Read Online Any Minute by Meyer Joyce Bedford Deborah - Free Book Online
Authors: Meyer Joyce Bedford Deborah
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the man’s presence. It probably just bothered her that he was dirty.
Something mysterious and familiar glowed in the man’s eyes. Mitchell got the strangest feeling that maybe he’d seen this man before, only he couldn’t figure out where. Mitchell couldn’t help wondering if there was some special reason why they were meeting this man at this particular time.
The odd feeling ended, however, almost before it began. “Hey, lady.” The owner of the oxfords held out a hand toward Mitchell’s mom. “You need help finding your way around? Show you to the closest ‘L’ stop if you got spare change.”
“I don’t need you to show me anywhere,” she said. “I’m not lost.”
“Hey, Mom,” Mitchell whispered. “I think he’s just saying that… well, I think he’s the one who needs help.”
His mom shouldered her large purse. “You mustn’t help people like this. They have to learn to help themselves.”
“What if he needs money because he’s hungry?”
“He isn’t hungry. He’ll only get as much as he can and then he’ll get drunk on it. You have no idea how much these people drink, living on the street like this. I work for my money, and I am not going to give it to somebody who doesn’t want to work.”
But Mitchell hung back. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
“You bet I’m hungry.” The interesting stranger shot him a broad, plaque-infested grin.
Mitchell’s mom gave him that look that said,
Mitchell Harper, if you don’t cut it out right now, there will be big consequences, young man.
He was just about to give up and follow her when he remembered the cookie he’d been carrying. He held out an arm with the sack caught between two fingers. “You want this?”
“Sure I want it,” the man said. He peered inside the bag and withdrew the cookie. “God bless you for this. I say, God bless you.” From the careful, reverent way he peeled off the paper and bit into the gift, you’d have thought he was biting into some fancy French pastry. “I say.” He pulled the small sweet out of his mouth and examined it after his first bite. “This is the
best
cookie I’ve ever eaten.” Then Mitchell heard for the third time, “God bless you.”
“Those are some nice shoes too,” Mitchell said, nodding toward the man’s feet. “I like those. You’re lucky.”
“Don’t got nothing to do with luck, I tell you.” The stranger stared down at his feet like he’d almost forgotten they belonged to him. “They sure are nice, aren’t they, though? They’ll clean up nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
Mitchell figured he was in deep trouble for not obeying his mom. “If you do not come with me
this minute,
young man,” she said, covering her mouthpiece with her hand because she’d answered her phone again, “you will be grounded from Cubs games for as long as I’m alive.”
He was just turning to follow her when the man in the wingtip shoes called, “Hey, kid.” He pointed to the collection bin. “You want me to dig you something out of here?”
Mitchell shrugged and called back, “Don’t need anything much.” But then he brightened. “I’d take it if you found a Cubs shirt.”
“Plenty of Cubs shirts in here,” he said. “You stop back by, I’ll have you one. Folks throw those out all the time. Now take White Sox shirts. Those are a whole lot harder to come by. Folks hang on to those.”
Mitchell did a double take as he got a closer look. Behind his glass lenses, his eyes went round as hickory nuts. “I saw you from the bleachers, didn’t I?”
It all started to make sense. The way the man leaned on the open bin and propped his arms into a wide D against the door. The way what was left of his hair sprang from his ears like the feathers of a half-plucked turkey.
Mitchell felt the awesome thrum of his pulse. His heart felt like it might thump clear out of his chest. “You were at the game, weren’t you? In the scoreboard?”
In spite of his disheveled
Something mysterious and familiar glowed in the man’s eyes. Mitchell got the strangest feeling that maybe he’d seen this man before, only he couldn’t figure out where. Mitchell couldn’t help wondering if there was some special reason why they were meeting this man at this particular time.
The odd feeling ended, however, almost before it began. “Hey, lady.” The owner of the oxfords held out a hand toward Mitchell’s mom. “You need help finding your way around? Show you to the closest ‘L’ stop if you got spare change.”
“I don’t need you to show me anywhere,” she said. “I’m not lost.”
“Hey, Mom,” Mitchell whispered. “I think he’s just saying that… well, I think he’s the one who needs help.”
His mom shouldered her large purse. “You mustn’t help people like this. They have to learn to help themselves.”
“What if he needs money because he’s hungry?”
“He isn’t hungry. He’ll only get as much as he can and then he’ll get drunk on it. You have no idea how much these people drink, living on the street like this. I work for my money, and I am not going to give it to somebody who doesn’t want to work.”
But Mitchell hung back. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
“You bet I’m hungry.” The interesting stranger shot him a broad, plaque-infested grin.
Mitchell’s mom gave him that look that said,
Mitchell Harper, if you don’t cut it out right now, there will be big consequences, young man.
He was just about to give up and follow her when he remembered the cookie he’d been carrying. He held out an arm with the sack caught between two fingers. “You want this?”
“Sure I want it,” the man said. He peered inside the bag and withdrew the cookie. “God bless you for this. I say, God bless you.” From the careful, reverent way he peeled off the paper and bit into the gift, you’d have thought he was biting into some fancy French pastry. “I say.” He pulled the small sweet out of his mouth and examined it after his first bite. “This is the
best
cookie I’ve ever eaten.” Then Mitchell heard for the third time, “God bless you.”
“Those are some nice shoes too,” Mitchell said, nodding toward the man’s feet. “I like those. You’re lucky.”
“Don’t got nothing to do with luck, I tell you.” The stranger stared down at his feet like he’d almost forgotten they belonged to him. “They sure are nice, aren’t they, though? They’ll clean up nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
Mitchell figured he was in deep trouble for not obeying his mom. “If you do not come with me
this minute,
young man,” she said, covering her mouthpiece with her hand because she’d answered her phone again, “you will be grounded from Cubs games for as long as I’m alive.”
He was just turning to follow her when the man in the wingtip shoes called, “Hey, kid.” He pointed to the collection bin. “You want me to dig you something out of here?”
Mitchell shrugged and called back, “Don’t need anything much.” But then he brightened. “I’d take it if you found a Cubs shirt.”
“Plenty of Cubs shirts in here,” he said. “You stop back by, I’ll have you one. Folks throw those out all the time. Now take White Sox shirts. Those are a whole lot harder to come by. Folks hang on to those.”
Mitchell did a double take as he got a closer look. Behind his glass lenses, his eyes went round as hickory nuts. “I saw you from the bleachers, didn’t I?”
It all started to make sense. The way the man leaned on the open bin and propped his arms into a wide D against the door. The way what was left of his hair sprang from his ears like the feathers of a half-plucked turkey.
Mitchell felt the awesome thrum of his pulse. His heart felt like it might thump clear out of his chest. “You were at the game, weren’t you? In the scoreboard?”
In spite of his disheveled
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