A stranger appeared at my door. He'd been standing on the street, beside a red Volkswagen, the old kind with tiny windows at the back and running boards. I saw him from upstairs, from behind my curtains. He was a heavy-set man with a ponytail, his back turned and his arms folded. He was waiting for someone, I thought. Now, though, he was on my porch. His full beard and skull t-shirt rattled me a little. As a woman living alone, I had to watch out. He'd probably knock, or something worse. I waited.
- He did knock, a light tapping really. Not much chance I'd hear it unless I was listening for it, which of course I was. Three taps that allowed me freedom, I felt. Freedom to answer or not to answer. It was considerate of him, and comfortable. It wasn't a pounding that raised your blood pressure, or a set of five or seven raps that clearly meant business. I immediately warmed to this man, but just a little. He was not like other men I knew; he had a softness, despite how he looked. I let him wait some more, and he stared at the door and the calm, neutral expression on his face didn't change. I liked that, too.
- He knocked again, soft taps just like the first. I went downstairs to the door, and stood facing it for a moment. He was still there on the other side, staring like me. It was just a feeling I had, of course, but not a bad one. I quietly lifted the chain, hooked it to the door and turned the knob.
- "Hello," he said. I strained to hear him through the crack in the door. His voice was gentle and flat, almost a whisper, his smile slight. "Sorry to bother. I broke down. I need a lift. Would you mind if I used your phone?"
- Tattoos rode up his forearm: one with a long dagger through a heart; another was a ribbon under the word, "Mom". This man-he looked a bit older than myself-loved his mother. Or, I wondered, perhaps it meant something else to put "Mom" on your body.
- "Okay," I said, "if you stay out there. Just a minute."
- I left the chain on. When I got back, I found the handset couldn't fit through the opening. I looked at him, unsure of what to say.
- "That's okay, miss," he said. "I'll find another way." He turned and started down the steps. Such an attitude of respect, I thought.
- I hesitated, then unlatched the chain. I paused once more before opening the door wide and stepping out onto the porch. I saw he was again standing beside the Volkswagen, now looking up and down the street.
- "Mister!" I called. I held out the phone. I think I saw him smile again as he walked back towards me.
- "Thank you very much," he said, taking the handset. He dialed, turned and sat down on the porch steps. I waited in the doorway and listened to his conversation:
- "Hello, Leslie? It's me. Yes. Yes. No, nothing like that. But it's happened again, same thing. No, I don't want to get it fixed like last time. I'd rather get rid of it altogether. Can you call them? I'm at, um, hold on."
- He turned around and looked up.
- "What's the address here, miss?"
- "883 Queens. Off Delbrook," I said.
- He gave the information and passed the phone back. I turned to go inside the house.
- "Thank you so much for your help. Can I sit here while I'm waiting?" he asked.
- "Certainly, but don't you want to--"
- "Thank you, miss, I'll just sit here," he said.
- I closed the door behind me, carefully put the chain back on the door and went upstairs to the window. I thought about pulling the cord to open the curtains but changed my mind. I parted them an inch. The man sat hunched over, his elbows on his knees. He stared straight ahead, at the Volkswagen or at nothing in particular. I thought I'd like to wait with him.
- I found myself looking from the man to the car and back. Soon, he was no longer staring. His head was in his hands, and every now and then his body seemed to stiffen, then shiver into relaxation. Something was wrong, something had upset him. It wasn't for me to interfere, but I really wanted to see if I could help. I couldn't decide what to do.
- Then they arrived. Two clean-cut men in black trousers and white windbreakers who walked deliberately up to the man, knelt down, took an arm each and slowly guided him to the street into the back of a brown sedan. He again had his head in his hands as they drove off, leaving me to wonder: who was this stranger, and whose red Volkswagen was sitting in front of my house?
