A trip to the market

The fact I was lost was not surprising. I could use the excuse I was still new to the area, and they had used the locals’ name for the road when giving me directions, rather than the one posted on the street sign. However, it really was just me. I almost always get lost the first time I go somewhere (and sometimes the second and third time, as well, though rarely). It wouldn’t have bothered me so much, except the shop was closing in 15 minutes, and I wasn’t sure it would be open the next day – Christmas Eve. As the duck I was picking up was the much anticipated main entree of Christmas dinner, it would be very upsetting to not make it to the meat market in time. How wonderful to have a cell phone. I called, and the nice man on the other end of the phone gave me directions from where I was at that point. I had simply passed the turn. I turned around drove back a mile or two, and missed the street again!

At the next street, one I had passed many times on my way to work, and which I had always been curious about following, I decided to try and see if it would lead me where I needed to be. As I came around a curve in the road, passing the firestation on the right, I saw a dark pick-up truck pull to the side, and appear about to turn around. As I went by, the driver seemed to change his mind, pulled back on the road, and kept going. This seemed strange, but I didn’t give it too much thought. Maybe he was lost, too. Only a few yards from the intersection, and I could see I had made the right decision to follow this road. Glancing to my left, I noticed a young girl, only about 5 or 6 years old, near an apparently closed real estate office, crying. A boy a year or two younger was with her, and she looked around as if lost.

Instinctively, I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked up to the pair. “Are you lost,” I asked. The girl nodded, and said she couldn’t find her uncle. I asked where she lived, and she pointed to the house next door. “Can you take us to Great-Grandma’s house,” came the plaintive plea. Thoughts whirled through my mind – if I put these kids in my car, it could easily be assumed I was kidnapping them. I had to find out if there were any adults in the house, and if anyone was injured. Should I go to the fire station for help? If I did, should I leave the kids behind, and hope they were safe for those few minutes, or take them with me, and arouse suspicion?

I picked up the boy, trying to ignore the dirty face and ragged clothes – was it the fact we lived in the country, or did these children really resemble the dirt-poor mountain people attributed to the nearby Appalachians – took the girl by the hand, and led them back to the house. Again, the query “Can you take us to Great-Grandma’s?” “Do you know her phone number,” was my response. It occurred to me she may know where their parents were. Also, I could alert her I was bringing the children over, so if the parents showed up, someone would know where the kids were, and why. Alas, the answer was no.

Then, suddenly, “Can you help me find heaven?” I looked down at the little girl, and a pang went through my heart. Oh no, this child’s mother is dead, and she wants to be with her. What other explanation for such a question? Noticing the girl was pointing towards the house, I wondered if there was a grave in the backyard.

We went up the porch steps, where the girl took off her shoes, stating “We’re not allowed to wear shoes in the house.” I stuck my head in, and was amazed at the beautiful fresco painted on the walls around the top of the stairs. “Hello,” I called, and heard a child’s voice shout back. Turning to the girl next to me, I asked “Who’s that?” “That’s Heaven, my sister.” Relief poured through me. Heaven was a place, but a person.

Calling out again, there was no further response. I asked Heaven, who appeared to be the oldest, where their parents were. “They went shopping for our Christmas presents,” she said. It was then I noticed the stack of toys stacked in the corner of the porch, and had a clear-headed moment when I realized these children were dirty because the yard was muddy, not because they were neglected. “Uncle John is supposed to be taking care of us, but we can’t find him.”

“Could he have gone out,” I asked.

“No, his shoes are right there,” Heaven replied, pointing to a pair of sneakers on the porch.

Not knowing what else to do, I decided to go back to my car, still parked in front of the real estate office, and call my husband. I was just about to place the call, when a man’s voice shouted from the house “What are you kids doing?” Looking up, I saw a man in his early twenties standing on the porch. Getting out of the car, and taking the hands of the boy and one of the girls, I started walking towards him, shouting back “Are you Uncle John?” When he answered in the affirmative, I smiled.

“They couldn’t find you,” I said. “These two were outside, looking lost, so I stopped to see if I could help.”

Uncle John shook his head. “I was inside the whole time. You couldn’t have been looking very hard.” With Merry Christmases said, and waving good-bye, I got back in my car, and drove the half mile to the meat market, after receiving confirmation from Uncle John it was ‘just up the road.’ Two minutes before closing time, I walked up to the counter and claimed my duck.