“Hey mistuh, spare some change.” A child’s voice came from behind Matthew freezing his limbs at the height of his very next step. He had heard the little voice. Had heard what it was asking for, he just did not want to believe he was hearing what he heard.
Matthew had often heard adult panhandlers on the street, children, almost never. Not in the United States, in progressive Cambridge, Massachusetts with its colorful hulking buildings and noisy streets teeming with people walking by trees lining the sidewalks that looked hurriedly thrown into the holes, that looked like they were dug overnight, as far as Matthew knew. But he was hearing it now and it scared the life out of him. It should be unthinkable that a child were on the street homeless and begging. Matthew set his feet with ease and prepared for the inevitable turn to face the pint sized beggar.
Out on the street, in the middle of summer, birds chirping and flittering from sparse trees lining the sidewalks, he didn’t expect it. What he expected was the colorful sign that summer was here for a while. The scents of cooked foods wafting in the air from the cookeries and people decked in colorful clothes that passed them like they weren’t even there, Matthew and the tiny boy with the shrill voice with his tiny hands stuck out waiting for cash. The few people that had heard passed and gawked at the little boy standing there looking at the grown man, a few grunts of laughter, a few disgusted gestures, a few looks of pity, and that was all.
Most of the people passing thought it was Matthew’s son who was standing behind him. Those that followed thought it was a little boy asking his father for candy money, though, they wondered why he was dressed in his blue shirt and khakis and was clean, while his son was dirty. Most just didn’t recognize the dirt from the brown skin, suffice to say, they didn’t look close enough because they weren’t going to get involved.
Matthew turned and looked down into a small dirty, brown face with dark brown eyes the size of saucers. A boy who looked to be two, three, maybe five. Matthew couldn’t tell. He had not been around many children. But he had seen Dante, his nephew grow into a monster eight year old. But he had never seen a child so dirty, except on TV shows where you saw children playing in the dirt, in the Deep South or some god-forsaken place where they still played in dirt. As he stared in astonishment, Matthew was oblivious to the passer byes that turned their heads to try and understand what was happening. He only saw the dirty little boy in front of him.
One this dirty would be called an urchin in the old days. This boy, despite his dirt and obvious life, seemed to shine with a slight grin, standing there. He looked like one of those children who always had a reason to laugh. Made one up when they didn’t. He was much too young, Matthew thought, to understand his situation in life. To even be living it.
Yet, he was right there in front of Matthew. The dirt on his tiny face appeared to have been baked on. A red shirt with a teddy bear emblazoned on the right lapel, a size too large and much too clean for his appearance, flowed to just above his knees. And in blue jeans that seemed as if it would struggle to go past the length of Matthew’s arms. And shoes so small they could barely be seen, except for the tippidy tip of his toes jutting from under the cuff of his jeans. He looked more like he should be in a daycare somewhere rather than standing in front of Matthew asking for spare change, his hands outstretched and a wary grin to match his uneasy stance. Yet here he was right in front of him beaming as bright as the mid day sun above.
Something stirred in his chest as he looked down at the little boy, hands outstretched in a plea for cash. Matthew didn’t know what to say or how to react to this. In fact, Matthew’s first reaction was to laugh but he held it in as he had a flashback of a show he used to watch as a child. He had seen it many times. Laughed so hard to it he had tears at the end of the episodes. Little Rascals. Visions of buckwheat, only with short faded hair and a wayward smile, frolicked in his head.
“Do ya?” The little boy, Thomas (everybody calls him Tommy) Eaves jutted his hands forward a little when Mathew didn’t say anything. The movement did the trick and brought a grin to Tommy who moved his hands again. Matthew had blinked the first time and did it again when Tommy moved his hands back and forth. So Tommy moved his hand a few more times until he saw the man blinking like normal people did. And he didn’t look mean. That was a good sign. It meant Tommy may be getting what he asked for.
There was really only one question that came to mind and it made Matthew wrinkle his face when he looked at the little boy, though he didn’t even recognize he was doing it. “How old are you?”
A wide stare was the answer Matthew got. Then Tommy lowered his arms and did a quick turn, that Matthew was oblivious to as he stared at the boy. Behind him was a slender brown skinned woman, not too far off, with people passing and vanishing behind her. Matthew didn’t see her because his eyes were on Tommy. When he turned to face Matthew with another wide grin he held up the peace sign with his right hand. Looked confused when he saw his hand and used his left hand to coax the thumb to join the forefinger and middle finger. That caused a snort. Tommy was three, not two, and he did know his age, at least.
That settled Matthew asked. “And what’s your name?”
“My name, Tommy!” The boy’s high-pitched voice wailed. “But I can’t talk to you.” He trailed almost to a hush then.
“Why not?” Matthew asked.
“Cause you a stranger.” Tommy looked unsure, looked around again. Then beamed at Matthew, jutted his hand a little to remind Matthew why he was there in the first place.
“Oh, that is true.” Matthew understood the confused look. Asking for money from a stranger who he shouldn’t be talking to. He almost laughed at the look on the child’s face but he didn’t. Matthew did not want to hurt his feelings and with the look in the boy’s eyes he would if he laughed, he guessed. He was about to ask where Tommy’s parents were when the boy asked him his name. “My name is Matthew.” He gave the child his answer.
Wild eyes ping ponged left to right in Tommy’s head and he pouted and wondered if the adult could now be considered a friend. They were strangers when you didn’t know their names, but as he recalled, after they told you who they were they became friends. At least people you talk to. He leaned toward the man and whispered loudly “Are you still a stranger?”
There was a look of confusion on the boy’s face that made Matthew snort despite himself. Then he nodded to let him know he was indeed still a stranger. All the while the brown skinned woman named Reeva, who looked very much like the child watched them. Inched closer and closer, not too close. She giggled at their exchange, still unseen by Matthew. Then she stopped to watch what would happen next.
“I am.” Matthew stifled the rest of his jollity and became composed. Yet almost snorted again when he saw Tommy looking like he was about to bolt. His wide eyes were still wild “Have you eaten today?” It was the third question he had because the boy looked very small and he didn’t want to give the child money and have him walk into a store and they sent him out for his parents, who didn’t seem to be around.
In a perfect world that reasoning certainly made sense. But in the world Regina and Adrian Wallace, Matthew’s mother and father, had prepared him for, Matthew knew kids sometimes had to grow fast and had to think faster just to survive. The place he was standing forced people to grow much faster than they wanted to. He wondered if Tommy was one of those children. Growing up in a house where they could do as they pleased or simply had to.