Jenny Harper

Jenny Harper had no desire for the world’s pity, charitable acts or even simple good will. She did not believe in good will, charity or peace on earth. In fact, she despised people in general and do-gooders, in particular. What use were a few coins to a wretch like herself, who would be just as cold and hungry after they were spent? Just a weak attempt at appeasing the conscience, was all it was. And what could be worse than pretending to offer hope to the hopeless? The same birds cried foul at the news that another species was annihilated, another tract of rainforest bulldozed. They gave lip service to any number of noble causes. All the while, they stuffed their faces with burgers and fries and crammed their houses with so much damn stuff that it was a wonder the walls did not burst. The stuff eventually landed on sidewalks, in dumpsters and came to Jenny herself. Which is how she managed to, if not exactly support herself, at least fend off starvation and keep from freezing to death. The city’s meager relief stipend was hardly enough to keep a bird alive. And one person’s garbage became another’s meat.

She thought of herself as a "picker", spending her days picking through other people’s castoffs. It was her work and she was damn good at it, too. She had an eye for quality. After all, she had once been in the business of... well, no sense falling into that trap, was there, now? According to Jenny, she had no past, just as she was sure to have no future. Now was more than enough to deal with, on most days more than enough to keep body and soul together, often demanding more than the energy she had. She had no time to waste by dwelling on a past that could not be altered — not one second of it — nor on a future that would not include her. Both pursuits were for dreamers. And for the likes of Jenny, dreaming was perhaps the most dangerous preoccupation of all. It had been the death of more than one of her fellow indigents. And it always seemed to be worse around Christmastime.

Jenny spat on the pavement and paused in her work. She was picking through a rather tangled and heavy mess of broken-down furniture, tossed out the night before into the alley behind Henry Woo’s building. It served as premises for the family business and living quarters for Henry and his two sons. Mrs. Henry Woo was either long gone or long dead.

"Worst goddam time of the year," she muttered to herself, spitting once more and tugging forcefully on a rusted bedspring that was holding the rest of the junk pile in place and out of her reach. "Goddam Christmas!"

The spring gave way with a groan and a shriek of metal. The lamp however, which was the only item that had caught Jenny’s trained eye, was bent and twisted beyond worth. She let go of the tangled mess.

"Damn," she wheezed, breathing hard from the exertion.

From the gloom of a recessed doorway that opened onto the alley, a disembodied voice startled her momentarily.

"What, you no like Christmas, Mrs. Hawper?"

It was Tommy Woo, Henry’s son, the shy, quiet one who always had his nose in a book. He was also the nice one, unlike his older brother, Jimmy, who would just as soon kick you as to say hello. But Jenny would have kicked the little son of a bitch right back. There was something about his swagger and his smugness — like he owned the world, like the future was a thing created just for him. And when he arrived there and gripped its reins, Jimmy Woo would come into his own. He would shed his past like a snake sheds its skin, leave it behind to dry up, turn to dust and blow away. The past was for old fools, like his father. And yet, in his father’s eyes, the sun rose and set on the miserable little ingrate.

The future must seem like an eternity away for that boy, thought Jenny, in his greedy haste to get there. Tommy on the other hand, was a dreamer of the worst kind and a fool to believe in a future that could hold both himself and the likes of his avaricious brother. His dreams

would be the death of him someday, she was sure.

"I told you not to call me Missus," she barked at the boy. "These fingers are unadorned and there are no shackles on me!" She held up both hands to show the absence of any ring.

"Sowwy."

"And don’t say ’sowwy’. It does not exist in the English language. The word is ’sorry’."

"Sowwy."

She gave an exasperated sigh and began to push her rusty shopping cart towards the sidewalk and out of the gloomy alley. She knew that she was being hard on the boy, but she could not seem to help herself today. Whether her anger stemmed from her thoughts about his older brother, Jimmy, or of Tommy, himself, she wasn’t sure. She envisioned him as just one more victim of illusion, one more lamb going willing and relentlessly to the slaughter. She shook her head. What was the matter with her today? Probably something to do with goddam Christmas, she answered herself silently. After all, why should she give a damn about just one more sentimental fool? As far as she was concerned, the human race was on the road to hell anyways, and the planet would be better off without such a plague.

