Fiction
Every Good Deed
by Lou-Ellen Barkan
by Lou-Ellen Barkan
Walking to work on a steaming July morning, I caught a whiff of Myrna sitting in her beach chair on the corner of Madison and 75th.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” she called out. She was wearing a blue ski jacket and matching hat with a yellow pompom. “Lost a few pounds?”
“Good eye,” I said. Myrna put her hand out, and I handed her a five.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” She blew me a kiss. “Have a good one.”
Mission accomplished; I called my grandmother and announced my good deed for the day. When I was six, she planted the idea that good deeds make good things happen. Once I knew there was something in it for me, I was all in.
This explains why I missed Hamilton’s opening curtain after helping a homeless guy cross Broadway against the light. And why I waited for an ambulance with a kid who slipped on black ice. I once wrote a check to a woman whose holiday presents were stolen from the local toy store. I wasn’t exactly rolling in cash at that time, so I gave myself extra points.
My husband, Michael, thought I would be better off minding my own business, but I thought my adventures made life interesting. Something my son, Tony, learned in 1984.
That summer, Tony was nineteen and working on a construction crew to get into shape for college football. Each evening after work, we met for a run in the park. One warm evening, I stopped mid-run to catch my breath and noticed a crowd gathered around two police officers examining a man lying still on a park bench. A short, slim woman in dark blue shorts and a white tee was kneeling next to the bench holding the man’s hand. Beside her, a small boy, about seven or eight, was standing quietly. His shorts and shirt were just slightly too big for him. One sneaker was unlaced.
A growing crowd was quiet as emergency techs arrived and set a wheeled stretcher in front of the bench. They spoke briefly to one of the officers before bending down to examine the man. One of the officers turned to the crowd.
“Folks,” he called out. “Anyone speak French?”
No one responded.
“French,” he repeated. “If you speak French, please raise your hand.”
I raised my hand. Actually, I don’t speak French or any foreign language, which I consider to be a major gap in my education. To make up for this deficit, I resolved that my children would speak a second language and enrolled them in a French school. Michael was amused, but not resistant. Twenty years later, he was impressed. The children were fluent, and Michael had improved his French, although mine remained hopeless.
As the officer walked over to join me, the techs loaded the patient onto the stretcher.
“My son speaks French,” I said.
“Is he here, Ma’am?”
“I see him coming,” I said, just as Tony walked over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Son,” the officer said, “Your mom says you speak French.”
“I do.”
The officer pointed to the man on the stretcher. “We’re taking that guy to the hospital. His wife needs to come with us. She’s the boy’s stepmother.”
“How can we help?” I asked.
“Social Services is on the way to pick up the boy,” the officer continued. "Once they take over, we'll take the wife to the hospital. Problem is, the boy doesn’t speak English, and the stepmom doesn’t speak French. We need someone to explain all this to the kid.”
“Really?” I asked. “Social Services?”
“Until she can pick him up.”
“He'll be terrified.”
“Can’t be helped, Ma’am.” He turned to Tony. “You can translate?”
Tony nodded.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Can I talk to the stepmother?”
“Make it quick.” The officer waved her over as the techs wheeled the loaded stretcher down the stairs. The woman and boy walked toward us holding hands.
“So sorry about your husband,” I said.
“I’m Robert’s stepmother, Sophie Dubois.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped the boy’s eyes. “He arrived last night from Brussels. First trip to the states.”
“We live just a few blocks away," I said. "And my son speaks French. We could take him to our place until you can pick him up.” While I’m talking, I'm thinking that no one is letting us take this perfectly strange kid home, so I’m surprised when Sophie nods.
“That would be so helpful.” I saw relief on her face. “Robert’s only eight.”
A few minutes later, we had exchanged business cards, phone numbers, and addresses and looked to the officer for approval to leave.
“Stay in touch," he said, handing us his card. “Call me if there are problems. I'll let social services know where the boy is staying.” He walked to the top of the steps and waited for Sophie to join him.
