Upon Seeing Mr. H. Today
Aug 25 '03
The Bottom Line .
I stood at the crosswalk waiting to go to the garage; I had my weekly OB appointment to get to, as I'm 37 weeks pregnant, and was running late. The day was mercifully balmy, 70 degrees Fahrenheit with a light breeze that tousled my hair benignly. Traffic roared by, vying to make it through the intersection during the last three seconds of the yellow light. My belly felt heavy while I lumbered slowly across the street. A little jab to my side reminded me this must be a jostling ride to my unborn son. I smiled briefly.
I watched Mr. H. walk perpendicular to me. He was easily recognizable: tall and skinny but in a Sally Struthers "feed the children" way. His skin was red-brown and he had slicked back black hair, John Lennon glasses, and a peach fuzz mustache. Still, he had that stupid look on his face. There was something about his eyebrows that looked perpetually astonished and his eyes were just a smidge too close together for comfort. His nose played into the stupid puppy dog look, too -- it was long and pointed -- and there was something about his lips being continually parted to reveal his teeth that made him look even dumber. This appearance of his is not without merit. He is in fact not very bright. He walked along the sidewalk with an old lady and a little girl, his face turned downward as if to give his feet his undivided attention.
The little girl half skipped, half speed-walked to keep up with the adults. Her hair was chestnut, and neatly tied back in a ponytail with small ringlets dangling by her ears like a Hassidic Jew’s. Her skin was lightly tan and her pudgy cheeks blushed a pretty peach-pink color. She smiled a lot and laughed at the adult conversation I couldn't hear, even though the grown ups were not laughing. She wore a white T-shirt and pink shorts. Lace-trimmed socks peaked out of her canvas sneakers. Her dimples were deep, as deep as the brown of her eyes.
The old lady had dark gray hair. Was it dark or was it greasy? Her haircut was rather androgynous, just long enough to cover her ears and neck, and very straight. Her boobs jiggled obnoxiously around her midriff, barely contained by a white tank top with tight armholes that clutched her jelly-like arms horribly. Her belly was bloated and seemed like only the elastic waist of her tattered shorts contained it. The visage was a roadmap of her life, and I could see quite easily she had been everywhere and through everything. The dark blue eyes were haunting and the plump nose was crimson with broken capillaries. Her lips parted squarely while she spoke, revealing her missing (or chipped to the nub?) eyetooth.
The little girl seemed like the square peg crammed in the round hole. She was well groomed and full of joie de vie. In fact, she looked like she belonged in a white gown in the midst of a flower-infested meadow, probably with a white horse. Yes. She should be on a Glade commercial, or maybe a fabric softener ad.
Mr. H., the skinny dark man was a man I knew years ago. As I've said, he is very dumb. He was a cook and habitually licked mayonnaise off his fingers after preparing a sub. His rodent like features -- small pointy teeth, and sharp nose amplified the revulsion I felt when I saw this. Rarely did he wash his hands despite being sternly lectured by management. He married someone: a chubby woman whose name I forget who has square teeth with stark spaces between. She quite obviously suffered from Roseacea as her plump cheeks were perpetually pink-purple with flat acne. Her voice was quite squawky and she had a propensity for laughing compulsively, often inappropriately. They bred. They had two children, one of which suffered from horrible seizures -- sometimes twelve or more per day. They never thought the sick one would live, given that these seizures started in infancy and that these two lovebirds were in no way prepared to care for such a troubled child. But survive she did! And that was at least fourteen years ago.
The sick baby found her way to stardom -- or at least an element of her life made the paper, as her being a minor prevented her name being published in the article. Her fifteen minutes of fame came when her father was caught molesting her. Yes. Mr. H. One and the same. I don't know how old the child was, but she was too young (or not developed enough) to talk. He did time for that and lost all parental rights. If I recall, his family encouraged him to sign those rights away, since he was never really allowed to think for himself. When he was allowed to think for himself, he got married and had children; that's where his problems began. He got out of jail and was caught in a compromising position with another child and some dirty pictures and did some more time. Now he is a registered sex offender and is free to walk the streets with an invisible label, a silent confession to what he has done and what he may do again.
There was no scarlet letter on his chest. He carried no sign. He flashed no pedophile ID card for all the world to see. There was no blow horn to his lips with him confessing his crimes. In truth, no one took notice of him. No one at all. No one but me.
I watched helplessly as the girl continued to trot/skip/walk/jog between the two, putting her hands into theirs to keep up. I watched her small pink hand slip into the slender brown hand of Mr. H. I watched them round the corner of the sidewalk beyond the garage and out of sight.
Should I have told them? I pray with all my might that someone needs to tell them. Because if they don't need to be told, then they already Know.
PS. This really truly happened today and I’m quite upset and have never felt more helpless. I needed to vent. Thank you for reading.
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Worry looks around. Sorry looks back. Faith looks up.
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