Beware of Cat (10 page)

“You wouldn’t believe what happened to us last night,” she said as she stepped outside to talk. Her conversational voice is always loud and demonstrative.

Bloodshot eyes peered at me from under her dyed black hair, which was in dire need of a brush. I smiled and said, “Well, it looks to me like you had a good time.”

“Oh, it started out just fine,” she replied with a grin. “Dinner and a few drinks. Heard a great new band down on the West Bank. We got home about midnight.” She paused and frowned. “Then, after we went to bed, someone stole our car. Can you believe it?”

I knew her car, a ten-year-old dented rust bucket, and the only thing hard to believe was that anyone would even consider stealing it. But I kept a straight face. “You’re kidding! Where was it parked?”

“Right out front here. I did the driving last night, and you know I hate parking in the garage.”

The truth of the matter was they never parked in the garage. It was so full of car parts and old furniture that there was no way anyone could have parked a car in there.

“Did you call the police?”

“Yeah. They’ve already been here and gone. They said they’d probably find it, but no guarantees about what kind of condition it would be in.”

“Well, I’m really sorry,” I said. “It’s just so hard to believe someone would steal a car from right in front of your house. And right under that street light.”

“The cop told us that with a screwdriver a car thief can break into a car, start it up, and drive off faster than I can using my key.”

The whole episode seemed implausible to me. After all, this was a relatively crime-free neighborhood. A person would have to be mighty desperate to steal a beat-up old car like that one. Her husband joined us, and as they told me about the band they had seen the night before, my gaze wandered past them over a hill down on the next block. I could just make out the roofline of a car. It caught my eye because it seemed to be parked at an odd angle to the curb.

“Hold on a second,” I said, stepping up between them on the top step to get a better view down the street. The color was right, and it appeared to be a full-size sedan like theirs. I descended the steps and began walking toward the lip of the hill and the car beyond. “That sure looks like your car down there,” I called over my shoulder to them.

It was. Wearing their pajamas and bathrobes, they followed me down the street. We found the gearshift in
neutral
instead of
park
. After rolling across the intersection and downhill for half a block, the car had jumped the curb and come to rest against a boulevard tree. The impact had been slight, the damage minor, especially in light of the normal decrepit appearance of the car.

We sure had fun teasing her about it, though, and even the cops had a good laugh when they returned to close the case.

I FOUND ANOTHER ITEM
one day that wasn’t exactly lost, either, but had far more serious potential consequences. I had returned to my jeep after delivering a block of mail and found an extremely upset little boy. Next to him was the smallest two-wheeled bicycle I had ever seen. The training wheels looked like they belonged on a toy truck. As I drew near, his sobbing howls escalated in volume and intensity. He was anxiously watching me, and I sensed that his performance was intended to attract and hold my attention. Strapped over his shoulder was a school backpack. Tears streamed down his chubby black cheeks as he clung with both hands to the bicycle.

“Hello, young man,” I said, walking past him to the back of my jeep. A fresh round of wailing erupted. I took off my satchel and stuffed it inside. Turning to face him, I squatted down to be closer to his size, but kept my distance. I had never seen this child before. I wanted to help him, but I needed to avoid any sort of action that could somehow be misconstrued as improper. While I’m walking my route, there are eyes everywhere. Even when I haven’t seen or talked to anyone for a couple of hours, people make note of my passing. The last thing I wanted was for someone down the block, glancing out their window, to misread my intentions or motives. But the poor kid was crying his eyes out. He wasn’t faking this fear, and right now all I wanted to do was wrap him up in a bear hug and reassure him that everything would be okay.

“What’s your name, little buddy?” I asked, forcing cheerfulness. Many people are more open and trusting around someone in a uniform, but this little fellow was just too upset for that. After pausing briefly to catch his breath, he began howling again, although not nearly as loud as before. His big brown eyes never left me.

I told him my name. “I’m the mailman around here. I sure would like to help you if you’d let me.”

Deep sobs interspersed with hiccups.

“Do you live around here?”

Finally, a timid nod. His face was drenched with tears and snot. I opened the door again and was startled by the immediate resumption of ear-splitting wails. I grabbed a tissue and quickly shut the door. Taking a few steps toward him, I dropped to one knee and held the tissue out to him. “Here you go, pal. Use this to wipe off your face.” I should have known there was no way he would let go of the bike. His bicycle and backpack were the only familiar items remaining to him, and he clung to them for dear life. But I had no intention of getting any closer to wipe his face off. It turned out to be sort of a standoff, with the white tissue suspended between us. I finally gave up.

We were at the far back edge of my route. I knew everybody for several blocks in front of us, so I assumed he lived in the other direction. I pointed over his shoulder. “Do you live over that way?”