Sophie knelt and took Robert’s hands in hers. “I need to get to the hospital.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped Robert’s face and kissed his cheek. “Tony and his mom will take good care of you. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can.”
She looked up at Tony. “Can you translate?”
Tony nodded, got down on his knees and placed one hand on Robert’s shoulder. He spoke slowly and Robert nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks. Sophie hugged him and followed the officer down the stairs. The crowd began to disperse.
Tony put his Yankee cap on Robert and we each took one of his hands. We walked out of the park to find an ice cream truck and bought extra-large soft cones, a guarantee that at least half our treat would end up on our shirts. The upside was the smile we got from Robert when Tony drew chocolate moustaches on our faces. By the time we got home, Robert’s tears had dried.
As we approached our front door, I remembered I had forgotten my keys. I rang the bell and waited a couple of minutes before I heard Michael’s footsteps. Robert was holding the Yankee cap in his hand.
Michael opened the door, looked down and his eyes widened. “Have we met?” he asked and reached out to shake Robert’s hand.
Robert extended his hand. “Robert,” he said, rolling his r’s. “Je m'appelle Robert Dubois.”
“Bonsoir, Robert. Ravi de vous rencontrer,” Michael said, testing the limits of his French. “Lovely to meet you.”
Michael held the door open and followed us into the front hall.
“Why don’t you take Robert to the den?” I said. “I’ll order a pizza and call you when it shows up.”
We heard the TV go on and the familiar voices of Yankee announcers.
“So.” Michael raised his eyebrows. “Even for you, this is a new one. You left with one son and returned with two. I’m assuming there’s a story here.”
By the time I finished explaining, Michael was wearing his prosecutor hat.
“Can I see the stepmother’s card?”
I took Sophie's card out of my pocket and handed it to him. He examined it, front and back, and passed it back.
“Hope this is for real.”
“She’ll be back.” I sat down on the hall chair and took off my running shoes. “I need a shower. Would you call for pizza? And listen for the phone?”
“You understand if she doesn’t come back, we turn him over to social services.”
“I know.”
“Go shower,” Michael said. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”
An hour later, we were eating pizza and watching Tony teach Robert how to play baseball. Robert, still wearing the Yankee cap, had eaten two pieces of pizza, his napkin tucked neatly into one of Tony’s Yankee shirts.
After dinner, the boys went back to the game. I joined Michael in the living room where he went to work on his brief. I tried to focus on notes for my morning meeting, checking my watch every few minutes. One hour passed. Then two. By eleven o'clock, I was starting to worry. Maybe Sophie wouldn't return. After all, she wasn’t Robert’s mother. What if something happened to his father? What if he had, God forbid, died? Why hadn’t I bothered to get his name? Was it Dubois? Would Robert know how to contact his mother? In Brussels? What was her name? What was I thinking? I poured myself a glass of wine.
At eleven fifteen, Michael stood up to stretch, checked his watch and frowned. “I’ll go shower. Let me know if she calls.”
The phone rang at midnight.
“It's Sophie," she said. "So sorry I didn’t call earlier, but there was paperwork and I had to make sure Andre was settled.”
“How is he?”
“They think it was some form of epilepsy. He'll be home tomorrow. More tests next week.”
“Great news.” I said as Michael walked into the room. I gave him a thumbs up. “No rush to get here. Robert's a great kid. He had pizza and watched a Yankee game.”
Twenty minutes later, Sophie and I walked into the den. Robert and Tony were sitting on the floor playing poker. Robert was wearing the Yankee cap and shirt and holding a baseball in a small leather catcher’s mitt. Colored poker chips were spread out on the floor along with an empty package of M&Ms and two coke cans.
“Robert,” Sophie said. “Papa is okay. He’ll be home tomorrow.” She looked at Tony.
“Papa va bien,” Tony gave Robert a high five. “Il rentre demain.”
