© 2005 RD Larson
Working Poor
By
RD Larson
Prologue
Henry knelt by the broken picket fence. The smell of the honeysuckle was too sweet; the sound of bees moving from one yellow flower to another made him scared. He'd been stung lots of times. He picked at his ankle, scratching off an old scab.
His hair was combed wet against his head. His mother liked him to look nice, she said, dipping her rattail comb under the faucet before combing his soft brown curls. In this heat the curls would spring loose again any minute, but for now Henry looked proper. He chewed on his hangnail and waited.
Pretty soon, a little boy came out of the house next door. He was taller than Henry, but Henry thought he was younger, maybe first or second grade. The boy had torn overalls on. His hair had been buzzed off not long ago because his skull was white and sick-looking. As Henry watch the neighbor boy take out a plastic car and sit down in the dust of the driveway, he nodded to himself.
He's not too little to play, he thought. See, he even knows how to make play cars sound fast. Henry stood up and watched. The boy suddenly looked up. His eyes were a funny blue, almost a white blue. Henry couldn't look away. That new boy was sure strange. He stared at Henry.
Henry said, "Hi." finally but the boy didn't say anything. He picked up his car, stood up and walked into the house with his head down. Henry sighed. Then he went into his own house.
His mother was cleaning house. She was washing the walls with soap and Clorox. It stunk really bad. Henry wrinkled his nose.
"Smells awful, huh? I got to get this clean so those roaches don't find anything to eat, " Mom said. She hated bugs. There were a lot of bugs in this old house. It won't help, Henry thought. "What've you been doing out in the yard, Henry?"
"Trying to talk to the new boy. He ran in the house
when I said 'Hi' to him." His mother moved her bulk back from the wall. She took a long final swipe of the painted wall by the kitchen table. It was stained but clean. Suddenly, she peered at it, scrubbing a sticky spot.
She stepped backwards and dried her hands on the towel hanging from her shoulder. She had great soft rolls of fat around her body, like full water balloons. When he leaned against her, her fat sunk in just enough to comfort him. When she had sat down on a chair and lit a cigarette, she looked at Henry. Her lap widened and her arms opened.
With such relief and pleasure Henry rushed into them. His mother's arms closed around him and she rocked her body in the chair just a little. Not enough to make him feel like a baby. Just enough to make him feel safe. They sat there, her smoking her Charleston and him lying there against her bust and belly.
