Following the Steps of a Stranger

            The wisps of cold break through my jacket as I’m walking home, loaded down with shopping bags. I have just finished a shopping adventure with my closest friends in the world. We had all been saving for this “after Christmas break” shopping spree for months. Welcome to the land of New Hampshire. New England air is colder then any air that I know. Everyone on the street is in cars; I seem to be the only one on foot. Before I know it I am shivering. I momentarily set down my bags, reagust my knit hat, pull my mittens tighter and I then continue walking. Why was I walking? Because my house is only three miles from the mall and my mom had changed her mind about coming to get me.

“It’s not to cold! Walk.” Her shrill voice had assessed me from the pavement. Even then I had felt cold.

            I felt wetness leaking through my hat. I looked to the sky, and then stared out in front of me. I discovered another snowstorm. Five minutes later my boots are squeaking and I am walking as fast as I can to attempt at getting home so I could get warm. I stop again to gather my bearings and regroup my bags. A strong shiver goes up my spine, the kind you feel when some one shoves a snow ball down the back of your shirt during a snowball war. I heard the squeaking of boots, I looked down to my frozen feet which were still. The warnings of my deceased father ran through me.

 “If a stranger confronts you run! If he caches up, give him everything you have and call the police. If he won’t let you go, bite scream, kick, do everything you can to get away!”

I whip my head around to see a young man, with darker glasses, he is dressed in torn jeans and a washed out gray shirt. All that he has for a jacket is a thin sweater. He can only be about twenty, twenty five and yet his face has many wrinkles, worry lines across his forehead. My heart leaps to my throat. What if he is a rapist who’s plotting to have his way with me? I quicken my pace and discover I am only around three blocks to my house. I had always been told that many abductions happen not far from your home. Would this be the day a stranger would try for me? Would I be breathing by tonight?

            I reach into my pocket, work off my mitten and discover I have a ballpoint pen in there. I grip it, ready to stab and go for the eye. I start at a slight jog. The plastic bags bounce against my knees, this starts to hurt when the dreaded happens. Rip. Smash. My clothes and jewelry scatters. My mother had directed me to bring home a can of cranberry sauce. To the normal human race I suppose it tastes like jelly. To me it tastes like the kind of vomit you have when you get the flu and have nothing in your stomach. The can skids out down the street towards the man in the thin sweater who is still following me. He walks forward, picks it up and strides toward me.

            I try to run but my legs will not obey. In the back of my mind I not how I probably look like a dear caught in the headlights. Snow is piling up on the sidewalk. I can hear the crunching the wet snow is making against his boot. Wait. I look. He isn’t wearing boots. He’s wearing a pair of holey shoes; these shoes look like they’re made of cotton cloth and plastic. They are black and white. The holes in them look like little rips in jeans. I wonder if his toes are colder then my own.

“You dropped this.” His voice surprises me. It is not young and vibrant like the general twenty year olds that inhabit the earth. It sounds old and crackled. Like the voice of an eighty year old man. One who’s on his way out? I look at him and I am honestly seeing him for the first time.

            He is taller and skinny. He is one of those younger men who appear to never have enough to eat. I stare. His light sweater is faded and has holes all over it.

“Here.” He makes a gesture to hand it to me. His hair is somewhat greasy and his eyes appear tired.

“No, you keep it.” I look at him and force

a smile on my lips.

“Are you sure?” He appears guilty about taking it, as if I need another meal. I do not want that cranberry sauce. I do not want the bread or jewelry in my bags either. I want this man to gain some weight.

“Yes keep it. Oh and here. Please take this to.” I dig through one of the many bags for some rolls I had bought for my aunt. She favors them.

“No. No I couldn’t.” He looks like I am trying to hand him gold.

“Yes. Yes you can.” I shove them forward; I take his hand and wrap it around the bag. He looks at me and smiles. He grips the bag of rolls. He is not wearing gloves, his hands are ice cold.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

“I am but my kids are not.” He smiles.

            I continue walking. I think he is still fallowing me. I turn, he is. I don’t mind so much now. He does not seem like a danger. I turn on to my street. He is following me down there. I walk into my door throw everything down. I run to the kitchen and skid to a stop.

“Mom! I’m home!” I yell towards the stares.

“Did you bring the cranberry sauce? And those rolls that Aunt Jenny likes?”

“No!” I’m collecting food into bags. I run to the closet where we have kept all of our old jackets from the previous winters.

