A hand to hold

Boris shoved his bare hands into his trouser pockets, stretching them out in an attempt to rouse the feeling he lost in them long ago. One of his fingers popped out of a tattered hole, only to be buffeted by the mid-December gale. The boy sighed, squeezing his hands into protective balls, barely shielded by the thin material of his pockets. 

Across the icy road, a banner wrapped around a dingy shop without a name, loudly proclaiming in bold black letters, “Second-hand, vintage, antique, thrift.” The open sign was just visible between two racks of ladies sundresses, untouched since last August.

Boris shivered. His arms were only covered by the cardigan his mother had given him two Christmases ago, before what had happened between them. Since then his limbs had grown nearly twice as long, and the sleeves only reached just below the elbow. He sifted through the contents of his pockets until he extracted all the change he had: a dollar seventy-five. 

He frowned at the measly earnings of a day’s work. Goes to show how much people really care about the unfortunate like himself. He rattled the coins in his hand, mulling over whether he should buy a coat and gloves. He knows he needs them if he wants to survive another winter on the streets, but he doesn’t want to have to rely on the shelter again this week for supper. He’s been there too often as it is. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, after all — everyone always wants something in return.

Snow began to dust Boris’s shaggy brown head while he stared at the coins. Blood teased escape inside the many cracks and splits on his palms. Hunger could wait, but his hands wouldn’t survive another night like this.

Boris cut across the street and ducked into the thrift shop with the tinkle of a bell. 

“Evenin’” The cashier greeted him from behind the morning paper. Boris only gave him a quick nod before he hid himself behind a coat rack stuffed with browns, blacks, and grays. They were certainly never top of the line coats — not in the last fifty years, at least. They were coats worn threadbare, still to be used for decades to come. Exactly what Boris was looking for. 

He flipped through each garment until he found one decently priced at a dollar twenty-five: a brown wool coat without any holes, though a bit big. He snatched it off the rack and grabbed a pair of gloves from a basket as he hurried to the counter. 

“That all?” The cashier peeked over the top of his paper. Again, he only received a curt nod from the boy. 

“Two bucks.”

Boris stared at the back of the paper for a long moment, hoping the man would correct his mistake — but he didn’t. Boris anxiously pulled out the tag from within the many folds of the coat, dreading what he already knew to be true: he had misread the seven for a two. He glared at the coins, willing there to be just one more quarter. Please. Just one more. 

But that isn’t how life works. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Somethin’ wrong, kid?” The man’s newspaper was now folded up in his lap.

“Actually, I’ll just take the coat.”

The cashier looked from Boris to the coins being offered to him by blistered hands. His face contorted in a moment of guilt as he said, “You can just take the gloves, kid. It’s a helluva blizzard-” 

“It’s fine,” Boris snapped. “I don’t want to owe ya.” 

Before the man could protest, Boris was out the door and back on the street, slipping into his “new” wool coat. 

He knew it would come back to bite him in the ass if he had taken those gloves. People aren’t generous; and if they are, they want you to be too. It’s better to look after yourself and not bother with other people. At least that’s what he liked to believe.

As Boris sauntered down the street, he passed by his fellow bottom-feeders of the big apple, each with a story to tell and no one to listen. No matter what he believed, Boris still felt pity for them. He didn’t want to, and he certainly tried not to, but it always snuck up on him — just as the pain was sneaking up on his hands now, biting into his bones like icepicks. Perhaps he needed the gloves more than the coat. 

He turned down a deserted alley between two low-rises to shield himself from the wind and slumped down beside a pile of trash. Pulling the coat snug around himself, he burrowed into it and tucked his aching hands into its over-sized pockets. They were deeper than he imagined. Deeper still. And deeper and deeper. They never seemed to end. 

Something cold and clammy brushed up against his hand in one pocket. Then the same thing brushed against his hand in the other. It would’ve been fine — just treasures lost in a timeless coat — if they hadn’t been grasping at him. 

His hands shot up as if they were dunked in bubbling hot oil. But the phantom hands slithered right up along with his, and one caught onto his wrist before he could escape. The baleful outline of dark fingers clutching his arm sent a jolt of fear down his spine. 

“Let go!” he screamed, trying desperately to free himself. But the hand held tight, as if releasing him meant plummeting to its death. Boris struggled to get on his feet while one arm was being used as climbing rope, but he managed to push himself up with the other. And then he pulled and twisted and finally wrested himself free from the clutches of the disembodied hand, losing balance and falling square into the pile of trash with a plop. He scuffled around in the garbage with the coat, making all manner of fearful grunts and wails. Any passerby might have thought the boy was struggling with another person rather than the coat on his back.

