The Bird That Flew

chapter six

Saturday night, after his family had fallen asleep, Zoltan quietly went down the stairs once again to make a bowl of leftovers to bring to the homeless man the next morning. He frequently looked behind him from all angles to make sure no one was coming down the steps. Again he hid the bowl in a plastic bag and set it behind the juice.

Graduation would be in exactly four days, but all Zoltan could think about was getting the poor old man the help he needed. He knew there was some sort of key to the bitter man's heart, but he wasn't so sure he should even try. He was scared to be around him still. They didn't really know each other.

After the morning bus droppd him off in the city, Zoltan decided to walk past the old library where he could have gotten a job. He wondered if he should walk in to let the owner know his father would not allow him to work there, but he thought it would be too painful and didn't want to further embarrass himself. Plus there were books overdue he had borrowed that he was now too afraid to return for fear from facing the owner. He turned away from the building in shame and continued walking toward the church, clinging tightly to the bowl of leftovers.

When Zoltan reached the church he made haste to the courtyard as it was starting to snow a bit heavier than before. He turned into the corner and saw the homeless man lying on the floor with his hands folded under his head. His eyes were not open.

Zoltan's heart dropped as his hands went numb. He placed the bowl of leftovers on the floor and knelt down next to the man and began to shake him gently.

"A-a-are you awake?" Zoltan stammered as he tried to see if the man was breathing. "Please tell me you can hear me?"

The old man suddenly opened his eyes and chuckled.

"Fool!" he said through the chuckle, positioning himself up from the floor. Zoltan was shocked and looked at him for a good while before he could respond.

"Of course I'm alive, you old dumme gans," the old man said, straighetning himself up, still seated on the floor next to Zoltan, whose face was now red with embarrassment.

Zoltan felt a little offended that the old man was clearly making fun of him but said nothing. He reached behind him and handed the old man the bowl of leftovers. This wasn't about him, he decided.

"Kept it as warm as I could," he said as the old man took it from his hands. "Same thing as last Sunday; spaetzle." he added as he shivered from the cold.

"Doesn't your mother cook anything else?" Stanislaus asked as he digged around in it with his fork, not very pleased.

"We don't have much money," Zoltan replied.

"Oh. I understand that very well," the old man said.

Zoltan felt a twinge of guilt inside, as the man himself literally had no money at all. Who was he to say that his own family had none?

"I didn't mean it, that way...," Zoltan said to him, feeling an apology was needed. The old man chuckled and just shook his head.

"No need to be sorry," he said, "only feel sorry that I eat just twice per week, and it is the same meal each time!"

Zoltan's eyes widened. Did he really only eat just two times per week? The old man noticed Zoltan didn't quite get the joke and then laughed heartily.

"You're too gullible, boy," he said warmly. "I am fooling."

Zoltan sighed. He looked down at a small rock on the ground and picked at it.

"You don't take kindly to jesting, do you?" the old man asked, he took a bite of the spaetzle. "You--you're not one of the easy-going types, eh?'