“I don’t know,” I said, trying to find the right words. “He’s like some sort of rusty angel.” And that’s exactly what he was. That’s about as near as I was going to get to
explaining him to someone. He was a
burly guy. Big belly with taut suspenders
circling over its bottom rung. Fat, but
definitely not feeble or week in any sense.
I’m pretty sure the old guy had enough muscle memory and “ornery” in him
to still kick somebody’s ass if necessary.
He often alternated between cigarettes and coffee as if maintaining some
sort of critical chemical balance. I was
fairly certain his teeth were not his own.
I found myself in his kitchen about three afternoons a week, playing
guitar to his daughter. The school
district provides home schooling if a child will be out of the classroom for
more than six weeks. The district also
had a hospital school for kids that required more serious medical attention
during the day. Desiree was too sick,
really too weak, to attend even our hospital school. She was only able to sit upright a few hours
a day. My rusty angel would wheel her
into the kitchen three times a week and I would teach her. Problem is, Desiree is mostly unresponsive. She cannot speak, or grip, or eat, or take
care of herself in any way. Many would
argue that Desiree is not aware, but I strongly disagree. I am well over the thousand mark in terms of
the number of kids I have taught so far, and I have had no greater emotional
connection to a child than the one I had with Desiree.
Obviously, fractions and phonics and earth science were well out of her
reach. About a week in, I stumbled onto
music. Desiree’s eyes go wide and she makes
a passionate noise that suggests that she is singing along. You try to meet every kid where they need you,
and I met Desiree at music armed with my woefully inadequate guitar playing and
singing. My rusty angel would sort of
half listen in. Of course, he was pretty
busy most of the time.
My rusty angel and his wife, were foster parents. They had been foster parents for
decades. Their adult daughter once
explained to me that they were a family that social services could call on in the
middle of the night if they needed to immediately remove a child from a
dangerous situation. Often times, there
was somebody new at the breakfast table when they woke up.
“Kept me grateful. Made me a
better kid. If anybody’s got an arrogant
teenager or a brat, there’s no need for harsh discipline. Become a foster parent. Show them a broader view of the world and it
will straighten them right up.”
And they had a tendency to take the forgotten and neglected among us. In the home, Desiree shared a
medically equipped bedroom with a similar child. In an upstairs room two sisters stayed, both
suffering from a rare skin condition that made their skin extremely tender and
easy to cut. Some days one of them was
bandaged up and down both arms.
“How did you wind up taking these sorts of kids?” I asked one
afternoon. He sighed his way through a
long drag off his Marlboro.
“Simple answer I guess is that even people nobody wants need a place to
go.” Instantly, I was humbled by his
words. By his deeds. By his principles.
By about the sixth month, Desiree had become a quiet critic. When she does not seem to appreciate my
rendition of some classic rock tune, she will show absolutely no response. A quiet and blank stare into nowhere
special.
“Aw, come on,” I protest. “I just
took a rocking classic and reduced it to three chords and a half decent
vocal.” Desiree makes no movement, no
response of any kind. It is just the
sound of her labored breathing. I sigh. And then? There it is. A smirk.
Make no mistake, this allegedly unresponsive kid is totally playing
me. It’s a game, and a dance, and
something akin to art. To connect without the usual ease and benefit of words
is an act of beauty. And love.
“Can you play Folsom Prison Blues?” he asks me. “I heard you do a pretty good Ring of Fire
the other day.”
“Desiree didn’t seem to like it,” I chuckle.
“Well clearly the girl has no musical taste,” he scoffs. “Just like every other teenager today.”
“I know it, but I don’t think I can do it justice.”
“Nah, the songs too good and you ain’t bad enough to break it.” I give it my best attempt. Right away, Desiree is playing me again. But
my angel nods and gives me some applause.
It’s too much for Desiree to bear and she breaks her stoic manner and
howls a bit.
And for about the fiftieth time that day, Charlie zooms through the
kitchen, cackling about something.
Charlie is the latest member of the ensemble. He’s about four and has a fairly severe
deformity along his jaw. It makes talking a difficult task, so his speech is a
bit delayed.
“How did you wind up with Charlie?”
He swigs is coffee, keeping the caffeine and nicotine carefully
balanced.
“Well, I retired officially just a few months ago. Got a good pension and some more time these
days, so I took in Charlie here. He keeps
me on my toes for sure.” I watch Charlie
run across the room again.
“Most people take up golf,” I say.
He nods.
“I know. Isn’t that a shame?” he
asks me. Instantly, I go hollow
inside. Humbled. And all of my mundane problems seem silly to
me. Meaningless. All at once, all of my grumbling, all of my
first world problems and barriers are grist for the mill. At best.
It’s been years since I have seen my rusty angel, but his words come
back to me often. They are like some
kind of karmic whisper pushing me to do the right thing again and again. They are words and ideals I will never live
up to, but they do tend to lead me a little closer to what is good in
myself. My inner demons allow my better
angels the spotlight a few more times along the way. Sometimes I think that maybe it isn’t Karma
or the universe at all. Maybe it’s
him. Maybe he was truly an angel, making
his presence known when I need it most. And,
we all could use an angel now and again.
Even a rusty one.
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