They were an odd pair, the boy and the man who sat beside him every day in the park. They had been meeting daily for months, each glad for the other person's company. It was unsightly, a woman once scolded them, that a mere child and an elderly person should be friends when they were no relation to one another. Words that the boy did not understand were thrown at them in muttered conversations between the middle ages, tossing accusations like "pervert" around as if it were mere fact that the encounters could have no other meaning.
At first the man was weary of befriending the child, knowing what it would look like to the rest of the world. Still, the day that the boy had sat down beside him on the park bench he had been unable to stop himself from beginning a conversation. Any parent would have done it, he reasoned. Any person who was from a time period far before "pedophile" was a common word wouldn't have even had the moment of hesitation that he had.
It was just that the boy looked so sad. When he sat down his head drooped so that his chin was nearly touching his chest, and his mouth was turned down into a miserable little frown. Though his feet dangled above the ground as he slid onto the bench, they remained hanging lifelessly rather than swinging back and forth.
"Something wrong, boy?" the old man asked, smiling kindly down at the boy.
Looking up in surprise the boy shook his head.
Chuckling a little the man said, "You look awfully sad for a boy whose got nothing wrong."
"It's not that nothing's wrong," the boy said finally, looking reluctant, "it's just that my dad says I shouldn't talk to strangers."
They exchanged looks for a long time, and for a moment the man was tempted to nod politely and let the bench fall back into silence. He probably would have, had he not noticed the way that the boy was still looking at him, as if wishing to be contradicted. It was the same look he remembered his son giving him years ago when he wanted to tell him something but wasn't sure how.
"Well you know," the man said cautiously, "if I introduced myself I wouldn't be a stranger."
The boy smiled just a little bit, "You wouldn't?"
"I don't suppose so," the man said, his eyes twinkling, "then I'd just be an acquaintance. My name's William McCarty."
"I'm Bobby," the boy said quickly, "it's very nice to meet you Mr. McCarty."
"It's very nice to meet you as well, Bobby," the man answered evenly. He paused a moment, as if to let the new introductions settle before asking, "so is that thing that's wrong anything you want to talk about?"
The boy hesitated, shifting in his seat as he thought through all the advice his father had given him. Then, glancing back at the man's kind blue eyes the boy knew that whatever advice his father had given him was for scary strangers, not acquaintances like the old man. "He didn't show up," the boy said finally, letting his breath out as though a very large secret had just been released. "He promised he'd come, but he didn't."
For the first time the man noticed something that he was sure he should have noticed long before then. Even as people passed them on every side as they sat chatting on the park bench, no mother stood hovering nervously beside her son. No father was nearby checking his watch impatiently. It seemed to the man that the boy was very much alone. Looking closer at his new acquaintance the man was sure that he could not be more than nine years old – much too young to be walking around the city without an adult.
"Who didn't come?" William asked, hoping that the boy's answer would answer his other questions as well.
The boy stared down at his shoes, blinking hard against the sudden moisture in his eyes. "My dad," he whispered, "he promised he'd come, but he didn't."
Understanding dawning on him the man said, "Was he supposed to pick you up from somewhere?"
Silently the boy nodded, brushing his sleeve against his eyes sneakily as a loud snuffle broke the stillness. "He was supposed to come see my music program at school," he said, "and then take me home."
"Do you need to call someone to get a ride then?" the man asked, reaching slowly towards the phone in his pocket. Adamantly the boy shook his head, and the man let his hand fall back into his lap.
"I don't want him to know where I am," the boy said angrily through his tears, "he promised to come and he didn't. He never does anymore. Ever since he went away he's been breaking promises. Well I'll show him… I'll run away and then he'll have to wonder where I've gone."
The man frowned, thinking of a father searching wildly for his son. He could imagine the guilt that would creep at him from all sides, could picture the worry that would suffocate him and the fear that would strangle him. "Surely that's not what you want," the man reasoned softly, "he'd be so worried about you, Bobby. And your mom too… Think of how worried she'll be."
"She doesn't care," the boy said quietly, sniffling again, "all she cares about is making sure that I'm not in her way. She won't even know I'm gone. Neither of them will until Rachel tells them I'm missing."
"And who's Rachel?"
"My nanny," the boy said, shrugging. "She's the only one who's really around anyway, and as far as she's concerned all I am is a smudge on her otherwise perfect day. She can worry too. They all can. It would serve them right."
"Let me tell you a story," the man said suddenly, looking down at the top of the boy's head. When he did not protest he began, "once there was a little boy, quite like you, who wanted everyone to keep their promises and have things back how they used to be. He wanted his parents to get along, and to get rid of the babysitter that always came by when he least wanted her there. His father, quite like your father, had trouble keeping his promises and often ended up not showing up for things when he said he would. Because of this, the little boy decided to run away."
The boy looked up, his eyebrows drawing together questioningly, "This isn't one of those stories that you make up about how you were really that little boy, and I'm supposed to listen to it and learn from your mistakes, is it?"