It took a moment for him to nod. Then he tried to speak. “Mom,” hiccup, hiccup. “My mom,” hiccup. Deep, shuddering gasps.

“Your mother. Is she home?”

His head wagged sideways, then he blurted, “I don’t know where she is!”

“Can you show me where you live?”

He nodded before reciting his address. It came out with a deliberate enunciation, like a student giving an answer on an oral exam. His house was just a few blocks away, but he had crossed at least one busy street to get here.

It seemed my options were few, especially since I was afraid he’d start crying again if I even looked away from him. I did not dare load him and his bike into the jeep. Besides, I didn’t think he would trust me that far. Where were all the nosy neighbors now, and why didn’t someone step outside to see what all the commotion was about?

“I’m five years old.”

The soft voice caught me by surprise. What was this, a glimmer of rationality? The tear-stained face looked up at me with trust and hope. His fingers nervously kneaded the grips on the handlebars.

“Five years old?” I echoed. “My goodness, are you in school?”

He nodded.

“What school do you go to?”

“Morris Park.”

That was good to know, because it was nearby, and if his mother didn’t show up maybe they could help me. I was still considering options when he said, “My name is Jermaine.”

Again I was surprised by his candid offer of information. But then it occurred to me that a five year old has a very limited repertoire of solid facts. This kid was all alone and couldn’t find his mother, but he was giving me everything he knew in an effort to do the right thing.

“My mom’s name is Danielle.”

That one nearly melted my heart.

“Okay, Jermaine. That’s great. You’re five years old and you go to Morris Park School. Your mom’s name is Danielle. You even know your address. You must be the smartest kid in your class.”

He started to smile, but got serious again real quick. “I’m only in kindergarten.”

“Kindergarten?” I exclaimed. “That’s my favorite!”

Now I got the smile.

“So, this is what we’re going to do, Jermaine. I want you to listen real good, because we have to have a plan, right?”

A nod.

“Good. Now, I want you to ride your bicycle, and I’m going to drive my jeep.” A shadow of fear crossed his face, so I quickly added, “But we won’t split up, okay? I’ll just drive along beside you.” I had no idea how I would pull that off, but I couldn’t let this kid start crying again.

I pointed down the street in the direction we would be going. “You stop at each corner and wait for me, Jermaine. I don’t want you crossing any streets unless I’m right next to you, okay?”

His foot was already on the pedal when he nodded at me.

We started off slowly. The tiny wheels of the bike prevented him from going very fast, but he pedaled for all he was worth. When we got to a busier street, I had to speed up a bit because of traffic. Locating him in the side view mirror took a moment, but when I found him, I immediately veered back to the curb. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk straddling his bicycle. I threw open my door to hear him screaming, “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you, Jermaine. I’m right here.”

Fighting through the tears he got back on his bike. After that, I turned on my hazard lights and idled along the curb to stay next to him. Jermaine kept a constant watch on me. I realized that to a casual observer this might look improper, that perhaps the mailman was up to no good, but people could think whatever they wanted. Jermaine had been through enough already, and I wasn’t going to abandon him.

Once we got moving again it took only a few minutes to reach his house. We pulled up in front of a modest dwelling with the telltale signs of a resident child: a deflated basketball in the yard and action figure stickers in the window. Jermaine watched as I climbed the steps to ring the doorbell.

Getting no response at the door, I asked him, “Do you have any friends in the neighborhood?”

He shook his head.

“How about neighbors? Do you know any of your neighbors?”

Negative. “My mom might.”

Coming down the steps I decided to check the backyard. “Wait here, Jermaine. I’m going to try the back door. I’ll be right back, okay?”

With no luck in the backyard, either, I had to decide which neighbor’s house to approach. That’s the other thing about a letter carrier’s uniform; complete strangers will open their doors to talk to you, and the time had come to enlist some help so I could get back to work.

But now there was a taxi parked behind my jeep, its back door hanging open. Jermaine was in the arms of the woman I knew must be named Danielle. Both were in tears, even though Jermaine was bawling his mother out for leaving him all alone. He was really mad, and I couldn’t blame him.

On my way to the jeep, I told her how proud she should be of her son. “He’s a smart kid,” I told her, bringing on a fresh round of tears. “He figured out what he needed to do to take care of himself.”

She explained that her car had broken down, and she had to get a tow truck and a cab. She had been worried sick about not being home when her son returned from school. For his part, Jermaine wouldn’t let go of her and didn’t look back at me. Even though he hadn’t really been lost, I was glad he’d found me.

I’ve never spoken to him again. He’s much older now, and I see him walking through my route or shooting hoops in the schoolyard with his buddies. He never waves or acknowledges me, but when our eyes meet, I know he remembers.

