The boy was small and very cold, and he shivered as he moved down the little garden path towards us. My father stood underneath a gutter that glittered with frost near the top of the little stairway, waiting for our daily delivery to come as it always did - by way of the boy. As always his huge back was straight as a plumb line and the heavy black coat he wore had snow on the shoulders. He’d already been out today. Nearby, my sisters sat, taking morning tea and waiting for the scrawny young man to drop off his payload. He was a small, callow darker shape in the murk of the morning.
“Good morning, sir.”
“And to you. Here is your money.”
My father rumbled. For some reason, he reminded me of the stern old crows that lined our way to school each day. The boy would have been tiny against him even on the same footing. On the stair, as he was, he almost seemed out of sight. As he extended his arm, the paper in it, the air was suddenly full of a thunder that took me a second to realize was a huge truck, hammering down the ice slick street. At this the boy turned suddenly, arm still out, and uttered a groan at odds with his tiny frame. I was surprised by its’ depth.
“What is the matter, boy?” asked my father. He could have been irritated, but it was hard to tell. We were still too interested in the truck, by now at the end of the road. The boy turned back suddenly.
“Sorry, sir. That truck is bringing my new neighbors into town. I’ve heard some strange stories and stranger things coming from their house in the day.” As he spoke, he put the paper in my fathers’ hand and took the money.
“What things?” the question came from Sadie, my elder sister. She regarded him intently, almost in a predatory manner. For his part, he almost jumped. She’d never addressed him before, though she’d been present for many of his visits.
“They… they sing strange songs, milady. And I’ve heard that their children have as much influence in their family as the parents do.”
“That is interesting, paper boy. I’d like to hear those songs.” The girl replied, leaning forward and smiling. My father moved aside to give them clear view of each other. Though he seemed stern, he was kind. The paper boy licked his lips and looked up at him for a moment, only speaking after the nod was given. His voice betrayed his nerves.
“I… If you’d like, milady, you would be welcome to come to my house to hear them. You all would be.” He looked at the three of the children in turn, and I noticed his eyes were pale blue. I’d never seen that color before.
“We would love to!” cooed Sadie. “Where shall we come, then?” her excitement was evident.
“Down to Abaddon and Crine. My house is the one with the big garden.” He said, then looked up to my father again and inclined his head.
“Thank you sir. I must be going now.” He said, and backed down the stairs. My father nodded wordlessly again, smiling. I knew he prized manners. Sadie got up and walked to the balcony, leaning out.
“Wait, paperboy! You cannot expect us to come to your house without a name, or a time?”
He told us his name then, and the time he’d expect us. It was after school, which was agreeable. He turned and walked back down the path, still shivering in the cold. Sadie turned to the pair of us and grinned widely.
“This should be fun!” She beamed.
We arrived that afternoon at our new friends’ house, knocking on the dour wooden door three times. It was not hard to find. The garden was immense, but the house seemed as dwarfed by it as the boy had been by my father. It was an ugly little place, all brick, but it seemed cozy inside. As he admitted us, I shook his hand and the girls curtsied as father had taught us, and then we met his mother – a jolly looking, friendly older woman who walked with a cane and seemed pleased to receive visitors. I was to find out later that his father had never been a part of his life, though I never found out why. We spent the afternoon at play and conversation, waiting for the nighttime, when his neighbors would begin their nightly choir. I came to think highly of our paperboy that afternoon. I was glad Sadie had spoken.
That night, the snow fell lightly as we made our way out the back of the ugly little house and down into the back yard. The glow from the houselights caught the little flakes as they fell onto us, and lit our way down to his little nest he’d made in the hedge towards the fence. There was only enough room for two of us to fit in at a time. He turned when he got there, and said, “Ladies first. Sit in and listen to them and what they sing.” Sadies’ eyes were bright in the muted light, and as she and my younger bent to get into the nest, we caught a note or two from the other side of it, drifting through like the snow. The girls giggled and slid in, and when he let the branches swing back, they were safely enveloped inside. No more singing came to us. As we stood and waited, he shivered mutely and rubbed his hands together.
