The Girl Written by: Jem Aura (c)
This story is not finished. Same premise as Road Trip, but this one has no
sex. Mild titillation. Ultimate vulnerability.
On a hot summer afternoon, I pulled into a parking space at Wal-Mart. I
was dreading shutting off the cool truck and braving the heat of the
asphalt, only to return twenty minutes later to 120 degrees. Waiting for the
news story I was listening to to conclude, procrastinating, I looked around
the parking lot. My attention was drawn to an old blue car, a sixties era
medium sized four door dodge of some sort. The driver's door was open
and under it I could see two feet. Black socks and worn brown shoes. It
was obvious that the owner of these feet was an old man. Peering through
the reflected sunlight of the windshield, I could see the silhouettes of two
other people: One was an equally old woman, (what distinguished her
sillouette I do not know, maybe the hair), but the other was
indistinguishable, except that it was a much younger person.
People passing by with their carts looked worried but did not bother
to investigate. Leaving the truck running, I got out and began to walk a wide
circle, glancing over as the reflected sunlight no longer impeded my view.
The old man was slumped over, head down, apparently having difficulty.
The woman was talking to him. In the back seat, with the windows rolled up,
was a young girl of maybe 11 years. As my route orbited closer to the car, I
came up to the old man's door.
"Hi folks, Is everything alright?"
The old man raised his hand and waved me off, as if to say, "I'll be
alright in a moment".
The woman kept talking to him as if I didn't exist. The country drawl
was so thick in her ancient voice that I could not tell what she was saying.
Stooping down I looked into the back seat. The young girl was
sweating and despondent, not acknowledging my presence.
I spoke to the man directly, "Sir, what's wrong?"
Squinting up at me, he tried to speak but his short breathing kept
halting him. He patted his chest.
Taking him by the arm, I lifted him to his feet and half carried all
ninety pounds of him to my truck and put him in the back seat. Returning to
the car I opened both passenger side doors and announced that we were all
going to the hospital in my truck. The woman garbled out something at
length, apparently protesting, as I lifted her to her feet in much the same
way as the old man.
Placing her next to the old guy in the back seat, I turned and was
surprised to see the girl still sitting in exactly the same spot, staring at seat
in front of her. Going back to her door and reaching in, I took her arm and
coaxed her out of the car.
With the four of us now quickly zooming away, I offered the giant
soda I had recently purchased to the girl. She drank so fast that I saw the
head freeze hit her. I thumbed 911 into my cell phone.
Explaining to the woman on the phone, who objected to me moving
the old man, I stated that the heat would have killed him, so I moved him to
my truck, and since he's already in my truck, and we're only two miles from the
hospital, I thought it wise to head that way. She began to ask questions so
I told her to shut up and listen.
"In two minutes I will arrive at Memorial Hospital with a cardiac
patient. If there aren't doctors waiting out front, I will personally hold you
responsible." and I hung up.
Just as I came careening to a stop in front of the emergency
entrance, a stretcher and team of nurses came bursting out of the doors.
Jumping out I pointed to the door where the old man sat. In two minutes
they had disappeared into the hospital.
The old woman and girl were happily sipping the soda as if at a movie,
still sitting in my truck, indifferent to the plight of the old guy.
"Um, excuse me maam, I think you will need to go inside to give the
hospital some information."
I got a blank stare and a garbled something. I brought her and the girl
into the hospital, and after getting the woman settled into the registration
office, I sat down in the waiting room with the girl. Fifteen minutes later a
young man approached, looking rather frustrated, and informed me that the
woman needed her purse.
I checked the truck, and of course there was no purse. It must be in
the car back at the store. Informing the young man, I asked him to watch the
girl while I went back to their car to fetch it.
"I'm sorry sir, we cannot accept responsibility for her."
"Hey, look, that woman barely knows what's happening, I don't feel
right just leaving her. She could wander off..." I stopped in mid-thought,
seeing the firm-fixed, determined look in his eyes.
So the girl and I went to fetch the purse. On the way, I tried to
speak to her, but she only nodded or shook her head to my questions,
always looking straight ahead. In a few minutes I was escorting her back into
the hospital carrying an old woven beach bag that the old lady was using as
a purse.
Concern for the young girl was eating at me. She didn't look at the
TV in the waiting room, even though cartoons were being watched by the
other kids. To avoid the glaring looks from the crowd in the room, I took
her arm and went off looking for the cafeteria.
The girl seemed unable to decide on what to get, or afraid to, So I
filled a tray with pizza, french fries, chicken strips, green beans, corn, two
cups of ice cream and two sodas.
Sitting at a booth, I encouraged her to eat.
I watched her as she slowly took a chicken strip, shoving it whole into
her mouth, she reached for another. She wore a white button down short
sleeve collar shirt that fit tightly to her slight frame, obviously too small for
her. Ancient and not so ancient stains dappled the front, never having seen
bleach. Her shorts were denim and too large, gathered at the waist by an
old men's leather belt cut short. She wore two-dollar flip flops. Her face
was streaked with dirty sweat and her blonde hair was matted. As she ate, I
notice her teeth were yellowed, and she bit and chewed only on one side
because the other side had two badly chipped teeth, probably very painful.
