Boys Don't Cry

The Street Where They Lived

It was Christmas Eve, wasn't it?

The dusk brought chill that kept even drunk Mr. Willard from stumbling around singing Christmas carols on people's doorsteps.

Miss Mary Margaret Hughes, as she referred to herself in quiet, was a sixty four year old nurse who had lost her two sons to WWII. She lived alone, a widow, but not out of sadness. She had taken in a baby, most likely under the influence of some substance by it's mother, from social services. Her name was Rebecca Beatrice, the name of Mary's deceased sister. She lived in the less glamorous part of town, in the house she found after her London suburb was destroyed.

Usually, her street was occupied by drunks and the ill, but still of poor habit. Lately, she had become more attentive to the population of children. It seemed to her that the longer Daniel and James are gone, the more she missed them, and the more children seemed so novel.

It had come to the point where she would step out onto her porch step, and find a raggedy boy, the word creature comes to mind. He would be under a dirty, braided rug in the corner of the small porch, asleep and stirring.

Once, he woke up as she was there, but paid little mind, he simply got up and wandered away.

But he'd be back, spending around one night a month on the porch.

She had just finished soothing Rebecca for the umpteenth time when she saw him, drifting off into...

Striking her like an air attack, the thought screeched like an alarm.

What if it wasn't sleep? The cold was making her skin prickle with irritation. It was dry cold that took out the sick upon entering their bodies.

She kneeled beside him, joints aching and begging her, and began to rouse him.

He awoke easily, and looked up to her with big, black eyes. Getting up from the dirty step, he turned to leave.

"Little boy! Come in, please come in, my child."

She knew he wasn't dumb, he didn't trust her, but knew there might have been a meal, and followed.

He couldn't have been more than six, but thin as a rail, and smart when it came to survival.

He ate cheeses and breads first at the meal, taking in the fats and fillers, before going to the healthy foods. It offers more satisfaction, as well as insured the most caloric parts of the portion were consumed before they could be taken away.

It hadn't been easy for Mary to get, she had retired from nursing, and was short on money. It was beginning to concern her greatly, even when she knew she had enough to live out her years comfortably, and even financially provide for Rebecca. But, she poured him a glass of milk anyway. He didn't savor it by any account, but was undoubtedly grateful.

She smiled, and turned to run a bath. For once, she was uninterrupted by Rebecca, who wasn't dead, but slept quietly.

She returned to find the boy walking around looking at everything. Not reaching out to grab, just looking.

Taking his arm gingerly, she led him into the bathroom.

"May I?"

He didn't outright disagree, and she began to undress him. His clothes were made for a man, swallowing his nearly emaciated body. A fading bruise, brown and deep violet, yellow up the edges, the shape of a man's boot, was worn on the left side of his stomach, the yellow wrapping around his waist ever so slightly.

Upon lifting him into the tub, she saw his feet were cracked at the soles, toenails chipped and broken. The threadbare once-woolen socks had done nothing. Toddler's underwear, seams torn by his growth, had been kept relatively clean to his poorly kept behind. When you're homeless, she supposed, you don't keep around toilet tissue.