“What do you mean no?” She’s stomping down the stairs. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Helping someone who needs it.” I am carrying two large trash bags of coats and food. I stare down at the bottom of the closet and I see the furry winter boots that belonged to my father. I grab them and throw them inside a bag with the jackets.

“Where are you going with all that stuff?” She yells at me.

“I’ll explain later!” I walk out the door.

            I take off down the road and I see him, the man who looks so cold, he is only a few yards away from me. I walk slowly. I am suddenly over curious about where this cold man lives. He is striding forward, gripping the food I had given him previously as if someone were going to take them from him. Even from this distance I can see he is shivering. I am overwhelmed with how sad he seems.

            We cross the cemetery, the school and finally the bridge. We are on the other side of town. I am shivering to. The sun is beginning to go down. He turns down a street and I can see what kind of town I had wandered into. He walks into a small wooden house. The shutters are red and the snow here has melted slightly. I walk p the drive, there is no car here. I ring the bell but there is not a sound that sings. I wonder why. I lay a bag on the ground and nock on the door. A little girl with curly red ringlets answers the door.

“Who are you?” She asks. She can’t be older then five.

“I am a friend of your daddy’s. Can you get him for me?”

“Yup.” She leaves the doorway. I take the time to realize that she is wearing a coat inside. The coat is torn and old. He comes to the door. His eyes widen in surprise and his eye brows raze.

“It’s you.” He seems unable to understand why. I smile.

“Can I come in?” I ask. I have no fear of him. He is the man that offered me food when he is the one who needs it.

“He nods and holds the door for me. Inside are four kids. The red head, and older one who is about eight and a set of twins who have black hair like the man whose home I am in.

The redhead whose name I think is Gabby is telling the other’s who I am.

            “I have something for all of you but first,” I look at the father. “I would like to know who you are.”

“My name is Eric. I’m thirty years old. I work three jobs. I got laid off from one of them last week. Now I am struggling to pay the heat and get food for myself after I feed my kids. My kids,” His eyes brighten. “This is Gabby.” He looks to the redhead. “She is five and a half. I am not her f-a-t-h-e-r. He ran out on her mom when she was born. I have been there ever since then. Her mom died a year and a half ago.” He looks at the other redheaded child; she has keen green eyes and is holding Gabby on her lap. “This is Miracle. She is Gabby’s sister, so you know what that means. She is twelve.” This surprises me. Miracle is skinny and short. He looks to the twins. “This is Chris and Russell. They are both seven. They are mine. All of these children have the same mother, and the same father.” He winks at me. He smiles a sad smile, begging me not to spill the truth to Gabby. I keep my mouth shut. “Who are you?”

            “I am Sarah. I am fifteen; I live with my mom and aunt. My dad died three years ago. I am an only child. I do not work yet. My mom keeps saying school is my job. Today, my mom decided I was going to find my own way home. I walked. You found me.” I smiled at him. “Now I know you. Here.”

            They open the bags. He sees the food. They see the newer clothes. The boys pulled out two of the light blue jackets from when I was nine. Gabby pulled a pink jacket out from when I was six. Miracle pulled out a white sweater. This sweater cost a lot of money. It was from a very expensive store in New York. My grand mother had given it to me when I was twelve. It was sewn in with shiny gold string and had silver buttons. The string was embroidered in the shapes of flowers. She held it like it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She looked at me and said in a small, soprano voice,

“I can not take this.”

“Please. Take it.” I said, I smiled. “It would make me very happy.”

            She shrugs into it. It is extremely baggy on her; she smiles and wipes tears from her eyes. Eric takes the food and is placing it in the cabinets of they’re small kitchen. Before he put what I had given them in there, everything was barren.

“You have given us something I have not been able to give my family for a long time. You have given them a Marry Christmas. Thank you.” Eric said.

“I have to go now. It is dark out and I have a long walk home.” I say.

“I’ll walk you.” He goes to slip on the holey shoes when Gabby says,

“Daddy! Look! Pretty boots just for you!” He holds them. He stares at me. He looks to them. He puts them on and I hand him a pair of mittens and my knit hat.

“Thank you. You don’t even know what this means to me.” He looks at Miracle. “I’ll be home soon. Please make up the cranberry sauce and make every one a turkey sandwich.” He opens the door and we leave.

            “I’ll get my mom to give you a ride home. It is time she learns how to give.” I smile and he gives back what he can to me, a smile. I look at him and realize this smile is worth more money that anyone could ever give me.  

Author's Note

help me correct this?