezed their eyes shut as they swung from the ceiling, and they waited for the rush of air to blow past them as the bleachers collapsed. They waited for the anguished screams of hundreds of children to rise up to them, but everything was silent. Then they heard the first sounds. It was not the hideous shrieks of the maimed, but a titter, chuckling, and then full-blown laughter.
Peter slowly opened his eyes to see the bleachers still standing and every face in the crowd staring up at him as he dangled beside Stan. Uproarious cackling filled the immensity of the gymnasium, and Mrs. Whybrew furiously scaled the bleachers toward them.
“And that, boys and girls, is a perfect example of what not to do,” Deputy Dogue boomed through the loudspeaker.
Peter let go of the girder and dropped back to bleachers. As he waited for Mrs. Whybrew to arrive, he looked over to where he and Stan usually sat, and he saw two fifth-grade boys laughing and rocking forward and then back against the strap metal that served as a backrest and barrier at the top of the bleachers. Peter slowly put his hand on the strap metal and felt the jolts as the fifth-graders rocked into it. Stan reached down and felt it too.
“I know a fifth-grader who’s going to have problems after school today,” Stan hissed.
Mrs. Whybrew hustled them down to the front row and sat them at the end, directly below their usual seats, and then she resumed her post at the center of the bleachers. Peter and Stan miserably waited for the laughter to subside and for Deputy Dogue to continue with his address. Mr. Wisdom’s prediction now seemed ridiculous and sad, Peter thought. The fact that Mr. Wisdom said there was going to be an assembly today was just a coincidence. Mr. Wisdom was just a lonely outcast who tried to help in his own pathetic way.
“I’m going to the usual,” Stan whispered as he ducked and slid between the bleachers and the wall,” are you coming?”
“No, go ahead. I’m in enough trouble for one day.”
Peter sat there alone and wondered what Mrs. Whybrew would do when assembly was over. Would he and Stan get kicked off of safety patrol? Would Mr. Patterson call his mother in? Peter wished that he had never heard of Mr. Wisdom. Peter sat and mulled over his predicament, still faintly feeling the bump of the fifth-grader rocking against the strap metal of the bleacher top when he heard a bewildered squeal and then a strange, splintery thump from behind the bleachers. Mrs. Whybrew scrambled to the top of the bleachers where the fifth-grader had now burst into panicked sobs, and Peter ducked between the bleachers and the wall, trying to see Stan in the gloom of the steel mazework, a sick feeling knotting his stomach.
As Peter fought his way through the tangle of girders and struts, he could see Stan sitting motionlessly, his back against the cool concrete block wall. When Peter finally clambered to Stan’s side he stopped in horror. Stan, though unhurt, was ghostly pale, and his finger shook as he slowly pointed up to where Mrs. Whybrew peered over the back of the bleachers, the fifth-grader clinging to her waist. Peter could see, clearly in the light at the top of the bleachers, the place where the strap metal had given way at the welds from the repeated pounding from the fifth-grade boy’s back. An eight-foot piece was missing from the back of the bleachers, and Peter, slowly looking back down beside his terrified friend, saw that the weld had broken as cleanly as an arrow point, and that its weight, from falling that distance, had driven the metal spear inches into the hardwood floor. The strap metal stood by itself, quivering in the boards of the gym floor, only a foot from where Stan sat shivering, but dead center in Peter’s usual place.
* * *
The next morning snow was falling in big, cottony flakes at seven forty-five when Mr. Wisdom appeared at the alley mouth and shuffled across the street. Peter eagerly stepped into the middle of the crosswalk and vigorously waved at the old man, but Mr. Wisdom, his head down against the snow, either didn’t see Peter or, if he did, didn’t acknowledge his presence. Mr. Wisdom carefully sat his paper bag down at the foot of the fence, and, as Peter stared incredulously, Mr. Wisdom took off his trench coat and gingerly bundled it around his sack. Mr. Wisdom then pressed his face against the icy chain link and gripped the fence with the red claws of his gnarled hands. He shivered violently, and Peter could hear the steady muffled rattle of the chain link against the steel posts through the heavily-falling snow.
Peter paced to the center of the crosswalk and then back to the opposite curb. And then Peter paced into the middle of the crosswalk again. What in the world is he doing, Peter wondered in exasperation. Peter paced back to the opposite curb and peeled off his gloves, stuffing them into the pockets of his coat, and then fumbled to open the buttons of the snow-flap on his parka. As he glanced down to grope with the last button, Peter heard the rattling of the chain link cease, and he looked back up to see Mr. Wisdom sit down hard on the snowy sidewalk. Before Peter could look both ways up and down the empty street, Mr. Wisdom had scrabbled to his feet and clutched the coat-wrapped bag to his chest and staggered off the curb. Mr. Wisdom lurched and reeled across the wintry street, and, as he tried to step up onto the opposite curb, he fell in a raggedy heap.
