“Here you go,” the waitress said, as she put the oatmeal down on Rufus’ table. “Need anything else?”
Rufus smiled up at her; she looked frazzled by the early morning rush, by hordes demanding bacon, eggs, sausage, pancakes, hash browns, and the endless choices of toasted bread. He’d surprised her with his request for oatmeal, nuts and strawberries. She’d smiled. For a moment.
“No,” he said, “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Welcome,” she said and turned back to the deluge.
Rufus piled the nuts and fruit into the oatmeal and stirred. His first taste burned the roof of his mouth, so he took the bowl over to the coffee station to add milk.
He put the carton down and headed back to his table.
Then stopped. Turned around.
Looked at the milk carton directly.
“No,” he whispered.
* * *
Rufus crosses the street, hungry but holding off eating until after the show; nothing as embarrassing as burping over the microphone.
The coffee shop is about a hundred yards ahead, on his right. From here, he can see one of his flyers, taped to the inside of the glass; his name on a chalkboard to the side of the door.
Beyond the glass, the room looks empty.
He swallows down the despair; another night, singing to no-one but staff and roaring espresso machines.
He walks on, knowing that he’ll sing anyway.
* * *
Rufus put his bowl of oatmeal down by the coffee pots and reached out for the carton.
Lifted it.
Looked closer.
* * *
Rufus turns away from the conversation, typical after-gig chat: does he have a CD, where’s he playing next, the answers in turn, ‘no’ and ‘I don’t know’. He stoops to pick up his guitar case.
In his jacket pocket, thirty nine bucks of tips. Pretty good for a week night.
“G’night,” he says to the barista, before heading out the door.
Outside, the city roar is winding down, populace lumbering towards its collective bed.
“Change?”
Rufus turns, sees a shadow, sitting on the other side of the chalkboard, holding out a hand.
He crosses to him. Squats down.
It’s a kid, must be only…
“How old are you?” Rufus asks.
The kid is stone-faced.
“Old enough,” he says. “Do you have any change? I’d sure like to eat tonight.”
“Seriously. How old are you?”
“Do you got change or not?”
Rufus sees drawn cheeks, desperate eyes, a dark mop of straggly hair. Dark smudges; dirt or bruises, he knows not which.
He looks in the kid’s poker-blank eyes, senses panic beneath the surface.
And he reaches into his pocket, pulls the thirty nine bucks and hands it to the kid, whose eyes widen as he realizes how much he’s getting.
“Have you got somewhere to sleep?” Rufus asks.
“Sure,” the kid replies.
But Rufus doesn’t believe him. He nods at the money.
“Can that get you a place to sleep?”
“Sure,” the kid replies.
“And food?”
“Sure.”
Rufus looks in the kid’s eyes for a moment longer, then stands, his knees and ankles setting off pistol shots.
“Stay safe,” Rufus says, and turns his back on the kid.
He walks down the street, into the depths of the city, resolves to speak to the first police officer he encounters.
How old is the kid? he thinks to himself as he walks.
* * *
On the side of the milk carton:
MISSING
Michael Ridenour
12-year old
Last seen in…
Rufus stared at the picture, read the words again, stared at the picture.
And at the kid’s eyes, which he’d last seen staring him down outside a coffee shop a month earlier.
He hadn’t spoken to a cop that night, had persuaded himself that the kid was just another city chancer, playing the sympathy card to make a little cash. And besides, in giving his tips to the kid, he’d put his own night’s rest in jeopardy. This realization had made him angry and he’d put the kid out of his thoughts as he fumed about another night in the hostel down by the river.
But now this milk carton. And the tacit accusation that he could have done something more than just handing over cash.
Now, this knowledge, that the kid, Michael, hadn’t been just another pan-handler. He had parents, a brother who missed him. He’d last been seen in the area of the city where Rufus had played the gig. He’d last been seen a week or so before Rufus gave him thirty nine bucks he earned from commiserating coffee shop patrons.
For all Rufus knew, he might have been the last person to see the kid alive.
He stopped. Breathed. Caught his own assumption.
… to see the kid alive.
The waitress approached.
“You okay, hun?” she asked. “Can I get you anything?”
Rufus put down the milk carton, looked at her.
“Is there a police station near here?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Sure, it’s about a mile from here, downtown,” she said, turning back to him, “just follow the road, you can’t miss it.”
She nodded at the oatmeal.
“Don’t let it get cold,” she smiled.
“Oh,” Rufus looked at the oatmeal as if seeing it for the first time, “thanks.”
He picked up the bowl and returned to his table, where he ate quickly.
Whenever he blinked he could see Michael Ridenour’s eyes staring at him from a milk carton, a memory, a guilty conscience.
RUFUS – A NOVEL is a novel-in-progress by Vincent Tuckwood, a Brit author living and working in Waterford, Connecticut, USA. Read more by Vincent Tuckwood.
