The Forgotten

He had three perfect freckles on each cheek.  It was as though an artist had painted them on a doll's face.  As perfect as they were for a little boy, it made one wonder if they wouldn't look a little odd on a grown man's face. They were freckles for a boy.

He had cornflower blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. His name was Billy, of course, because no other name would be right for this impossibly perfect little boy. He wore overalls and smiled a gap toothed smile that made you want to gather him in your arms and kiss those perfect three freckles.

He was light and laughter, but he broke your heart just the same. He would knock on the front door and tell you he was hungry, and as you made a sandwich you knew you didn't have to call his house to make sure you weren't spoiling his lunch.  No one would even remember he hadn't eaten

That was the summer I spent babysitting for my brothers, waiting for my mom to get back from school or work,  so that we could all go to the swimming pool as our reward for cleaning the house or at the very least, not causing bodily harm to each other.

Billy was staying with his aunt and uncle, the Horrisses, while his mom and dad went through a divorce that rendered them incapable of thinking of anyone or anything but their own broken hearts.  I'm not sure if the Horrisses really noticed one more person in their house that was filled with kids, dogs and countless tragi-dramas of their own.

So Billy became a part of our lives. He would eat lunch with us, play with my brothers, and generally cause me to wonder out loud why my brothers couldn't be as sweet and cute as he was. Normally, any object of my affection would, out of necessity, become the object of their derision, but my brothers gave Billy a pass because, well, he was Billy.

There would be mornings where I would walk outside, and find Billy digging in the dirt around the shrubs at the front of the house.  He would play with the toys my brothers had left outside, patiently waiting until somebody would notice him and his day would officially begin.

There would be days that Billy didn't show up at all, and I just assumed that maybe he had a new house where he was playing for a while, but it happened that one day, I realized I hadn't seen Billy for over a week, and I wondered where he was.

When I asked one of the many children that flooded in and out of the Horris household about the whereabouts of Billy, I learned that Billy's father had taken him home for awhile in a new apartment that he had moved into.  I kind of missed him, but I was a 13 years old, and there were many other things to occupy my mind other than a four and a half year old boy.

At that age, I was a big believer in the power of my dreams.  Maybe I still am today.  I often would recount my dreams to my mother as we did dishes at night, much to her chagrin.  I had a dream one night that I walked downstairs into a big living room, it was dusty and the furniture had slipcovers.  Something made me look towards the ceiling.  I noticed two oil spots begin to form.  As the spots grew bigger, I watched as the oil transformed into blood.  The blood began to drip from the ceiling, and as puddles began to form, I watched the blood catch afire.  It was disturbing, and I woke up with a clear memory of the dream the night before.

When I went downstairs to begin the day, I heard my mother on the phone.  I could tell by her tone that something had happened, so I naturally hovered nearby until she would hang up the phone and I could pester her for the news.

As it turned out, the news was that the night before, Billy's dad had fallen asleep downstairs in his new house.  He had been drinking heavily, as had been his habit since the divorce.  Unfortunately, he passed out with a cigarette still in his hand, and the house had caught on fire, killing its two occupants.  One of those occupants was Billy.

Those freckles would never be on the face of a grown man, and I wondered if they ever were meant to be.