{"id":5355,"date":"2020-12-03T01:14:49","date_gmt":"2020-12-03T00:14:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/prod-2018.frictions.co\/?p=5355"},"modified":"2021-02-15T15:01:22","modified_gmt":"2021-02-15T14:01:22","slug":"si-ca-compte-vraiment","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/prod-2018.frictions.co\/english\/un-united-states\/it-really-does-matter\/","title":{"rendered":"It Really Does Matter"},"content":{"rendered":"
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On his way down the stairs, at the start of another summer day in California, Roy ignores the slight ache in his knees and lets his left hand run gently over the polished teak handrail. He makes his way through to the kitchen and stands, with his palms resting on the granite countertop, looking out into the garden behind his house. The vines he\u2019s spent hours pruning and cultivating are growing nicely along the fence; the fence he spent even more hours securing into the sloping terrace above the swimming pool.<\/span><\/p>

A leaf, curling and twirling in a ripple of wind, lands on the surface of the pool and floats there, unmoving. Rust-brown and shaped like a boat, it reminds Roy of a model yacht with a timber hull his sea-going uncle had given him as a birthday present. He\u2019d taken it to sail on the pond in a local park until a group of boys tried to snatch it from him. They\u2019d pushed him into the shallow water and he\u2019d arrived home wet and smelling but clutching his boat. He\u2019d repaired the broken mast, polished the boat to a fine shine, then placed it on a shelf above his bed where it sat for the rest of its days, un-sailed.<\/span><\/p>

Roy can feel a slight wrinkle in the crimson rug he\u2019s standing on. He smooths it out with the toe of his leather slipper, and turns to make his coffee. Almost the only thing out of place in his garden of trimmed lawns, colourful flowers and neat rows of vegetables is the stray leaf in the pool. He\u2019ll remove that later when he goes out for his morning swim.<\/span><\/p>

Cup in hand, Roy makes his way to his desk and sits down. He has a long to-do list for the morning: talk with his business partner in England, consult with a company in Spain, and arrange an online meeting with a manager in Italy. He knows what time it is in each country and has planned his international calls accordingly. He picks up his phone.<\/span><\/p>

<\/I>\u2018Evening, Jim. How\u2019re things in Manchester?\u2019 He smiles to himself. \u2018Not raining again where you are, is it?\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Roy knows, of course, that it is raining in Manchester. He checks the weather as well as the time.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018What\u2019s your feeling, Jim, about the approach from the Spanish group? Is it the sort of role we want? ... Yes... Yes... You\u2019re probably right.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Over the conversation, Roy hears a tapping sound. He glances down at his laptop screen and then at his phone. It doesn\u2019t seem to be coming from either.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Tell you what, we could take a day or two to think it over and I\u2019ll let the group know\u2026\u2019<\/span><\/p>

There it is again. Tap, tap, tap.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Hold on, Jim, someone\u2019s at the door\u2026 Okay\u2026 Yes\u2026 Yes\u2026 Wednesday, then. Bye.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

He pushes back his chair and takes the two steps to the hallway in his stride. Light floods through the oval stained-glass panel in the centre of the door, and Roy expects to see the outline of his visitor \u2013 perhaps the solar panel engineer dropping by to check how the new system is working. But there is no broad silhouette of a man. Instead he sees a perfectly still, slender shadow as though a cardboard cutout of a figure has been placed, face forward, on the doorstep.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Hello,\u2019 says Roy as he opens the door to see a young boy dressed in shorts and a polo shirt.<\/span><\/p>

His attention is caught by the stiff immobility of the boy, who is cradling one furled fist in his other hand.<\/span><\/p>

Roy knows by sight the very few families with teenagers who live nearby and he\u2019s certain he\u2019s never seen this boy before. He\u2019s certain because this child is black. He rarely sees a black family in the roads, gardens or driveways of his suburb. It\u2019s perfectly possible for a well-to-do black family to move into the area \u2014 many of the younger professionals in the neighbourhood work in Silicon Valley where the workforce is diverse. But this particular suburb is not.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Hello,\u2019 he repeats.<\/span><\/p>

The boy plunges into an explanation, ignoring Roy\u2019s greeting.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018My dog ran away. I chased him and I caught him. I was holding him in my arms but he escaped again.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

The boy\u2019s voice is flat, the intonation monotonous.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Just a minute,\u2019 says Roy. \u2018I\u2019ll get my shoes and come and help you.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

The expression on the boy\u2019s face doesn\u2019t change but he shakes his head.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018No. I need a band-aid.\u2019 He raises his fist, turns it over, and uncurls his index finger.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Roy bends forward and peers at it.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Oh, yes. There\u2019s a cut and it\u2019s bleeding a little. Does it hurt?\u2019<\/span><\/p>

The boy shakes his head, changes his mind and begins nodding.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Okay. You wait there.\u2019 Roy points to the short wooden bench in the porch. \u2018I\u2019ll go find a band-aid. And then we can look for your dog.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Roy walks back down the hallway into the kitchen and pulls open a drawer. He picks out the box of band-aids, flips open the lid and fans the individual packets out on the countertop, looking for the right size.<\/span><\/p>

He can remember the comfort of a plaster on a small wound. Wet clothes, a broken model yacht and scraped knees eased by the magic of a plaster and some consoling words.<\/span><\/p>

He picks up two of the narrower strips. On his way through the hall he stops for a moment to swap his slippers, which he places side-by-side in the shoe closet, for a pair of sandals.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Right, here we go,\u2019 he begins as he approaches the door.<\/span><\/p>