Glancing up at me as she grazed, I smiled at her and she returned it,
quickly going back to concentrating on eating.
As we ate the ice cream together, I examined the tray of food. She
had eaten all of the pizza, all but one of the chicken strips, all of the corn
and none of the green beans. She finished her ice cream and having set the
cup down, she instantly reverted back to her despondent posture, head
straight, eyes down, hands folded.
"Hey sweetheart, where's your mom and dad?"
She glanced up at me but made no answer.
"Are those your Grandparents?" I asked
She shook her head without looking at me.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head.
Well, that's clear enough. I reached out and gently brushed the hair
out of her face.
The same young man from registration stood beside our table. I went
with him out of earshot of the girl.
"Mr. Jenks is stable. He has heat stroke and suffered a mild heart
attack. He has been admitted, but they don't have enough insurance to
cover the cost. How are you related to them?"
"I'm just your average do-gooder. I noticed them in the parking lot at
Wal-Mart."
"You do realize, by bringing them here rather than calling an
ambulance, that you are responsible for the unpaid charges?"
I stared at the young man in disbelief. "Do you realize, that not
getting my consent releases me from that responsibility?" I stated.
"Actually, sir, your actions in bringing them here serves as consent."
He stated rather testily.
"Look, sport, I know this crap works great on the uninformed, but I'm
not one of them. Ultimately you're going to try to shove a piece of paper in
front of me to sign, and if I'm foolish enough to sign it, then you might have
something. Kapish?"
His ears went red and he turned to leave, crumpling up a piece of
paper he had been holding
I shouted after him, "Hold on a second," coming up beside him,
"What about the woman, is she right in the head? I couldn't understand a
word she said."
He shrugged off his defeat, letting his professional indifference take
hold, and stopped, facing me. "She's very old, they both are in their
nineties. She's not all there. But the old guy is still sharp. He's been
running the show." He paused.
"Who's the girl?" I asked, pointing to the table as if he hadn't seen her
yet.
"Great Grand Step Daughter. They don't want her. Apparently
their grandson is a drug addict, in prison for 10 years dealing crack. One of
his crack whores left her with him and disappeared. When he went to prison,
the police dropped her off with them. Turns out he actually married the girl
thinking this one was his. Turns out she wasn't."
"Holy shit. How did you get this whole story so quickly?"
"There was another old guy in the prep room right next to him. They
got to talking and the nurses overheard the whole thing. Apparently he is a
real piece of work. Ornery as hell."
"So what happens to her?" Again pointing toward the table.
"If you don't take her with you, we will call the state social services,
and she'll be picked up."
-------
Only a week had gone by since I first rolled back into town. My life
was going pretty well until this little distraction. I had been living in Florida
when the work dried up. I sold my boat and was making arrangements to have
my furniture delivered to the rehab I had just purchased. You see, I have
become a nomad of sorts. Several years ago, right after my divorce, I lost
my job and started doing home remodeling to survive. It went a lot better
than I thought and I started buying, fixing up, and selling old sorry houses
in nice neighborhoods. I'd move in and work on them in my spare time. The
money piled up. However, it was a lonely existence, mostly working by
myself. I had dreams of living on a boat in the Caribbean, and injecting
myself into the social club whose only requirement to join is ownership in a
vessel capable of doing the Jamaica hop. So when hurricane Katrina hit, I
got an idea.
With a fist full of cash and pulling my trailer full of tools behind me, I
headed for the gulf. I searched the internet for the addresses of all of the
marine dealers along the gulf coast. At first it was very difficult to move
around, but after a week or so, I had talked with several dealers. One in
particular seemed to be a perfect find.
Harvey, of Harvey's Yachts, had several damaged boats. Without
actually discussing my idea directly, I saw the gleam in his eye once it dawned
on him that I was packing cash. I located a boat that had been on blocks
near the yard. It was a beautiful ketch style motor sailor of 43 feet. It was
ten years old and in perfect condition, except for the caved in transom and
other damage to the hull and keel from falling off its blocks. Another boat
had skidded across the yard and plowed into the back of this one. It was full
of electronics and extras that had me drooling. The damage was significant,
especially since it was structural damage, but not beyond my capabilities.
And since it was on blocks rather than moored when the storm hit, it had
very little damage. Being an aircraft mechanic, trained by the military to
repair composite structures (After I was laid off due to 9-11, I couldn't find
work in the field. Boeing had laid off 30,000 employees just like me. That's
why I refurbish homes now) I am completely qualified to perform the repairs
necessary to bring the "Sweetheart" back to glory.