But Tommy was a good kid. And he was used to the irascible old picker. "So, why you no like Christmas, Mrs.... Miss Hawper?" he pressed her. "Henry Woo says Christmas is fine time of year... people friendlier, spend more money... business good." He smiled.

"Henry Woo would say that," she replied, but the sarcasm was lost on the boy. "Henry Woo would... by the way, why do you refer to your father by his full given name?" Even though everyone in the neighborhood always referred to the Chinese businessman by his full name, it suddenly struck her as odd, coming from his son.

The boy chuckled at that. "Oh, that not my fadder’s full name. Not even his given name. He say Henry Woo is his taken name. He took it when he came to this country from China..."

"Oh, never mind," she sighed, moving on once more.

But the boy pressed on. He seemed determined in his quest for an answer. "They say that something bad happened to you a long time ago... at Christmas time. They say..."

"They say a hell of a lot of things, boy, for want of something better to do with their time. What they say and what they know however, are two very different things. And they wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them on the ass. And don’t be believing everything that you hear," she admonished him. She gave him a look then that closed the subject and turned up the collar on her old wool coat, as a sudden gust of wind swept up the alley. She started to move forward once more. The day had been nearly a total loss anyway, except for the pair of brass candlesticks she had salvaged from Binky Cohen’s semi-regular "sidewalk sale" early that morning.

Although the goods being offered were certainly his and the sidewalk was in front of his apartment building, it wasn’t exactly a sale and it wasn’t Binky’s idea. From time to time and quite regularly, an odd assortment of Binky’s possessions would end up on the sidewalk beneath a faded sign that proclaimed, "To give away". It actually read, "Free kittens to give away," but the word "kittens" had been x-ed out. About once a month, like clockwork, Mrs. Cohen would get the notion into her head to go through their apartment, gathering up armloads of her husband’s belongings and toss them out onto the street. There always seemed to be an odd and random assortment, ranging from toiletries to three-piece suits to heirlooms (like the candlesticks in Jenny’s cart). Her arms full, she would stagger down the three flights of stairs and out through the main doors to the sidewalk. It was always late at night and always the same. She would appear dressed only in a flimsy nightie and high-heeled slippers, winter or summer, her long blond tresses unbound and in wild disarray. Her sad, sweet face would be tear stained, and make-up smudged, mascara running, creating the effect of a drunken clown, or perhaps a little girl who had been playing with her mother’s cosmetic bag and no mirror. All the while, she would alternate between muttering under her breath and proclaiming to all the world a litany of her husband’s sins and heinous crimes against nature, herself and humanity in general. Anyone who ever heard such accusations never believed one word, of course. Everyone knew Binky for the kind and gentle soul that he was.

At any rate, as suddenly as it began, the storm of his wife’s torrential soliloquy and discontent would cease. The vortex of the tornado moved on and dropped her in the middle of... well, Kansa would probably be a good guess. Mrs. Binky Cohen would look around then, eyeing her surroundings curiously as if seeing them for the first time. Then very quietly she would make her way back upstairs to her apartment, where every light would burn and shine from every window throughout the remainder of the dark and lonely night. In the morning, when Binky came home from his night shift at The Bay, where he worked security, he would silently gather his belongings (or what was left of them if the early pickers had been there first). The "free kittens’ sign he would toss in the alleyway. Beyond the embarrassment, Binky was never much concerned over losing a few possessions. The candlesticks were a loss, since they had been in his family for five generations, even surviving the holocaust. So, when word of their value filtered through the neighborhood grapevine, Jenny Harper had been happy to return them to the young man — for a price. After all, it was salvage and she was in the salvage business. A person had a right to make a living.

She was headed to the tenement once again, where she knew that Binky would be waiting to buy back his precious heirloom for the third time from Jenny. She knew that by now he would be up and about. Mrs. Cohen would be there as well, quiet, polite, demure yet friendly, fussing over dinner and looking for all the world like "little Suzie homemaker" in her print housedress and apron. Her hair would be pinned up as it always was (except for those occasional wild nights when it was loosed by a cyclone). Mrs. Cohen was in her mid- to late-twenties. She had small features but was not mousy and she was attractive by any standard. She could be described as almost beautiful when she flashed that dazzling smile of hers. Her best feature, but it was seldom seen. At a glance, she seemed to be the very picture of health and youth and the kind of woman whom any man would desire for a wife and the mother of his children.

