The Boy Called WAlter
(Excerpt)
By Alexandra Kulick
"Rain on Christmas Eve should be a sin," the police officer said to the young boy, attempting once again to make small talk. The sidewalk of Madison Avenue felt like a pathway into the abyss as the two walked side by side in heart-wrenching silence.
"Maybe it's not too late to ask Santa for snow instead," the officer said with a chuckle, not expecting a response.
Despite the cold raindrops, the city streets leading away from the 19th Precinct were bustling with pedestrians. Joyful children were skipping home for their Christmas Eve supper, while men jutted from shop to shop, picking up last minute packages. A group of Christmas Carolers huddled under the awning of the Spencer Street Playhouse, holding candlesticks and singing “Silent Night,” to the delight of small children who didn’t care much about the falling drops.
Yet, the boy’s face remained unchanged as he walked with the officer, a prisoner of circumstances far beyond his understanding. They approached a three-story building with iron bars cloaking the windows. Even Christmas Eve couldn’t brighten the façade of Saint Joseph’s Asylum.
The officer knocked on the oversized wooden door and exhaled deeply as he waited for a response.
"Will she come back?" The boy burst out. "She didn't say goodbye, so she must be coming back."
"I don't know, child." The officer replied with a hint of sorrow. "I wish I did."
A tall nun with a weathered face and long sharp nose opened the door.
"Good evening, officer, how can I help you?" She asked.
"Good evening Sister, I'm hoping you can help him... “he said, motioning to the boy.
"Come in," she replied. “Let’s talk inside my office.”
The officer and the boy crossed the threshold into the asylum. They stood in the entryway, taken back by the majesty of the large curved staircase that greeted them. The cherry wood banister appeared to be hand carved by the finest craftsmen, but the ornamental stairs made everything else in the entryway seem out of place. The walls were a muddy red, and perhaps they once matched the grandness of the stairs when they were freshly painted, but today they looked sad like the boy.
To the left of the stairs sat a small front office with only enough room for a wall of bookshelves and the headmaster’s desk. To the right was a double door entryway into an oversized kitchen, but only one door hung on its hinge. The weathered nun rang a small bell twice, and a young lady, no more than twenty, hurried to the entryway.
“Yes, Sister Ruth?” she replied with a loud whisper.
"Sister Mary, fetch this boy something warm to eat while I talk with Officer... Officer...?"
"Oh, Sherman, Officer Daniel Sherman," the officer replied.
Officer Sherman followed Sister Ruth into the headmaster’s office and closed the door tightly behind him. Sister Mary ushered the small boy into the kitchen. The boy climbed atop a wooden stool that boosted him high enough to view the restaurant-sized kitchen and embrace the smell of fresh bread rising in the oven.
“Are you hungry?” Mary asked.
The boy stared blankly at her, unaware if he actually was.
Unbothered by his silence, Mary continued busily throughout the kitchen, warming a small pot of stew and creating unilateral small talk.
"Christmas Eve is always my favorite," she said. “It’s only on Christmas Eve that we make beef stew. I’m certain it can warm even a snowman to its core!” She said, pausing for a response. “But, perhaps, then he’d melt!” She laughed.
Once the stew was warm, she placed the bowl in front of the tired boy.
“How old are you?” Mary asked in a soft, tender voice.
The boy didn’t respond.
“How about you take one bite of stew for every year old you are!” Mary said playfully.
“One…” she counted, as the boy’s shaking hand ushered the first bite of stew to his mouth. “Two… three… four… five… six!”
“Are you six years old?” Mary asked with excitement.
The boy cracked a smile.
“Six is a marvelous age!” Mary gleaned. “When I was six, my mother would tell me stories about her village in Poland. There was a forest that had real fairies and they’d visit all of the children on Christmas Eve!”
A glimmer of wonder filled the young boy’s eye and he ate in silence, escaping into Mary’s tale. For a few moments, he forgot about waking up that very morning to the sound of his mother’s cough pounding through the room they shared. He forgot about the blood he saw in the bathroom sink. He forgot about how violently her weak body shook while she tried to tenderly button his coat before falling to the floor, overtaken by another coughing spell.
“Sister!” Ruth loudly interrupted.
Mary jumped. Like the boy, she had been so lost in stew and stories that she didn’t notice Sister Ruth and Officer Sherman appear at the kitchen’s entrance.
“Enough of that foolishness! Go make yourself busy!” Ruth commanded.
“Yes, Sister,” Mary said with a whisper, wiping her hands on her apron and shuffling towards the door.
Ruth turned her stern gaze from Mary to the boy. “Walter?” she said. “That is your name, child?”
