 Brian knew that the evening rush hour was the best time to shop for food. At six, the stores bustled with activity and a quiet, twelve-year-old boy walking the aisles drew little attention. Unlike him, most patrons paid cash for what they took away. He was a proficient thief by age nine and had played the odds for three years now. He figured due punishment was just a matter of time. Living hand-to-mouth was tough, but the threat of being caught terrified him. Unfortunately, he was hungry and out of options. He entered the corner grocery and immediately began to perspire. He shut off the voice of fear and his deft hands went to work one more time. The selected items quickly disappeared into the large Army jacket one of his mother’s lovers had left behind. In less than three minutes, he exited the store and spotted his young neighbor watching from across the street. She had witnessed his thievery through the big plate-glass window. He swore softly and turned in the opposite direction. She hurried across the street and ran four blocks to catch up with his much longer strides. She was out of breath and in tears when she grabbed the back of his coat. Brian shook her off and continued walking. “I told you to stay home, Stacy.” “I’m sorry,” she said. The sound of her voice breaking was more than he could tolerate. Brian turned to face the thin, delicate eight-year-old. She was tiny for her age the top of her head barely reached his elbow. She looked up at him, her big brown eyes full of hurt and desperation. Her silky blonde, almost white hair shone under the streetlight, like a halo around her small head. Everything in him wanted to scoop her up and hold her, but he couldn’t give in right now. He had to be hard about this. He sucked in a deep breath and spoke with as much conviction as he could muster. “Don’t ever follow me again, understand?” Stacy looked down at her feet and he knew his harsh words hurt her feelings, but she had to understand she couldn’t come with him. If they caught him shoplifting, she would go to jail too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to hear that. You’ve got to promise not to do it again.” “I promise.” Brian reached down and took her little hand in his. Stacy smiled up at him and he knew he was forgiven. They turned into the alley behind the apartment building they called home and climbed to the fourth floor. Five months ago, his mother’s restless lifestyle brought them to this rundown suburb of Cleveland. He met Stacy the day he moved into the apartment opposite hers five months ago. Since the death of her mother earlier that year, Stacy had been on her own. Her father went to work and sat in front of the television with a six-pack of beer every evening until shuffling off to bed. Until Brian came along, this routine left eight-year-old Stacy to make her way through the world alone. Usually, Brian chose to be a loner the shame of his life was easier to bear if he didn’t have friends whose opinions mattered. He understood that getting involved with Stacy meant taking care of her, but one look in those big brown eyes left him no choice. From the outside, it might appear that he gave more than he received, but Stacy’s presence added new dimensions to his lonely existence. Sometimes, life didn’t hurt so much. Loving her meant he was no longer rootless or expendable, but a beloved person with a real sense of purpose. Brian followed Stacy into the apartment and saw her father staring at a game show on television with his dark, vacant eyes. Stacy approached her father, her small body a silhouette in front of the TV. “I’m home, Daddy. Brian got something for supper. Are you hungry?” “You’re blocking the TV,” her father said in a flat tone, never taking his eyes off the television. Anger flashed in Brian and he turned to the kitchen before he did the wrong thing. Stacy followed him, watching eagerly as he pulled two cans of Spaghetti-O’s, one can of tuna, a package of Ding-Dongs, and two cans of soda from the pockets of the jacket. Stacy’s stomach rumbled loudly and he grinned at her, “I guess we’d better hurry.” Stacy giggled. “You got orange soda this time.” “It was your turn.” He emptied both cans of the Spaghetti-O’s into a pan then lit a burner on the small stove. Stacy pulled a chair to the cabinets and climbed to reach the plates. “What’s the tuna for?” “Insurance,” he said. Stacy frowned. “What’s that?” “In case we need it later.” Brian explained. They devoured the meal in silence, relaxing as the canned food soothed their empty stomachs. Stacy’s school provided a meager breakfast and lunch for disadvantaged students, but Brian hadn’t eaten since yesterday. After washing the dishes, he helped Stacy with her homework then did his own while she bathed. Once she was in bed, Brian usually read or sang to her. Tonight, he attempted to read Cinderella, but she interrupted with so many questions about the wicked stepmother he grew frustrated and stopped. “If Daddy meets a woman like that can I come and live with you?” “Stacy, I live with a woman like that.” Brian closed the book and tossed it on the dresser. “I’m tired. Do you think you can go to sleep now?” “Stay just a little while longer. I promise not to talk about mothers anymore.” He slumped down in the chair, propping his feet on the metal frame of her bed, and closed his eyes. “All right, just a little while.” “Sing Broken Wings for me.” “Why do you like that song so much? Let me sing something else for a change.” “You want me to keep asking questions or go to sleep?” “Hey, you can do what you want. I’m