What I suggested to Harvey, without saying it, is that if I purchased
the wreck and got it out of there before the insurance adjuster arrived, He
could submit his claim using photographs (which, when viewed from the rear,
made it look like a total loss). All I needed from him was to get the boat
back up on the blocks, allow me enough time to get it floatable, and put it
back in the water for me. He was anxious to do the deal. Since I had cash,.
It meant twenty thousand dollars in his very greedy hand, and I strongly
suspected that he was working on something between his ears to allow the
whole wad to end up in his pocket. For me, it meant that I would soon have a
place to live, and for about ten cents on the dollar.
I stayed there along the gulf for two years, repairing other boats for
insurance money, and improving my own boat as if it were one of my rehab
houses. When the work dried up, I had a big bash for all the friends I had
made, sold the Sweetheart for two hundred and seventy five thousand
dollars, and headed back to my home town, St. Louis, Missouri.
So right now I was jobless, nearly homeless, but financially sound.
Here in town I still own a few leased houses, ones I fixed up and leased
rather than sold.
-------
I was torn. This scruffy little girl was not my idea of a pet. And pets
don't fit into my lifestyle of constantly moving around. But then it occurred
to me that if it didn't work out, I would still be able to give her to the state.
At the same time, I knew I would never be able to do that.
In any case, after leaving my card with the young hospital
administrator, we left the hospital hand in hand and checked into a nice
hotel. I didn't have an extra sleeping bag at the rehab where I had stayed
the night before - or air conditioning, or electricity, or water.
Sitting on the bed with remote in hand, She listened as I explained
that I was going out. "Now listen, don't answer the door, don't answer the
phone, and don't go anywhere. Can you do that for me?"
Looking right at me, she gave no indication of an answer to my
question.
"Hey, I don't even know your name. What is it?" I asked hopefully.
She stared at me for a moment, then said "Polly."
"Polly, that's nice, is it Polly Jenks?"
She shook her head, "Polly Paxton"
"Ah, I like that. Okay Polly Paxton, I have to go out and get a few
things. you just watch the TV until I get back. Okay?"
This time she shook her head.
"What's wrong Polly? Are you afraid to be here alone? I won't be
gone long."
"Can't I come too?" She asked sheepishly.
"I'd rather not. I can go really fast if I can go by myself. And I'm
bringing you back some surprises." I walked over to the desk and wrote my
cell phone number on the pad by hotel phone. "Here's my cell phone
number. Come here and practice calling me."
Polly hesitantly slid from the bed and listened as I explained how to
dial the hotel phone. Soon my cell was ringing and she smiled at the small
triumph. Lifting her back onto the bed, I handed her the receiver and we
talked nonsense until I was running down the aisles back at the Wal-Mart.
I would have taken her with me, but her appearance was in such
contrast to mine that I didn't want anyone to see her, especially someone
that might know me, before I had a chance to get her cleaned up and
respectable.
The blue Dodge was still there in the parking lot, I stuffed a cart with
snacks, soda, milk, lunchmeat, cheese, bread, peanut butter, grape jelly,
potato chips, doughnuts, pop tarts, cereal, plastic bowls knives, forks,
spoons, beef jerky, panties, socks, pants, shirts, three sizes of tennis shoes,
hair ties, barrettes, brush, comb, soap, toothbrush, nighties, bathrobe,
cards, and monopoly. I used a porters cart to get it all up to the room.
By the time I had finished unloading and putting everything out of
sight it was dinner time. But I wanted her clean and dressed before we left
again.
"Hey Polly, sweetheart, lie back for me on the bed."
She looked suspiciously at me but slowly complied.
I hovered close over her. "Open your mouth." As she slowly opened
her mouth, I pushed her lips up so I could see her teeth. Plaque was
encrusted everywhere. So much so that several of her teeth had no space
between them. Brushing them seemed pointless, except for the smell that
was wafting up and into my nostrils.
"You know what?" I asked, releasing her lips. "We are going to get
you all fixed up. You are going to be one of my rehab projects, my little
Cinderella, and I'm your fairy godfather."
That made her smile, even though crookedly.
"First thing is a bath. Can you manage that by yourself?"
Surprisingly, she shrugged, as if not sure.
"Sure you can. I'll run your water, and you just scrub all over with a
soapy washcloth. You can do that, can't you?"
She she nodded and then shrugged again. .
"And wash your hair. I brought some nice smelling shampoo."
At this she shook her head. "Huh? what's wrong? you don't wash
your hair?"
"I get soap in my eyes." She said
"Well, do the best you can. If you need some help, let me know."
But she just sat there. I pulled her off the bed and gently nudged her
toward the bathroom. She stood just outside the door in front of the
vanity as I ran the water. Once the temperature settled down, I waited for it
to fill. I looked toward Polly. She had unabashedly begun to undress. Her
shirt on the floor, she was working at the old belt. Once undone, her shorts
fell to her ankles. She had no underwear. Everything she owned in the world
was on the floor beside her, and would soon be in the trash. She entered
and stood next to me, I could smell her body odor.
"You can get in. It's not too hot".