Holding the glove tightly, Robert stood up.
“Time to go,” Sophie motioned to Robert to join her. He took off the Yankee cap and baseball glove, walked back and handed them to Tony.
When he reached out to shake Tony’s hand, Tony smiled and put the cap back on Robert’s head and the glove on his hand. He handed him the baseball, book, deck of cards, and a handful of poker chips.
“Maintenant, tu es un vrai Yankee,” Tony smiled. "Now, you are a real Yankee.”
As he started to stand, Robert put both arms around Tony. “Merci,” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
We walked to the front door and Robert waved goodbye. I turned to see Michael holding the door for us.
“Well done," he said and closed the door. “All those years of French paid off.”
Tony laughed. “Are you kidding? That was hard."
“Why? Your French was great. You were chatting all night.”
“Sure,” Tony said. “About baseball.”
We followed Tony into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and took a long sip. “You want to talk about Sartre, or the French revolution. In French, I can discuss Dumas. Camus. You name it. I can talk about it.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Michael asked.
“You hear any baseball players' names on that list? Any idea how to describe a shortstop, a steal, rules of the game? In French.”
We started to laugh. “Oh, my God,” I said. “I never thought of that.”
“Three outs. Baseball statistics. Player’s positions.”
“Grandma would be proud,” I kissed Tony on the cheek.
“Thank you.” Tony smiled. “I’m wiped. I’m going to bed.’
“Bonne nuit,” Michael said.
The following afternoon, a bouquet of flowers arrived with a note.
"Dear Friends, Thank you for your kindness to Robert. He announced that he is a real New Yorker and plans to play baseball for the Yankees. He is teaching Andre the players’ positions and rules of the game. He will never forget his first visit to the United States. We are forever grateful. With much affection, Robert, Sophie, and Andre."
The rest of the summer passed quickly. We never heard from the Dubois family again and, within a week, we had stopped talking about it. Michael’s case had become all consuming. I got a promotion, which meant longer hours at the office. And Tony. He had his best season.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” she called out. She was wearing a blue ski jacket and matching hat with a yellow pompom. “Lost a few pounds?”
“Good eye,” I said. Myrna put her hand out, and I handed her a five.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” She blew me a kiss. “Have a good one.”
Mission accomplished; I called my grandmother and announced my good deed for the day. When I was six, she planted the idea that good deeds make good things happen. Once I knew there was something in it for me, I was all in.
This explains why I missed Hamilton’s opening curtain after helping a homeless guy cross Broadway against the light. And why I waited for an ambulance with a kid who slipped on black ice. I once wrote a check to a woman whose holiday presents were stolen from the local toy store. I wasn’t exactly rolling in cash at that time, so I gave myself extra points.
My husband, Michael, thought I would be better off minding my own business, but I thought my adventures made life interesting. Something my son, Tony, learned in 1984.
That summer, Tony was nineteen and working on a construction crew to get into shape for college football. Each evening after work, we met for a run in the park. One warm evening, I stopped mid-run to catch my breath and noticed a crowd gathered around two police officers examining a man lying still on a park bench. A short, slim woman in dark blue shorts and a white tee was kneeling next to the bench holding the man’s hand. Beside her, a small boy, about seven or eight, was standing quietly. His shorts and shirt were just slightly too big for him. One sneaker was unlaced.
A growing crowd was quiet as emergency techs arrived and set a wheeled stretcher in front of the bench. They spoke briefly to one of the officers before bending down to examine the man. One of the officers turned to the crowd.
“Folks,” he called out. “Anyone speak French?”
No one responded.
“French,” he repeated. “If you speak French, please raise your hand.”
I raised my hand. Actually, I don’t speak French or any foreign language, which I consider to be a major gap in my education. To make up for this deficit, I resolved that my children would speak a second language and enrolled them in a French school. Michael was amused, but not resistant. Twenty years later, he was impressed. The children were fluent, and Michael had improved his French, although mine remained hopeless.