staying until nine-thirty and that’s it.” “Okay, Mr. Mean, sing My Girl then.” “Worse yet,” he grumbled. Stacy lowered her head and shrugged. “Go on home if you’re tired of me.” Giving in, Brian began singing softly. Brian left the warmth of Stacy’s apartment and crossed the hall to his own. His mother was behind in the rent and the landlord turned off the steam heat last week. The rooms were nearly as cold as the January night. The electric company refused to provide service until she gave them a deposit and she hadn’t gotten around to that before the latest binge took her away. Except for the light shining through bare windows from a streetlight, the nearly empty rooms were dark. His mother hadn’t been home in over two weeks, but that didn’t concern him. She always returned. She would be worn out and disagreeable after her drunken bender, but he preferred her disappearances to the times she stayed home and drank herself stupid. She was an obnoxious drunk and usually made a spectacle of herself. Sometimes, she flew into a rage over something trivial and beat him with whatever was handy. The worst times were when she recounted her tales of hardship. Jean Burnette was someone who had many woes and the self-pity was endless. The list of people she blamed was long, but Brian suspected most of the pain was self-inflicted. He had a father out there somewhere, but the only parent he knew well was her and she was a pathetic waste. Brian didn’t try to love her anymore and stopped fighting the more dominant feelings of loathing and shame. He simply bided his time, waiting until he could legally be on his own. He moved through the dark apartment to the bathroom and removed the previous day’s laundry from the shower rod then turned on the hot water. Other than a roof over his head, hot water was the single luxury the apartment provided him. He stripped and bathed then washed the clothes worn that day and hung them on the shower rod to freeze-dry. He pulled on an old sweatshirt, worn jeans with a broken zipper, and the heavy socks stolen from Sears a few months ago as a birthday present to himself. The frigid air immediately chilled him and he pulled a mound of old blankets from the living room closet and placed them in a corner of inside walls. He unrolled the blankets and crawled between their protective layers. Lying there, waiting for warmth and sleep, Brian thought of Stacy yearning for the mother she lost. Her mother’s sudden death had stolen her father's spirit and left Stacy a virtual orphan. There were a few pictures in her apartment that reflected better times. Stacy’s mother looked like someone you could miss. Her misty brown eyes were just like Stacy’s and she had a genuine smile that made him feel warm. He didn’t understand why God would take a woman like that and allow his mother to continue living. He was sleeping deeply when Stacy jumped on him the next morning. “Wake up! It’s snowing!” He grunted and pushed her away, “Too early. Go home.” “No. Get up. I want to build a snowman before we go to school.” “Nobody’s stopping you. Go ahead. I’ll see it later.” “Please?” She stuck a small hand under the blankets and her icy fingers landed on his warm neck. “Quit!” “C’mon. Please?” “All right, go back to your house before you freeze. I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed.” One hour later, Brian watched as she placed two blue rhinestone buttons on the snowman’s face. “Now, he has eyes like yours,” she said. She picked up a red hat and held out her arms. “Lift me, so I can put this on his head.” They stood back to admire their work and she cocked her head to one side, frowning. “He still needs ears.” Brian looked down at her and grinned, “Ears?” “My mom always put ears on.” Stacy scooped up a handful of snow. “She said if you put ears on your snowman, he’ll hear the music of the angels and sing songs to you.” “Hey, Burnette! Are you playing with little girls?” Brian looked across the street and recognized a boy from gym class. “I heard they might call school off,” the boy said as he approached, “at least I hope so, don’t you?” Brian shrugged nonchalantly, thinking of the warmth the school provided. “We might as well get it over with.” They watched Stacy shape the second ear. “This your sister?” He shook his head and stuck his cold hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Stacy stood back from her work and looked to him for approval. Brian nodded and smiled. “I like it.” Stacy smiled proudly and he filed the image of her sweet face in the section of his heart that he shared with no one else. Whenever he needed a shot of encouragement, he would carefully reach in and lift the image to the light of day. The boy from gym class laughed, drawing Brian’s attention and ending the moment. “I never saw ears on a snowman. It looks weird.” Brian looked to him. “Did somebody ask your opinion?” The boy seemed surprised at the sharp question then grew angry and stepped toward him. Brian tensed, waiting for him to make the first move. He had no interest in fighting, but if it came to that, he wouldn’t bother being fair. Clashes with his mother’s boyfriends taught him the benefits of toughness a long time ago. The other boy eyed him for a minute then backed off. “I’d better go I don’t want to be late.” Brian hurried to the doorstep for their books. If they didn’t hurry, Stacy would miss the free breakfast. Stacy took her books from his hand and looked back to their creation. “I wish Mom was here.” Brian patted her shoulder. “Let’s go.” Brian walked her to school then started toward