She got in and slowly sat down. She was not concerned at all about
her nakedness in front of a stranger. But I was her guardian, and perhaps
she sensed that. But I still thought it odd that at her age she was not self-
conscious about her appearance. I left the room and left the door slightly
ajar.
A few minutes later I checked on her. She was lying down with her
head and knees sticking out of the water. No sign of soap.
"Hey, you gonna wash?"
She slowly sat up and reached for the washcloth.
Several minutes later I checked on her again. There she sat with
washcloth in hand. No soap.
"Are you okay?" I asked. But all she did was turn her head and look
at me. "What's wrong sweetheart?"
Again she looked up at me, not really hearing me it seemed.
I took the washcloth from her hand and soaped it up. Squeezing it
out, I carefully washed her face, being sure not to get any soap in her eyes.
Taking another washcloth, I wiped the soap away. Similarly, but with much
more vigor and suds, I washed her arms, shoulders, back, and chest, and
rinsed her off cupping water in my hands.
"Stand up sweetie," I said, and she stood.
Soaping up the washcloth again, I washed the front of her down to
the waterline. When she turned around, my breath caught in my throat. On
her buttocks and thighs were several welts, reddish raised lines. One clearly
showed the outline of a belt buckle and a puncture.
"Oh my God." I said while rubbing my hand over the injuries as if to
wipe them away.
Polly turned around quickly, trying to hide the marks.
Anger flashed through me like a lightening bolt. "Who did this to
you?" I growled.
Polly shrunk back away from me, trying to hide behind upraised arms.
Backing away, the curve of the tub made her footing slip, her feet coming
out from under her. Flailing arms grasped the air for a handhold. Down she
came, head sliding down the tile wall on its way to striking the side of the
tub.
Reaching out, I plucked her out of the air.
In a flash, Polly went from terror and panic to the safety of my arms,
the frightened look on her face slowly fading away.. Smiling down at her, I
said, "Polly, angel-baby, you don't need to be afraid. I will never hurt you.
I'm sorry I scared you. I was angry at whomever did that to you. But you
don't need to tell me. I think I know. Are you okay?".
Polly nodded her answer, like she so often did. As I set her back into
the water, I realized that I was soaking wet. As her legs came out from
under her, she had sent a shower of water and suds right on to me.
With an obvious mock voice of appalled disgust, I stood above her
with my arms outstretched, looking down at my soaked clothes. "Hey, who
got me all wet? Look at this. I'm soaked. How did that happen?"
Unsure, and a little sheepish, Polly sat looking up at me and
shrugged.
"Was it you?" I asked twisting my face in a comic mask, using every
ounce of body language to convey that this was a performance for her
benefit.
Polly's eyes brightened and sparkled as she let out a delightful laugh.
I kept up the act, turning circles with arms open wide, staring down at my wet
clothes, then looking at her with the glaring, accusing mask, one eyebrow
raised high. Again a deep belly laugh, and a splash, aimed at me.
I morphed my face from gruff anger to surprise and fear at this new
assault. Turning, I screamed and ran from the room, arms flailing about in
mock fear. The wonderful sound of her laughter flowed out of the
bathroom after me. Putting on my angry face, I turned and went back in, only
to be met with a bigger splash.
Several times we repeated this until finally I rushed in through a wall
of splashes and began splashing her back. When half of the water from the
tub was on the floor or me, I slumped down beside the tub in defeat,
panting. Polly gave a few more well placed splashes in my face and then
stopped, joy gushing from her.
"I quit, you win." I said, splashing in the deep puddle on the floor as I
got to my feet. I climbed in the tub with her, clothes and all, for which I was
rewarded with more giggles, but we got back to business and soon the
sprite was squeaky clean and pink all over. Every now and then I would get a
splash in my face for good measure, in hopes of a renewed volley, but I stuck
to business.
Watching her brush her teeth, and struggling out of my wet clothes, I
gave advice on oral hygiene. Soon we were walking to the car to search for
a restaurant. As we walked, I marveled at the transformation that had taken
place. She skipped along, spinning and dancing, pausing in front of the
hotel windows to look at herself in her new clothes, and then at her new
shoes, her flowing blonde hair glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Dinner was especially enjoyable. We talked about light subjects and I
was introduced to Polly's vivid imagination. Make believe friends and
imaginary places. I also discovered that we had a dream in common: To sail
away to far places on a wonderful ship.
I fished some photos out of my wallet and showed them to her. The
Sweetheart was gleaming in the evening glow of the sun, her aluminum and
brass polished, her teak dark with oil, and her bright sails full of the westerly
breeze.
She looked closely at the man at the wheel. "Is that you?"
I nodded, smiling.
Her mouth fell open with amazement. "Is that your boat?".
I nodded, "Well, it was my boat, I had to sell it."
Disappointed, she asked, "How come?"
"Well, it's too big to bring with me, and I had to come here, to rescue
you."
"Nuh-uh." she said. "You did not."