As the officer walked over to join me, the techs loaded the patient onto the stretcher.
“My son speaks French,” I said.
“Is he here, Ma’am?”
“I see him coming,” I said, just as Tony walked over.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Son,” the officer said, “Your mom says you speak French.”
“I do.”
The officer pointed to the man on the stretcher. “We’re taking that guy to the hospital. His wife needs to come with us. She’s the boy’s stepmother.”
“How can we help?” I asked.
“Social Services is on the way to pick up the boy,” the officer continued. "Once they take over, we'll take the wife to the hospital. Problem is, the boy doesn’t speak English, and the stepmom doesn’t speak French. We need someone to explain all this to the kid.”
“Really?” I asked. “Social Services?”
“Until she can pick him up.”
“He'll be terrified.”
“Can’t be helped, Ma’am.” He turned to Tony. “You can translate?”
Tony nodded.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Can I talk to the stepmother?”
“Make it quick.” The officer waved her over as the techs wheeled the loaded stretcher down the stairs. The woman and boy walked toward us holding hands.
“So sorry about your husband,” I said.
“I’m Robert’s stepmother, Sophie Dubois.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped the boy’s eyes. “He arrived last night from Brussels. First trip to the states.”
“We live just a few blocks away," I said. "And my son speaks French. We could take him to our place until you can pick him up.” While I’m talking, I'm thinking that no one is letting us take this perfectly strange kid home, so I’m surprised when Sophie nods.
“That would be so helpful.” I saw relief on her face. “Robert’s only eight.”
A few minutes later, we had exchanged business cards, phone numbers, and addresses and looked to the officer for approval to leave.
“Stay in touch," he said, handing us his card. “Call me if there are problems. I'll let social services know where the boy is staying.” He walked to the top of the steps and waited for Sophie to join him.
Sophie knelt and took Robert’s hands in hers. “I need to get to the hospital.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped Robert’s face and kissed his cheek. “Tony and his mom will take good care of you. I’ll pick you up as soon as I can.”
She looked up at Tony. “Can you translate?”
Tony nodded, got down on his knees and placed one hand on Robert’s shoulder. He spoke slowly and Robert nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks. Sophie hugged him and followed the officer down the stairs. The crowd began to disperse.
Tony put his Yankee cap on Robert and we each took one of his hands. We walked out of the park to find an ice cream truck and bought extra-large soft cones, a guarantee that at least half our treat would end up on our shirts. The upside was the smile we got from Robert when Tony drew chocolate moustaches on our faces. By the time we got home, Robert’s tears had dried.
As we approached our front door, I remembered I had forgotten my keys. I rang the bell and waited a couple of minutes before I heard Michael’s footsteps. Robert was holding the Yankee cap in his hand.
Michael opened the door, looked down and his eyes widened. “Have we met?” he asked and reached out to shake Robert’s hand.
Robert extended his hand. “Robert,” he said, rolling his r’s. “Je m'appelle Robert Dubois.”
“Bonsoir, Robert. Ravi de vous rencontrer,” Michael said, testing the limits of his French. “Lovely to meet you.”
Michael held the door open and followed us into the front hall.
“Why don’t you take Robert to the den?” I said. “I’ll order a pizza and call you when it shows up.”
We heard the TV go on and the familiar voices of Yankee announcers.
“So.” Michael raised his eyebrows. “Even for you, this is a new one. You left with one son and returned with two. I’m assuming there’s a story here.”
By the time I finished explaining, Michael was wearing his prosecutor hat.
“Can I see the stepmother’s card?”
I took Sophie's card out of my pocket and handed it to him. He examined it, front and back, and passed it back.
“Hope this is for real.”
“She’ll be back.” I sat down on the hall chair and took off my running shoes. “I need a shower. Would you call for pizza? And listen for the phone?”
