For the Sake of a Boy

A young woman understands helplessness too well

In the purpling evening, Heather Moss stood halfway up Rosner Avenue, facing the front window of Jimmy Dorning's house. The big window almost seemed to be a picture: a thin frowning man with disheveled hair and a cigar stub sticking out of his mouth. He wore the obligatory sleeveless undershirt and baggy pants. In his hand, he held a belt.

Jimmy cowered on the couch looking at the man with a heart-wrenching mixture of emotions: fear, wariness, love, sadness, and hope. One arm was raised as if to ward off a blow. Another blow, she intuited. Jimmy's head was tucked down, and he was looking up at his father from the corner of his eye, watching the brutal, angry man with that hungry mix of emotions. There wasn't hate or anger, which she feared would appear in a few years' time. There was just a little boy who wanted his daddy.

The scene moved, finally. Jimmy nodded to something his father had said. He walked sadly to the steps, stopped at the bottom, and looked hopefully at Gordon Dorning, town drunk. The man half-raised the belt from across the room, and yelled loud enough for Heather to hear through half-open window. "Whaddya, stupid?! You aren't making any sense! Your mother's gone; you can't go see her, for chrissakes. She's dead!" Jimmy vanished up the stairs like smoke. The man sat down heavily in his chair, chewing the cigar stub.

Heather turned away. She watched something like this at least twice a week on her nightly walks—never anything she could report; but that look on little Jimmy's face always tore her heart.

Next day in class, Mrs. Moss gave Jimmy an extra milk before naptime; then she hung her head and cried as he dozed in safety...for a little while.


(Word Count: 300)