"Oh Yeah?" I said with arched eyebrows, "Well, I don't think there is
anyone more suited to rescuing a beautiful princess than me. And I think
God feels the same way. So would you like to argue with Him about why I
had to sell my boat? Because he will just tell you that he had to pull a few
strings to get us to meet at the right place and the right time, and maybe He
even gave that old rat of a man his heartaches, just so I could rescue you."
The wheels were turning behind her bright eyes. She ate a bite of
chocolate cake soaked in melting vanilla ice cream, having nothing to add. I
think she actually believed me.
"Anyway," I continued about the boat, "What I do for a living is buy
broken things, fix them, and then sell them again. That boat, my
Sweetheart, was broken bad in a hurricane. I bought it, fixed it all up, and
then sold it just in time to rescue you. But you know what?",
Polly shook her head with the spoon in her mouth.
"If another hurricane hits, we can go down to Florida together and
find a big wonderful ship and fix it and live on it. What do you think about
that?"
Nodding, she stuffed the last huge bite of cake into her mouth.
When it came to bedtime, I stood there staring at the king size bed,
wondering why it had not occurred to me to get two queens.
Having forced Polly to brush her teeth again, and dressed in her
nightie, she sat propped up in the bed like the princess she was, watching
the Cartoon Network while I answered my email at the desk next to the bed.
Still clicking away 45 minutes later I glanced over to see her sound asleep,
the remote clutched at her breast.
Stealthily I pried the remote and one pillow from her and slid her
down under the covers. Sliding in beside her, I read my book until it fell to
the floor.
-------
I am an infrequent dreamer. At least ones I can remember. Most of my
dreams take the form of a nightmare in which I'm in school, late to an exam in
a class I had forgotten to attend, only to find as I enter the room that I am
in my underwear. Anxiety dreams I call them. The rest are either nonsense
dreams quickly forgotten, or sexual dreams which, being the most infrequent
type, I find they take on no specific pattern, except in their complete
unpredictability. I guess if I had to identify a pattern, it would be that the
subject is usually nudity and titillation rather than sweaty love making.
On this occasion however, that pattern was clearly broken. Having
entered a large, well lit room full of people, I was aware of an electricity in
the air, and pretty eyes that connected with mine, moving toward me.
Several pairs of eyes. Large and blue and beautiful eyes. However, I found
my mood indifferent, coy, and at odds with the sexual attraction they were
focused on following to its conclusion. One girl in particular, a young
blonde, thin and lithe, floated in front of me in a silky white spaghetti strap
dress, exposing a perfectly shaped breast in it's flowing folds. She settled
in on my lap, flirtatious in her movements and tilted looks. Turning, putting
her arm around my neck, she kissed me, the kiss exclaiming "I want you to
make love to me, right now."
I floated away onto a soft white lawn, lying back, being tenderly
stroked by this lovely young woman. I swooned, feeling my erection pulse to
fullness, feeling her touches and soft hair across my chest and stomach.
The erotic nature of the dream changed however as I became aware
of a different, less tender sensation. Looking down, still in my dream but in
a new place, I saw Polly, playfully stroking my penis.
Startled, I awoke, muscles convulsed, and the bed shook. The room
was dark except for the lit parking areas penetrating the curtains, and the
reddish glow of the alarm clock. I was erect. Polly was beside me, spooned
against my side, her leg draped on my hip. Then I felt something move. My
penis moved. Again it moved. One second of awareness and I identified the
sensation of being masturbated.
Polly, apparently asleep, had her hand wrapped around the shaft of
my penis and periodically stroked it.
I jumped at the realization and rolled away from her. I went into the
bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light.
In the mirror, my erection staring up at me out of the fly of my boxers,
I tried to gather myself. Why would she do that? In her sleep? I ran some
water and splashed my face. "That dirty old son of a bitch!" I said into the
towel. That's the only explanation. She must have been abused by the old
man.
I stood over her, the light from the bathroom gently washing across
her face. She had not moved. She was sound asleep. The alarm clock read
2:47 am. I climbed in and read my book to get my mind off of her, and him.
6:30 am and the clock blared at me. Slamming my fist down upon it, it
went quiet. Polly was spooned up to my back as I lay there on my side, her
hands not where they shouldn't be. I made a mental note to move to a room
with two beds.
Soon we were up and out and into a McDonalds for breakfast. I
had taken the phone directory from the room and sat thumbing through it
looking for local dentists and pediatricians, sipping coffee while Polly
munched on a cake of hash browns. The events during the night were
desperately being forgotten.
I left several messages on office answering machines explaining my
urgency, willing to arrive at a moments notice in case of a last minute
cancellation.
At 8 o'clock, my cell started ringing with callbacks. Soon we were in
the waiting room of a dentist that specialized in children.
Polly was afraid, and it took every trick in the book to keep her from
crying. All lies and lame reassurance, and she wasn't buying. To her, this
was the doctor, and apparently when she had been sick and needed a
doctor, she was told that doctors are mean and they only want to hurt
people by sticking them with needles and cutting with knives, and charging
lots of money for it.
