The Child Lives On

Chapter Twenty

It was ten years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. She was sitting on a park-bench, knitting. A wide-brimmed hat, trimmed with flowers, covered her little head. Under the hat, curly hair framed a cute little round face. Her blouse was white with a little pink tie at the collar. The toes of her tiny pink shoes peeked out from under the bottom of a long pink skirt. A woman sat to her right, but from my point of view at the time, a mere shadow in the background.

I tried to ignore the girl, but my eyes, with a mind of their own, kept pivoting in her direction. In the third grade, infatuation was something new to me. I didn't even think it was possible to like a girl. This unfamiliar feeling grew stronger and stronger until I was overwhelmed. With no will of my own, like a puppet, I walked unsteadily in her direction. "Excuse me," I said. "Would you like to play on the seesaw?"

She looked up at me, cocking her head to the side. After a tense moment, she said, "Okay."

I ran to the seesaw. She walked slowly, very slowly, carrying a cloth-bag over her shoulder. When she finally arrived, she took a hanky out of her bag and wiped the seat. "No jumping off, s'il vous plaît," she said, wagging a finger at me.

I promised I wouldn't.

Up and down, up and down we went. I couldn't take my eyes off of her.

"Haven't seen you at school," I said.

"I do not attend school," she said. "I work."

"Nah ah. You're just a kid."

"Use the word 'child', s'il vous plaît. A kid is a small goat."

"You sound like just my teacher."

"Merci."

"What does that mean?"

"It means thank you."

"Why don't you just say thank you?"

"A habit, I suppose."

"You're weird."

She gave a little shrug. "C'est la vie."

I didn't know what to make of her. Nobody I knew talked that way.

"You say you're not a kid?" I asked.

"Oui," she said.

"But you look like a kid and sound like a kid. You got to be a kid."

"Do not judge a book by its cover."

"Kids don't work. Kids go to school."

"I work and do not attend school."

"If you work, what do you do?"

"Knit."

"That's not a job."

"Well, you know everything."

"What do you knit?"

"Scarves, sweaters..."

"And they pay you?"

"That is the point after all."

The seesaw was boring me. I looked around for something else to do. "Wanna climb on the jungle gym?"

"No," she said. "I will not climb in a skirt."

"The slide?"

She shook her head, fluttering her curls.

"The swings?"

"That will do."

She wiped the seat on the swing with a hanky. I had never seen anyone do that before. "Do you need some help getting on?" I asked. She was small and the seat was high. "I can do it," she said, reaching up and pulling herself onto the seat by the chains.

"Do you want me to push you?"

"That will not be necessary."

I wanted to swing fast and high, but she would only go slow and low, so I matched her pace and continued my interrogation.

"If you work, why are you here at the playground?"

"I enjoy working outside when the weather is pleasant."

"And you don't go to school?"

"No. I have never been to school."

"Can't be very smart then."

"That is a misconception."

"A what?"

"You go to school and you do not know what misconception is? Go find a dictionary and look it up."

I didn't like her tone, so I jumped off the swing and walked away. A few minutes later, after second thoughts, I looked back. She was no longer there.

After a night of what-ifs, I returned to the park in search of her. Again, I found her knitting on the bench. The same woman was sitting next to her, reading a book. I will try to describe the woman. Let me think just how to do it. Okay, I got it. Do you remember that Wizard of Oz movie? The one in the theaters a couple years back? Anyway, there was this really mean woman in the movie. No, I don't mean the woman with the green face, I mean the woman who took Dorothy's dog. That's what she looks like. Recently, out of curiosity, I asked if that was her in the movie. She just laughed and said no. By the way, her name is Margie, and she's not mean at all.

So I walked up to the girl and said hello, and she said bonjour to me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Emily," she said, "and what is yours?"

"Tim. Do you want to play?"

"No, I am busy."

"Are you still sore at me?"

"I was never, as you say, sore at you. You were sore at me."

"Do you like ice cream?"

"Certainly."

"I get an allowance."

"Will you spend it on ice cream?"

"For both of us."

"There is something you should know: I am not a child."

"You said that before."

"I thought I might get through to you. Silly me."