If Jenny gave a damn, she might inquire — or at least, wonder — about the young couple’s general welfare. She might wonder about the wife’s pretense of innocence concerning the precious candlesticks she was returning. Or was it a pretense after all? That should be even more a cause for concern — for anyone who cared, that is. Or why was such a large, bright and spacious apartment not ringing with the sound of children’s voices or the pitter-patter of little feet? Or where did the otherwise charming and seemingly normal young woman go when she was in the eye of her own personal storm? Oh well, the couple and their eccentricities gave the neighbors lots to talk about. They said that there was something wrong with the couple, that for the Binky Cohens to have a child would take a miracle. They said... well, there was no end to what they said, was there?

Jenny used the money from the sale (or resale) of the candlesticks to treat herself to supper at The Blue Diamond, a greasy spoon hole-in-the-wall that had seen better days, much like the rest of the old neighborhood. It served plain fare with ambivalent, sometimes even surly, service. But the servings were generous and the daily specials were cheap — unlike Henry Woo’s place across the street. She felt that the brightly painted Chinese dragon sign was much too gaudy, especially now, festooned as it was with multicolored, flashing Christmas lights. She had no love for Henry Woo and she was not alone in her feelings, either. But the disdain was mutual. Henry Woo would rather feed the alley cats — or let the food rot — than provide a grain of leftover rice to the people of the streets. To him they were no better than the garbage that piled up or blew around the sidewalks. Worse, actually: at least the garbage could be dealt with, disposed of by the street cleaners. Henry Woo wished that the city could just as simply remove the human scum. He sometimes daydreamed about a giant water tanker with a high pressure hose, rumbling down the street and scouring the neighborhood of indigents, whores, bag ladies and junkies. He would smile as he pictured all the festering, dirty, rag-tag lot of them, tumbling helpless and headlong down the street, around the corner and one more block right into the river.

Such a hypocrite, thought Jenny, sipping her cooling tea and watching the street scene unfold through the grimy plate glass window. The sky was darkling and a few flakes of wet snow were beginning to fall, instantly blending into the dirty sludge of the street below. So much for Christmas cheer. The main reasons for Henry Woo’s invectiveness towards his fellow less-fortunate human beings, she mused, revolved around his belief that they were no good for business — contributing nothing themselves and repelling other, would-be customers. As if the neighborhood alone was not enough for that, she thought sardonically. It had not always been so, but times change... and surely not for the better anymore.

Then there was the matter of Henry Woo’s other business, carried on in the rooms above the restaurant. He would correct you, of course, insisting that it was Jimmy’s business, and completely separate from his own. So, Jimmy Woo was the pimp, but who collected the rent from him and probably a healthy percentage, besides? And the riff-raff and sleaze that patronized those upstairs rooms and hung about the street... what of them? But she knew Henry Woo’s answer to that one, too: they were paying customers, of course. Some of the girls — Jenny could not care less what people called them, a prostitute was just a working girl — it was just that some of the girls were... well, it became a matter of child labor sometimes, now, didn’t it?

Jenny checked herself before she became too maudlin. After all, why should she care? She had enough to concern herself, just looking after her old bones. And they seemed to be complaining more with every winter, minding the cold, making it harder and harder to ignore the aches and pains. She sighed heavily and finished her tea. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, sliding down the angled panes of the street lights, softening the glare, smoothing the hard, sharp edges of buildings and sidewalks. It struck her how it took so little to transform a landscape — to cover up the ugliness of even this tired old piece of cityscape. What was wrong with her today? She shook her head, then rubbed at her eyes, as if to dislodge cobwebs and clear her vision.

"It takes so little to freeze to death," she sighed. Then, "Another goddam Christmas!"

She was getting ready to leave The Blue Diamond, re-cladding her old bones with her many layers of clothing, girding against the impending battle with the elements outside, like a knight donning his armor. She chuckled at the thought of such a comparison. Across the street, all hell suddenly broke out, beginning with a loud bang, like the sound of a car backfiring, or worse.

The door next to Woo’s Restaurant was flung wide and two people stumbled through it and onto the sidewalk, slipping on the fresh snow. The girl was young, ill-clad for the weather and looking for a fight. It was hard to be sure through the thickening snow, but Jenny thought she recognized the boy as Tommy Woo. He was busy grappling with the girl, trying to constrain her. With frantic shouts and gestures, he finally managed to pull her away from there and the two of them fled up the street, swallowed up immediately in a swirl of white.

