Chapter One

Let me do

my work each day…

 Excerpt from

        At 6:15 Timothy Wrenn stepped out of the Lanyard Public Library with broom in hand. He swept the debris from stairs and porch, then stopped to rub a white smear of bird droppings from the brass D in Lanyard on the front of the building. He didn’t begrudge the pigeons roosting above the sign and enjoyed their soft, chuckling conversation, but he did wish they could be less messy. He swept the library steps every morning and every afternoon. Not because it was part of his job, but because no one else cared as much as he about the outer appearance of the library. He loved the physical building almost as much as the books inside.       

        Timothy was not what you would call an influential person. He was a little man. One of the small people who makes up crowds and who rarely has eyes fix upon him. His courage, his nobility, such as it was, went unnoticed.

         He put away the broom, locked the door, and walked quickly to his car. A cool breeze carried an odor of fish from a nearby grocery. Today was Wednesday. He had one stop before he went home. One weekly stop.

        “Evening, Mr. Wrenn,” said the lady at the Sub Express as she did every Wednesday. “Two subs with turkey, ham, and cheese.”

         “Thanks, Frances,” Timothy said, picking up the two wrapped sandwiches.

          He held one to his nose to inhale the cheesy mayonnaise smell.

          He left the car where it was and crossed the street to the small park the Lanyard City Council had endorsed, hoping to draw people away from the malls and back downtown to shop. The blue glare of the September sky shone down on the bench where Timothy settled, tucking his feet beneath it like a child. He set the sandwiches beside himself, one on each side. The chill of the cold iron penetrated his thin pants. His eyes fell on two paper cups and a beer can that lay no more than four feet from a garbage barrel.

          “People,” he muttered as he got up to retrieve them and stuffed them into the can.

          His father had taught him to leave places cleaner than when he found them. His family’s yearly trips to Windy Hill Beach had always included morning walks to pick up litter and pieces of glass. Timothy’s father would softly scold the unknown people who had left their trash for him to collect. Timothy would dart ahead of his father, his small, nimble fingers plucking the paper and glass from amongst the shells. He’d turn to show his parents his full palms before running to the trash barrel and despositing his load. Then he’d race eagerly to rinse his hands in the icy waves before returning to hunt for more prey. Trash couldn’t hide from young Timothy. Glitter from the smallest piece of glass brought his swift pounce. And each time he would look up for the acknowledgment and notice of his parents.

           Now, as he neared sixty, he stood with one hand still poised above the park trash barrel. He had loved those trips with his parents. Just the three of them together…in the haven of that beach cottage. Or the haven of their small white house on a side street of Lanyard. Home was always a haven for Timothy. A place to lock the doors against the others. The threatening, jeering others that had plagued him throughout his life.

            As he turned from the trashcan, he could see Hummer standing by a tree. Littlebit was nowhere in sight. Being careful not to look in Hummer’s direction, Timothy slowly returned to the bench and sat with his hands on his knees. He heard Hummer’s approach but knew better than to look up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gray hand clench the edge of the bench, its long nails caked with filth, its veins standing up like a family of earthworms.

           Timothy could picture the huge pale eyes, the gray head that tossed like a frightened dappled colt. He didn’t dare move. He stared at his hands. He had courted this raggedy old man for weeks before the man had trusted Timothy enough to let him approach. Sometimes he would accept a sandwich from Timothy, sometimes he would not. When Littlebit was there, Hummer was more relaxed. Now his low, frenzied humming filled the air—intended, Timothy imagined, to block any radio signals that might get in and scramble his brains.

           Timothy moved one hand toward the sandwich on his left. When the humming didn’t change its pitch, he moved the other hand over and unwrapped it. He pushed it toward the other man. He could smell years of sweat, urine, and dirt. Of fear, loneliness, and pain. He longed to look into those empty blue eyes. To speak soothing words as he would to a frightened puppy. But to do so would send Hummer scrambling with both hands up to ward off the laser beams that followed eye contact.

           Timothy heard a small sound on his right. He turned and looked into the eyes of Littlebit. Littlebit looked back without fear. Littlebit was, perhaps, a degrading name for the dwarf street person, but Timothy never said it outside his own head. Timothy imagined that when Littlebit had been a small boy, God or gravity had placed two hands on his head and held him as his body struggled to grow. As a result, the skin around his bleak, anxious eyes and puffy lips was pulled down into bulldoggish dewlaps that quivered now with hunger. The actual shape of his lumpy body was hidden beneath layers of suit jackets that reached below his knees. Short, dirty fingers wriggled out from one sleeve like the waving tentacles of a sea anemone.