Peter flew to where the old man had fallen, shucking off his parka so that it trailed from his wrists in the air and thick snow. The old man had fallen on his side, with his head resting on the paper bag, and Peter knelt beside him and covered him with the parka. The old man was so small that Peter noticed his coat covered him entirely, like a blanket. As Peter tried to tuck the coat around Mr. Wisdom, the old man struggled and then lay still.
“Don’t fight me, Mr. Wisdom,” Peter pleaded. “Keep this on you, and I’ll go get help.”
Mr. Wisdom said nothing and closed his eyes. Peter could see the old man’s breath rise in short, ragged gasps in the frosty air. Snowflakes fell and gathered on his bushy eyebrows. Peter clambered to his feet in the accumulating snow and began to run toward the school. Molly’s post was the closest to his own, but he would have to scale three fences. Instead, Peter ran the long way toward Stan’s post at the front gate, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Emergency! Emergency!” Peter screamed as he rounded the last corner at the front entrance of the school. Children stopped their playing to watch him. Finally, Peter saw Stan at the front steps, sweeping away the snow from the walk with a broom. Peter stopped at the gate, panting plumes of vapor into the air.
“Stan,” Peter called, “have someone call an ambulance. Mr. Wisdom collapsed back by my post. I think he’s in bad shape.”
Without replying, Stan dashed inside. Peter turned and began running back to where he had left Mr. Wisdom on the empty street. As Peter ran, he could see the children on the playground running toward the back of the school. Because he had to run around the fenced playground, a large crowd of children had already gathered at the back fence when he turned the last corner and sprinted to the old man lying in the gutter.
“It’s okay, Mr. Wisdom,” Peter panted, “an ambulance is on its way right now. You just hang on for a little more.”
Peter, from where he knelt beside the old man, reached down and held the parka close around the old man’s neck. Mr. Wisdom’s breathing had become irregular. The vapor from his exhalations came in two or three short puffs followed by a long, thin stream that rose among the snowflakes. Then, there would be no cloud at all, and, just when Peter thought that the old man had stopped breathing, a few short puffs would appear again. Peter didn’t know what to do but hold the parka close around the old man, and, thankfully, Peter heard, muffled and distant, the wail of a siren.
“They’re on their way, Mr. Wisdom. You hold on. They’re coming right now,” Peter sobbed as he held the frail figure.
The siren grew louder and was joined by a second one coming from the opposite direction. Finally, an ambulance fish-tailed around a corner several blocks down and sped toward them, the flashing lights reflecting off the windows of the houses in the dim morning. In the other direction down the street, a police car shrieked toward them.
As the emergency medical crew raced from their vehicle and hunkered beside Mr. Wisdom with their equipment and instruments, Peter stood up and backed away from the old man.
“What happened, kid?” the ambulance driver asked Peter.
“He just fell down,” Peter replied, his lower lip trembling, “he stands at the fence every morning...”
“He just fell down? Has he had any seizures? Has he been jerking around?”
“No. He seems to be having trouble breathing. I just held my coat around...”
“Do you know who he is?”
“His name is Mr. Wisdom.”
“Does he live around here?”
“I don’t know. I see him here every day...”
“Do you know if he has any relatives?”
“No. I mean I don’t know if he does.”
“Okay. Thanks, kid. You did a good job.”
The emergency crew rolled Mr. Wisdom onto a children’s stretcher and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. An oxygen mask was taped to his face, and another crew member began inserting an I.V. as Mr. Wisdom lay in the back of the van. The driver closed one of the pair of back doors and reached for the other one when Peter cried out.
“Wait,” Peter called as he retrieved the paper bag with the trench coat wrapped around it, “this is his. I don’t think he’d want to leave it here.”
Peter rushed to the open door and pressed the sack into a space by Mr. Wisdom’s head. The driver slammed the door shut and ran around to the front, slid in, and whisked the ambulance down the street in the snow, lights flashing and siren moaning. The police car followed, and the officer waved at Peter as he drove by. It was Deputy Dogue.
Peter watched the vehicles until they turned out of sight, and then he looked across the street, toward the school. There, while Mr. Wisdom had been unconscious, oblivious to the world, strapped to the gurney, had stood a hundred children, their faces pressed to the cold chain link, silent and watching.
Peter suddenly realized that the paramedics had taken his parka with Mr. Wisdom. Peter looked down at his watch. It was eight twenty. As the children slowly scattered from their watch at the fence, Peter began walking to the janitor’s room, cold and off-schedule.
* * *
The next day, Peter had no hope that Mr. Wisdom would emerge from the alley at seven forty-five, but, when Mr. Wisdom really did not show up, Peter was strangely disappointed. The snow had stopped the night before, and today was clear and bright with the sun reflecting off three inches of snow. Peter and his mother had listened to the radio since five that morning, waiting to see if a snow day had been declared, but school was open as usual. Most of the parents must have taken the snow day for granted, as had more than a few teachers, because attendance was minimal. The few students who did show up were being kept inside in the gymnasium before school so that the single yard-duty teacher who had arrived could keep a better eye on them. No one had come by Peter’s post all morning.