Whenever one arm was finally relieved, the other was sucked right back in. They continued this game of cat and mouse for several long minutes. No matter how many times Boris shrugged off the coat, it always wrapped around him again snugger than before.

“Please! Just let me go,” he begged, frustration cracking in his throat. Eventually his thrashing settled down into a gentle flailing, and his ragged breath calmed. The coat loosened around his body, and three tiny fingers peeked out of the left pocket.

“Are you a…ghost?” His question was barely a breath, audible by none but the tormenting hands. Both of them rose up from the pockets and shrugged as best as two hands could without shoulders. That made Boris smile for a moment. It reminded him of a cartoon. But then he remembered he was being held hostage by a garment. “Are you gonna kill me?” He croaked. Its answer was a swift wave back and forth as if to say “absolutely not.”

“Then what do you want?” He asked. The hand on the left reached out farther than it had before until it was fully visible in the dim glow from the street. It was a delicate hand, probably that of a child’s, with dark skin stretched tightly over fragile bones. It took Boris a moment to realize it was trying to grab his hand again. He flinched away. 

“Oh no. No more touching. You can go haunt somebody else, Casper. I’m done.” Boris wrestled once more with the coat, this time with added vigor. And he would’ve been successful too, had the nasty little goblin not grabbed his face. It stretched out its arms to a disquieting length and shoved his head back — everything went dark. 

A blurred world came into view. He saw not with his eyes, but within his mind’s eye; like a dream and a memory — not quite real, but not imagined. He became aware of a woman speaking to him. “Momma’s got to go, Lula. I’ll be back before you can say Betty-” She bopped Boris on the nose playfully. “Boop!” He giggled in a sweet, feminine voice that wasn't his own as her crimson heels clicked away down the sidewalk. He imagined she was Dorothy, off to see the wizard. Beside him sat a dark-skinned man, shame etched in every crease on his face. His arms were thin and bare. Boris had never seen the man before, but he knew he was his father. “First fired, last hired” was what the people around them whispered.

“Did your momma come back yet?” His father asked from his nest of soiled newspapers. It was darker and colder now. Ever since she left them months ago, he had been doing all he could to take care of his father. But he never moved from his spot anymore. Boris vaguely noticed the hot tears scorching his cheeks as he suddenly found himself clutching his father’s hand — but it was cold and limp. 

People crowded around him, but he still felt so alone. They were all broken and lost and hurt like him, each of them in need. He couldn’t stand to see them suffer, so he gave away all he got. “Bless you, young lady.” Was all they ever said, and nothing more.

“Momma?” Boris coughed out as a woman in red heels walked by. She didn’t even look at him. He snuggled deeper into his coat, beyond hunger and cold; only fear remained. It felt like years had passed since his father died, and longer still since his mother had gone. All he had left was the old coat on his back. He dug around inside the pockets, searching desperately for something to hold onto — somebody to hold his hand while he was so afraid of what would happen next. But nobody was ever there for him.

The alley twisted and distorted until it was no longer tinged with the haziness of memory. Boris felt his knees give out as his own past came rushing back, replacing the one that encroached upon his mind. His father was still alive, as far as he knew. And his mother… well, she did leave him. But in a different sort of way. 

Briefly, Boris struggled with his own identity. Having the memories of two people floating around in your head is enough to confuse even the brightest person — and Boris wasn’t the brightest person. He felt all her suffering and fear, and for a fleeting moment he wanted to do nothing but help. 

But then he remembered he was Boris, not Lula. Boris who knew that you don’t have time to help other people when they wouldn’t help you; the girl’s memories were proof enough of that.

Lula’s little fingers curled around the edges of the pockets. She seemed less enthusiastic than she was earlier. Drained, almost.

“I don’t know why you showed me all that. I still don’t know what you want,” Boris said. Lula strained to stretch her arm out, grasping for his hand. He recalled her last moments of life, snuggled in a ratty coat and searching for comfort in its pockets — she never found it. All that kindness she spread, and none of it was ever returned. His heart twinged.

But where was his comfort? Who held his hand when the only person he loved kicked him out? No one. He cared for his mother every day, and how did she repay him? By disowning him for something he couldn’t change about himself.

He shrugged off the coat without any resistance from the little poltergeist. 

