“I’m so sorry.”
Not usually a promising opening.
“My sitter canceled.”
“Okay.”
“I've got two client calls I can't move.”
She looked toward Charlie.
“Would you mind if he sat here for maybe an hour?”
Charlie immediately said:
“I can sit outside.”
Clare looked horrified.
“No.”
I looked at the boy.
He was small for six.
Brown hair needing a trim.
Worn blue sneakers with a hole beginning near one toe.
He carried himself strangely still.
Like children do when they have learned adults are less frustrated with invisible kids.
I said:
“He can stay.”
Clare exhaled.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right next door.”
“I know where insurance lives.”
She almost smiled.
“Charlie, do not touch anything.”
“I won't.”
“Do not bother Mr. Whitaker.”
“I won't.”
“Do not…”
“Clare.”
She stopped.
“He's fine.”
Her face softened.
“Thank you.”
Then she rushed out.
Charlie stayed near the doorway.
Did not move.
I helped two customers.
Cut a key.
Rang up drain cleaner.
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie remained standing.
“You planning to stand until your mother comes back?”
He shrugged.
“You can sit.”
“Where?”
Fair question.
I had one customer chair near the window.
I pointed.
He sat on the edge.
Back straight.
Hands on knees.
Did not touch a thing.
At 4:18, Clare returned.
“I’m sorry.”
She said it before the door fully closed.
“He okay?”
“He committed several felonies.”
Her face dropped.
I said:
“I’m joking.”
She stared at me.
Then laughed.
First time I heard it.
Quick.
Uncontrolled.
She covered her mouth.
“That's not funny.”
“A little.”
She looked at Charlie.
“Come on.”
The next day, they returned at 3:18.
Clare stopped inside.
“My sitter still…”
“He can stay.”
“I’m fixing it.”
“Okay.”
“Just today.”
“Okay.”
Charlie took the chair.
Third day, same thing.
Friday, same.
By Monday, I stopped pretending it was temporary.
I went into the back room and dragged out Dad’s old stool.
Wooden seat.
Steel legs.
One foot slightly uneven.
He sat on it behind the register for thirty years.
After Dad died, I could not bring myself to throw it away.
I put it behind the counter.
Charlie arrived.
I pointed.
“That’s yours.”
He stared.
“Mine?”
“Until I need it.”
“When will you need it?”
“Probably never.”
He walked behind the counter carefully.
Touched the seat.
Then climbed up.
His feet did not reach the floor.
For the next hour, he sat there watching me work.
The second week, I gave him something to do.