A Cup of Coffee

Snow had started falling around dinnertime the day before. Big fat flakes, without a wind to disturb the soft edges of accumulation. Coming down in thick swirls, it alighted so gently and swiftly you would swear you could see it pile up. By mid-morning of the next day, eight or ten inches of new snow redefined the landscape. The sun came out, sparkling with an eye-piercing brilliance off the glittering white surface.

Delivering the mail that morning was like walking in loose sand. Icy granules of snow packed down underfoot, then slid out from beneath my boots, making each step a lung-busting challenge. By lunchtime I was exhausted. Breaking new trail is hard work, and I still had four or five hours of walking ahead of me. My pace slowed. Instead of simply struggling and pushing through it, however, I decided to try to admire the beauty of the wintry landscape.

All the classic winter snow scenes appeared: cedar fence rails and posts bearing a delicate mantle of snow; dark green boughs of pine and balsam weighed down under fresh white drifts, occasionally revealing the brilliant red flash of a cardinal. A small charcoal grill, neglected for the winter on a front stoop, became a rocket ship with its cone head capsule of snow. Other items lost their identities altogether, indiscriminate lumps under the thick white blanket.

At one point I spotted a strange imprint in the snow near a row of bushes. A large bird, perhaps a hawk or owl of some sort, had scooped up a morsel of food. Individual feathers from the tips of the raptor’s outstretched wings marked the snow. From the impressive length of the wingspan, and the depth of the feathered imprints, I deduced that he must have been struggling as hard as I was in the snow. I could almost feel his exertion as he tried to pull himself back aloft.

The harsh scraping of shovels on concrete broke the snow’s hush. Plodding along, I came upon a trio of snow shovelers near the far end of the block. I had never seen the workers before. They must have been hired to shovel, but that seemed odd, because all the usual snow-removal outfits used plows or snowblowers. An enterprising youngster might earn some extra cash shoveling for neighbors, but these three were adults. They wouldn’t make much profit clearing snow by hand. Their old pickup truck, a rusty, dented, road-salt-encrusted wreck, was parked near the corner.

Drawing near, I saw there were two men and a woman, all with the long, shiny black hair of Native Americans. One of the men appeared to be too old and overweight for the physical strain. He took short breaks between scoops to catch his breath. The way he leaned forward, using the shovel for support, betrayed his age and discomfort. Even though the temperature was below freezing, none of them wore hats or gloves, and the big man’s coat hung open. When he spotted me, I groaned and looked away.

I felt him coming up the sidewalk behind me as I put mail in the slot. When I turned around, he greeted me with a broad grin and a glint of humor in his eyes. “
Aaniin niiji,
” he said. “Hello, my friend.”

Heavy swaths of gray hair along his temples and deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes showed him to be even older than I had imagined. I resigned myself to the inevitable request I had been expecting. He surprised me by asking, “Hey, my friend, do you have an aspirin?”

If he was trying to make a living by shoveling snow, I had no doubt that he was in desperate need of aspirins. I looked at his companions, leaning on their shovels and watching for my response.

His expression was open and sincere. I wished I did have some aspirins to give him. But I had to reply, “Sorry, I don’t have any with me.”

If anything, the old man’s good-natured smile grew even larger. “Well,” he said, “it was worth a try.” He waved an arm across the neighborhood. “Walking through all this snow, I thought you might have some.”

His voice was soft but resonated with a depth of character. With that and his impressive size and bearing, he could have been a leader of men had he so chosen. Perhaps he was.

Showing no inclination to leave, he repositioned his hands over the top of the shovel handle. His partners resumed working, and I took a moment to look at them. The woman was of an indeterminate middle age, with a tough look about her, as though life hadn’t always been kind to her. The other fellow was much younger and looked downright mean. But then, anyone with a tattoo on his face looks intimidating to me. The three of them were just the most improbable looking crew for a job like this.

The old man drew a deep sigh. I thought about offering him a couple dollars to buy some aspirins, but he hadn’t actually asked for money, and I didn’t want to offend him. I was puzzled, however, as to how they happened to be here shoveling snow. They certainly weren’t from around here.

I turned to move on, wishing I had something encouraging to say to complement the old man’s friendly smile. The thought of all the miles I had yet to walk crossed my mind, and I said, “You know, even better than aspirins, I wish I had a good cup of hot coffee.”

Once again his smile burst forth, this time revealing the gaps of several missing teeth. “Ah, yes,” he commented, nodding thoughtfully. “A cup of strong coffee would be good.”

His soft but direct response emboldened me, and I asked, “So, what brings you out here? I mean, I know the couple that lives here—did they hire you to shovel?”

His response was swift and to the point, as if he’d anticipated the question. “We’re staying at a shelter downtown. That’s my wife there, and my son,” he added, nodding at the pair of shovelers. “When the snow came, the people at the shelter asked for volunteers to help dig out the old folks.” He turned his head toward his truck and pointed to it with his lips. “I drive that old pickup, so I said we’d go.”