his own. His thoughts wandered until he reached a pawnshop and paused to stare through the window. In the back of the cluttered display, was one hope he allowed himself to keep. Last summer, one of Jean’s boyfriends taught him a few chords on a battered six-string. While this boyfriend and Jean entertained themselves in the next room, Brian played that old box guitar and fell in love with music. The only problem was he didn’t know how to earn forty-five dollars to pay for the acoustic guitar at the back of the display window. Brian found Stacy waiting in front of his apartment door after school. The red hat from the snowman was in her hand and her face gleamed with tears. “What’s wrong?” She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Daddy made me take it off.” “Why?” “It’s Mommy’s. He’s really mad at me. He told me to get out.” “Selfish asshole,” Brian muttered. He opened his apartment door and turned back to her. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she said. “I don’t even know this stupid hat.” He put his books on the windowsill inside the living room and looked back, surprised to find her still in the doorway, wiping new tears from her face. She looked incredibly small and vulnerable standing there. It hurt to know she didn’t have anyone that cared about her. He walked back, knelt in front of her, and put his arms around her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She began to cry and he lifted her in his arms, carrying her to a spot beneath the bare windows where a patch of sunlight warmed the floor. He didn’t know any soothing words or phrases. He didn’t believe in the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny and he certainly didn’t believe things were going to get better for this girl anytime soon. So, he held her and sang. “I think your voice is as great as the song of the snowman, Brian,” she said. “God must talk through you too.” He sighed and leaned against the cold wall. “God doesn’t know where to find me I move too much.” Stacy cuddled closer and he began another song. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. Brian sang three songs and she fell asleep in his arms. While he laid her carefully on his bed of blankets, Mrs. Clifford the apartment manager stepped inside the flat and looked around at the bareness. Her relaxed expression changed to a scowl and Brian stood straight, his face a mask of fear. Mrs. Clifford was a giant African-American woman with a tough exterior and a reputation for strict rules. His mother had probably broken every rule there was several times over. She looked at him and her expression softened. “Was that you singing?” “Yes, Ma’am. I’m sorry if I was too loud.” She waved a hand in the air. “No need to apologize. I enjoyed listening to you.” She stepped closer, glanced down at Stacy, and placed one of her big hands on his shoulder. “Would you like to make some money?” “Yes, Ma’am,” he said quickly. It was a relief to know she wasn’t there to throw him out on the street. He turned to cover Stacy with the top blankets. “If you shovel the sidewalks and driveway for me, I’ll pay you fifteen dollars. You’ll find the shovel in the basement.” Brian worked for three hours, driven by the return of fierce, demanding hunger. While he worked, he made plans for the fifteen dollars. Stacy came out several times, but the temperature had dropped below twenty and he chased her back inside. His bare hands were past numb and each step sent pain shooting up his legs. He was putting away the snow shovel when he saw a guitar case standing at one corner of the workbench. Careful to be quiet, he lay the case down, and opened it slowly. The polished wood of a six-string guitar gleamed in the fluorescent light. Brian ran red fingertips over the strings and started to pull it from the case. Hearing footsteps on the stairs behind him, he hurried to close the top, but wasn’t quick enough. Mrs. Clifford saw him. “That guitar belonged to my son,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t want it anymore, but I’ve put off selling it.” “Would you consider letting me work for it, Mrs. Clifford? I promise to work hard.” A smile lit her dark brown face and she stepped closer, touching his cheek tenderly. “You can have it. I don’t want your money though.” Brian’s untrusting nature set off a dozen alarms in his brain. Still, he wanted that guitar and was willing to barter. “What?” “Come to church with me. Come sing in our choir.” Relieved, Brian's face spread into a broad smile. “Can I bring Stacy?” “Of course. Come on now, I’ve got a nice supper fixed for you kids.” Like her, the congregation at Mrs. Clifford’s Baptist church was of African-American descent, but they embraced the two white children with a warm, generous spirit. Brian learned the joy of gospel music and believed he actually felt the presence of God’s love for the first time. For them, he sang from the heart. For a few months, Mrs. Clifford taught him music on her small upright piano, but decided his talents exceeded her knowledge and convinced another member of the congregation, a music teacher at the community college, to take Brian as a student. Within six months, Brian was a church phenomenon, both as a budding musician and singer. Stacy attended church with him every Sunday and was his biggest fan. Brian received an abundance of odd jobs from people in the church. Between the money he made and Mrs. Clifford’s kindness, he and Stacy never went hungry anymore. He bought a few clothes for them at the Salvation Army store. He continued to do odd jobs for