The boy stared blankly past Ruth, with his eyes fixed on Mary as she hurried out of the room. Watching her walk away transported him back to a few hours before when he sat on the cold wooden bench in the front of the police station with his face pressed against the plate glass window. He watched as his mother walked down the street, with rain pelting her long brown coat, and her arm holding her brown hat atop her head against the cold east wind. She reached the end of the block, and looked back over her shoulder in the vague direction of the station and tried to crack a smile, knowing her son would still be watching her every step.
“Are you a mute?” Ruth said, growing in aggravation. ”You speak to an elder when they speak to you, do you understand that?” she said with disdain.
Officer Sherman interjected, “Sister, his mother told me his name was Walter. I’m certain it is. Perhaps he needs a good night’s rest and might feel better tomorrow. Christmas is filled with miracles after all!”
“Mm,” Ruth said, biting down on the anger that had captured her tongue.
Officer Sherman reached deeply into his pant pocket and pulled out a peppermint candy, "Merry Christmas, Walter." He said, his voice quaking with sorrow. “I hope your mom feels better soon.”
“Thank you for bringing him to safety, Officer,” Ruth said, with a faux-courteousness that was unrealized moments before. “I’ll escort you to the door, I’m sure your family is waiting patiently for you to enjoy this blessed Christmas Eve with them!”
Officer Sherman nodded a solemn goodbye nod and placed his hat back on his head, as he followed Ruth to the door.
Walter sat in the empty kitchen, with an almost empty bowl of stew. He wanted to sleep, he wanted to cry, he wanted to run, and he wanted to hide. But, he just sat in silence. It was his closest companion now.
Just when he felt that he could no longer keep his eyes open, Sister Mary reemerged with a grey blanket in her arms.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find any night clothing, you will have to sleep in your street clothes tonight.”
Little did she know, Walter had never owned night clothes. Earlier that day, Walter had sat on the lumpy mattress that rested on the floor of their room, pulling up both pairs of scratchy socks to his knees. He always hated having to dress in all of his clothes. He knew it meant they wouldn’t be returning to the room they had been staying in, but his mother didn’t say anything about that. She simply insisted that he wear his undershirt, button down long sleeve, pants with suspenders, and both socks. When he protested that he felt like a scarecrow, she assured him he was the most handsome scarecrow to ever walk the streets of New York.
His mother knelt down to help him button up his coat.
“It’s frigid, Walter, you don’t want to catch a cough like me,” she said, trying to laugh, but the laugh only triggered more coughing.
“Tomorrow is Christmas, I told Santa that the only thing I wanted for Christmas was for you to feel better. I know he’ll help.”
“Thank you, Walter, but you know that your smile is the best medicine I could ever have.”
He grinned from ear to ear.
The two stood at the foot of the mattress, wearing all of the clothing they owned. Walter’s mom reached down and lifted up the corner of their bed. Underneath sat a small silver picture frame with a faded photo of his grandmother and grandfather, taken right after they arrived in America. Next to the frame was a small package wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. Walter’s mom picked it up and handed it to her son.
“In case I don’t get to be with you on Christmas morning, I wanted you to have this.” She said through blurry eyes. “I know it’s the truck you’d hoped for, but I stitched it just for you…”
Walter unfolded the brown package and saw the face of a small brown teddy, just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He recognized the fabric from his mother’s dress, though he hadn’t noticed a spot where it had been cut from.
“He can go with you anywhere I’m not.” His mother whispered.
“But we’re always together Mama, you clean the house and I carry the milk.”
“Not today, son, we have to go.” His mother said, tucking the small photo from under the mattress into her pocket. She turned to leave to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. Walter nestled the pocket teddy into his trouser pocket and followed his mother out of their room into the dark hallway which led to four creaky flights of stairs.
Now, he faced a different flight of stairs. He followed Sister Mary up the curved staircase. Each step up the brought him further away from his mother’s embrace, and into a cold dark unknown world.
At the top of the flight of stairs was an unlit hallway with three doorways to the left, and three doorways to the right. At the very end of the dark hall hung a framed picture of Jesus, unnoticed, and slightly crooked. Sister Mary led Walter past the first doorway and to the second door on the right. There was a sign on the door, but the letters didn’t make sense to Walter anyway.
He entered the dark room and was greeted by three rows of twenty-five beds. Seventy-four boys lay flat on their backs, packed like sardines in striped pajamas, waiting for sleep to come. One bed lay empty in the middle row, two-thirds of the way down and Mary pointed it out to the boy.
“That spot’s for you, Walter, get some rest.” She said with a whisper.
Walter quietly tiptoed to his bed, being certain to not make a sound, but even if he had been as silent as a ghost, one hundred and forty-eight eyes would have followed him just as closely.
He laid his head on a scratchy pillow and covered himself with the blanket Mary had given him. As he closed his eyes, his mind wandered to where his mother might be and when she would return. He knew the milk wouldn’t be delivered Christmas morning, but he’d have to be back the following day to bring it from the road to the back door of the big house.
