A Gang of Our Own

Chapter Twenty-One

It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room. The sunlight from outside made the black curtains appear brown. Other than a few sun rays that escaped the smothering curtain, no light was in the room. I could see the outline of a person sitting on a couch to my left. I turned towards him.

"What are ya doing here, kid?" He grumbled.

"I... Just wanted to say hello. I thought m-maybe you were lonely. Ya know, being stuck in this house and all."

"I'm always lonely." He muttered.

I frowned and took a step forward, the scuffed up boards beneath me groaning. An awkward silence seemed to hang in the air.

"The church was praying for you." I said.

He said nothing.

I stood for a long time. I was just standing, listening to dead branches from some unknown place scratching against the house in the breeze, and Mr. White's heavy breathing. I took this time to take in the room I was in.

The air was stale. And dry. It smelled like old man and dirt. My foot slid across the floor, feeling like a thick coat of dust covered the ground. In front of me was a small coffee table, barley visible in the darkness. The room was so dark, it was suffocating.

"You still here?" Mr. White asked.

"Yessir." I said.

I heard him grumble something. I walked to the curtain.

"Why are the curtains closed?"

"Why shouldn't they be?"

"Well, it's beautiful outside." I said as my fingers curled around the fabric.

"All I see is dead flowers." He huffed.

I pulled along the curtain and tied it back. Golden light spilled into the room.

"Gaaaa! Kid, that's bright!" I heard him say behind me. He had his hand in front of his face, blocking the rays.

"I'll leave the other one closed." I said as I looked around the room again. The new light exposed a dark blue, small couch with a few small holes with stuffing poking out, and an old man sitting on. He kind of reminded me of Dick Van Dyke but bonier, and with less hair. And he didn't seem to have that positive, goofy air about him that Dick Van Dyke does.

I looked around the newly lighted room. I was right. There was a thick layer of dust on the floor. You could clearly see my footprints. Actually, a thick layer of dust was on everything. Even the air.

"Hey." Mr. White suddenly croaked. I looked at him. He pointed a frail, knobby finger at me. "You're the kid who lost her dad... You told the church about it."

I was astonished he remembered. "Yeah, that's me." Mr. White's face transformed immediately. The harsh, grumpy, 'old man' look melted away from his face, and was replaced with one of tenderness, softness, and possibly regret.

"I lost my dad, too, when I was about you're age." He said softly. He looked away from me and stared into space as he continued. "He was an incredible man. He fought in the beginning of World War Two." He paused and broke his gaze, turning it to the coffee table leg. "December 25, 1943."

"Christmas day." I murmured as I sat next to him.

"Christmas day." He repeated. "How would you like that? I had been hoping for weeks, months even, that by some miracle he would be there Christmas morning. And to hear that?"

I watched him as tears pricked my blue eyes.

"And to hear Mom say to my brothers and I," You father is dead.... " he trailed off.