Oh! The Wiles of a Child

For many years, I worked for an organization in a small town. As a daily diversion, I would secure my listening device and earphone each day around the noon hour, and flee the confines of employment for a brief constitutional, designed to clear my head as well as give me the exercise I so desperately need. My route wended through Mayberry-like neighborhood with trim lawns, tightly-situated homes, and quiet streets.

Strolling down the sidewalk on a sunny late spring day, I espied a young lass, all of about 3 or 4 years old standing on a porch. As I passed by, she accosted me with her voice, plaintively pleading for assistance: “Can you help me open this door? I can’t get in”. Immediately, my suspicious nature shifted into high gear. A random neighbor looking out a random window at a random moment could interpret a random middle-aged man’s random interaction with a random pre-school age girl as something other than a Good Samaritan’s gesture. But as I pondered the risk, I was struck by the waif's agitated body language. She was clearly in a predicament, trapped outside with no resolution in sight. And the man she conversed with - wearing a crisp white shirt and tie, digital music in hand, earbud in canal – was hardly the stuff of a neighborhood stalker. I looked like a white-collar worker taking a walk on his lunch break. So I stopped.

“What’s the matter, little girl?”

“I can’t open the door. It’s stuck.”

I stepped on to the porch. and reached for the screen door. Her pleading eyes, the size of half-dollars watched my hand as it reached for the screen door and attempt to open it. Much to my chagrin, it would not yield to my touch. It was definitely locked.

“Who’s watching you, little girl?”

“My mom.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs”. This single word was accompanied by a broad upward sweep of her left hand.

I was convinced of the fortuitousness of my arrival at this particular moment. This poor child was fresh meat, exposed in the wild, with lions lurking behind every rhododendron. I sprang into action. Yes, today I would heroically rescue a wee sprite from the clutches of the dangerous world around her. I mentally created an outline for my confrontation with what must certainly be a slovenly, toothless hag of a mother who was undoubtedly at this very moment in a drunken stupor or worse, updating her Facebook page, blissfully and uncaringly unaware that her very flesh and blood was at the mercy of life’s harsh, unforgiving elements.

One second of time had passed. I think a lot, and I do it quickly.

The barrier to her safety was a typical screen door, sans storm window. I bent over and yoo-hoo’d into the darkness, the little miss fidgeting expectantly beside me. Eventually, I heard a sound on the stairs. To my puzzlement, it was not a besotted welfare mother clutching a half-filled bottle of Mogan-David. It was a casually-dressed man.

A mite confused, I clumsily launched into an explanation. “She couldn’t get in the house, Sir. The door was locked, and she asked me for help”. The man continued forward to the door, released the latch, and opened it. “Yes, I know”, he said with an even stare, “I locked it to keep her out”.

HE locked it? What a callous caregiver! What lesson was he trying to teach his daughter that was worth placing her in such danger? Oh well, none of my business, unless I could identify signs of physical abuse or illegal objects, of which none were present.

Turning to continue my interrupted stroll, I saw the little girl seize her opportunity and pounce through the door under his outstretched arm and disappear inside. Something in her deft movements started bells ringing in my head. She acted much like a stray cat who has discovered an open door and assumed it was an invitation to enter and browse for milk and fresh salmon. The bells turned into a five-alarm fire whistle. I turned back to the man, who was still at the door, wearing the cynical grin of someone who had just been out-maneuvered again.

“She doesn’t live here, does she?”

The smirk never faded from his face. “No, she doesn’t. But it’s OK. You were doing right.”

I chuckled as I stepped off the porch and moved on down the street. Now it all made sense. Yes, her mother was upstairs – but not at this house! Here was the annoying neighborhood pest who pokes her nose into whatever you’re doing, asks a hundred silly questions, and won’t leave until you bribe her with a popsicle, which then becomes the minimum expected payment on future visits. And she bedevils your solace with an angelic smile, nullifying any vengeful thoughts of retaliation against such an unwelcome visitor.

Just another day in a small town.