The doorway (which led to the upstairs suite of rooms and Henry Woo’s other business) was next filled by Jimmy Woo. But this was a different Jimmy Woo than Jenny had ever seen before. The swagger was gone, there was something wrong. One step out onto the sidewalk and the young man collapsed in a heap. Henry Woo himself appeared next, rushing from the restaurant entrance. Even through the gauzy veil of snow, Jenny recognized the stricken look on the man’s face from clear across the street. Before long, a gathering crowd of the curious slowly assembled around the father and son, eager to share in or at least to witness the latest drama. Henry Woo took no notice that most of them were "streeters". By the time the scream of the sirens could be heard from two blocks away, Henry Woo had ceased to notice his surroundings altogether.

The ambulance arrived in a hurry. It left with less urgency, its warning howl switched off when only halfway down the block. The crowd thinned, then disappeared entirely when a new siren arrived on the scene, flashing lights reflecting red and blue off the descending snow. Jenny was reminded of snow cones or whirling cotton candy at county fairs. She was also reminded that it was time for her to move on, as well. The police were about as popular as Henry Woo in this neighborhood. As for Henry Woo, he sat very still upon the cold sidewalk, his back propped up against the front of his restaurant. The snow was doing its best to completely cover him with a mantle of white. Beside him, on the wet concrete, a patch of dark red remained where his son had been only moments before. The snow was greedily gobbling up the color.

Despite the cold and complaints from her old bones, Jenny decided to take the long way home, rather than cross the street and get drawn into the mess. It was sure to turn into a three-ring circus before too long, anyway, disturbing the peace of the entire neighborhood. She could wait. For now, she wanted no part of it — it was not her concern. She turned left and slipped around the corner from the café, then another left at the first intersection. She pushed her rickety old cart down the block. The bearings in one of the wheels were all but gone and she struggled and cursed her way through the snow-turned-slush on the sidewalk. The wet snow continued to fall, sticking to the wool of her coat and to her eyelids, covering everything in a cold blanket of white. The white blanket also had the effect of muffling the sounds of the city. The occasional passersby and even approaching cars seemed to whisper by her, blinking in and out of visibility for only a brief moment. This produced an eerie sensation of unreality. She was moving along as if in a narrow cocoon with translucent walls of waxed paper, which allowed only diffused light and muted images. The cocoon was her own personal space and it seemed to extend in any direction for as long as she moved forward. She liked the way it felt.

For a moment, the old woman contemplated the idea that maybe she should just keep on walking and never stop. Maybe she would never have to deal with another living soul again. The desire, although alluring, lasted only for the length of the next block, when she found herself breathing raggedly from her exertion through the slushy snow. Oh well, time to get home and see if Cranky Bastard was around looking for her. This kind of wet snow usually drove him inside. Most other times he preferred the alleys and dumpsters to the company of humans. In fact, she remembered clearly that the day she had named the old tomcat was a day similar to this one, all gray and bleak, wet and cold and... pre-Christmas. She had tried to run down Jimmy Woo with her shopping cart after he had tossed snowballs and insults at her. He was too fast for her, of course, ran off shouting, "Cranky old bitch!" When she arrived home, the old gray tom was in a foul mood of his own, snarling and whining. So, Jenny kicked the cat and dubbed him "Cranky Bastard". The name stuck.

She was thinking about that day when she arrived in front of her place. An impressive old sandstone and brick structure with carved cornices and polished marble stairs, it still bore the plaque fastened to its cornerstone, the chiseled inscription naming it the "Beasley Block 1910". The five-story building may have had an illustrious history, now long forgotten however. What remained was a soot-blackened run-down warren of low-rent two- and three-room flats that represented for most of the tenants just one step removed from living on the street. On a good day the toilets flushed or the radiators worked, but usually not both. Jenny’s two-room coldwater flat was around the back of the building, three steps down from street level. It was completely dark back there and the snow was really starting to pile up.

The scuffling sound by her doorway she thought was Cranky Bastard, waiting for her. She was wrong. But she was too late and not nearly agile enough to retreat from the hand that reached suddenly out of the darkness and covered her mouth. Her dropped key was quickly recovered by other hands, the door was unlocked and she was abruptly shoved inside. She was furious, prepared to lash out, kicking and screaming — an instinctive and natural reaction despite her age — when Tommy Woo flipped on the kitchen light. Her anger continued to blaze but with a slightly moderated temperature, now.

