Richie liked to read.
It was something he'd heard his mother say often; his succession of nannies and mother's succession of boyfriends (and occasional husbands) also had been heard to remark upon the topic. Words like voracious or avid were often thrown around – words which had him reaching for a dictionary only to find that they meant things like eager or enthusiastic. Richie agreed with those words. He did, indeed, like to read.
Sometimes the other boys made fun of him, because he'd rather read than play sports. Richie didn't care (much); after all, nobody ever broke their leg reading a book (unless they were an idiot and tried to walk down the stairs with their nose in Casino Royale, which he would never admit to because fortunately all he'd done was bruise his hip). But occasionally the taunting went too far, and when it did on a certain fine March afternoon in 1981, Richie was forced to prove that liking to read didn't necessarily make a boy geeky or ripe for bullying.
So it was that, at the age of nine, Richie was expelled from his first private school. Mother was out of town on a play and wouldn't be back for several days, so his nanny had to come and pick him up from his former school. Richie was actually looking forward to the week or so of school he'd miss while waiting for Mother to come home and find him a new one, so he pretended to be sad and meek and to accept the blistering diatribe from the nanny as his just due. He didn't protest, didn't try to tell his side of the story… he just sat there and looked sad and contrite. And when they got home, and she settled into her accustomed spot on the sofa in front of the television, he filled his backpack with snacks, a Thermos, and books, and went out the window and down the fire escape.
Central Park was one of Richie's favorite places to read; there were plenty of trees a boy could climb to find a comfortable, cool place to sit, and if his snacks ran out or his Thermos ran dry there were vendors where a boy with pocket money could get a hot dog or a soda. The park was relatively safe, as long as a boy kept his wits about him and didn't stay after dark. So that was where Richie headed, and he found an excellent reading spot in the crotch of a low oak tree.
He was deeply involved in The IPCRESS File, and noting with the back of his mind that the afternoon was growing somewhat late and he might need to think about heading home, when he realized that someone was staring at him. He raised his head from his book and looked around, nearly falling out of the tree in shock when he found himself face-to-face with a tiny, filthy, dark-haired girl, who was watching him curiously from another branch in his tree. She was clutching an equally filthy stuffed elephant by the trunk, her huge hazel eyes trained on him intently. How the heck had she gotten up there without him noticing?
"I have a lellefant," she said, apropos of nothing, holding it out to show him. "His name's Minky."
"Hi, Minky," Richie greeted the elephant.
"Whatcha readin'?" the girl asked.
"It's a mystery book."
"What's a miss-tree?"
"It's a story about people who do bad things, like spying, and how other people have to catch them and ki – uh, put them in jail." He altered his description quickly for the audience, not wanting to make the girl cry. Kids that age could make your brain bleed with their screaming. Then he blinked. "How old are you?"
She held up four fingers. "This many."
He looked around. "Where's your nanny?"
"What's a nanny?"
"Somebody that takes care of you. Your babysitter? Who'd you come to the park with?"
"Mommy."
He looked around again. There was no one in sight around the tree. "Oh boy. How long have you been sitting up here staring at me?"
She stared at him, obviously having no conception of time or the fact that her mother was probably frantic and the cops were probably swarming the park looking for this little lost kid. "Come on," he said, sticking his book into his backpack and shouldering it quickly. "Your mom's probably spazzing out looking for you." He clambered quickly down out of the tree, then turned to see her still sitting there staring at him. "Come on."
"I can't get down."
Richie mumbled a bad word under his breath. Then he put his backpack down, moved underneath the girl, and held out his arms. "Come on, jump. I'll catch you."
"Okay." She leaned over and fell into his arms, taking him to the ground and knocking his breath out of him with her surprisingly solid weight. He lay there for a moment, wheezing and trying to breathe with her knees in his stomach, before pushing her off him and taking a deep breath. She watched him with those big hazel eyes of hers. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he managed. "Just gimme a second." When he got his breath back he stood, brushing himself off and shouldering his backpack again. Then he held out his hand. "Come on."
She slid her little hand into his and he started toward the nearest park gate, the surest place to be able to find a police officer. "What's your name?" he asked her.
"Katie," she replied. "What's your name?"
"Richie. Do you know your last name or your address?"
She looked at him like he was stupid. "Course I do. Katie Beckett three-oh-five West Seventy-Second Street apartment five-two-two New York. I know my phone number, too; it's five-five-five-eight-two-four-oh. But I'm not allowed to answer the phone yet."
West Seventy-Second wasn't far; if he needed to, he could walk the girl home himself. But he wouldn't need to – he could see a pair of mounted police officers just ahead. He started toward them, pulling the girl behind him. "Sir!" he called out. "Hey, Officer!"
One of the cops looked toward them, turned and said something to his partner, and turned the horse, heading toward Richie at a quick pace. "Hey, I found this little girl," Richie began when the officer got within hearing distance.
The cop was nodding, speaking into his walkie-talkie. "Matches the description," he said. "Where'd you find her, son?"
Richie pointed. "I was reading a book in a tree over there and she climbed up with me."
"What's your name, honey?" the cop asked the little girl. She repeated her recitation of name and address, and the cop nodded. "Your Mommy's been looking pretty hard for you," he said. "Why don't you come up here with me, and my horse and I will take you to her."
The girl squealed with delight, and Richie obliged by grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her up to the officer, who settled her in front of his saddle. "How about you, kid?" the officer asked. "Need a ride anywhere?"
"Naw, thanks," Richie replied. "I just live over off East Eighty-Eighth. It's not far."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Sure thing." Richie watched as the cop turned his horse and trotted off toward where Katie's mother presumably waited, frantic with worry. Shaking his head, Richie turned toward home, stopping off at a hot dog cart for a lemonade on the way. When he got home, strolling in through the front door past the nanny, who was asleep on the sofa, he headed to his room and pulled out his notebook, writing down what had happened to him that day. He liked to do that when things happened, because sometimes he could make up stories about them later, which was fun.
When Kate woke from her light doze in the rocking chair to find Castle digging through the stuffed animals on Angela Candela's bed, at first she thought she was still dreaming. "Castle?"
"Go back to sleep," he said, still digging.
"What are you doing?"
"When Alexis was little," he explained, sifting through the animals, "she had a stuffed monkey that she could not live without. One time we went on vacation, she forgot to pack her. I bought her another one, but she knew it was not Monkey Bunkie."
Her sleep-heavy brain didn't make the connection. "So?"
He explained his theory about Angela's bunny, and things moved very quickly after that. But later, when things were over and they'd had a chance to relax, she wondered, and she asked him. "What about you?"
He looked up from his notebook, confused. "What about me, what?"
"Did you have a Monkey Bunkie when you were little?"
"A bear, aptly enough named Bear," he replied. "We lost him in a move when I was twelve or so. What about you?"
She grinned. "I had an elephant named Minky," she confessed. "Carried that thing everywhere. In fact…" Her eyes twinkled. "I still have him."
He blinked at the name, surprised, and memory suddenly superimposed a dirty little elfin face over the one he was looking at. He grinned back.
xxx
Author's note: I do not ordinarily post my stories to this site, as a great deal of my work is rated MA/NC17. If you would like to read more of my work, please feel free to visit me at xdawnfirex-fic (dot) livejournal (dot) com.
I appreciate any and all feedback.