In the chair, Polly began to relax under the care of a very experienced
woman. Stroking her hair back, she smiled down at Polly and swore that she
would not do anything to hurt her. A quick examination had the woman
shooting me accusing glances.
"Hey, c'mon, I only met the girl yesterday. Just tell me what needs to
be done."
With that the woman's mood softened. She took a few opportunities
to look me over more closely as the realization that in some way I had
rescued the girl sunk in - a night in shining armor perhaps, and perhaps
imagining that she could use a little rescuing herself.
After the initial exam by two techs and finally the big D himself, I was
counseled as to the extent of the damage. It wasn't pretty - nor cheap. The
big problem was that they estimated a minimum of six visits to bring her back
to health, primarily to try to restore the damage to her gums, and those
treatments had to be spaced apart by a couple of weeks. The good news
was, that the chipped teeth were still viable and could be repaired in time,
the plaque was coming off today along with a fluoride treatment, and we
would be sent home with a kit for whitening her teeth back to the brilliance
of any normal 11 year old.
"What about the chipped teeth, is there anything you can do now to
make them appear normal?", I asked hopefully.
"Unfortunately, we won't be able to permanently crown the teeth
until she is at least 18 years old. There are temporary solutions that are
marginal in appearance and durability, unless you want to spend a whole lot
of money for something temporary." The dentist said, looking straight into
my eyes.
"How much is a whole lot?" I asked.
Scratching his chin and glancing toward the room where the girl
waited patiently, running a few numbers behind his eyes, he finally stated,
"about $1,200 per tooth.
"Do it." I said.
He nodded at his assistant and she bolted toward her office to get
the paperwork done and appointments issued.
Our next appointment for that day was the pediatrician. But first,
lunch in the hotel room consisted of PBJ's for her, ham sandwiches for me,
potato chips for us both, and a tooth whitening for her. Just before we
left for the doctor, Polly brushed her teeth of her own accord, and stared
at them in the mirror. Waiting at the door for her, she came bopping toward
me and threw her arms around my waist. Awkwardly we walked down the hall
that way.
Knowing full well the reaction of the doctor when he sees the girls
behind, I explained to the receptionist that I needed to see the doctor
alone before he sees the girl.
Quickly explaining the events of the past 24 hours to the doc, I
stated, "I want you to do a gynecological exam, and depending of what you
find, I need to know now what you are required to do about it."
"Well, I will have to notify Family Services if there is any indication of
sexual assault. As for the belt marks, corporal punishment has not been
outlawed. Broken bones is another thing, and the puncture was probably
not intentional."
I was worried now. I felt sure there would be signs of penetration. I
had already braced myself for that eventuality, but what would happen to
her?
"Hey doc, What will family services do, considering I'm just a do-
gooder and not her official guardian? Would they take her away from me?"
"Hard to say. I deal with them quite often and they seem to adjust to
each situation accordingly. But there would be an investigation, and the
police would be notified."
"Hmm, I would like to see the old bastard in prison, but what about
Polly? I don't want them forcing her to relive the whole thing and point at
him in court. That's just wrong."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. In nearly every case I've had, and there
have been several, I've dealt with mothers, and they, as women, become
solely concerned with exacting revenge and disguise it as something in the
best interest of the child. It clearly does much more harm than good to the
child, unless the perpetrator will still have access to the victim. Then, hands
are tied. Let me make a call before we examine her to see if we can come to
an understanding."
"Oh wow, Thank you sir. That is most kind. I'll be waiting."
Relief washed over me. This competent and compassionate man is in
exactly the right profession.
In any case, it was all for naught. The social worker and doctor
agreed that if the girl had been abused by the old guy, it would be better to
let it lie, as long as I agreed to formally adopt the girl and not let her drift
into the state foster care system, or back to the old man. But as it turns
out, the girl had not been penetrated. With much relief, I called the social
worker and gave her the good news, along with the names of the old couple
so that we could get the adoption done before they die. To my delight,
she told me that in cases where all parties are in agreement, the adoption is
not only free, but is legal in a matter of days.
Halfway to the car, in the parking lot, I knelt down in front of Polly
and held her hands in mine. Tears were welling up in my eyes, she looked at
me confused.
"Polly, sweetheart, I know this is happening really fast, but I just
talked to a lady on the phone who says that if you want to, I can become
your daddy. Would you like that?" I sniffed and wiped my tears on my
wrist, not letting go of her hands.
Polly nodded, smiling, understanding my tears, then, reflecting a
moment, she burst into tears and fell into my arms.
Standing up and lifting the girl into my arms, I turned to see a car
patiently waiting for us to move out of the aisle, the woman at the wheel
dabbing at her tears. This doctors office was adjacent to a suburban
hospital, I guess she thought I told the girl that her mother had just died.