By Alexandra Kulick
"Rain on Christmas Eve should be a sin," the police officer said to the young boy, attempting once again to make small talk. The sidewalk of Madison Avenue felt like a pathway into the abyss as the two walked side by side in heart-wrenching silence.
"Maybe it's not too late to ask Santa for snow instead," the officer said with a chuckle, not expecting a response.
Despite the cold raindrops, the city streets leading away from the 19th Precinct were bustling with pedestrians. Joyful children were skipping home for their Christmas Eve supper, while men jutted from shop to shop, picking up last minute packages. A group of Christmas Carolers huddled under the awning of the Spencer Street Playhouse, holding candlesticks and singing “Silent Night,” to the delight of small children who didn’t care much about the falling drops.
Yet, the boy’s face remained unchanged as he walked with the officer, a prisoner of circumstances far beyond his understanding. They approached a three-story building with iron bars cloaking the windows. Even Christmas Eve couldn’t brighten the façade of Saint Joseph’s Asylum.
The officer knocked on the oversized wooden door and exhaled deeply as he waited for a response.
"Will she come back?" The boy burst out. "She didn't say goodbye, so she must be coming back."
"I don't know, child." The officer replied with a hint of sorrow. "I wish I did."
A tall nun with a weathered face and long sharp nose opened the door.
"Good evening, officer, how can I help you?" She asked.
"Good evening Sister, I'm hoping you can help him... “he said, motioning to the boy.
"Come in," she replied. “Let’s talk inside my office.”
The officer and the boy crossed the threshold into the asylum. They stood in the entryway, taken back by the majesty of the large curved staircase that greeted them. The cherry wood banister appeared to be hand carved by the finest craftsmen, but the ornamental stairs made everything else in the entryway seem out of place. The walls were a muddy red, and perhaps they once matched the grandness of the stairs when they were freshly painted, but today they looked sad like the boy.
To the left of the stairs sat a small front office with only enough room for a wall of bookshelves and the headmaster’s desk. To the right was a double door entryway into an oversized kitchen, but only one door hung on its hinge. The weathered nun rang a small bell twice, and a young lady, no more than twenty, hurried to the entryway.
“Yes, Sister Ruth?” she replied with a loud whisper.
"Sister Mary, fetch this boy something warm to eat while I talk with Officer... Officer...?"
"Oh, Sherman, Officer Daniel Sherman," the officer replied.
Officer Sherman followed Sister Ruth into the headmaster’s office and closed the door tightly behind him. Sister Mary ushered the small boy into the kitchen. The boy climbed atop a wooden stool that boosted him high enough to view the restaurant-sized kitchen and embrace the smell of fresh bread rising in the oven.
“Are you hungry?” Mary asked.
The boy stared blankly at her, unaware if he actually was.
Unbothered by his silence, Mary continued busily throughout the kitchen, warming a small pot of stew and creating unilateral small talk.
"Christmas Eve is always my favorite," she said. “It’s only on Christmas Eve that we make beef stew. I’m certain it can warm even a snowman to its core!” She said, pausing for a response. “But, perhaps, then he’d melt!” She laughed.
Once the stew was warm, she placed the bowl in front of the tired boy.
“How old are you?” Mary asked in a soft, tender voice.
The boy didn’t respond.
“How about you take one bite of stew for every year old you are!” Mary said playfully.
“One…” she counted, as the boy’s shaking hand ushered the first bite of stew to his mouth. “Two… three… four… five… six!”
“Are you six years old?” Mary asked with excitement.
The boy cracked a smile.
“Six is a marvelous age!” Mary gleaned. “When I was six, my mother would tell me stories about her village in Poland. There was a forest that had real fairies and they’d visit all of the children on Christmas Eve!”
A glimmer of wonder filled the young boy’s eye and he ate in silence, escaping into Mary’s tale. For a few moments, he forgot about waking up that very morning to the sound of his mother’s cough pounding through the room they shared. He forgot about the blood he saw in the bathroom sink. He forgot about how violently her weak body shook while she tried to tenderly button his coat before falling to the floor, overtaken by another coughing spell.
“Sister!” Ruth loudly interrupted.
Mary jumped. Like the boy, she had been so lost in stew and stories that she didn’t notice Sister Ruth and Officer Sherman appear at the kitchen’s entrance.
“Enough of that foolishness! Go make yourself busy!” Ruth commanded.
“Yes, Sister,” Mary said with a whisper, wiping her hands on her apron and shuffling towards the door.
Ruth turned her stern gaze from Mary to the boy. “Walter?” she said. “That is your name, child?”