“You understand if she doesn’t come back, we turn him over to social services.”
“I know.”
“Go shower,” Michael said. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”
An hour later, we were eating pizza and watching Tony teach Robert how to play baseball. Robert, still wearing the Yankee cap, had eaten two pieces of pizza, his napkin tucked neatly into one of Tony’s Yankee shirts.
After dinner, the boys went back to the game. I joined Michael in the living room where he went to work on his brief. I tried to focus on notes for my morning meeting, checking my watch every few minutes. One hour passed. Then two. By eleven o'clock, I was starting to worry. Maybe Sophie wouldn't return. After all, she wasn’t Robert’s mother. What if something happened to his father? What if he had, God forbid, died? Why hadn’t I bothered to get his name? Was it Dubois? Would Robert know how to contact his mother? In Brussels? What was her name? What was I thinking? I poured myself a glass of wine.
At eleven fifteen, Michael stood up to stretch, checked his watch and frowned. “I’ll go shower. Let me know if she calls.”
The phone rang at midnight.
“It's Sophie," she said. "So sorry I didn’t call earlier, but there was paperwork and I had to make sure Andre was settled.”
“How is he?”
“They think it was some form of epilepsy. He'll be home tomorrow. More tests next week.”
“Great news.” I said as Michael walked into the room. I gave him a thumbs up. “No rush to get here. Robert's a great kid. He had pizza and watched a Yankee game.”
Twenty minutes later, Sophie and I walked into the den. Robert and Tony were sitting on the floor playing poker. Robert was wearing the Yankee cap and shirt and holding a baseball in a small leather catcher’s mitt. Colored poker chips were spread out on the floor along with an empty package of M&Ms and two coke cans.
“Robert,” Sophie said. “Papa is okay. He’ll be home tomorrow.” She looked at Tony.
“Papa va bien,” Tony gave Robert a high five. “Il rentre demain.”
Holding the glove tightly, Robert stood up.
“Time to go,” Sophie motioned to Robert to join her. He took off the Yankee cap and baseball glove, walked back and handed them to Tony.
When he reached out to shake Tony’s hand, Tony smiled and put the cap back on Robert’s head and the glove on his hand. He handed him the baseball, book, deck of cards, and a handful of poker chips.
“Maintenant, tu es un vrai Yankee,” Tony smiled. "Now, you are a real Yankee.”
As he started to stand, Robert put both arms around Tony. “Merci,” he said. “Merci beaucoup.”
We walked to the front door and Robert waved goodbye. I turned to see Michael holding the door for us.
“Well done," he said and closed the door. “All those years of French paid off.”
Tony laughed. “Are you kidding? That was hard."
“Why? Your French was great. You were chatting all night.”
“Sure,” Tony said. “About baseball.”
We followed Tony into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and took a long sip. “You want to talk about Sartre, or the French revolution. In French, I can discuss Dumas. Camus. You name it. I can talk about it.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Michael asked.
“You hear any baseball players' names on that list? Any idea how to describe a shortstop, a steal, rules of the game? In French.”
We started to laugh. “Oh, my God,” I said. “I never thought of that.”
“Three outs. Baseball statistics. Player’s positions.”
“Grandma would be proud,” I kissed Tony on the cheek.
“Thank you.” Tony smiled. “I’m wiped. I’m going to bed.’
“Bonne nuit,” Michael said.
The following afternoon, a bouquet of flowers arrived with a note.
"Dear Friends, Thank you for your kindness to Robert. He announced that he is a real New Yorker and plans to play baseball for the Yankees. He is teaching Andre the players’ positions and rules of the game. He will never forget his first visit to the United States. We are forever grateful. With much affection, Robert, Sophie, and Andre."
The rest of the summer passed quickly. We never heard from the Dubois family again and, within a week, we had stopped talking about it. Michael’s case had become all consuming. I got a promotion, which meant longer hours at the office. And Tony. He had his best season.
