Anything for Her - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,107
man.
As she approached the alley, she was swamped by a feeling of déjà vu. How many other times had she done this kind of thing? Ten? Twenty? More? As much as she would like to be a hard-ass career gal, she knew her heart was of the Stay Puft variety. Not even rudeness would deter her from doing what was right.
“Yoo-hoo? Mister? I have a little something here to warm you.” She stood in front of a Dumpster bookended by two large cardboard boxes. Flaps hung over, providing little shelter, and the man seemed to be curled into a pile of wet newspapers. A broken cyclone fence stretched behind him, leading the way to an abandoned bakery showcasing yawning windows. Dismal wasn’t the word for the small corner of the world this man occupied in the frozen rain. “Sir?”
He said nothing.
“I’ve brought you some coffee.”
The papers moved. “What the hell ya want?”
“Just thought you might like something to warm you.”
“Coffee?” The papers shifted as the man unfurled like a gray troll from beneath a bridge, his grizzled face parting sodden sales flyers, pinning her with sleepy blue eyes. “Coffee, did you say?”
Mary Paige thrust the cup toward the man.
His eyes swept Mary Paige from head to foot, causing a flash of alarm within her, but then he looked away before extending a thin arm toward the steaming cup. As he leaned forward, the papers parted, revealing a body woefully unprepared for the frigid weather. His pants were thin and patched, his flannel shirt threadbare in a few spots, but most frightening of all were his bare feet.
Aw, heck, no. Not bare feet. Anything but bare feet.
The plastic bag holding the socks grew heavier.
Pretend like you didn’t see his bare feet, Mary Paige. Just hand him the coffee and go.
But she knew she would not. Could not.
Triple darn.
No time to get another pair. Plus, the only other socks inside were a pair of plain blue ones. There had been only one pair of perfectly horrendous Christmas socks, and she knew they hadn’t been intended for anyone at Uncle Fred’s house. Not Aunt Betty with her giant mole, or Cousin Trav with his ugly comb-over, or Mr. Dan the eccentric butcher, who showed up to Uncle Fred’s party every year uninvited. Nope, these Christmas socks were for the bum who had flipped her the finger.
She sighed and bent down, meeting his gnarled fingers with the cup. “You don’t have any socks. It’s awfully cold out here for bare feet.”
The man took slurping sips of the scalding liquid as if it were nothing more than lukewarm tea. “Yes, socks t’would help, I imagine.”
“Yes, well, I happen to have a pair right here. How about we put these on so you don’t freeze your toes off? And then, I can take you to a shelter where you can get some hot food and a warm place to sleep.”
The man peered at her over the rim, his disarming blue eyes measuring her. She ripped her gaze from his and dug the ugly socks from the plastic bag, eyeing his dirty but, oddly enough, well-manicured toes. She tore the tag from the socks and bent toward the man, uncertain as to whether she should actually lift his foot. “Should I help you put these on?”
The old man clasped her hands, stilling them as she picked at the sticker stubbornly gunking up a sparkly silver tree.
“You ever read A Christmas Carol?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You know…old Ebenezer Scrooge?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.” She nodded and the blunt ends of her bob swung into her eyes. She tucked the wayward strands behind her chilled ears. “The socks. Let’s get them on you.”
“Yes,” he said staring at the gaudy socks in her hand. “What I meant was the Spirit of Christmas.”
“What?” Mary Paige said biting her lip and scrunching each sock so she could jab them onto his almost-blue feet. “You mean the ghosts, like the ghosts of Christmas past?”
“They were all part of the Spirit of Christmas, right?” His voice was low, intense and raspy…and also quite refined. Odd for a street person. She slid the first sock on his right foot.
“Mmm-hmm.” She shifted her weight so she wouldn’t fall on her butt onto the slick concrete. She wasn’t the most graceful of gals.
“Well, you’re the Spirit of Christmas,” he said, jabbing a finger at her.
“Maybe so,” she said, hoping to pacify the old man, as she put the other sock on his deathly cold foot. She prayed she