-------
Normally, I would methodically work through upgrading the electrical
service, plumbing, and HVAC systems of a rehab house myself, saving the
expense of hiring contractors. But now that I have Polly, certain priorities
must be rearranged. Hiring contractors this time, to make the place
habitable, would save some money in the long run, not having to stay at the
hotel for an extended period. So hire them I did. within a week, we were
ready to move in.
The house was a two story brick built in 1900. Located in the South
Grand neighborhood of south St. Louis. It looked a little sad from the
street because the decorative fascia of the eves was rotten and pulling away
from the rafters. In the basement I found an old photograph of the home
showing the original design. The intricate scrollwork was clearly visible.
Considering how simple a task it will be to duplicate, install, and paint:
probably a short afternoon of work, I estimated that I saved over $40,000
on the price of the home simply because of the poor curb appeal it caused.
It made the house look like it was falling down - but I knew different. I loved
it.
The main bulk of work, other than updating the utilities, were the
walls and ceilings in the upstairs bedrooms, and the upstairs bathroom
needed gutting. On the first floor, there was already a newer kitchen, the
great room was in nice shape, and the master bedroom and bath were
acceptable. Once we finished the upstairs, we would move up there and gut
the master suite.
For the rest of the summer Polly and I worked on the house. She was
a worker too. So much so that I felt guilty not paying her. So I brought her
to the bank with me and we opened a savings account for her. $10 per hour
was a bargain for me and seemed like a fortune to her. I've long known that
two competent workers get three times the work done as a single man
working alone. So Polly actually increased the amount of labor I could
accomplish by two men. Okay, two lazy men. I was happy to pay her the ten
bucks.
My rule for the savings account was that 80% of her deposits were to
be saved for college, 15% would be hers when she turned 16, and 5% to
spend whenever she likes. It didn't take her very long to figure out how
percentages work. She kept a journal with the pass book that showed
exact balances for each of the three accounts. It was a fairly simple lesson
considering that for each hour worked, $8 went to college, $1.50 went to
sweet 16, and 50c to her allowance.
Sitting in front of the television, Polly lying across my lap on the
receiving end of a back rub, I watched the radar track of a tropical storm in
the Gulf and realized that there were an unusual number of milestones
coming due all at once: 1) Polly's 12th birthday was (Sunday). 2) Polly's
teeth would be complete (Friday). 3) The house would soon be ready to
sell or lease. 4) Polly's first day of school as my daughter (2 weeks away). 5)
Yesterday the adoption became final.
Polly's account totals had swollen to $3,840 for college, $720 for
sweet 16, and $240 allowance, of which she had only spent $20 so far.
It was fall, and as I watched the radar track of the a hurricane in the
Gulf of Mexico, heading for Corpus Christi Texas, I realized that the
merging of these coincidental milestones with the image of the hurricane was
screaming out at me. "Hello? Are you an idiot? Can't you see that all of
your loose ends have been neatly tied up, and that you have just enough
time to get down there before school starts?"
-------
Experiences in my life have made me acutely aware of coincidental
events. When searching for a college to attend, I became aware that the
name of a particular school had been voiced within my earshot on five
occasions in the same week. The school was in town and I had never heard
of it before. Four of the five times I heard the name, It was from people that
did not know I was looking for a college to attend. The fifth was a friend of
the family who worked at McDonnell Douglas as an engineer. I asked him
directly which school he would recommend, and Parks College was what he
said. I went and graduated second in my class.
A few years later, and for reasons I cannot remember, I read a book
called "The Celestine Prophesy" . In this poorly written book it described a
"New-Age" religion that, along with many other beliefs that I felt were
bizarre, described one regarding coincidences. It rang true to me and shortly
after reading it, I was put to the test.
I had begun dabbling in the stock market in response to the
enthusiasm my mother-in-law had displayed having listened to a get-rich-
quick set of audio tapes. The brokerage firm I had chosen had a "broker-in-
training" with the most wonderful female Germanic accent I had ever heard. I
had spoken with her several times and always wondered what her deal was.
On this fateful day, I needed to get some money into my account quicker
than the mail could provide, so I went in person to deposit a check. Corinne
was petite, blonde, and Swiss. I spoke with her for about five minutes while
she adjusted my account on her terminal. I noticed she had some college
finance textbooks beside her desk on the floor. She was dressed in a semi-
formal skirt and jacket - Suitable to the somewhat less than formal business
atmosphere. I had left work early and it was approaching 3:00 pm. Having
completed the business, I headed diagonally across town about 45 miles,
stopping only for gas. Just prior to reaching my counseling appointment,
realizing I had skipped lunch, I stopped at a Taco Bell, At close to 4:00
pm, the restaurant was empty. As I sat down with my tray of tacos, the door
opened and in walked Corinne, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I sat
quietly watching her as she ordered, paid, and waited for her food. I was
trying to shake loose the all of the dream-like and surreal qualities of this
most incredible moment. As I plotted my conversation with her, I thought of
a clever opening line. Turning with her tray to face me, she stopped as if
she hit a wall. The same dream-like surreal-ness was swirling behind her eyes
as she tried to grasp the situation.
