rudi/massyn

A short story

My Dying Dove

    As Francine’s hand touched the door handle of her swanky S.U.V a haunting
    thought overwhelmed her.

          “Why is he so sad?”

    James, Francine’s nine year old son, was suffering from depression. A
    diagnosis she made. He had become a recluse and embraced solidarity. The
    poor kid, she thinks to herself, is all alone.

          The truth is, James is alone. James has always been alone. James is
    the boy standing on the edge of the pool too afraid to jump in.
    James is the boy sympathetic teachers love to save. James is the boy
    standing in the corner of the class, a ghost to all. Nothing
    terrible has ever happened to James. On the contrary, he had lived a
    very “normal” existence. His parents love him to death. James is
    their whole world. Even though his surroundings are normal, his
    behaviour is anything but.

          Francine decides to put her mind at ease. Anyway, pottery only
    starts in an hour and it’s not far from here. She wants to know what
    her son is up to. Francine makes her way through mid-morning traffic
    and parks her car a hundred metres from her son’s school. She timed
    it perfectly. Almost subconsciously. There are children on the
    playground. It is break. Francine scans the field looking for James
    but she cannot see him. He usually sits under a small, thorn tree on
    the hockey field. He is not there today. She starts worrying. It
    never takes her this long to find her son. Then, out the corner of
    her eye, she spots him. Her heart breaks into a million little
    pieces. James is standing at the corner of the playground clenching
    the green diamond fence. His face is a blank. His bright, little
    blue eyes stare dead into the distance. His head hangs in despair.

          The truth is James is sad. James has always been sad. His sadness of
    late is largely due to the departure of his favourite teacher, Miss
    de Jager, who is on maternity leave. Her replacement, Mrs du Preez,
    sips on the same cup of coffee the entire day. It drives James
    insane.

          James does not have any friends. He prefers it that way. His mom
    does not understand. Having no friends allows James to lose himself
    in thought. James knows his mom and dad worry about him. He does not
    know what to say to them. What could he possibly say? There is
    nothing.

          Francine keeps her eyes locked on her son. Her hands tremble as a
    horrifying thought passes through her mind. She watches her son,
    lifeless, just hanging on the green fence. She starts biting her
    nails. Francine spends most her time analysing her little boys every
    mood. It occupies a large portion of her day worrying about James.
    She watches James. Then carves her nails shorter, watches James.
    Then opens the window, watches James. Then carves her nails again.
    This goes on for a good five minutes.

          James’ eyes start wondering. He cannot see his mom from where he is
    standing. A beautiful, grey turtle dove drops onto the hot asphalt
    from a giant jacaranda rooted on the pavement. The dove catches
    James’ eye. He stands amazed at its beauty. He watches the dove
    pecking seeds from the scorching tar. The dove does not seem
    bothered by the boiling hot tar. James wonders why is this? How is
    the dove able to stand the heat? The dove looks up and glances at
    James. A connection. James is instantly intrigued by the bird’s
    presence. He presses his face against the playground border in an
    attempt to sharpen his view. The dove triples around in the sun,
    endlessly pecking at the fruitless seeds. James figures, if the dove
    can withstand the heat, he can to. He forces his hand through the
    tiny diamond gaps in the fence. In a swift, slapping motion James
    plants his hand onto the sun baked pavement. He holds his hand down.
    In order to measure his success, James starts counting.

          “One potato, two potato, three potato… its starting to burn….”

    Francine is closely observing her son as he anchors his hand on the
    sidewalk. She wonders what the hell is he doing. One again she starts
    feeling sorry for him.

          “The poor child has to entertain himself. School must be
    excruciatingly painful for him. I hate this.”

    She is lost.

          “Seven potato, eight potato… ooowww!!!!”

    James quickly pulls his hand back. His eyes are watering. His hand is on
    fire. He stuffs his hand into the cold sand shadowed by the giant
    jacaranda. James peers over his shoulder at the brave turtle dove and now
    has even more admiration for the little bird. James rests his hands on his
    hips. He ponders the situation. Analyses the event. He is confused. How
    does that damn dove stay on the hot tar for so long?

          Francine starts her car. She drives forward to make herself visible
    to James. As she accelerates and glances over at her son, the
    confused expression on his face turns to horror. His mouth widens
    and it seems as if he is screaming. Francine slams on breaks. Almost
    simultaneously Francine jumps out of the car and James bolts along
    the green fence. He makes his way around the playground and charges
    through the main gate. James rushes past his mother who is watching
    in disbelief. James drops to his unprotected knees.

          “Mommy!!”

    James picks up the grey dove hen. She lays still in the boy’s shaking
    hands. Francine covers her mouth in shock. She did not even see the bird.
    James presses his dying friend against his pounding heart. He hopes the
    bird can feel his love. Tighter and tighter little James squeezes the
    dove. He closes his eyes. Francine remains quiet. James starts to pray. He
    pleads for the life of the little bird. Begging God to save this little
    creature. James’ tiny lips move up and down as he whispers his cries into
    the wind. James sobs. The falling tears form a river on his arm. He
    realises it’s too late. He whispers goodbye into the little bird’s ear.
    Without a sound, James stands from his knees. His pink knee caps scorched
    by the burning asphalt. Several tiny black stones of the tar cling to his
    pink knees. Slowly James walks across the road toward the huge jacaranda.
    In its shade, James digs a final resting place for his friend. He brushes
    the hole closed. Not saying another word to his dumbstruck mother, James
    walks back to the playground in tears.

          Francine gets into her car. She slams the door shut, silencing the
    beeps her car cries from the open door. In a lethargic state,
    Francine makes her way home. The sweet sound of Katie Melua counsels
    her sombre heart, as she passes through the hidden streets of
    Parkhurst. The streets littered with leaves. Francine realises
    something profound. A sort of epiphany. Her son’s sheltered
    existence has a lot to do with her over protection. She does not
    allow him to experience life to the full extent. Tears return to her
    hazel eyes as she processes her behaviour. She needs to let go.
    Being a lonely child is not the end of the world, but hiding your
    son from the world, might be the end of his.