Welcome to the Spot
Writers. This month's prompt is to write a story in which mistaken identity
plays a major role.
Today’s
post comes from Phil Yeats. Last December, Phil (using his Alan Kemister pen
name) published his most recent novel. Tilting at Windmills, the
second in the Barrettsport Mysteries series of soft-boiled police
detective stories set in an imaginary Nova Scotia coastal community is
available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Tilting-Windmills-Barrettsport-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B07L5WR948/
The Panhandler
by Phil Yeats
The scruffy young panhandler sat
on the busy sidewalk suckling a fractious infant. When I dropped a coin in her
pot, the baby reached for my fingers. Distracted by the tiny hand and abandoned
breast, I lingered for a moment too long.
“Alan?” she said as I tried to back
away.
I jerked upright, shocked that
she knew my name. “Yes, sorry. Should I know you?”
“Alan? Alan Cummings?”
I shook my head. “First name’s
Alan but not Cummings.”
She lost it, setting, no closer
to dropping, the baby on the ground, and wailing as she clutched her hands on
the sides of her head. She slumped forward, both breasts now hanging free, and
leaned on her elbows with the baby underneath her.
He, or maybe it was she, squirmed
from under his/her mother, grabbed onto my leg and pulled himself/herself
upright. The brazen little hussy, I decided she was a girl, reached up
imploring me to pick her up. I decided she was about a year old, more toddler
than infant, because she stood without difficulty. I hoisted her into my arms,
at least twenty pounds, maybe more, so a year or a year and a half old. She
squirmed, gurgling and reaching for my glasses as her mother regained her
composure and adjusted her top.
She rummaged in her beat-up old
rucksack and passed me the photograph she extracted. I recognized the three
young men immediately. They were Gerry Murphy, my best friend through high
school, Carl Cummings, another schoolmate, and me. We hung out together in
grade twelve, but I hadn’t seen either for years.
I slid down until I was sitting
beside her. I studied her more intently as her baby continued to tug at my
glasses. She was an awful mess with scrapes and scratches and eyes puffy from
crying. She had a bruise on one cheek and a fading shiner, but she had to be Gerry’s
youngest sister, a kid of only twelve or thirteen when I left home. I don’t
think we met up either of the times I returned home, so I hadn’t seen her for
seven years. I didn’t recognize her, but she remembered me. She just got my
name mixed up with Carl’s.
“Peggy?” I said. “Are you really
Peggy Murphy?”
Her tears started flowing again
as she leaned against my chest. “Gerry told me you were at the university, and
I so much hoped I might find you, but then I got your name mixed up with
Carl’s. Oh God, Connor and I are alone in the world, and I’m so messed up I
can’t even remember your name.”
“Please, stop crying before you
upset Connor. Is that really his name? I thought from the way he flirted with
me that he must be a girl.”
That produced a hint of a smile.
“Little Irish charmer, but definitely a boy.”
“Are you really alone? Connor’s
father not with you?”
“Alone with no where to go. We
stayed last night in a homeless shelter but they don’t want babies and we can’t
keep going there.” She leaned over and stared into her pot. “And I’m not making
enough to afford a room.”
I sighed, remembering my teenage
years and the times Peggy’s parents stepped up when I needed support. It was
payback time. “I’ll put you up until you sort yourself out. My place is tiny,
but we’ll manage and you won’t have to worry about Connor crying.”
Her smile broadened, and I
wondered if she was imagining more than a temporary sanctuary. A potential
problem perhaps, but not an immediate one. I helped her to her feet, and
together we carted Connor and her stuff to my humble abode.
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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