Mrs. Clifford, but refused to accept any money from her. His mother rarely paid any attention to the events in his life and he was certain she knew nothing about his association with Mrs. Clifford and the church. In truth, his mother never bothered with him unless she wanted something. If she spoke to him at all, she generally screamed, occasionally coupling the outburst with physical assault. Brian learned years ago that the way to cope with her was to stay out of sight as much as possible. Though he yearned to scream back, his options weren’t the best so he usually listened to her rant in steely silence, promising himself that some day he would never listen to her again. One cold Saturday night in late November, just after his thirteenth birthday, the resolve to keep his feelings under control shattered. When Jean came home, he was sitting in the only chair in the living room, a chair he had found in the alley and dragged up the three flights of stairs by himself, playing the guitar. She staggered across the room to where he sat playing the guitar. “Get up.” Brian was lost in the music and didn’t automatically comply with the demand. Jean yanked the guitar from his hands and hammered it against the plaster wall. The wooden box shattered and a thousand pieces rained down on the bare floor. Without thinking first, Brian sprang forward and knocked her flat on her back. He watched her drunken struggle to rise and his heart pounded hard against his ribs. He clenched and unclenched his fists, wanting to strike back, hating her. She managed to gain her feet and glared at him. “I’m going to beat the hell out of you!” “No, you won’t,” he said. Jean’s eyes narrowed to slits as she examined him. “Well, well junior, when did you get such big balls? Has the righteous Mrs. Clifford been sharing more than the light of God with you?” “You’re disgusting.” He didn’t bother to keep the contempt from his voice. “You rotten little son-of-a-bitch. You’ve been nothing but misery for me since the day you were conceived. Get out of my sight!” Brian grabbed his coat and slammed the door behind him. He ran down three flights of stairs and punched the front door open. He ran down the street until he reached the high school track where he continued to run. He was too angry to count laps and his lungs filled with fire. Still, he ran. He developed cramps in his calves and thighs and had to limp along. The only solution that ever worked on these occasions was to run until he dropped. He returned to the apartment building a little after nine. He had no desire to go upstairs, so he settled for the now familiar work area in the basement. He pulled an old paperback from his coat pocket, hoping to stay up long enough to find his mother asleep when he went back upstairs. If he found her awake, he would return here and sleep in one of the old musty chairs. He settled into a chair and opened the book, but didn’t get past the first paragraph when he heard a woman scream. He ran up to the first floor and Mrs. Clifford streaked by with a blanket in her hands. She went out the front door, screaming for someone to call an ambulance. Brian followed and saw the source of her panic immediately. Stacy’s father lay on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building. Dark red blood oozed from his mouth, ears, and nose. Brian stepped closer and peered into his open eyes. Oddly, they looked the same in death as they did staring at the television night after night. “Daddy!” Stacy screamed from an open fourth floor window the one her father leapt from only minutes before. Brian immediately went to his friend. Neighbors came out to stare at the scene. An ambulance arrived and they loaded the lifeless body onto a stretcher. Stacy clung desperately to Brian while the police determined there was no relative to take her. A kind-faced officer tried to take her hand and Stacy locked her arms around Brian’s neck. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her quickly before two policemen pried her grip from him. She screamed his name repeatedly as one man carried her to the police car. He followed helplessly, watching the officer struggle to get the petite girl in the car. Brian shoved his useless hands into the front pockets of his jeans as the car pulled away. Stacy lunged at the back window and screamed his name one last time before they turned the corner. He wanted to run after that car and pull her out, but knew there were no choices for them. Mrs. Clifford put her arm around his shoulder. “Come on inside. I’ll make you some hot cocoa.” “Thanks, Mrs. Clifford, maybe some other time.” He couldn’t be with anyone right now. He climbed to the fourth floor, refusing to look at Stacy’s apartment door. He quickly stepped inside his own apartment and found he lacked the strength to go another step. He pressed his back against the inside of the door and slid to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest. Although his throat ached and his eyes burned, he had lost the ability to cry a long time ago. Stacy had been the only person to ever love him and he let her down when she needed him most. He should have taken her hand one last time and ran, deep into the shadows of the night, before they had the opportunity to take her away. He owed her that much for loving him. Fifteen feet away, Jean snorted and rolled over in bed. Brian peered through the darkness at the sleeping lump in the bed and understood, more than at any other time in his life, how alone he was. Continues... | 
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