"What in the name of God, boy... You want to give an old woman a heart attack!"

"Sowwy, Mrs. Hawper... sowwy." He hung his head, looking for all the world like a half-drowned demented escapee from Bellevue. Jenny quickly took in the rest of the scene in her small, crowded kitchen. The one bare light bulb brought things into sharp focus, contrasted by even sharper dark shadows. In one such shadow, half hidden by Tommy, stood the girl. Jenny recognized her from earlier in front of Henry Woo’s. She looked young, scared, pale. Her features, like her hair, were coarse and dark. But she had the bluest eyes. And those blue eyes could not keep still, dancing up and down, back and forth, between Jenny and the door. Tommy looked as frightened and as nervous as the girl. In one hand, held loosely by his side, was a small pistol. Jenny indicated the gun with her eyes.

Following her gaze, Tommy raised the gun. "Sowwy," he intoned once more. The old woman took a step backwards in alarm. But the boy simply handed her the weapon. Jenny held it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, like she was handling a vile rat that, although it might be dead, was not wholly convincing that it could not bite. She dropped it into the bottom of an old wicker hamper next to her small fridge. Then she slowly gave the two of them the once over and shook her head.

"You can’t stay here, you know. There’s barely enough room for me. You know all hell’s gonna break loose and there won’t be anywhere safe. Not here... not anywhere in the neighborhood."

Tommy began to protest, although it seemed halfhearted. But that was just his way. "The neighborhood might be the safest place," he offered. "They prolly think we are long gone from here by now."

The two fugitives presented a pathetic sight, standing there in the bare light in her kitchen, with their heads hanging down stupidly. Water was dripping onto the faded linoleum, from the melting snow that had covered them from head to toe. The sight of them made the old woman angry once more.

"What in the hell are you gonna do, Tommy? Look at you — you don’t even have enough sense to come in out of the goddam rain. That girl looks terrible. She looks... sick." Her voice softened a little as she continued, still addressing the boy, "You just can’t stay here... at least not for long... until she feels a little better." She nodded towards the girl, who was beginning to shiver, now. "No longer than that... got it?"

The young couple both nodded.

"Now, both of you get out of those wet clothes. I’ll get you some blankets to wrap up in. Then I’ll get the kettle going for tea and for hot water." To herself she mumbled, "What are we going to do?" as she busied herself, lighting the gas and filling the kettle.

She would let them stay, of course. It just didn’t seem right to turn them away. The girl was obviously ill and Tommy was scared beyond words — which suited the old woman just fine. She did not want to know details, it wasn’t her business. She had enough to take care of herself. And where was Cranky Bastard? He should be inside on such a night. Outside, the north wind had picked up, blowing snow around the back of her place in gusts and eddies. The temperature was dropping as well, threatening to freeze the world.

Jenny shivered involuntarily, beat on the old cast iron radiator with a frying pan, then pulled a blanket around her shoulders when the heater paid no attention. The contraption’s control knob must have been merely ornamental, since it had no control whatsoever over the thing. The heat would radiate eventually she knew, but in its own good time. In the meantime, hot tea would help warm up the insides. The kettle began to sing, the tea was brewed and the remaining hot water went into a tin basin.

It was touching to watch the boy minister to his fellow fugitive, unlacing and removing the girl’s shoes and her wet socks. The basin of hot water was for her feet — the quickest way to warm up, said Jenny. Tommy tested the water’s temperature first. He was very gentle with her, covering her in a blanket next, toweling her long, wet hair, murmuring quietly all the while, reassuring her. Jenny marveled at how solicitous he was, at how genuine was his concern. His behavior was not that of a lover — maybe closer to a brother. But it was more than that. It had been such a long time since the old woman had been a witness to simple tenderness and caring between human beings, she had trouble recognizing what she was seeing — or perhaps believing her eyes. As he took care of the girl, Tommy’s eyes glistened with a mixture of sadness and wonder. And there was something else that Jenny saw as well. The boy’s dark eyes had a steel-like quality, set with determination or resolve, the kind that only comes from shrugging off — or taking on — a great weight. This was not the boy she had bantered with earlier in the day. This was someone else, someone who was in possession of his own self.