He told me more, then, adding that they would soon be heading back up north. I assumed he meant to one of the Ojibwe reservations in northern Minnesota.

“It will soon be syruping time,” he said, smiling. “My son is the best at boiling down the sap. Even the others bring their sap to him to cook. He knows just when the sugar is best.”

The pride in his voice was obvious. I looked over at the tattooed face, but the young man kept working, even though I was sure he had heard his father’s words.

“Well, I have to keep moving,” I said. “Be careful working so hard. Don’t hurt yourself in all this snow.”

He laughed with his mouth wide open. “And I hope you find a cup of coffee!”

We parted ways then, him to his shoveling, and me to my route. I felt a little bad, though, about the way I had assumed he was looking for a handout. Whatever the facts were about his circumstances, he had been nothing but polite and friendly toward me, and he was doing what he could to help someone else. Right about now I wished there were several more shovelers just like him out there clearing off the sidewalks.

Most Minnesotans take a pragmatic approach to their snow shoveling—that is, to wait until the last flake is down to avoid working the job twice. Because this snowfall had continued into the late morning when most homeowners were off to work, I was left to tromp my own path through the yards.

With so many retired folks in the neighborhood, however, I knew the snowblowers would be out any time now. Wearing lined coveralls and heavy, felt-insulated boots, the elderly men are amazing to watch as they attack the drifts of snow. They clear off their own sidewalks and driveways, and most of the neighbors’, too. They blow snow out of the alleys and clear the curbs in front of their houses. Their wives finish the job with a broom on the steps and stoop. I sometimes think that many of the wives come out simply to keep an eye on the men. Even with a five-horsepower machine doing the heavy lifting, operating a snowblower in the cold air can be tough on an old heart.

When the sidewalks and driveways are cleared, and all the neighbors are plowed out, the old men turn their snowblowers into the yards to open a narrow path for the letter carrier. Straight across the lawns they go, throwing massive arcs of snow, as well as branches, dead leaves, and clumps of sod. Each spring I encounter these same folks reseeding the lawns they destroy in the winter. On one of my blocks, the plowed pathway starts where I park my jeep and winds all the way to the far corner, connecting each house mailbox to mailbox. You can tell where one snowblower stops and another takes over by the various widths in the swaths they cut.

One year, when the snow was piled more than waist deep, crossing the lawn was like darting through the trenches in France in World War I. The neighborhood kids loved it, and, of course, so did I. I thanked one of the old-timers one day as he stood by his idling machine after clearing my path. The leather choppers on his hands vibrated and shook where they rested on the handlebars. His cheeks were bright red, his stocking cap stretched askew across his head, and his nose ran like an active four-year-old’s. “By the time you get all these clothes on,” he shouted, acknowledging my thanks, “and get the damn snowblower running, a fella might as well make it worth the effort.”

As if on cue, I heard a snowblower start up in the distance, and I rallied at the thought of walkways opening up soon. I
decided to take my lunch break to allow them time to clear some trail. The snow-shoveling trio had long since loaded up and left. By the time my break was over, the whine of two-stroke engines filled the air. I drove my jeep over to the next street and began my trudging all over again. At some point a routine is set, and the blocks and the miles slowly fall behind.

The noise from the machines sounded like the amplified drone of a beehive, even more annoying than the scraping of shovels on concrete. But the sound signaled the opening of my paths and much easier walking. I waved at a man across the street running a snowblower. He walked through a miniature blizzard as the mounds of snow blew twenty feet or more into the air.

At the corner, I looked up in surprise to see the old pickup truck angling along the street. Deep ruts in the snow pulled it one way and shoved it back another. Behind the wheel was the old Ojibwe man, and I spotted the woman sitting beside him pointing at me. The engine revved and roared as the rear tires dug for traction. Pulling over to the curb would be impossible, so he stopped the truck in the middle of the deserted street and rolled down his window.

I stepped off the curb into the unplowed roadway. The old man was laughing, and his wife giggled beside him. At the far side of the bench seat, the young man leaned forward. Did I detect a hint of a smile on his face? With the truck stopped, he passed something to the woman, who gave it to the driver.

“
Aaniin niiji,
” the old man called as he handed over a tall cup of steaming hot coffee. The heat from the cup radiated straight into my cold hands. The earthy aroma engulfed me. My pleasure must have been evident, because they burst out laughing again.

“I have aspirins, too,” he said, fumbling inside his coat.

“No, no. That’s okay,” I replied, holding up a hand. “This coffee is going to make my whole day.”

And with that, the engine revved, the truck slid sideways, and they floated off down the snow-covered street like a boat over a froth-filled stream. Their laughter quickly faded away against the background racket of snowblowers. The young man waved at me through the back window, and I raised the cup to him in a salute of thanks.