 The Guardian (Copyright © 2005 Leslie Poston) | |
Copyright © 2005 Leslie Poston
The Guardian
Meleah and Robbie had been fighting off and on all day, scouring the streets for cans and discarded clothes to give to the poor. They were using a shopping cart they’d found in a ditch after the demise of her brother’s favorite red wagon, which had started the fight – they didn’t have money for a new one. Robbie was angry with her for making him give the cash from the cans to the needy instead of putting it aside for a new wagon. She’d tried explaining that she thought it was important to help others as much as they could, because once they’d been in the same situation. Robbie didn’t remember those years, though, so it was wasted breath.
She puffed a cloud of air out in frustration. If she’d known how hard it would be to have guardianship of her brother after her parents were killed, she might not have decided to fight so hard for it, but then they wouldn’t still be a family. Each of them would have gone on to different foster homes and slowly drifted apart. There were no relatives to save the day for them. Those first years had been lean – always living just ahead of the child welfare agencies and teetering on the edge of starvation, but they’d made it.
At first she was distracted from caring for her brother by her sadness and anger – her parents’ death had been deemed an “accident” by the government, but she hadn’t been able to believe that at first. Time and maturity had calmed her eventually. At least now she could sleep at night, and she’d gotten a raise at the restaurant. Thank the stars for the restaurant, she thought. If Al hadn’t been willing to take pity on her and quietly hire an under-age waitress for cash under the table, she and her brother would have truly been at the mercy of the elements and the system.
Robbie broke into her reverie, asking if they had much more to do. He was shivering, cold from wandering the streets all morning. Meleah relented, saying “Sure, Robbie, we can go home now. Just a quick stop by the can machine and then the shelter to drop of the money and clothes, ok?” Robbie nodded petulantly, and Meleah retreated back into her thoughts, not wanting to argue any more. She was worried about Al. He’d been the closest thing she and Robbie had to a father since she was 14 and Robbie was 3, and he had started to finally look older. That scared her – she didn’t want Al to leave her, too.
Suddenly, Robbie, hollered in alarm. Lost in her head, she’d bumped their carriage right off the curb. “Sorry Robbie.” She murmured, “Did I hurt you?” “No,” he replied, “just scared the crap out of me!” That made her grin – Robbie and his dramatic little sayings. She had no clue where he got his dramatic streak. Just then, a sinister looking man in a black coat and hat ran up to their carriage, grabbing Robbie’s arm and cramming what looked like paper into it, running off as quickly as he’d come.
“What the – HEY! YOU! Get back here! What was – Robbie, give that to me this instant.” Meleah cried. He handed the paper over to her without a word, a strange, pale look on his face. He looked warily over his shoulder, scooting closer to his sister. Meleah unfolded the sweaty wad of paper, discovering it was an envelope with her name on it. She took Robbie out of the carriage, and walked him over to the curb – her knees were knocking and she suddenly needed to sit down. Seeing her name on this envelope had completely freaked her out. She opened the envelope. Inside was a note, addressed to her as well. It said:
Dear Meleah:
I have written and re-written this letter a thousand times over, never judging it good enough to send. In the end, I just need to do the right thing, regardless of my own guilty conscience.
I was responsible for the death of your parents. I know that must be so hard to hear, now, years later, when I should have come clean with you before. I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do. I was friends with your father – we worked together – and when the company offered to send us to Europe on a business trip with our wives, we both jumped at the chance. We went out partying, night after night. Your parents took care of the rest of us – they didn’t want to party as hard as we were. They were always more concerned with getting back to the hotel room at the right time to call you so they wouldn’t accidentally call while you were sleeping and wake you.
One night, just a day before we were scheduled to leave, I started a fight with some other American tourists outside a tavern. Your parents got caught in the middle of it. Your mother tried to stay out of they way, but was pushed into the street. Your father looked up and saw her and immediately ran out to carry her to safety. They were both struck and killed by an oncoming lorry – the driver never even saw them there in their black business clothes.
I’ve felt responsible all these years – that fight was my fault, after all. I have no children, and my wife left me when we came back to America. I certainly can’t blame her for that. Anyway, with you in mind I have been saving money for you and for your brother. I know how much your parents loved you, and that they were young and couldn’t have left much in the way of savings.
At the bottom of this letter you will find a bank account number and address. It goes to an account opened in both your names. Please accept the money, even though it is from the guilty conscience of a weak man, and use it for college for both of you.
Bless you both.
Meleah crumpled the unsigned letter in her hand and hugged her brother to her chest, crying. She wasn’t sure if the tears were for her parents, for the sad man in the hat, or for sheer joy and gratitude that someone had just given them a future she knew she would grab with both hands and hold tight. She kissed Robbie on top of his head and said, “Robbie, maybe one more stop after the shelter – looks like we need to go to the bank”, then she beamed at him and promised to explain later as she led him down the street at a trot, carriage in tow, running toward possibility.
Copyright © 2005 Leslie Poston
Winter 2005 Writers Weekly Contest Entry |
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