"Corinne, why are you following me?"
Not having had enough time to process everything yet, she actually
took me seriously and started denying and apologizing. I smiled at her and
she quickly understood, and felt even more foolish. Having her on the
ropes, I stood and beckoned her to a seat at my table. We covered a few
quick topics regarding why we were going the same way and how she had got
here so fast in different clothes, etc. And then I told her about the book I
read, explaining that we are supposed to investigate the coincidence,
exploring the lives of those involved in order to discover the reason we were
brought together, and that it states it is never for romantic reasons. She
was intrigued and described how she had just decided a month ago with her
husband that they would divorce, and that it was final today. I described
how many problems I was having in my marriage and for that reason I was on
my way to a counseling appointment. She was confused what a counselor
was, and when I explained, she thought it was a psychiatrist, indicating that
she would never go to one. Studying her, I felt that I may have a plausible
reason for our meeting. She was far too comfortable with her divorce. She
was married for nine years and they divorced because he was ready for kids
and she wasn't. Wham-bam it's done and I'm perfectly happy with it.
Something about her lack of emotions and happy demeanor about it
disturbed me. So I made her promise to see the lady counselor I was seeing
at least once. Surprised that it was a woman counselor, she finally agreed,
and I left. Two years later I had moved to St. Louis after my own divorce
and had to transfer my accounts here. The brokerage account had sat idle
ever since that day, having lost everything but a couple hundred bucks. I
called and asked for Corrine. They informed me that she had transferred to
St. Louis and gave me her office number. When I spoke, I was amazed to
hear that after all that time, she recognized my voice. Once convinced that I
was actually who she thought I was, she screamed into the phone with happy
delight that she finally was going to be able to tell me the story of her life
after our meeting. She had attended counseling sessions twice a week for
six months. Everything good that happened in her life since that day, her
moving to the big city, the blossoming of her social life, and her incredible
happiness, she attributed to me and Sharon, the counselor I had introduced
her to.
There have been other equally dramatic events dotting the landscape
of my existence, giving it meaning. This one seemed to be speaking to me
very clearly: "Pack up and go". In this case, there are three simultaneous
coincidences occurring at once: 1) The large number of milestones landing
within a very short period of time, effectively tying up all loose ends. 2)
While thinking of these, the radar picture of a hurricane appears on the TV,
suggesting the course of action. 3) Polly and I share the same dream of
living on a boat.
Up until now, I only had to worry about myself. If one of my
coincidence adventures didn't pan out, I was the only one affected. But
now I had Polly to worry about. I wasn't sure how she would react.
-------
Sitting at the kitchen table with a coloring book, glancing up at me
periodically, and me staring blankly at her, she finally asked: "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm just thinking."
" 'bout what?" she asked.
"Do you remember when we talked about our dream of living on a
ship?"
Polly put down the colored pencil and, leaning forward, crossed her
wrists on her book. "Yes."
"Do you think I meant it?" I asked.
Gazing at the center of the table in thought she finally looked up and
nodded.
"Did you mean it?" I asked.
Again she nodded.
"Would you be sad moving out of here? And going far away?"
With a long face she probed my eyes, trying to discover where this
was going and how it might affect her if she continues agreeing with me.
I spoke again. "I'm being serious."
"Do you mean now?"
"Yes, as quick as we can."
"Where?"
In answer, I turned on the TV to the weather channel and pointed to
the hurricane. "Wherever this thing ends up coming ashore.
The hurricane had all but stopped in the center of the gulf,
equidistant from Texas, Florida, and Cuba.
Studying her, I sat down and pulled her into my lap. "It will be like an
adventure. We have to get there quick after the storm and start looking for
just the right boat. And hopefully you can start school on the first day
with all the other kids."
"But what about all our stuff? Can I bring...." I cut her off.
"We will get a storage place, just for the furniture. All of your little
stuff you can bring."
This seemed a little shallow for Polly. She had a very practical view of
the world and had not demonstrated any great concern for material things -
other than her clothes. "What about....." Again I interrupted her.
"When I did this before, I was surprised how many people needed help
after the storm had passed. I felt bad that I was there to take advantage of
the storm, and they had lost so much." I guaged her reaction to the reality I
knew she would experience if we went on this adventure. Then I continued.
"I'm planning on bringing some supplies. Things they will need very badly,
like food and water."
Her eyes brightened and became serious. She paused studying her
feelings, and then jumping up and turning to face me, "Okay, I'll go. What
should I start doing?"
"Nothing right now." I said. " I have a lot of things to do that you
can't help me with." Pausing to think I added: "If you want, you can start
boxing up all of your books, toys, and knick-knacks."
Flashing me her newly perfected brightly shining teeth, she rushed
from the room, seemingly happy to be on an adventure, even though it would
be a few days before we left.