Sixty-two dollars occupied my right coat pocket. Thirty-three dollars were given to me by my father to purchase my lunch for the day, the other twenty-nine dollars were from my own personal account. I hopped onto the bus and rode it for twelve miles. When it reached my desired stop, I walked over to the door and waited for the bus to lower unit it was hovering just a foot off the ground. After my departure, it then rose once more to about fifteen feet in the air and flew off. I continued my journey to buy my lunch by walking another two blocks to reach The Corner Cafe and five minutes later I exited with two sandwiches and a bottle of water; there was two dollars left in change.
I would tell my father that I had spent twenty dollars on my sandwich, which consisted of turkey, american cheese, and lettuce on Italian bread, and eight dollars on a bottle of pop. And when he would ask me what happened to the change, he would receive a sheepish smile along with an “I’m sorry”in response and he would automatically know that I was referring to how I had lost the other five dollars on the way home to which he would pat my head and mess up my hair while laughing. He would be informed that I had taken the bus, went to the cafe, and came home also by the bus. He would ask how my sandwich was and I would respond by saying that it was still my favorite. I wouldn't tell him, however, that I had purchased two sandwiches and a bottle of water, not pop. My father would also be unaware that on my way home, I stopped by the corner on 21st street by the bagel shop and tattoo parlor, to check on Ms. Welton and her son.
Ms. Welton was sitting with her back against the metal wall of the bagel shop with her arm around Andrew’s small nine year old frame. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a high messy bun with the clip I had given her three weeks ago, while Andy’s hair, of the exact same hue, just sat in an unkept mess upon his head and a few strand hung down into his freckled face.
“Good morning Emma, Andy, I brought some sandwiches if you would like them,” I greeted as I walked over to fix Andy’s hair.
“You treat us far to well Annabelle, but I do appreciate every last bit of your kindness,” Emma responded as she stood up to hug me. For a women in her late twenties she had a lot to handle, while many were out on these streets, not many had the added burden of a kid. Even those who became pregnant were often to weak to even carry the baby to labor. Emma, however had been strong enough, and while she love Andy more then anything, she had a hard enough time taking care of herself. I’ve always admired that strength she had down to her very core.
“How are you doing?” I asked even knowing perfectly well that i would receive the same response that I always got.
“Still floating,” she said. “Still floating.” She always referred to her struggle for survival as floating, a metaphor I have yet to understand, but don't ask about because I believe the mystery is part of the importance. I’ll know when the time comes. After eating the meal I had brought, I waved them goodbye and reminded them that would see them again in two days, on my way back from Sunday brunch. I hopped on another bus and arrived at home just ten minutes later, where I walked up to the gate and waited for to be buzzed in.
When Sunday rolled around the corner of my long weekend filled with piano and dance lessons, I was relieved to receive a break out to brunch with my mother and, more importantly, visit Emma and Andy. I know they shouldn't be my responsibility, really what seventeen year old would willingly accept more responsibility than is required, but I care about them. Ever since she helped me pick up the books that I had dropped when I was walking through the park I knew she was a caring person. I gained even more respect for her after we got talking and she revealed to me how she lived and about her darling son.
After brunch at The Saucer, I parted paths with my mother by convincing her that I wanted to stop by the library and made my way for the bagel shop. to my complete shock, however, the Weltons were not lounging in their usual spot. I looked around and found no sight of them. They would never have left without informing me. I sat and waited for several hours, worried out of my mind, but they never showed.
Just after a quarter to three, an old man with a tangled grey beard and tattered clothes approached me and gave heart wrenching news.
“They were dismissed last night,” he signed. “I know you cared for them, I’ve noticed you stopping by over the past few months, they were good people.”
“How— how do you know? Are you sure?” I uttered breathlessly. “They were taken away in an unmarked van along with a few others. That may not be enough to convince you, but I’ve been around long enough to recognize that black van. I’m sorry.”
My father would never hear of any of this from me. I would not speak of the lunches, the blankets, the pillows, or the games. He would not be informed by me of the friendship I had made or the lives that had been unfairly taken just for the sake of overcrowded streets. He would not hear it from me, but he would know. The governor is the one paid to make the decision after all.
