I took the other bag out to the trash cans at the street and dropped it inside.
When I got back to my house, I took the remaining bag into the kitchen and stood there looking at it. Was it stealing if you took something someone was throwing away? What if she’d poisoned it to keep rats out of the trash? What if she poisoned it to kill whoever stole it from her trash can?
I shrugged off my outrageous thoughts and tried to be practical. I decided that if someone was throwing something out, that made it free for all. I knew people often set furniture, baby toys and clothes out on the curb that they didn’t want anymore. Why not food?
With the dim light of my flashlight I dug into the bag. Inside I found a plastic bowl full of spaghetti, a bag with garlic bread inside, and even a tin with chocolate brownies! One of them looked like it had a bite taken out of it, and I wanted desperately to dive right in, like I had with the pizza, but the last few days of hunger had taught me a lesson. I ate the spaghetti first, because I figured since it had meat in it, it would spoil quickly. I saved the bread and the brownies, figuring that if I rationed them, even if they grew stale, they would last me a day or two. I didn’t have any silverware, so I ended up with spaghetti sauce all over me, but the full feeling that let me sleep through the night made it worth it.
That began a strange, but sweet, relationship between me and Mrs. Rohring. She would come out on her back porch most evenings and boss me around a bit. Sometimes she had me watering her beloved roses. Other times it was taking care of her lawn. One night she made me carry a bunch of old paint cans off her back porch to her shed. I could almost swear a few nights later she’d had me transport the very same paint cans from the porch to the shed again, which was crazy, of course. That would have meant she must have retrieved them from her shed herself, and then ordered me to repeat the task. Which didn’t make sense to my twelve-year-old brain.
Regardless of what chores she had me do, the night would always end with her giving me a bag or two of “trash” to take to the trash cans. One of those bags inevitably contained food of some kind. Sometimes there was more spaghetti. Other times there was homemade meatloaf. Once or twice there was pizza, or burgers. Usually along with whatever hot food she had “decided she couldn’t stand” there was something less perishable. A jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread one time, that she said she just “didn’t like the taste of”. Always, there had been something.
More important even than the food to me, though, was her companionship. I hadn’t realized how big of a void my family’s absence had left in my life before Mrs. Rohring filled it. In the mornings she would walk down to the mailbox wearing a bright pink bathrobe with matching slippers and pick up her newspaper. She was still able to drive, so she was often gone during the day while I was out working or at the library. In the evening, we’d meet up for whatever chores she had for me to work on and dinner.
I hadn’t really talked to her about what had happened. I hadn’t toldanyoneabout my parent’s disappearance. I was too terrified that if another adult knew I was alone, they would call the police on me and I’d be sent away from the house. For some reason, I wasn’t afraid of Mrs. Rohring telling anyone. She’d often talk to me about world politics, the government, all kinds of things I had real knowledge of. I’d sit, and listen, and occasionally comment on how dumb adults seemed at times. She’d just nod at me. One time, I said something that made her almost fall out of her chair laughing. To this day, I had no idea what was so funny, but it was like we were co-conspirators in a fight against “the Man”, whoever that was.
Mrs. Rohring didn’t seem to care what I wore, but she encouraged me to share my opinion. She was as regular as clockwork, meeting me every evening for a short chat and her to-do list, always ending with a trip to the “trash can”.
One evening, though, she showed up on her back porch with a trash bag that was different. She thrust it at me before sitting down in her rocker, exhaling sharply and looking anywhere but at me.
“You’ve got school coming soon, and I don’t know what your plans are, but you can’t go back lookin’ like that. I know you’re going to argue with me about it, but let’s just agree that I’m older and far more stubborn than you, so just take the damn things,” she groused.
I’d opened the bag, not quite sure what to make of her statement.
My cheeks burned in humiliation as I realized what it was. Inside the bag was a backpack, several pairs of jeans, packages of t-shirts, underwear, socks and a brand-new pair of tennis shoes.
I felt a flush creep up my face as I looked from the bag to her. I knew I was beginning to look a sight, and though I’d struggled to maintain a relatively normal appearance, I knew it was a losing battle. I’d hit a growth spurt and the shoes I’d started the summer with just didn’t fit anymore. I had to havesomethingon my feet, though, especially if I was going in people’s yards, so I’d cut the toes out of the shoes with a pocketknife. My jeans already had more holes than not, so I had just turned them into shorts. My t-shirts were so tight I was having a hard time getting them over my head, but I hadn’t known what to do about that.
I stared at the gifts, and felt tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. I had come to the conclusion that my parents hadn’t loved me. If they’d loved me, how could they have left me? Here this old woman was, though, someone who not only cared about me, she had seen me. Something the rest of the adults in the neighborhood hadn’t, or hadn’t bothered to do anything about.
I threw my arms around her neck and hugged that old woman for all I was worth.
“Whoa! Whoa there, child!” she said, hesitantly patting me on the back.
When I had calmed down, she got me some water and took me into her kitchen. Her house was laid out just like ours was but decorated in muted greens and blues. It was kind of weird to actually be in her house, but it was nice, too.
She sat across from me at the kitchen table.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened to your parents?” she asked, her eyes strangely kind in the twilight.
“I... they...” Sobs threatened to overtake me. “They’re gone.”
She nodded slowly, as if my few words had been enough to tell her everything she needed to know.
“I take it they aren’t coming back, either?” she asked. I shook my head.
“Any family? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?” she questioned.
Again, I shook my head and she sighed.
“Well, alright then,” she said, taking a deep breath. “How about you come live with me?”
My mouth dropped open and I just stared at her in shock. Live here? With her?
“I don’t got no one in my life, neither,” she said. “You’ve always been such a polite, good-hearted young man. I’ve seen how you been! I see a lot from my upstairs... Maybe… maybe we can be family for each other.” She finished, “At least, until we find your family.”
The next morning Mrs. Rohring fed me a breakfast of eggs and toast, and asked me what kind of foods I’d liked.
I’d had some luck and found two houses that needed lawns mowed. I waited outside her door, excited to tell her about my success. The hours grew later and later, and still no Mrs. Rohring. I’d eyed the lengthening shadows with worry. Mrs. Rohringalwayscame out before the shadows reached the roses by the porch, and now the shadows were halfway up the porch railing.