Again, for some reason Peter could not fathom, he found himself walking across the street to the corner where Mr. Wisdom had kept his watch all autumn and into winter. Peter raised up his hands and clutched the chain link and pressed his face to the fence so that he could see clearly through one diamond in the pattern. The snow blanketing the playground was perfect, new, unsullied by any footprints. The field was like a promise before that promise has been thrown into the world, and because of the world, broken. The field, with its flawless covering of white, was an ideal. Later, Peter knew, the snow would melt, and he would be able to see the places where the grass was worn down to bare dirt, and the discarded wrappers from candy bars would be blown against the fences. But now the field was perfect. It was full of hope and promise.
“Get out of my place,” Mr. Wisdom growled.
Peter whirled around. Mr. Wisdom stood before him, a brutal scowl darkening his face.
“Get out of my place.”
“Mr. Wisdom! Are you feeling better? I didn’t expect to see you...”
“Get out of my place.”
Peter was rooted to the ground, paralyzed with fear. Mr. Wisdom took a short, odd-gaited step toward Peter and shifted the paper bag up closer to his chest.
“Leave. Now.”
Peter could not move. His breath came high and hard in his throat. He could feel his heart knock the inside of his ribs.
“Leave now. This is yours.”
Mr. Wisdom thrust his hand into the paper bag, stuffing his whole arm to the bottom. Then slowly, as he pulled an object through the scraps of rags and spine-broken books, Peter could see his arm emerge from the sack. Peter watched, frozen to the spot, like a deer in a car’s headlights, until he saw Mr. Wisdom’s hand rise above the edge of the paper bag, and, clenched in the dwarf’s deformed claw, was a handful of hair.
Peter tore himself from the fence and ran across the street, not looking back for fear of what he might see. Peter slipped on the icy street and slid into the curb, crawling on all fours to get the street between himself and Mr. Wisdom. As he scrambled up the slick sidewalk, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a big refrigeration truck come bouncing out of the alley at a good clip, and as the driver tried to turn onto the street, the tires lost traction on the icy road and the truck began spinning out of control. Slowly, as if in a dream, the huge truck revolved crazily across the street and jumped the curb at the corner, going backward, sheared off the fire hydrant and ripped the chain link fence from the ground. The truck finally came to a rest with its tandem rear wheels resting on Mr. Wisdom’s spot.
Peter, with sickening dread, ran back across the street as the driver kicked open his door and crawled down from the cab. A fence post had punctured the truck’s radiator, and steam and a torrent of water from the broken hydrant enveloped the corner in a thick cloud. The driver saw Peter dodging in and out of the periphery of the cloud, calling out a name.
“Whoa, son. Get out of there,” the driver said as he grabbed Peter from behind and pulled him from under the rear of the truck.
“Mr. Wisdom!” Peter shouted as he twisted in the driver’s grasp.
“Get out of here,” the driver snarled.
“You ran over him! You hit him with your truck,” Peter sobbed.
“Get out of here before I...” The driver hesitated when he saw a police car pull up across the street.
“What’s going on here?” Deputy Dogue said gruffly.
“He ran over him,” Peter yelled as he broke free from the driver and crawled toward the rear of the truck, feeling his way through the steam cloud and stinging spray of water.
“Who?” the deputy called after Peter.
“Mr. Wisdom!”
Deputy Dogue got on his hands and knees and crawled into the steam cloud also. With his baton, he poked into the mist until he felt a body. As Peter yelled from under the truck, the deputy reached in and pulled a person from between the wheels. It was Peter.
“Deputy, let me go...” Peter whimpered as he struggled to break free.
The deputy held Peter in his lap, and the radiator finally emptied itself. The cloud dissipated, and Peter frantically looked under the rear tires. All Peter could see was a soggy lumped pinned beneath the gigantic tires.
“Take it easy, boy,” Deputy Dogue whispered to Peter. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Exhausted, Peter gave up his struggling, and the deputy held him, holding Peter’s head with his wet hand to keep Peter from looking under the truck.
“You did all you could about Mr. Wisdom,” the deputy said softly, “so don’t take it so hard.”
“Help him, please, help him.”
“Son, calm down. We can’t help him now, it’s too late. But I can tell you that the old man went easy. He didn’t have any pain. He just closed his eyes and went away.”
Peter gave the deputy a puzzled look.
“I was there. I saw it all. The emergency crew couldn’t revive him at the hospital yesterday. When they took the oxygen mask off him, and he lay there, perfectly still, gone from this world, he had the biggest smile on his face. He went easy.”
“No,” Peter cried as he wrested himself from the deputy’s grasp. The officer, bewildered, loosened his grip, and Peter crawled to the tires where he saw, now, that there was no body crushed beneath the truck. There, resting against one tire, was a sopping, greasy paper bag. Spilling from the top was wet, matted fur. Peter, with one trembling, outstretched hand, grasped the bag and pulled it toward him. It disintegrated at his touch, and, laying there in the soaked tangle of scraps of rags and spine-broken books, was no head, but Peter’s missing parka.