There is no one on the bench. Roy steps into the porch and looks around the garden. The boy has gone. Roy walks down the curved path, past a vast bank of magenta-pink roses, the blooms so numerous, so heavy, that the stems struggle to stay upright. Standing on the sidewalk he looks to his right, towards the park, and can just make out the figure of the young boy. He\u2019s too far away for Roy to be able to attract his attention and anyway, he\u2019s busy trying to catch a small dog that prances in circles around him. Roy keeps his eye on them for a minute or two. With a sigh, he walks back up the rose-lined path, slipping the band-aids into his shirt pocket. <\/span><\/p>

At his desk, Roy checks his to-do list: nothing that can\u2019t wait until after his morning swim. He\u2019s just started up the stairs to get changed when he hears the sound again.<\/span><\/p>

Tap, tap, tap.<\/span><\/p>

Roy isn't surprised when he opens the door. He knew who he'd see. The boy clutches a golden coloured spaniel with long ears. It wriggles and fidgets in his arms. Its tail thumps against his t-shirt, its tongue licks at his face while its body fights to escape his grasp.<\/span><\/p>

Roy smiles down at the sight of the serious-faced boy only just managing to hold the exuberant dog, but at the same time keeping his injured index finger extended.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Did you find a band-aid?\u2019 the boy asks.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Yes. I see you found your dog.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Yes. Can I have the band-aid please.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Here,\u2019 says Roy.<\/span><\/p>

He removes a band-aid from his pocket and is about to tear open the paper covering, but the boy reaches up and takes the plaster out of Roy\u2019s hand.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018I can manage.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

\u2018But, you\u2019ve got the dog.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

\u2018I\u2019m going home now.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

The boy turns away and the dog yelps in its frenzy to get down and run.<\/span><\/p>

Struggling to hold him, the boy stumbles against the roses, scattering a carpet of petals across the path.<\/span><\/p>

At the gate he stops suddenly and without looking round calls, \u2018Thank you.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

His slight figure is soon out of sight behind the flowering shrubs that line the front of Roy\u2019s property.<\/span><\/p>

Roy decides that while he\u2019s there he might as well tidy up. He goes through a side door into the garage and collects his yard brush and dustpan. Back outside he begins to sweep up the bruised petals that now trail all the way to the gate. He wonders about the boy. Isn\u2019t he just a bit too old to be asking for a band-aid for a small scratch? And, why is he knocking on strangers\u2019 doors in this day and age? All the same, he\u2019s glad the boy took the plaster.<\/span><\/p>

Roy bends down and sweeps the petals into the dustpan. He carries it over to the other side of the garage and lifts the lid off his composting bin. Tiny fruit flies, feasting on decaying scraps, fly up, circling and waiting for the next addition to their banquet. Roy scatters the wilted petals into a neat, even layer on top of the grass clippings and dried leaves, and carefully replaces the lid. He puts the brush and dustpan back into the garage and is just locking the side door when he hears a voice.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Excuse me.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Roy looks up. A tall, lean man, dressed for running, is coming up the path towards him. He\u2019s breathing heavily.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Hi. I\u2019m Jack. Just moved in Tuesday. Down the end of this road. I\u2019m looking for my son. And his dog. Puppy, really. Have you seen them?\u2019<\/span><\/p>

The man wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He\u2019s black, like his son.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Yes, I think I have. A thin boy? Shorts, polo shirt?\u2019<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Yes, that\u2019s him.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Eager to help, Roy moves towards Jack.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Don\u2019t worry. He\u2019s on his way home. He cut his finger, only slightly, and he came to my door to ask for a band-aid.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Jack groans.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018How many times have we told him not to knock on people\u2019s doors or ring their bell? He just doesn\u2019t get it.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

His hands, fingers taut with tension, press against his temples, and he closes his eyes for a moment.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018He can always ask me for help,\u2019 says Roy.<\/span><\/p>

He reaches out to touch Jack\u2019s shoulder, decides not to, and lets his arm fall.<\/span><\/p>

Jack opens his eyes and looks at him.<\/span><\/p>

Roy smiles. \u2018It doesn\u2019t matter. It\u2019s okay.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Jack sighs, looks away, and wipes his face again.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Well actually, it really does matter. It\u2019s not okay. But...\u2019<\/span><\/p>

He takes a step down the driveway then turns to face Roy.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018I\u2019d better go check that my son and his dog have made it home safely. Thanks for your help. I\u2019m grateful. Really I am.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

They nod, in understanding or goodbye, or both. In a synchronized move, they turn, almost back-to-back, and step away from each other: Roy to go into his house, Jack to go after his son.<\/span><\/p>

It is at this moment they hear, not loud but distinct, the sound of three sharp cracks.<\/span><\/p>

When Roy turns towards the noise, Jack has swung back round to face him. \u2018What the hell\u2026\u2019 His face is tight with fear or, perhaps, anger.<\/p>

Roy\u2019s instinct is to reassure, but before any words can be spoken, they hear the wail of sirens. An echoing cry from Jack shatters whatever moment of empathy they might have shared. He races down the drive and is gone.<\/span><\/p>

Roy steps inside his house and closes the door. He walks slowly to the far end of the kitchen and stands for a moment, pressing his trembling hands down onto the countertop, breathing deeply in an effort to steady his heartbeat.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018Surely not,\u2019 he says.<\/span><\/p>

He slips the fingers of one hand into his pocket and pulls out the unused band-aid. No memories now of comfort.<\/span><\/p>

\u2018It can\u2019t be him.\u2019<\/span><\/p>

Roy stares blankly out at the garden. The water in the pool is clear and still. He doesn\u2019t notice the leaf that blew into the pool that morning is no longer there.<\/span><\/p><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>

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Don't miss the next stories ...!<\/p><\/div><\/div>

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