Safe

The hand that rocked the cradle was not my mother. It was my 2 year old cousin. I could not have been one year old and 60 years later, I still remember it as clear as if it was yesterday. I think the memory stays with me and is incredibly and indelibly etched in my mind, because the only really recognizable thing, the only truly and newly unumbilical attachment,  to a 6 month old infant is its mother, even more so than her nurturing, nourishing breasts, and maybe, used to turning to see her tender hand and slender fingers, when the cradle rocked, turned to see the half-handed stumpy, stubby baby fingers barely learnt to even bend, and a creature hardly greater in size that myself, rocking the cradle gently, and staring down the passage, out the doorway,  into the sun, deeply yet blankly, like an infantile prophet contemplating the unknown future, our future, for he, after, turned his gaze to me and smiled, knowingly. Maybe it was that shock, not seeing my mother, but this other whatever, whatever he was, that engraved the images permanently in my mind, heart too, and maybe, soul. And this was not some germ of infant imagination that morphed and metamorphosed, over time, into a vague childhood memory, because my late mother also confirmed the incident. And in truth, I don't think I was really shocked. I think when he turned and looked at me, I felt safe.

    10 years later, I watched the movie 'To Kill a Mockingbird' on television, and as a child identified with the children in it, but like everyone else, child or adult, who have watched it, was overawed with Gregory Peck or Atticus Finch; it didn't matter which, because the two became one, that evening. I can't remember if it was my cousin who told me to watch it, but I know he called me the next morning from his home, which was not far; up the hill, ‘round the corner and down the other side of the hill. He called from his parents' telephone and asked my mother to put me on the line.

    "Did you watch that movie last night?" he asked.

    "Yeah"

    "You remember Boo Radley?" he enquired further. Of course, I remembered Boo Radley. He is was the unknown protector of  the children, Jem and Scout.

    "Yeah" I answered him, and then he said, softly but firmly, "I am YOUR Boo Radley". And he was gone. Into nothingness. Into the dark. A disembodied voice embodying the dark, making it his world, our world. Neighborhood bullies and bullying neighbors didn't matter to me after that. That morning, and every day hence, and since, in that neighborhood, I felt safe.   

    A year later, I went from prep school to high school, the same school my cousin attended, but he was one year ahead of me. I realized, when I went there that he had already carved out his own little or huge world there. As new male students, we were constantly, and without provocation, being 'hazed' by the older, more senior boys. At that high school, they called it 'grubbing' or 'drubbing'; I really can't remember exactly what the term was, because it never happened to me. The first older student to approach me, never got to say even a word, as someone else warned him, "that's King's little cousin". I did not know that name, for that was not our family name, but I understood, immediately, that it was a reference to my cousin, as he was the only cousin I had at that school, and it was certainly an apt nickname, for he was obviously ruler of this world as well. My two eventual bestfriends, had a brother and sister, respectively, in my cousin's year, but it didn't exempt them from the older bullies, or pointless, meaningless, menial tasks, or losing their lunch money to some older, overgrown ogre and glutton. No one bothered me. Even those students in their fifth and final years seemed to fear and respect my cousin, and for my five years there, you already know how I felt. Safe.

Yet, you may be wondering, why I was safe for 5 years and not just four. In his fourth year, my cousin did poorly in his end of year exams; so badly that the school kept him back one year, and for our final two years, we ended up in the same class, and graduated together. In those two last years, his nickname, strangely and surprisingly, changed from King to Boo. I heard rumors, then and now, that he purposedly performed badly, so that he could stay back and look after me. I don't know if I believe that, because I'd like to think that after 3 years there, I could look out for myself, and the thought of it makes me feel as if I was some puny weakling that needed my cousin to defend me. I didn't and as I was far from puny. At fourteen, I was already 5'10” (two inches short of my adult height) and just 30lbs less than my current 225lbs. I didn't need anyone to make me feel safe. 

    Or so I thought. I went to a different college from him and learnt and discovered there that I was an expert at walking away from a quarrel and, if necessary, running away from a fight. I went to a college associated with our high school. He went partially to some posh, private, uptown college, his parents paid for. He quickly dropped out of college but still, however, ended up in a university in New York. I completed college, but went straight into a boring, white collar job. He eventually dropped out of University and disappeared in the anonymity of New York City. But he'd turn up every now and then, always fashionably dressed, involved in some fly-by-night business or the other. If no one in the family saw him, I did. He would pop by my workplace when he was in town to "check on" me, just as he used to pop up for no reason on my college campus. And the questions were always the same. "You ok?" "You're sure". He always left a contact number, "Just in case" and every time it would be a different number. Then we never heard from him again.

It's been 60 years now since I saw him that first time, rocking my cradle and ruling my world. I'm an old man now, or so most of the young women say. It's hard to believe I'm in New York and it's harder to believe that it's my first time here. I'm the last surviving member of the family, except, maybe, for my cousin if he is alive. New York is a place, it seems where you run into people you haven't seen for years. I visited Brooklyn yesterday, and another day earlier in week. Church Avenue, Flatbush, Utica. I was in those places for the first time. I don't know why I was down there. Maybe hoping to see my cousin, after all these years. Maybe that's why I'm in New York any at all. I saw many familiar faces, of people I don't know but all from where I'm from and my hometown; some older, some younger, none known to me, but who know me, and know people known to me, someone's father, someone's uncle, someone's aunt, mother, grandmother, granddaughter, son, someone's friend, someone's godmother, someone's cousin, but not my cousin. I could have got a drive back to Manhattan, with my late godmother's deceased husband's stepbrother's widow's 23 year old greatgrandniece, or dinner with my former high school best friend's ex-wife's divorced sister-in-law's 58 year old sister, both of whom I met for the first time last night, at a house party on East 53rd Street, between Church and Snyder (I'm reading a note, among notes and scraps of paper I was given), but I declined both invitations and took their numbers, though I don't know why. I made my way by train and foot back to my West 46th Street, Manhattan hotel room by myself. When I was in Brooklyn, everyone I met and especially at the party, referred to New York as "Boo York" but none of them knew or could tell me why they called it so. But, of course, you know, that I know why. And because I know why, I feel safe here in New York, or "Boo" York, if you like. Someone I knew and related to me had secretly and surreptitiously carved out his own little, or huge, world here as well.

Last night I was strolling 51st Street admiring churches (not prostitutes, though I saw a few and also, uncomfortably, thuggish young men as well). I had looked at an Episcopal Church, strolled further and was standing at a corner across from a Roman Catholic church (a cathedral it seemed to me). I was in the process of lighting my cigarette, when a voice behind me, asked, "You ok?". It was the kind of question one of those ladies of the night might ask, but the voice was too deep for a female..

      "Yeah" I answered.

      "Are you sure?"

I turned around and the person was gone. Just a disembodied voice embodying the dark. Ghost or gone? Or both? Some would be afraid. Not I. I felt safe.

I feel safe.

"The hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world" -William Ross Wallace