He Wasn’t Bad Just Unwell

The other night I was heading out to make a quick library run. I needed to pick up some books for research and, of course, once Henry heard where I was going he clambered to come along to get a few Star Wars books. Even though it was 7:30pm and he hadn’t had dinner yet, how could I refuse? As a working mom I’ve missed out on so much of his young life. Dinner could wait tonight.

The excursion began on a sweet note. H is really into American presidential history right now, which made for wonderful car conversation. FDR, JFK, Jimmy Carter, Lincoln, Jefferson, Barack are all his new heroes. I love how fast my son’s brain works. How much he can absorb. Everyday brings an amazing wealth of new information.

First complication.

I asked if we could make a quick stop by the dumpster, because yes I’m still rescuing plants and I wanted to hit it before dark. I’ve tried to make a point of not going at night anymore because my poor mother worries about my safety and has made me promise to never go after dark. And even though I’m an adult and live across country and she has no idea what I do or when I do it, I still value her wise opinion and do what she says, which I know makes her happy from afar.

Good daughter.

Plus, I had a child in the car who was grumbling about my planned detour but agreed to let me go, because he would rather help rescue dying plants than think about them languishing in a landfill.

He is my son after all…

So off we went. The pickings were slim. Even so, in the waning light, I was able to retrieve 3 delicate indoor ferns. It took all of 4 minutes to grab them and throw them in the back of the car and we were on our way again.

More talk of presidential history on the ride down Wilshire Boulevard. This time about Garfield and the fact that the gunshot wound didn’t actually kill him, the infection did.

We hung a fast left on 6^th street. But time was ticking away, so I took a short cut and made a wrong turn down a one-way entry into the library parking lot rather than drive around the block to enter it properly. Henry was not happy about this and made me promise to never EVER do it again. I promised I would not.

I seem to be making a lot of promises these days.

Nevertheless, we made it to the library in the nick of time, however the parking meeting was busted so we couldn’t pay. Another thing that bothered H.

He is not a rule breaker my son.

Quick, quick, quick we ran to the library entrance. And as H struggled to open the big, heavy, glass, door for me – something he loves to do to prove his 8 year-old prowess – our paths crossed a gnarly, young homeless man who was exiting the building. The guy was typical. Nothing about him set off any red flags for me, his sunglasses maybe (it was dark by now) but the truth is, I barely registered his presence. Having lived in NYC most of my adult life I’ve sadly become inured to the homeless – the smells, raggedy hair, large pants cinched in by the obligatory cracked leather belt, the low, incessant mutterings. None of this guy’s stuff fazed me, until I realized the bespectacled boy by my side was frozen stiff with fear.

His taut, little fingers slipped tightly into mine. He gripped my hand and asked: Is he a bad guy? I bent down and whispered no, honey, he’s just a homeless man –

But no sooner had the words left my lips, than the low mutterings turned into loud, angry ranting. We had lingered just a bit too long I guess, because the man was engaged now. I hurried to pull my boy inside but it was too late. The angry man’s vitriolic words fell on my child’s chaste ears: You know what they do to little children?! They cut them up and eat them and then they—

Swift yank and we were safely inside on the other side of the glass door, hurrying away from the rest of that sentence.

But the damage was done. H had heard it all and was processing. He gripped my hand even harder and said: He is a bad guy. I saw my first real bad guy.

I said he’s not bad he’s just unwell.

H turned back briefly to stare at the now wildly gesticulating man pacing outside – an image I hope he can someday erase from his super absorbent sponge-like brain – What’s wrong with him he asked perplexed?

His brain doesn’t work right.

Why not?

Because some people get sick and this is what happens to them.

Why?

I don’t know…

Come on; let’s get out of here H said. And he pulled me inside the 2^nd set of glass doors into the library.

My heart went out to that poor man outside, even though I was pissed at him for scaring the shit out of my son. Whether he was schizophrenic, psychopathic or just plain high as a kite, what a miserable existence. Wandering around with no place to call home. Synapses misfiring. Incoming information being misinterpreted. But none of that mattered in that moment. The only thing I cared about was consoling my still frightened son.

As we made our way deeper into the safety of the library, the questions kept circling. Why did he say he wanted to eat children, mommy? Because he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Why? Because he’s sick. Why? Because some people’s brains get sick. Why? I don’t know, honey, they just do. I kept it simple and repetitive.

H was worried the man was going to come after us and hurt him.

I told him he was safe and that I would always protect him. He didn’t seem too impressed by my offer. I wish dad were here, he said. I want dad. I know, honey, but Mommy’s here. You’re safe. I hugged him tight. And for a moment I thought the incident would pass. But then he looked for a security guard. He wanted to tell him about the bad guy, but there wasn’t one to be found. He toyed with the idea of telling a librarian, but the checkout lines were too long and anyways, he decided the security guard was the person who really needed to be told about this.

We discussed ditching the library and going home, but H pointed out that if we left now we might have to walk by the crazy man again. Good point I told him. We agreed to grab my books first and then get his and by the time we wanted to leave the guy would probably be gone. Tiny fingers once again gripped my hand as we walked upstairs to find my books.

H was unusually silent. Gone was his playful, chattering self. He was serious. All business. On the alert for more bad guys.

Suddenly the library, his library, a place that has always been full of wonder and magic for him was freaking him out. Every person we passed made him shudder. Is that a bad man? No, honey, no. How do you know? Because not everyone is bad. How do you know? Because I can tell. Is she bad? No. How do you know? I just get a sense about people. You can tell when they're tricky.I learned about tricky people at school, he said.

It broke my heart hearing my baby trying to process all of this.

Walking through the stacks, his hand firmly clenched in mine, I told him again that he was safe with me. That I would never let anyone hurt him, even though deep down I knew I could never really keep that promise. How could I make a promise like that knowing that 6 years ago a stranger had murdered my best friend in an unprovoked attack? Henry knows what happened, even though he was only just turning 3 at the time. He has memories of something. Witnessing our intense sadness. He knows a bad man killed Adrienne.

But this was his first encounter with that kind of energy up close and personal.

I quickly found my books and then, hand still gripped in mine, we made our way downstairs to the children’s section. The whole time H was still obsessed with the man outside. Obsessed that everyone around us now had the potential to hurt him. He made a plan. He would look for a security guard on the way out and ask him to walk us to our car. That way, he said, we’d be safe. I told him that was a good plan, although I reassured him the guy was probably long gone, but if he wanted an escort, we would do it. His book found, we checked out and asked the librarian for a security guard to walk us to our car.

The homeless guy had, as I suspected, moved on. Nevertheless, the security guard, who couldn’t have been nicer, walked us the car and made sure Henry was buckled safely in his car seat. He told Henry that he had done the right thing. That anytime he needed assistance, just ask.

Henry was relieved he didn’t have to see the man again, but he did say he never wanted to come to the library again.

I told him I was sure we would never see that man again, but we could go to the little library on Montana Avenue if he wanted. It’s small and where he used to do story book time as a toddler. That seemed to calm him.

Home, we relayed the harrowing tale to daddy, who said he would’ve have punched the guy in the nose if he laid a hand on us. No wonder Henry prefers dad’s protection to mine.

Dinner followed by a warm bath. Jammies. Daddy read to H as he snuggled warmly under the layered covers of our family bed.

We were home.

Safe.

As I stroked his hair H asked sleepily:

Why don’t people have homes?

Because they probably don’t have a job to pay their rent.

Why?

Because maybe they’re not well enough to work.

Why?

Because the world isn’t always fair and bad things happen to good people.

Why, mommy?

I kissed his head and stroked his back.

That question I’ll have to answer another day.