The boy stared blankly past Ruth, with his eyes fixed on Mary as she hurried out of the room. Watching her walk away transported him back to a few hours before when he sat on the cold wooden bench in the front of the police station with his face pressed against the plate glass window. He watched as his mother walked down the street, with rain pelting her long brown coat, and her arm holding her brown hat atop her head against the cold east wind. She reached the end of the block, and looked back over her shoulder in the vague direction of the station and tried to crack a smile, knowing her son would still be watching her every step.
“Are you a mute?” Ruth said, growing in aggravation. ”You speak to an elder when they speak to you, do you understand that?” she said with disdain.
Officer Sherman interjected, “Sister, his mother told me his name was Walter. I’m certain it is. Perhaps he needs a good night’s rest and might feel better tomorrow. Christmas is filled with miracles after all!”
“Mm,” Ruth said, biting down on the anger that had captured her tongue.
Officer Sherman reached deeply into his pant pocket and pulled out a peppermint candy, "Merry Christmas, Walter." He said, his voice quaking with sorrow. “I hope your mom feels better soon.”
“Thank you for bringing him to safety, Officer,” Ruth said, with a faux-courteousness that was unrealized moments before. “I’ll escort you to the door, I’m sure your family is waiting patiently for you to enjoy this blessed Christmas Eve with them!”
Officer Sherman nodded a solemn goodbye nod and placed his hat back on his head, as he followed Ruth to the door.
Walter sat in the empty kitchen, with an almost empty bowl of stew. He wanted to sleep, he wanted to cry, he wanted to run, and he wanted to hide. But, he just sat in silence. It was his closest companion now.
Just when he felt that he could no longer keep his eyes open, Sister Mary reemerged with a grey blanket in her arms.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find any night clothing, you will have to sleep in your street clothes tonight.”
Little did she know, Walter had never owned night clothes. Earlier that day, Walter had sat on the lumpy mattress that rested on the floor of their room, pulling up both pairs of scratchy socks to his knees. He always hated having to dress in all of his clothes. He knew it meant they wouldn’t be returning to the room they had been staying in, but his mother didn’t say anything about that. She simply insisted that he wear his undershirt, button down long sleeve, pants with suspenders, and both socks. When he protested that he felt like a scarecrow, she assured him he was the most handsome scarecrow to ever walk the streets of New York.
His mother knelt down to help him button up his coat.
“It’s frigid, Walter, you don’t want to catch a cough like me,” she said, trying to laugh, but the laugh only triggered more coughing.
“Tomorrow is Christmas, I told Santa that the only thing I wanted for Christmas was for you to feel better. I know he’ll help.”
“Thank you, Walter, but you know that your smile is the best medicine I could ever have.”
He grinned from ear to ear.
The two stood at the foot of the mattress, wearing all of the clothing they owned. Walter’s mom reached down and lifted up the corner of their bed. Underneath sat a small silver picture frame with a faded photo of his grandmother and grandfather, taken right after they arrived in America. Next to the frame was a small package wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. Walter’s mom picked it up and handed it to her son.
“In case I don’t get to be with you on Christmas morning, I wanted you to have this.” She said through blurry eyes. “I know it’s the truck you’d hoped for, but I stitched it just for you…”
Walter unfolded the brown package and saw the face of a small brown teddy, just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He recognized the fabric from his mother’s dress, though he hadn’t noticed a spot where it had been cut from.
“He can go with you anywhere I’m not.” His mother whispered.
“But we’re always together Mama, you clean the house and I carry the milk.”
“Not today, son, we have to go.” His mother said, tucking the small photo from under the mattress into her pocket. She turned to leave to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. Walter nestled the pocket teddy into his trouser pocket and followed his mother out of their room into the dark hallway which led to four creaky flights of stairs.
Now, he faced a different flight of stairs. He followed Sister Mary up the curved staircase. Each step up the brought him further away from his mother’s embrace, and into a cold dark unknown world.
At the top of the flight of stairs was an unlit hallway with three doorways to the left, and three doorways to the right. At the very end of the dark hall hung a framed picture of Jesus, unnoticed, and slightly crooked. Sister Mary led Walter past the first doorway and to the second door on the right. There was a sign on the door, but the letters didn’t make sense to Walter anyway.
He entered the dark room and was greeted by three rows of twenty-five beds. Seventy-four boys lay flat on their backs, packed like sardines in striped pajamas, waiting for sleep to come. One bed lay empty in the middle row, two-thirds of the way down and Mary pointed it out to the boy.
“That spot’s for you, Walter, get some rest.” She said with a whisper.
Walter quietly tiptoed to his bed, being certain to not make a sound, but even if he had been as silent as a ghost, one hundred and forty-eight eyes would have followed him just as closely.
He laid his head on a scratchy pillow and covered himself with the blanket Mary had given him. As he closed his eyes, his mind wandered to where his mother might be and when she would return. He knew the milk wouldn’t be delivered Christmas morning, but he’d have to be back the following day to bring it from the road to the back door of the big house.
