The road veered
northwest again, and he made a mental note that he was now on E Street. The trees, hale and washed with color, bowed
to one another across the shaded street and beckoned him on toward the west. Renardo stepped into a crosswalk area and was
amazed when a driver paused for more than three seconds to let him and his dog
cross to the other side. Of course, he
was not amazed when he observed a
driver behind this gracious person, fuming noticeably and inching forward.
“I’m telling
you, Sancho,” said the young man, “after I save this city from Malvin, I’m
going to invest in some sort of charity that helps the poor victims of road
rage. But I don’t think there’s enough
money in the world for that.”
In response, Sancho
urinated on a thick tree rising from a strip of grass. He then fought against the tension of his
leash; Renardo was apparently walking too slowly for him, so they both
increased their speed. They had only
moved a few yards before a familiar face appeared on the other side of the street. An elderly lady with long, grey hair and a
smooth complexion walked a long-haired dachshund along the sidewalk, heading
southeast. Although she was old, she
seemed as hale as the trees lining the road, and she wore an expression that
was both blissful and confident. When
she saw Renardo, she smiled sweetly at him, but a sudden sadness filled her
eyes. She waved at him, and her dog nearly
hyperventilated with delight once it noticed Sancho. Renardo crossed over to her, and the
dachshund proceeded to sniff and jump on the small Australian Shepherd. Sancho did not seem impressed.
“Mrs. Garcia,
it’s so good to see you,” the young man said to her, giving her a small
hug. “How are you doing?”
“Well, it’s a
beautiful day, I’m still breathing, and my feet aren’t aching too badly,” the
old woman replied, studying him like a loving grandmother. “And dear Renardo, haven’t I told you? You
can call me Shelley, you know. It’s
allowed.”
“I know, I
know,” Renardo answered with a playful roll of his eyes. “I grew up calling you ‘Mrs. Garcia,’
though. Calling you by your first name
is pretty weird.”
The lady
chuckled. “So you decided to get some
fresh air? As fresh as it gets in Sacramento, I mean. Don’t get me started on my allergies.”
“Trust me, I
won’t.” Renardo grinned. “I think you
kept me two hours past my bedtime the last time we discussed that.”
“You’re probably
right. It sounds like something I would
do.” She looked at his eyes searchingly and took one of his hands. “Now, my dear, how are you doing? Well, I
hope?”
He nodded, but
did not meet her gaze. “I—yes, Mrs.
Garcia, I’m doing pretty well right now.
Things could always be better, of course.” He had known this kind woman
for nearly his entire life; he owed her more than such a lame response. “I’m still really good friends with
Nate. In fact, he came over just the
other day, and we talked over coffee for a little while. Oh, and there’s this girl I’m sort of
interested in.”
“Oh, my boy, it
makes me so happy to hear that,” Mrs. Garcia replied. Her voice thickened with emotion, and happy
tears formed in her eyes. “That’s
wonderful. What’s her name?”
“Corinne,” he
answered, desperately hoping that they were not distantly related. With his luck, Corinne was a niece of hers.
“What a gorgeous
name.” She released his hand and watched, amused, as her dachshund continued to
vie for Sancho’s attention. “If you two
ever get serious, make sure you bring her by my house. Any women in your life have to go by me first,
Renardo. It’s my requirement, OK?”
The young man
laughed. “OK, Mrs. Garcia. I’ll make sure to remember that.” He looked
at her, and his smile dropped into a frown.
“I’m so sorry for not coming by lately.
My mind gets distracted easily, and I always find something to occupy my
time. But that’s really no excuse. I mean, you’re my neighbor, and I’ve known
you for so many years.”
“Oh, don’t fret
about that,” the lady replied with the wave of a hand. “You’re young, and you have things to do. We all go through it. I’ve definitely been there, believe me.”
“No, I mean
it. I’m going to try to come by more
often. Really.”
Mrs. Garcia
beamed at him and took his hand again.
“You’re a sweet boy, Renardo. You
always have been. Never change that, you
understand? You’ll do great things one day.”
“Thank you, Mrs.
Garcia. That’s very nice of you.”
She nodded,
looked past him, and let go of his hand.
“Well, I suppose I should continue my exercise. You don’t look like this at my age by just standing
around talking all day.” She tugged at her dog’s leash, and the dachshund—loath
to quit her display of unrequited love—followed her southeast. “Take care of yourself, my boy. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Take care of
yourself, too, Mrs. Garcia,” he called out to her. “It was great talking to you!”
Somehow, Sancho
looked relieved when they continued their walk.
He trotted with brisk tosses of his furry feet, looking here and there
with an obtruding tongue. Renardo
glanced back at his neighbor and smiled warmly.
He had met few people as amiable and selfless as Mrs. Garcia. Shortly after the crime-plague five years ago,
he had spent many hours speaking to her and her husband about its atrocious
nature. Although it had not directly
affected any of them, they had considered it a healthy exercise to discuss the
traumatic event. Nate was always too
busy or disinterested in the crimes—that is, until recently. Renardo did not have many others with whom he
could speak about the subject, especially now that so many years had
passed.
The day Mrs.
Garcia came to his door weeping was still fresh in his mind. Three years ago, her husband of nearly fifty
years had passed away. She did not want
to put such a heavy burden on him, she had explained, but she did not know who
else she could turn to. They had spent
much of the evening sipping tea in his family room and speaking very little;
there was not much to say in such circumstances, after all. He recalled feeling utterly useless, sitting
across from the grieving, grandmotherly woman and aching for her with every
frown or tear that marked her face. “I
need to save her,” he remembered
thinking. “If only I could save her from this pain.” But there was
not a particular brand of tea, nor a magic word, nor any known gesture of man
that could bring her the healing she required.
Not even time could heal this wound, not completely; in her heart, she
would always be tied to the man she had married. Renardo’s eyes traced random lines in the
broken sidewalk as he thought that, perhaps, Corinne felt the same way about her husband.
No comments:
Post a Comment