Crumbs

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by Mikki Aronoff

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I clock his worn shoes pacing the park’s dirt path, his constant checking of his watch and wonder if I’ve got the right guy. But he calls out Jennifer? twice, so the deal’s sealed. I take in his threadbare jacket, his droopy jowls and I’m faced with accepting this accident of a scrawny father who appears to be worse off than me. I sigh. I’d too long dreamed of someone not of such modest proportions, forecast a trickle-down generational windfall from someone who attends charity balls for the tax break—a New Yorker cartoon, ample, opulent, tuxed and top-hatted. The kind of man who rolls his vowels and blows smoke rings to confound. A man bursting with boast and bluster who votes his wallet and—call me opportunistic, but I’d’ve looked the other way. I could use a ticket out of working three lousy part-time shifts at diners and still scrambling to pay my share of the rent. I wanted a smooth cruise on a sleek yacht, a highball in my hands, but, face it, I’d take dinner out once a month. This guy, this guy couldn’t rent a ride on a rickety rowboat, ducks following for crumbs. But I’ve waited forever to meet him, craved kin, especially since Ma flew the coop, taking Sissy with her. We circle each other like dogs sizing up each other’s sticks. I point to a park bench. We calculate distance, sit in silence, watch clouds drift over the bandstand and hug ourselves when they block the sun. I glance at him sideways, note soft eyes the color of mine, gentle hands, a paperback peeking from his pocket. Pigeons gather at our feet, and his eyes crinkle. He pulls a greasy napkin from his pocket, opens it, and scatters the crumbs of half of a plain donut. So long, this harboring. Farewell, grander-than-life dreams. My lungs empty, my shoulders drop. Now this guy who’s going to be in my life is fake-punching my arm, an invitational tap. So, how ‘bout we celebrate? He motions to the hot dog stand. I slide closer, touch his hand, ask him can we buy a bun for the birds.

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