“Why do you not have a warmer jacket?” I asked. He turned and looked at me, a rictus grin on his face in the cold.
“I can’t afford one.” He said simply, still rubbing. Snow slid down and off his hair.
“But your paper route…” I began, at least glad I had something to talk about.
“It doesn’t pay much, and everything goes to my mother to help us live.” He said, without any distain. I nodded, understanding. His mother was a cripple. They needed all the help they could get.
“I’ve got one you can have tomorrow if you want.” I said after a little while of watching the snow drift down.
“Really? I’d love to be warmer.” He murmured. I suspect he was taken aback. His grin was white in the half-light. The hedge giggled.
“Ok, we’ve heard. Your turn now,” came Sadies’ voice, high with mirth. The hedge parted and they came out, grinning and tittering.
“That good?” I asked, eyebrow raised. They both turned to me and burst into laughter.
“Really, that good!” Sadie gasped, and the paperboy allowed himself a chuckle. I dove into the thicket, eager to be in on the joke. The paperboy followed, and we wriggled through to the cavity. We could hear clearly from there, and we sat and listened intently. Their music was beautiful.
We went to different schools, but we often walked home together because they were near each other and we enjoyed speaking to our new friend. One day, a few months later, he came to us in the afternoon with a broken face. He’d been hit pretty hard, and the damage was considerable. He couldn’t talk properly. One of his eyes was swollen shut.
“What the hell happened to you?” Sadie practically screamed at him, horrified that someone could be hurt so. I’d noticed she’d grown awfully fond of our paper boy. He flinched as she touched him.
“Just boys’ stuff” he said, voice tight with pain. I considered taking his schoolbag away so he could walk unburdened but decided against it. If he needed help, he’d ask. Sadie obviously didn’t think so.
“That’s horrible!” she cried, and turned to me. “Surely we can-“
“Just leave it.” He said. I’d never heard his voice sound so flat before or since. He pushed away from us and stormed off down the street. Sadie watched him go, at a loss for what to do. I shrugged at her pleading eyes, and began to follow him home through the chill afternoon light, the girls drifting along with me. We kept our distance. There were blood spots on the pavement, but nothing else to mark his passing. We didn’t see him for a little while after that.
Summer slipped into Autumn, then deepened into Winter again. The snow began to fall heavily, and one day on the way to school Sadie told me she had a secret.
“Guess.” She said, when I asked what it was. I was familiar with the game, but didn’t enjoy it. I could never guess, but she always told me anyway. It was a vestige of childhood she clung to for no reason than –I suspect – she knew it annoyed me.
“Your watch stopped”
“No.”
“You’re really adopted”
“Hey! – No.”
“
I’m really adopted”
“I wish.”
“Then what?”
She pursed her lips, gauging me and appearing to consider not telling me. I kept walking, waiting. She took my arm gently and walked beside me, then smiled.
“I think I’m in love.” Her voice was deep with meaning. She was serious.
“Who with?” I asked. She’d never sounded like this about a boy before.
“Someone you know.” She said, suddenly playful again.
“Ah. Well I wish you luck.” I said, as we moved on in the cold air.
I called on the paperboy after we missed him for our daily walk home one day in early spring. His mother, when she answered the door, was dead in the eyes.
“Where is he?” I asked, suddenly worried. She turned away and shambled into the house.
“He was hit by a car this morning on his way to school. He was reading a letter from a girl who had fallen in love with him.” She replied. “He’s dead.”
Suddenly I felt like blaming my sister for something. Everything.
The snow was falling lightly again when I took to the road that year. The run that I was on needed a predawn start, and I often wondered if my friend took as much quiet joy in the slowly blooming days as I was. I was not cold, for I had my own jacket, and I made sure that I was as courteous as he’d always been to us, and that the runs were done properly. I upheld the memory of our paperboy by doing his job, and it made me happy to remember him like that.
