Grape

LuAnn Williamson                                                           about 1000 words

2712 N 49^th St.                                                                   lstormeyes@earthlink.com

Omaha, NE 68104

402-932-7998

Grape

By LuAnn Williamson

Grape, my all-time favorite flavor in the world.  A passion that fortunately neither my Brother nor my Sister shared.  God was having an especially good day when he—or she—created the grape. Snack food in the workplace. Grape juice had been the drink of choice through my childhood. Wine became the drink of my adulthood. I flirted with cocktails, even liqueurs, but give me a slightly chilled glass of semi dry chardonnay and I’m happy.

Not that the sticky, gooey melting confection I held in my hand, bore any real resemblance to the fruit of famer’s markets and produce stands. It was purchased just moments ago from the ice cream van, that despite my adulthood, I still privately thought of as the ding-ding man.

It was purchased because, well, I was hot and sweaty from working in my garden. And, to be honest, because I want one.

It also did not match my live green, eat healthy lifestyle. A bar of organically grown, frozen mashup of honey, agave and fruit sold at the health food store would have been more suitable to my self-created lifestyle.

Nope. This was a bar of all sugar, artificial flavor and extra time on the walking track form of sheet indulgence.

I peeled the wrapper off, my mouthwatering at the sight and smell.

I heard the squeal of the brakes on the street. Without thinking, I took off, sprinting down the block.

There was a neighbor child, a toddler, standing right in the middle of the street. The same child I’d reported to the police time after numerous times. The innocent offspring of a drug addicted Mother and a Daddy’s in jail Father. 

She’d managed to melt my heart the moment she’d turned her extra-large and very dark brown eyes my direction. She couldn’t say “Ashley.” So I became “Pasha.” Why that name? I have no idea.

I thought of the nose dive over the backyard fence that I’d managed to halt, just before that classically beautiful head would have hit the cement of my patio. I’d breathed a silent prayer of gratitude as my heart beat took its sweet time returning to a semblance of normal. New to the neighborhood, I’d knocked on doors, one after the other till I found a woman who answered the door with bleary eyes and disheveled hair. She mumbled a thank you as she took the child from me, diaper sagging from its overload.

I thought as I ran, about the calls to the Police, to CPS, even the Mayor’s hotline. I’d been thanked, reports filed. One social worker let it slip that her Mother was attending a drug and alcohol program.

I thought about the time I picked the trembling child up off the playground during a morning jog. She’d been threatened by a roaming dog. A dog that had stopped barking as soon as I spoke calmly to it. The Humane Society arrived long before the police. What does that say about society when a lost dog gets more attention than a lost child?

I relinquished her, to the Police, when I found her running naked down the street in sub-freezing weather. I found out that Pearl was her name. Her Mother, in one of her more sober moments, told me it was from the Bible, purchased at a great price. That day, I’d been treated to her entire life’s sad story over coffee, with her smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Most of the rest of my interactions with her were far less pleasant. Mostly they consisted of telling me to mind my own business, alternating with threats of beating my ass. Although not intimidated by her, I’d formed a bond with the tiny, helpless child who had learned, much too early how to open an unlocked door.

I felt a few pangs of longing for a child or two, hopefully in my future. All I needed was a husband. I already had the white picket fence.

An SUV rounded the almost blind corner at a much too high rate of speed. I would not allow myself to think about what would happen in the next few minutes as I forced my body into a final burst of speed.

Adrenaline coursed through my body as I made a last dash for the child. Triumph momentarily surged as I held her close to me. Then fear took over and I made a final leap backwards. The breeze from the SUV literally wafted over me. The passenger side mirror missing my arm by scant inches.

When I went back later, with law enforcement, there was a set of tire tracks and a large amount of rubber laid down on the cement.

I saw the SUV, black, and a newer model, pull over. A woman, early thirties, classic archetype of a soccer mom, complete with a bumper sticker proclaiming the fact, stepped out of the vehicle.

“Oh. My. God!” She exclaimed, trotting over to the place I was standing. “Is that your child?”

I shook my head. “Neighbor child. We have…um…history.” I managed to inhale enough oxygen to speak. “You were going a little too fast.”

She was shaking slightly. “I’m late to pick up my kids at practice.” The words hung in the air. I could only hope she saw how lame they were.

“Where’s her Mother?” The woman was sucking in air at almost the same rate I was.

“We’ve had…um…history,” I said. 

Pearl was busy at that moment, playing with my earbuds, still dangling out of my pocket.

“I tell you what, you do me a favor, and I’ll do one for you?”

“Mary,” she said. I saw her arm twitch as if deciding whether to offer to shake hands or not. “What do you have in mind?” Her voice was cautious but pleasant. I doubt she had many requests from random strangers.

“I’m willing to ignore the fact that you were speeding. It’s really my word against yours anyway. We’ll chalk it up to lessons learned. If you’ll call the Police for me. The more people we have reporting incidences like this, the more likely they will take permanent action.”

She nodded and her hand trembled a little as she pulled out her cell phone.

I stepped aside to give her a bit of privacy. I wasn’t looking forward to the almost endless police reports but I felt obligated to the little girl. Something caught my eye. A bit of litter. I bend down just in time to see the last of my Popsicle melting and running toward the gutter. Grape, my favorite.