The two eventually warmed up, dried out, nearly relaxed. The girl remained very quiet. Later, Jenny would be unable to recall the child’s voice, would wonder if she had spoken at all. She would always remember the face, however — so young and pretty. And those blue eyes that were windows onto such an ancient soul within. She thought that the girl must have been born old. The night passed uneventfully, except for a tense moment when Cranky Bastard, came scuffling and howling at the door outside. Once inside, as is often the case with royalty, he decided to ignore the visitors entirely. When the strengthening wind began to moan and shriek outside, flinging angry handfuls of ice-laden snow against windows and door, the cat forgot himself and curled up next to Jenny. The old woman barely moved. She lay upon the kitchen cot, wide awake and listening to whispers in the dark room beyond. She had offered the fugitives her own bed, insisting that she preferred the cot in the warmer kitchen anyways, on such cold nights.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, dawned cold, bright and silent. The storm had passed, the wind having blown itself out or moved on to terrify more southern regions. Everything was quiet and still. Jenny moved slowly, her old bones protesting the sudden cold. And her back ached from the loose spring of the kitchen cot. As she turned up the gas under the kettle, she had a sudden flood of memories of the previous day’s events.. She whistled softly, then addressed the cat. "Oh, this is gonna be a Christmas to remember around here," she whispered.

She opened the door to let Cranky Bastard outside to relieve himself and was blinded by the light. Her drab and dreary back alley had been transformed, replaced by a white sea of a thousand million sparkling diamonds. She had been expecting a wall of snow to be blocking her door — a usual occurrence after such a storm. Instead she found footsteps and a ragged path up the short steps and through the drift that blocked the alley. When she spun around to check for her overnight guests, her small apartment was like a dark cave and at first she couldn’t see a thing. The apartment was empty, of course, the two of them gone and moving swiftly along the path of their own adventure or nightmare. It’s just as well, she thought, closing the door against the bright cold outside. She was unaware of the cat in the process of making a beeline back through the wet, detested snow. He didn’t quite make it. Jenny did not notice.

Neither did she notice what was left behind by the fleeing couple. Her darkened vision did not help, but she was also a bit preoccupied and agitated more than usual. She felt anxious to be outside and moving, too. So, it was not until much later in the day, upon her return home, that she would discover, among other things, the envelope containing the money and the note that went with it. Ten crisp one hundred dollar bills and a hasty scrawl that simply said, "Sowwy," (signed) T.W. She could not decide whether she should laugh or cry. At least the boy still had a sense of humor. It’s about all he has, she thought. He certainly doesn’t have any sense.

When she left her apartment in the early morning, she trudged through the snow to The Blue Diamond, looking forward to treating herself to breakfast. She still had a little candlestick money left. When she arrived, the place was already buzzing, the atmosphere charged with excitement. Rumors flew every which way but true. Jimmy Woo was dead but the neighborhood had gained some kind of vicarious new life through its association with the scene of the crime. The ranks of the regular breakfast crowd were swelled. People ate with increased appetite, talked, gossiped and ruminated with great gusto. The Blue Diamond was suddenly a hive of philosophers. Marianne, the waitress, was run off her feet, but kept smiling nonetheless. Even Arthur, the cook, was less surly than usual. Sometime around the middle of the morning Marianne became suddenly transfixed, like a member of the household of The Sleeping Beauty, turned into a statue. The tray of hot plates, which she held aloft, was stopped midway in its flight between the kitchen and the diners at the table next to Jenny’s. A hush descended upon the place. All eyes seemed to turn at once, following the gaze of the statuesque waitress. Jenny’s cup of tea did not make it to her mouth and she rubbed her eyes in disbelief.