"Does that mean you don't want ice cream?"

"No, that is not what it means. I do not want any misconceptions."

"I looked up the word."

"Then you understand."

We walked to a nearby soda fountain and split a banana split. Margie sat at another table and had coffee. We were getting along fine when we were suddenly surrounded by a bunch of kids from the neighborhood. They were all over us like honey and… and something. "Who is she? Where is she from? Is she your girlfriend?" I didn't want to answer any questions. I wanted them to go away. Emily was my friend. I saw her first.

Later, at home, I asked Mom, "Do midgets look like little kids?"

"What brought this on?" asked Mom.

"There's this little girl at the park, says she doesn't go to school, says she works for a living."

"And you think she's a midget?"

"Don't know."

"Timmy, midgets are just small people. When they become adults, they look like little adults."

"Guess she's not a midget then."

"Maybe I should meet this girl."

The next day, Mom and I went to the park. I introduced her to Emily and Margie.

"May we join you?" asked Mom.

"Oui," said Emily, moving her bag from the bench to the ground. "I will make room."

Mom sat next to Emily, in the spot where I wanted to be. I had to make do with a couple of inches on the end.

"Timmy was telling me about you," said Mom.

"Oh?" said Emily.

"He seemed to think you were a midget."

"Mo-om!" I cried. "Why'd you have to say that?"

"You did, didn't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"I suppose I am, in a way," said Emily.

"In a way?" asked Mom.

"I am as big as I am ever going to be."

"How do you know?"

"Perhaps I should answer," said Margie. "I have been Emily's friend and companion for twenty years."

"Twenty years?" said Mom. "Come on now, you're putting me on."

"No, I'm not, but I understand your point of view. It is hard to believe."

"You're saying this child is twenty?"

"Oh no, she's much older than that."

"Ridiculous!"

"I used to think so too."

Mom was getting upset. "Alright, out with it. This is a joke, right?"

"It's not a joke." Margie was calm, which seemed to infuriate Mom even more.

"This has gone on long enough!" I recognized that voice. It was the voice reserved for when I was bad. "You've had your laugh. Come on, admit it. It's a joke."

"It's not a joke, ma'am, and I'm not laughing."

"You're going to stick with this ridiculous story?"

"Yes, I am."

Mom jumped to her feet, her face was red, her fists clenched. "Well! Of all the... I think you're lying! And I don't think it's funny! Come, Timmy!" She grabbed my arm and dragged me away. "I forbid you to associate with these people." That was all I needed. From that day on, I took every opportunity to associate with those people. By the way, when ten years went by, and Emily still hadn't grown, Mom began to rethink her position.

Adolescence was an awkward time for me. It seemed like I didn't fit in anywhere. I wasn't athletic, smart or swanky, so my opportunities for friendship were limited. However, the one person I knew I could talk to was Emily. She was always nice, and never called me shrimp, shorty or four eyes like the other kids. Now and then, she would correct my grammar and stuff, but not in a mean way. Emily and Margie were only at the park during the summer months, and then just once or twice a week. I didn't know where they lived (a man always picked them up in a fancy car), so I kept my eye out and took the opportunity when it arose. It was worth it, believe me. Those few happy hours sustained me throughout the years.

Today, I am on my way to boot camp. Yesterday, I said goodbye to Emily and Margie. We sat together on the bench where we first met and had so many interesting conversations. "Tim," said Emily, "promise you will come home again. I knew a boy like you during the last war. He did not come home. It was such a sad, sad time. I cried many tears. So many did not come home. I am afraid this war will be the same."

"The last war?" I said. "You mean World War One?"

"Oui. That is the war."

"My dad fought in that war."

"Did he come home?"

"If he didn't, I wouldn't be here."

"Très bon. I am happy for you. Now you must come back so you can send your son off to the next war."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I have known many a soldier in my time, so eager to be heroes. Ah, but you need not listen to my ramblings."

"I'm sure everything will be fine."

"I hope so."

She knitted a scarf and gave it to me. I have it draped around my neck as I'm heading off to who knows where on this bus. While I'm wrapping up this entry into my journal, it's caressing my cheek, reminding me of my sweet little friend.