"No," the man said, chuckling, "not quite like that. You see, this little boy did run away just like you said. He let his father and mother worry, and you want to know what happened? They found him, and instead of crying with joy and all that stuff you see in movies they were very angry. The little boy was punished, and nothing changed except that, as the years went by, the little boy let himself become angrier and angrier at the situation."
Interested in spite of himself the boy asked, "So what happened?"
"He grew up," the man said softly, "he grew into an adult so angry and hurt that the soonest he could get away from his parents, he did. Now, even though his parents are sorry, and even though it has been nearly thirty years since all of this happened, the boy has never spoken to his parents since the day he graduated high school."
"Then what?"
The man looked down at him solemnly, shaking his head a little. "That's the end of the story," he said quietly, "not everything ends with 'and they lived happily ever after'."
"But that's stupid," the boy said angrily, "why didn't the boy talk to his parents if they wanted to talk to him? Why weren't his parents there for him in the first place? What was the point of all that? Who was the little boy anyway?"
"The boy did not talk to his parents because, as I'm sure you can imagine, he felt they were not there for him when he needed them most. His parents weren't there for him because they made a grave, terrible mistake in thinking that providing for him financially overruled spending the time with him that he deserved. The point, was to make you understand what happens in real life, and the little boy," for the first time in his answers the man paused, taking a deep breath, "the little boy was my son."
The boy was quiet for a moment, staring at the old man as he tried to understand what his last answer implied. Finally he seemed to realize, hot anger searing through him. He wasn't sure who to be madder at. He wanted to tell the old man that he was foolish and stupid for ruining his son's life that way, and yet, it seemed like he already knew. Looking at the kindness in the man's face he knew that he wanted to go find the son and tell him just how wrong he was, and how sorry his father really seemed to be. The boy didn't do either, just shook his head at the old man.
"Sir, do you love your son?" he asked him, his voice strangely quiet after all the storming he'd been planning to do.
The man smiled sadly, "With all of my heart."
"But you weren't there for him?" the boy clarified softly, "You didn't come when you said you would, and you didn't show up when he needed you?"
"After my wife and I split up things were hard," the man murmured, "It seemed like I was working all the time, but I never seemed to have any extra money. I was poor all my life, and more than anything I didn't want my son to go through the same thing. More and more I found myself trading time with him for an extra paycheck, and by the time I realized what I'd really sacrificed it was too late."
"Mr. McCarty," the boy said slowly, "I think I want to go home now."
Smiling a little the man nodded, "I'll take you back to your school," he said quietly, "and we can wait for your parents there."
They both stood up, the boy in an instant by sliding off the bench while the man took longer to pull himself to his feet. Though he was not yet old enough to need a cane, as he walked his back bent in a constant bow to those around him. Without hesitating the boy placed his hand in the older man's, closing his tiny fist around the man's palm so that he could lead him forward. The man followed with a smile still faintly on his lips. Together they strolled through the park, man led by child in a sight usually unseen.
"That was a nice story, Mr. McCarty," the boy said softly, "it's awfully sad about your son, though. Do you think he'll ever change his mind?"
"No," the man answered regretfully, "I'm afraid some hurt never goes away. Perhaps someday he will realize as I have how silly our feud may be to outsiders, but by then it will be too late to do any good."
"It's not silly," the boy said firmly, remembering all too well how angry he had spent the last few hours being at his father. He was still angry, just less willing to do something rash.
The man nodded knowingly, hobbling slowly after the boy. "I didn't mean that your anger was silly, Bobby," he said quietly, "Your anger is understandable. But there's a difference between a small boy being angry with his father from time to time and two full grown adults too stubborn to apologize to each other."
The boy glanced up at him, watching the way that the wrinkles on the man's face drew together, his eyes seeming to shine with an unspeakable sadness. More than anything he wanted to make the man feel better, and before he knew it he was speaking.
"Mr. McCarty, I have my third grade graduation next month," he said, stopping suddenly. "It's not a big deal like fifth grade graduation or anything. The teacher just hands us our certificates, and it's just our class that does it because she thinks that we should have a fun graduation every year, but I was just wondering if you'd like to come."
Surprised, the man looked down at the boy, meeting his eyes silently. On the boys face was not the look of someone who was carelessly inviting whoever he saw to an event, but someone who wanted more than anything to hear him say, "of course I'll come." He could remember his own son, passively mentioning events that had secretly meant a lot to him. Guiltily he could also remember not taking the invitation.
Meeting the boy's eyes the man spoke, each word a promise to them both. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
And he didn't. When the boy received his diploma there was the man, filling a seat that had been left empty too many times before. Every evening since the day the boy had run away they met at the park bench, talking and laughing together like two old friends. In those moments where their laughter became intermixed and their voices were one and the same, age seemed to disappear. Rather than an old man and a boy sitting side by side on the bench, two friends sat sentry, laughing into the evening about the follies of the rest of the world.
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