Across the street, slowly and methodically making his way through the snow, was Tommy Woo. Jenny noted that he was a smaller, paler and older version of the boy whom she had befriended only a day ago, but it was unmistakably him. And he was making his way towards the entrance to his father’s restaurant. He hesitated and stood there, looking up at the hanging dragon sign, less gaudy now with its mantle of snow. Tommy seemed to be brushing something away from his eyes. Perhaps he was temporarily blinded by the bright sunshine reflecting off the snow. Before he took another step however, he was suddenly surrounded by half-a-dozen moving mountains, all dressed in trench coats and heavy boots. They had rushed out of the restaurant doors and pounced upon the boy. The Blue Diamond patrons had seen it coming just seconds before Tommy, but remained frozen, like helpless witnesses to an unfolding TV drama. The entire place exhaled at once in an audible gasp, watching spellbound when the boy’s father appeared on the scene — entering from stage right, thought Jenny, suddenly reminded of a stage production and recognizing at the same time that old trick of viewing real life as if you were in the audience of a play or a TV movie. It was just so much easier to believe that the events unfolding in the scene across the street were merely choreographed — realistic, perhaps but made up nonetheless. And the protagonists were all actors, plying their trade superbly but acting out fiction just the same.

Jenny knew better, of course. Her stomach let her know the difference right away. She did not want to care about the boy or about the unfolding drama across the street or about the boy’s fate. And the ancient suit of armor, with which she had protected herself for so long, held up fine until Henry Woo broke through the burly thugs holding the boy down and began to kick at his son. Screaming and cursing, the father had to be restrained by a couple of the policemen, while the son was shoved into a car that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. With flashing lights, it sped off and the excitement was over as quickly as it had begun. In the café, coffee and tea cups were hoisted once more, the clatter of dishes and cutlery could be heard again and the buzz and hum of a hundred morning conversations resumed where they had left off. Life in the old neighborhood returned to normal. The old woman however, had lost her appetite.

It was an understatement to describe it as a Christmas to remember. The newspapers had a field day, of course, embellishing one sordid detail after another, giving their readers something to talk about for many mornings. They had a great deal to say about Tommy Woo’s family, making up most of it as they went along. They printed banner headlines that read like Hollywood movie promotions: things like "Fratricide in Chinatown" or "Mystery Girl Caught in Chinese Love Triad". Jenny scoffed at these as she did at gossip mongers in general. She knew a thing or two but it was nobody’s business. To refer to the neighborhood as "Chinatown" was ludicrous, considering that Henry Woo’s restaurant was the only ethnic Chinese business to be found there. Eventually even that would disappear, shortly after Henry Woo left town. He didn’t even stay long enough for the outcome of the trial. As far as he was concerned, he was now alone in the world. His wife was long gone, his son had been murdered. Tommy Woo was no longer a son of his, just the murderer.

Jenny Harper would never understand that boy. He was no more killer than she was. If he weren’t so blind, the father would have realized that, also. Henry Woo would have known that in such a confrontation, the younger brother would not have stood a chance, would never have survived. There was no possibility whatsoever that Tommy Woo had pulled that trigger. And speaking of blindness, she could not begin to fathom what the boy saw when he looked at that young girl. It must be something, she conceded — something special or beyond the vision of everyone else. Whatever it was, it was not Jenny’s place or business to say otherwise.

The gun might have made for an interesting exhibit at the trial. There was certain to be more than one set of fingerprints on it. The old woman thought about it briefly — when those sensationalist vultures began calling for the boy to be tried in adult court. When that failed and the actual proceedings were well underway, she dropped the vile weapon into the river. At least as a juvenile, he would be out in three years. And if the boy thought the girl was worth such a sacrifice, then so be it. Perhaps it was just his way of claiming a future for himself, not understanding that the famous and the infamous alike would eventually only inherit obscurity like the rest of them. She never saw him again but she knew that Tommy Woo would be alright. Henry Woo was never seen in the neighborhood again, either. She didn’t hold out much hope that he would ever be alright again. Some said they saw his apparition now and then, hanging around the old restaurant, converted now to a pizza place. Some said he went back to China. Some said just about anything that came into their empty heads, Jenny thought.

As for the girl, she would always remain a mystery. She was not from the neighborhood, no one knew her, no one cared. The police never bothered. Why should they? They had their man. Jenny Harper would have liked a few words with her, especially after she had arrived back home and found the mess she had left that morning — ruined two of her best blankets, she did! And who would have thought there would be so much blood from such a small girl. She was hardly more than a child. And just what did she expect an old woman to do, anyway? The gall of some people, leaving their messes behind for someone else to clean up! Jenny could not remember ever being so angry before — not since that other Christmas Eve so many years ago, when her own daughter was found... Well, she could not, would not think about that, now, would she? Can’t change the past, not one second’s worth, so what’s the point?