“Go find some other sap to haunt,” he muttered, tossing the coat onto the pile of trash. Boris tried not to look back as he slunk down the alley, trembling without any guard against the bitter wind — but he did anyway. 

He never could understand why he felt pity for other people. Caring only ever led to trouble. But it always snuck up on him.

Lula’s little hands were searching for his, hopelessly digging through the garbage for someone to hold her. It was pathetic, and all Boris could think to do was run. And he ran and ran. Past an old man shambling down the street, and the thrift store now closed up for the night. He ran until he skidded across the icy pavement and fell hard on his back.

He stared up at the snow flurrying above him. He didn’t want to help her. And he wouldn’t. He was going to stay right there until he felt like getting up and going in the opposite direction. That was decided. But there was that nagging pity again, tugging on his guilty conscious. He laid there for a good while grappling with himself over a decision. In the end, guilt won the battle, and Boris sighed in defeat. He knew nobody else was going to help that girl, and for some reason that bothered him more than usual.

He got up and hurried back the way he had come, kicking up snow and slipping on sleet. He slid to a halt and turned down the shadowy alley toward the pile of trash where he discarded Lula. 

He froze — the coat was gone.

That was impossible. He left it there no more than ten minutes ago.

He got down and scrambled through the garbage. But it was no use, the coat wasn’t there. Frantically he searched the area on hands and knees. But again he found nothing but waste. 

Somebody must have taken it. 

Boris slumped back on his heels, taking in a deep breath. Perhaps it was for the better. Maybe they’ll help her, though he knows that’s not true. Whoever they are, they’ll just throw her out as soon as her little hand touches theirs — just like he did. Boris shivered, rubbing his arms. He couldn’t help the girl, and he spent all his money on a coat he threw away. That’s life for you. 

Suddenly the cold was gone. Something warm covered his quaking form, and he looked behind him to see an old man setting his coat over his shoulders.

“You looked cold. Thought you could use something warm,” the scruffy old man said. His toes stuck out of his shoes, and he was only wearing a beat-up shirt; just as cold as Boris, no doubt. Boris didn’t know what to say except, “what do you want?” half expecting the man to want something revolting in return. But he knew it wasn’t the right thing to say when the man looked hurt. “Just thought you looked cold.” He sniffed as he shuffled away.

“Thank you!” Boris shouted after him. The man turned and gave him a genuinely warm smile before he vanished around the corner. Boris pulled the coat closer around himself, pondering the man’s kind gesture. He didn’t believe people were really capable of kindness without hidden intent, other than Lula; but look where that got her. 

As he contemplated his whole outlook on the matter, the over-sized coat began to feel very familiar to him: the long, scratchy sleeves; the missing buttons down the front; the chocolate color he could hardly see in the dark. And then he realized it wasn’t just any old coat, but the very one he was looking for. 

“Lula!” He shouted, scouring the pockets for any sign of the ghost girl. He couldn’t believe that he actually found her, or rather that she found him. If it weren’t for that selfless old man, Lula would have walked away forever. 

“I’m here. I came back, Lula.” His hands went deeper and deeper into the phantom pockets, but every time he thought he felt her cold skin, she scurried further away. “Where are you going? I’ll help you, I promise.” He wildly rummaged around within the coat to grab hold of her. But she just kept avoiding him. 

Boris wrenched his hands out of the pockets and crossed his arms in frustration. He couldn’t understand why she was acting this way. Was she really that upset with him? He could see her hands moving around beneath the fabric. “Please, Lula. Come out now. I’m sorry I threw you out. I was wrong. There are good people out there. And maybe if we were all a little bit more like you, bad things wouldn’t happen as often — especially to the good people.” Boris buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said again. 

A finger poked out of one of the pockets. Then another and another, until Lula’s whole hand was out of the pocket. She reached up and gently caressed Boris’s hand. He jumped at the sudden contact, but soon a smile spread across his face. 

“Do you forgive me?” He wondered. Lula responded with spirited thumbs up. Boris chuckled. “I’m glad. Now, are you ready?” She wrung her hands together, squeezing her fingers. “You don’t have to be afraid this time. You’re not alone anymore,” Boris reassured her. Then he took her hands in his and held onto them tight. 

Maybe nobody held his hand when all seemed lost. But Lula clinging to him now with all the force of a child who finally found their way home was far better late than never. 

“Goodbye, Lula,” he whispered as her hands faded away. Boris was surprised to feel two small arms wrap around his neck. “Thank you, Boris.” Her sweet voice chimed in his ear. And then she was gone. The coat was just a coat again, and nothing more than that.