"Checking Up"

A one-minute sequel to this One Minute Story...

The woman stared at the door of the little house, wondering if she should ring the doorbell. Or knock. Or, if she stood there long enough, would the occupant sense her presence outside the door, the way her husband used to flinch and growl when she stared in the early morning, careful not to touch his sleeping face, bristling with days of scruffy beard.

She shifted the bundle of cloth so she could cradle it gently with one arm. She pressed the doorbell. Hearing no sound, she knocked weakly, then firmly on the door.

No answer.

She sighed, dramatically, as if someone might be watching. She looked at her bundle, the mysterious bundle she'd received a few hours before, with such a rush of hope and possibility. What had she been thinking?

She carefully unwrapped the bundle, just to look at it. The blankets held an old shoebox. She pulled the top off of the shoebox, which revealed an old ragdoll, blonde-haired and pig-tailed. It smiled up at her. She picked it up, put down the shoebox, and, looking around now to be sure that no one was watching, hugged it close, the yellow yarn brushing her cheek like a soft kiss.

The doll was surprisingly warm, and growing warmer.

When she was a girl, she used to stand by the dryer, waiting for her mother to unload her favorite blanket. She'd grab it and swaddle herself in its warmth, quickly, before it cooled. She thought about her blanket and her mother -- now older and sadder -- as she held the doll and rocked back and forth on the porch of the little house where the man had sent her with the doll.

But the warmth didn't fade like the blankets. In fact, it grew warmer.

She drew back to take a closer look, cradling the doll's head so it wouldn't flop. There were the little black knit eyes and the wide, red stitched smile.

The eyes...blinked. A puff of sweet air brushed her face.

The doll wriggled.

The woman stumbled back, nearly falling down the porch's concrete steps.

"What are you?" the woman breathed.

"Shhh," the doll said, and closed its eyes.

The door opened, and a black girl, no more than six, stood, nearly eye to eye with woman. The girl didn't speak, just stared, at this strange, disheveled woman on her sidewalk.

The woman stopped, composed herself, brushed the folds from her business suit. She took two steps to the doorstep, now towering over the girl.

"I believe this is yours," the woman said. The girl's eyes widened. She smiled.

"Can I have her?"

"Are you OK?"

"Uh huh," the girl said and thrust both of her arms out expectantly. "I am now."

The woman handed the doll to the girl, who mumbled a 'thank you' and closed the door, leaving the woman standing at her doorstep holding a child's blanket.

As she turned to go, the house began to glow, and she heard shouts of joy and laughter.

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"Customer Service"

She drives up in a white Toyota Corolla, one of about a dozen brand spanking new Toyotas that just came off the car carrier here. Why buy a white car when you can rent here for $37 a day? That's what I always say.

She rolls down the window and hands me the rental agreement.

"Thanks. How you doin' today," I say, like I always do. It puts the customers at ease, y'know? I'm here to help.

But she looks at me and frowns. I look at her folder. Jennifer Grayson, 39. From Chattanooga, Tennessee.

"You from Chattanooga?" She nods, still frowning. Tapping her foot on the gas. "Pardon me, boys!" I smile my best smile. Yeah, she's probably heard that joke a few times, but not here. I'm smiling like I want her to smile. Sometimes, I just need a smile out of 'em, you know? And I think maybe they need a smile, too, as they head out of the lot to their business trips and their family vacations and who knows what else. I'm here to help, right?

So, I'm smiling and she's just sitting there, tapping her foot and scratching the back of her head with those manicured fingernails. I think they call that color "fuschia". Or maybe "ecru".

"Can I help you get somewhere, ma'am?" I say, still smiling.

"Away," she says, real quiet, like a sigh.

"What's that ma'am?" Thought I'd best ask again, just to be sure.

"Nothing, nothing," she says, staring straight ahead now.

"That's funny," I say, "because I thought you said you were trying to get away..."

"I did ... forget it. It was a joke." I lean out of my little hut. Nobody's waiting behind Ms. Grayson.

"What are you trying to get away from? If you don't mind me askin'..." I say that last part just to be polite. I always find that a little courtesy goes a long way in this business. Lets you get to know folks.

"Everything ... just everything," she says, and then she looks right at me for the first time. Pretty girl. Green eyes. Blonde hair, cut short. Nice tan. Sleeveless T shows she's been working out her arms. She says, "Have you ever just wanted to go some place...some place where no one and nothing can find you? Not your husband, not your kids, not your boss, not anyone. Have you ever just wanted to go away?"

She's shaking now, shivering like the temperature just dropped 40 degrees. But it hadn't.

"Well, you know, ma'am," I say, laughing a little. I'm hoping to put her a little more at ease. "I just have this little hut here, all day long. There's not much of anywhere to go for me."

She smiles a little, let's out a weak laugh.

"But you know," I say, "in my experience, people who say they want to get away, they really just want to have something to go to. You know what I mean?"

"I think so..."

"Here," I say. Hold on just a minute." I turn around and pull out an old cardboard box. It's got a logo from one of those dot-com companies, from when I ordered up that book about the Civil War and the big book about President Lincoln. The one 'bout how he freed the slaves. I think...haven't got to reading it yet. The books aren't in it now... now it's full of, well, all sorts of things. I find what I'm looking for.

"Here you go...you take this." She takes the yellow bundle and looks at it like it's some kind of alien egg, like something's going to jump out of that little bundle and bite her on the nose.

"What...what is it?"

"It won't bite you, ma'am. Open it up."

She unwraps the bundle and finds the little doll inside it -- little blonde yarn pigtails, blue dress and all that.

"Why...who does this belong to?" she says, staring at the doll.

"I don't know for sure, but look on the back." She turns it over, and she reads the label on the back, which the words, in a child's handwriting, 'If I'm lost, call my mom!" and then a name, 'Tanya L.' and the first five digits of what looks like a phone number.

"Is this a local number," she asks me.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have you tried to find this little girl?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I can't really get out to do a proper search." At that she smiles a real smile, looks at me with this furrowed brow like she's trying to decide whether to hug me or call the cops, and then she laughs.

"That would be some place to go to, wouldn't it?"

"It certainly would, ma'am," I say.

She laughs, shakes her head at me. I hand her back her rental agreement and step back into the hut as the white Corolla drives off down the frontage road to the highway.

That's what I'm here for, you know? I'm here to help.

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