A Boy's Life

by Thomas J. Cox

Robert and his Mother lived at the Mercy of his Spinster Aunt until she died. He was eight the day his Mother took him into the Room with the High, Canopied Bed where the Old Lady, her Face gaunt beneath a Lace Cap, was dying. Her sharp Eyes darted. She rasped, "Get the Boy out of here, Lucy! Do you want to Scare Him To Death?"

Then she was Dead and there was No Money. Before long, all the Precious Things that had furnished the House of His Childhood - thick, brooding Breakfronts, great dark Sideboards, the rolltop Desk where his Aunt wrote Sonnets - were sold. The gaudy Bric-A-Brac, alabaster Virgins, fat ormolu Lamps with tasselled Shades, even the ancient Oriental Carpets were all trundled out the door and down the Red Brick Pathway.

His Mother clutched Robert until her Tears fell upon his Head. Soon after, the House was sold for Taxes.

They moved to an Efficiency with a linoleum Kitchen, patched Window Shades, and a Bathroom that smelled of Mildew. But there was a Table-Model Radio with a Cracked and Buzzy Speaker, which he could turn on before his Mother came Home from Work. He would meet her at the Door and dance her around the room to Squawking Melodies until she fell gasping onto the Divan and her Smile crumpled and she grasped him so hard his Frail Bones hurt.

Of his Father, she volunteered nothing. In answer to his oft-ventured Questions, she gave him the barest Outline: his Father was a Handsome Man But Weak; he Played the Trumpet; he had Run Away to Chile when Robert was a Mere Baby.

Once, when he was eleven, a Stranger came to the Efficiency and asked for his Mother. It was raining. Robert had spent the after-noon on the Window Seat with a Book of Poetry open in his Lap, watching the Rain-Tears form and slide down the Window Panes.

The Man was tall and dark. His Hair formed a Vee on his Forehead much as Robert's did. He carried a little Worn Black Case that bulged at one end and bore Travel Stickers from Far Places. Robert let him in, explaining that his Mother would be Home from Work soon. The Stranger did not respond; instead, he gently placed his hand on Robert's head. Robert pulled away; the man's Touch was not Unfriendly, but his Mother was the only Person who ever Touched him, and his Feelings Stirred Disturbingly. An Expression of Pain passed over the Stranger's Face, and he Turned on His Heel and left.

Robert recounted the Incident to his Mother, who made no response except to stand in the Doorway looking down the rain-glistening Street until it became Quite Dark....

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Thomas J. Cox, a retired management consultant, lives in Novato. This is his first time in print. E-mail: coxco@ix.netcom.com