Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

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      “Not too bad today.”

      “I don’t know about you,” he quipped, “but I used to be a kid not so long ago. And all these aches and pains are for the birds.”

      Hilda actually grinned, which took years off her face. “I couldn’t agree more.”

      They walked toward the shaded table near the playground, where she and the girl usually sat. Rather than part ways and move on, Walter stuck around for a moment. Maybe she’d flash him another one of those rare smiles.

      “Mind if I sit here for a minute or two?” he asked.

      “No. Go ahead.”

      They didn’t speak right away, which wasn’t surprising. Right now, they seemed to be two strangers treading on shaky ground.

      He finally asked, “How long have you been a nanny?”

      “Nearly thirty years. I married just out of high school, but when my husband Frank died, I had to figure out a way to support myself. And since I always liked children and we’d never had any of our own…” She dropped the subject, which made him think she was still dealing with either the loss or the disappointment. Maybe both.

      “Ever remarry?”

      “No.”

      That was too bad. The so-called Golden Years were merely gilded without loved ones or friends, and Walter suspected she was nearly as lonely and miserable as he was.

      “How about you?” she asked. “Are you married?”

      “I was once. She was a pretty gal named Margie, a single mother with two little boys.” Hilda didn’t ask for details, but Walter rarely had a chance to reminisce out loud. “She was a waitress, and I used to eat most of my meals at that little coffee shop where she worked, just so I could see her.”

      In fact, when the two of them started dating, he’d curtailed his drinking and settled down, hoping to be the kind of man she and her two sons deserved. And at least while she’d been alive, he’d been able to lay aside his demons and become a family man—for the most part, anyway.

      “She was a good woman,” he added. “A fine wife and mother. And she made me a better man.”

      “How did you lose her?”

      “She had a heart attack.” It had been completely unexpected.

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Me, too.” She’d been on life support for a while, and he’d stuck by her side at the hospital, hoping and praying God would spare her.

      But He hadn’t.

      Her death had been devastating, and before long, Walter had fallen back into his old lifestyle, resulting in a blur of bars, booze, and brawls.

      “Did you two have any children?”

      “Just her boys. None of our own. I don’t see much of them anymore.”

      “That’s too bad. Families ought to stick together.”

      “Yeah. And stepdads shouldn’t drink themselves to death, either.”

      Walter usually kept to himself and never shared personal thoughts and pain like that, so why had he now? He wanted to reel in the words, to smother the confession.

      But Hilda didn’t seem to be judging him for being either a drunk or a blabbermouth, so he added, “I’ve been sober three years now.”

      The tone of his voice, still strong and steady, belied his shaky confidence about staying on the wagon.

      “Do the kids know about your sobriety?” Hilda asked.

      “No.” He doubted that it would make a difference. He’d been a mean drunk for too many years.

      In fact, time and again, he’d been a real embarrassment to the boys and later to their families. But he wouldn’t tell Hilda that. Nor would he admit that Tyler and Blake had become so disgusted with him and tired of his behavior that they’d both shut him out of their lives.

      It had shaken him up, of course, but he’d eventually quit approaching them, realizing it was no use.

      How many times could a fellow say he was sorry?

      Over the next week, Claire considered coming clean and telling Analisa that God had neither read nor answered her poignant letters. Yet each time she’d finished her daily run and sat under the mulberry, she’d been unable to find the words that wouldn’t disappoint the child.

      Claire had also thought about just leaving the notes in the branches of the tree so Analisa would grow tired of waiting for an answer that would never come, but she feared someone else might find them, that maybe a predator would take advantage of the little girl. So each time she’d spotted a colorful paper or envelope in the mulberry, she’d taken it home with her.

      In addition to the sketch of Erik the Angel, Claire had found a new letter nearly every day.

      Monday’s had been written on yellow paper with a teal-green crayon and read:

      Dear God.

      I reely wish you wuld give Unkel Sam a angel. I herd him on the fone when he sed he was in trubel becuz Juj Rile was sined. Pleez forgive him for the bad word he sed. Thats why he needs the angel.

      Claire had no idea what kind of trouble Unkel Sam had gotten into. Nor did she know who Juj Rile was. Whatever he or she had done, Analisa seemed to think it was sinful. Hopefully, it wasn’t anything illegal. The orphaned child had been through enough already.

      Choosing not to respond to that particular letter hadn’t been too hard. Even if she’d wanted to, what words of comfort or advice could she have given?

      Then the next day, she’d found another note written on lavender construction paper with a forest-green marker.

      Dear God.

      I no your buzy. But pleez bless Mrs. Richerdz. She has panes in her hands and neez. And she forgits stuff. Can you help her rememer where she put the neklis her huzbin gave her? And the box?

      Claire suspected Mrs. Richerdz was the elderly woman who accompanied Analisa to the park. The arthritis, if that’s what plagued her, was to be expected, as was some memory loss. Even Claire, who was pushing forty, found herself heading upstairs and forgetting why. Or peeking into the refrigerator and unsure of what she’d been looking for.

      Hopefully, Mrs. Richerdz wasn’t actually losing it, especially if she was supposed to be looking after the child. Of course, that wasn’t Claire’s concern; it was Unkel Sam’s—whoever he was. Perhaps he should stay home more and keep out of trubel.

      Late Wednesday afternoon, Claire found another message written with a red crayon on a lime-green sheet of paper.

      Dear God.

      Do you no some buddy who can play with Mr. Klinfelor? I meen someone not in hevin. Can you СКАЧАТЬ