On this more recent Christmas she decided that she just might be able to do something about the future, though, if she could pull herself together and stop dithering like a mindless old bag lady. She would have to time things just right. It was just about suppertime when she left her place. The air was crisp and fresh, darkness was descending and Christmas lights blinked on everywhere. Most of the shops were closing up or had already closed early for Christmas Eve. The few remaining pedestrians were concerned with their own last-minute affairs. Hardly anyone gave a second glance to the bag lady and her shopping cart piled high with blankets and an old, mangy cat tethered in place on top of it all. It was hard going in places with her cart. And Cranky Bastard was more hateful than usual, snarling and crying all the way to Isis knows where! If he had only known what he was in for, not even the sardines would have enticed him into such a trap. The old woman was crafty, indeed, but he had never expected this humiliation. And then she had the nerve to just leave him there on some unfamiliar curb, tied to a shopping cart. Behind him she had wedged some kind of battered old sign. It was just as well that he could not read.

Binky Cohen was just arriving home from his Christmas Eve early shift. If he had been as illiterate as the cat, he still would have recognized the "Free Kittens (x-ed out)" sign from a hundred paces. He never knew what to expect when the sign greeted him, but this was a real head-scratcher. He reached for the envelope that was tucked in at the foot of what looked like a cartful of old blankets. His name was on the envelope, in a small, neat script. Inside, he found five one hundred dollar bills and a short note. His face shone in wonder. The mangy cat cried, hissed, howled and tried to scratch at him, but Binky Cohen took little notice — except to pull on his leather gloves. Then in one quick motion, the man lifted the cat and tossed him to the sidewalk.. For the second time that day, Cranky Bastard had become a witless victim to inexplicable human caprice. On this occasion he was lucky to escape with his life. The ribbon tied around his neck was not quite long enough to allow him to reach the ground.

Binky Cohen took no notice of this fact however, since in the very next instant he had scooped up a bundle of blankets and was already bounding up his front steps, two at a time. He didn’t notice Jenny Harper either, as she rushed from the alleyway, where she had been observing events. She was quick to the dangling cat’s rescue, relieving the tension on his neck and loosening the ribbon’s stranglehold. He lay there in her arms for a moment, dazed and seemingly dead — until he suddenly sprang back to life, sputtering and gasping. Recognizing his surroundings, he immediately clamped his jaws down hard on Jenny’s wrist. Luckily, he got only a mouthful of heavy woolen coat.

"You cranky old bastard!" yelled the old woman, flinging the cat into the nearest snow bank. "What are you on now," she asked the pile of snow with shivering whiskers, "life number seven? Well, I hope it’s your lucky one."

She laughed and picked herself up, then slowly made her way back home. The cat followed at a safe distance, stopping every now and then to cough or snarl.

All the lights in Binky Cohen’s apartment blazed throughout the night on that Christmas Eve — and on many, many nights thereafter. But never again did he return home to find his belongings on the street. The "Free Kittens (x-ed out)" sign was retired for good. In the new year, the neighborhood would begin to marvel at a brand new addition. Some said she was a little Christmas miracle, remarking on the perfect timing for the Cohens’ "adoption".

And as she grew into the beautiful girl that hinted at the beautiful woman that she would someday become, the entire neighborhood delighted in her very presence. They knew instinctively that there was something special about the child. No one wondered at or even noticed her dark complexion, her jet black hair and the striking resemblance to a certain Chinese family who used to live there. They lacked the imagination even to guess how such a thing could be. And besides, the little girl had the bluest eyes.

Eventually Henry Woo and his sons would be almost entirely forgotten. The neighborhood would continue along, just as it always had, trading old stories for new. The old pickers would continue to scavenge, face a new battle every winter, add another layer of clothing or calluses. Most of the time it was enough just to keep body and soul together, a struggle just to survive. But every now and then there was a need for something more. Every now and then it was not enough to simply survive. Once in a while, even the crankiest soul needs reminding of his or her humanity. If we are very lucky, we may get a glimpse of the pattern, of which we are all a part, connected threads in the hand of the weaver. We are reminded that some things in the world are very special, even if we don’t understand; or that miracles await us, even in the cold snow. Perhaps the only difference between any of our stories is that some children are born into luck and some are not so lucky. And perhaps there is only one lesson we need to know: to remember that motherless children can have such a hard time. Jenny Harper remembered.