A Dad Of His Own. Diana Whitney
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“You keep it safe for me, child, until I find just the perfect place for it.”
He swallowed hard. “You mean it?”
“I do indeed. Deirdre?” In less than a heartbeat the pretty, dark-haired woman stepped into the room. “Will you please call a cab for young Mr. Margolis? He has a bus to catch.”
Deirdre flashed Bobby the brightest smile he’d ever seen in his whole life. “Of course.”
At the doorway, Bobby hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. “Danny was right. You’re a real nice lady.”
Clementine’s chuckle startled the snoozing cat. “Thank you, lad.”
His gaze flickered to the small wad of bills and scattering of coins on the corner of her desk. Chewing his lip, he motioned to Deirdre, who bent down so he could whisper in her ear. “Do you think that’s enough money?”
“More than enough,” Deirdre whispered back. “Clementine doesn’t care about the money.”
“Then why does she do stuff?”
“For the children, of course. It’s always for the children.”
The house was larger than he’d expected, old and quaint, with fading gray clapboards and a covered porch hung with a riot of blooming flowers. A pair of peaked-roof dormers protruded from the second story like startled eyes keeping watch on the neighborhood. The lawn was sparse, closely clipped but barren in spots, as if well used by the same children who played there now. Happy laughter echoed in the dry autumn air, a universal symbol of boyish joy.
A fat gray cat sprawled on the porch rail, tail twitching in time to the music blasting from one of those massive portable stereo units with speakers powerful enough to blast paint off a wall. It blared with the pulsing discordance popular nowadays, although the undulating rhythm made his teeth ache and raised the fine hairs along his nape. Aggravating adults was the purpose of youthful music. In that context, the chaotic sounds emanating from the shiny black boom box had done its job.
The entire image was enthralling, the scampering children, the biting noise punctuated by thrilled laughter, hoots of joy. Memories in the making, he thought, sweet images of childhood that would someday be cherished beyond measure. Childhood was such a fleeting thing. His own had ended all too soon.
From his vantage point across the street, he gazed out his car window at the youngsters playing soccer on the scuffed lawn. A gregarious blonde was the leader, a shouting, whirling, whistling bundle of knobby-kneed energy shrieking orders like a five-star general, orders that his teammates cheerfully ignored. A sweating, heavyset child puffed around the makeshift field as if every step was an effort. Others encouraged him, included him, although it was painfully apparent that the chubby child’s soccer skills were far below those of his friends.
Joining the game was a lanky youth with hair shorn over the ears to leave a peculiar hank at the crown pulled into a ponytail, and a youngster wearing a ripped football jersey who seemed to be the clown of the group. He pranced, danced, cheered, jeered and wiggled his bony butt at the slightest provocation, much to the delight of his giggling comrades.
There was also a boy slightly smaller than the others, quieter, wearing a white T-shirt so huge it hung nearly to his denim-clad knees. Tufts of straight brown hair poked out from under a blue baseball cap worn backward so the bill covered his nape, but exposed large, anxious eyes.
It was this boy who tossed a chummy arm around the heavyset child’s shoulders when a kick-pass was missed. The smaller boy said something with a grin and a shrug that made the chubby youngster smile. He liked that.
In fact, he liked everything he saw. The hoots and hollers of kids at play, the sweaty little faces and the whirling energy of youthful exuberance on a clear Sunday afternoon. Even from a distance he could see that the boys were very different from each other, every bit as unique in style and personality even at this tender age as the adult men they would become. Each of them appeared happy, well cared for and loved. Each undoubtedly possessed special talents, specific gifts. Children at play, laughing, eager, filled with joy. A lump lodged in his throat as he watched, awestruck.
He wondered which one was his son.
“Bobby, lunchtime!”
“Aw, Mom, five more minutes, please?”
Stifling a smile, Chessa Margolis forced a parental firmness that had never come easily. Her son was the light of her life. She adored him beyond measure, and was loath to deny him anything, preferring to wheedle his acquiescence rather than insist upon it. “It’s up to you, sweetheart, but the pizza will be cold by then.”
“Pizza?” Bobby straightened, eyes huge, shoulders quivering. Rotating the black-and-white soccer ball in hands that seemed too small for the task, he angled an apologetic glance to his disappointed teammates. “Gotta go.” He flipped the ball to his best friend, Danny, a skinny blond dynamo who lived two houses away. “Later, dudes.”
Ignoring grumbles from his buddies, Bobby snatched up his beloved boom box, hit the porch running, dashed through the screen door his mother held open for him and skidded into the kitchen, sniffing the air like a hungry hound dog.
“Wash your hands.” Chessa waited for Mugsy’s unhurried entrance before releasing the screen door, which squeaked shut with a hollow shudder. “And take off that filthy hat before you eat.” A peek into the kitchen confirmed that the grungy blue baseball cap had been hooked on a peg by the back door while Bobby scrubbed up in the kitchen sink beside a large bowl of whole peeled apples waiting to be sculptured.
Wiping clean hands on his dirty T-shirt, Bobby spun from the sink, bounced into the nearest chair and helped himself to a slice of the freshly baked pizza. He bit into it without a trace of fear, as if a blistered mouth was small inconvenience compared to the joy of devouring his favorite food.
Chessa turned off the blaring radio on her way to the sink, eliciting a muffled protest from her chewing son. “You know the rules. No television or music during meals.”
Having polished off one slice of pizza, Bobby reached for another. “Danny’s got a new pair of sneakers,” he announced between chews. “They’re really cool. You can pump them full of air and stuff.”
“That’s nice.” At the sink, Chessa completed the apple processing with a diluted lemon juice bath, then set them into a colander to drain. Later that afternoon she’d carefully carve them, dry them and use the unique results to create country craft dolls that provided a tidy second income for Bobby’s college fund.
“I wish I had a pair.”
“A pair of what?”
“Air pumps, like Danny’s.”
“Oh. Do you have enough money saved up?” When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder. He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “How much more do you need?”
A limp shrug. “A lot.”
“There are some extra chores around here I could use some help with.” She set the draining apples aside and wiped her hands on a tea towel. “We’ll sit down and count out exactly how much money you have, then we’ll calculate how much more you need and—”
“Never mind.” Pushing away his half-empty plate, Bobby leaped up from the table with startling speed and an expression that could only be described as apprehensive. “I don’t want to count money and stuff.”
“Managing finances for things you want is important, sweetie. You know that. We do it all the time. That’s how you saved up for that remotecontrol car you love so much.”
Eyes darting like a cornered cat, Bobby snatched up his radio, sidestepped toward the door. “Can I go outside now?”
“You haven’t finished your lunch.”
“I’m not very hungry.”