reasonable-seeming rent rates were punishingly high. Even though the Helping-Hands Club inhabited part of an antiquated school closed the year before when the new high school opened a couple of miles away, the marginal break on rent offered by the Sepulveda Basin School District did little to counter the fact that electric costs were high, heating costs were high, maintenance costs were high, everything was high…except the interest of most of the people in the area.
So when the well-dressed man appeared out of a cold, grey drizzle and walked into the office at Helping- Hands late one January afternoon and asked if the club needed volunteers, Marty Franco literally jumped at the chance.
“Sure thing, Mr…?” he said, out of his seat and hurrying around the cluttered desk before the man had stopped speaking.
“Warren, Daniel Warren,” the man answered curtly.
“Hello, Mr. Warren. Marty Franco.” Marty held out his hand. The other man’s grasp was firm and warm in spite of the chill outside. Marty could feel a comfortable strength in Warren’s wrist and fingers.
“Sit down,” Marty said, pointing to the other chair in the small room. The chair was almost hidden beneath a flurry of manila folders. Warren carefully stacked the folders on the floor and sat down.
“So,” Marty said after a short silence, “what do you know about the Helping Hands?”
“Not much,” Warren admitted. “I saw an ad in the GreenSheet at a grocery store the other day. It didn’t say much, just that you’re a service club and that you work with young people. Kind of like Big Brothers, I guess.”
Marty grinned. He’d written that ad himself. Nice to see that it was pulling in some responses. “That’s pretty close. We handle maybe forty kids at a time here, mostly kids with no fathers who need to be around a man some of the time. You know. Bonding. Role model. Like that.”
Warren nodded.
“We’re not a day-care center or anything. We run limited hours, but we do post a pretty good schedule of activities. Basketball, swimming, baseball. Some weekend hikes and camping trips. That sort of thing.”
Again Warren nodded.
“And of course we appreciate any help we can get. Most of our funding is through private donations. We know that our volunteers are doing a lot just by being here, but sometimes it helps if…”
“I understand. I have no family myself and I make a pretty good living. I’m willing to cover some costs where necessary.”
Marty broke out into an even wider grin, relieved that that hurdle had been successfully negotiated. “Well, Mr. Warren, then if you’ll fill out these forms, we can get started.”
He handed a sheaf of papers to Daniel, who skimmed through them before removing his pen from an inside jacket pocket. The form looked like fairly standard stuff. Name, address, age, marital status. Occupation. References. General backgrounds.
He began writing.
Three weeks later, Daniel Warren met Miles Stanton for the first time.
During an impromptu basketball game pitting four adult volunteers against half a dozen pre-teenagers (who severely and definitively trounced the old-timers), Daniel first noticed the skinny kid sitting alone on the sidelines, elbows propped on bony knees. Once or twice, he had even waved for the kid to come over and play, but the boy had just stared ahead as if the game, the other kids, Daniel himself simply didn’t exist. As if the wall opposite didn’t exist and he could see clear through it to the Santa Monica mountains and beyond.
After the game, while the others were heading sweating and laughing into the shower room to clean up and change, Marty entered the gym and, standing by the boy, motioned Daniel over.
“Daniel, I’d like you to meet a new fellow here at Helping Hands. Miles, this is Mr. Warren. Daniel, meet Miles Stanton.”
At a nudge from Marty, the boy stood. He seemed even skinnier standing up. His basketball jersey was at least two sizes too large for his shoulders and chest and threatened to engulf him. His baggy shorts hung well past his knees, as full as if the boy were wearing a skirt.
Daniel stifled a smile, leaned down stiffly, and solemnly shook hands with the boy. At least now the boy- Miles, Daniel reminded himself-was looking up at Daniel, but he still seemed no more interested in the man towering over him than he had been in the basketball game.
“This is Miles’ first evening here, Daniel,” Marty said by means of explanation.
Daniel noted that the man spoke about the boy as if the kid were not present. The fact grated on him. He squatted down until his eyes were level with the kid’s. He heard his knees cracking; as always, he hated such physical reminders that his body was growing older.
“Hey, Miles,” he said, smiling and watching for any flicker of interest in the kid’s grey eyes. “You like basketball?”
Nothing.
“How about baseball?”
Still nothing.
Daniel glanced up at Marty. The other man shrugged, as if to say sometimes it takes a while, don’t give up, just keep trying and something will break.
Daniel pulled away a bit and examined the boy. He looked to be about ten, perhaps an inch or two taller than average, thin but certainly not malnourished. His light brown hair was unruly but had been recently trimmed. His eyes still seemed empty, though.
“How about swimming? Do you like swimming?”
There…finally, there was something.
The boy glanced up, for an instant his face a flash of eagerness. Then, as if afraid that he had given himself away, and that by doing so he had lost any chance of ever going swimming again, he looked down to the floor. His thin shoulders rose, lowered in a shrug.
But Daniel had caught the glimmer of interest. He swiveled around until he was sitting on the bench next to the boy. He was sweaty from the basketball game. His T-shirt clung clammily to his back and the nylon of his sweat-stained shorts felt sticky and uncomfortable. But he sat there for a few moments anyway.
Finally he glanced up at Marty and nodded. I’ll take it from here, the gesture said. Marty left.
“I liked swimming a lot when I was your age,” Daniel continued, as if there had been no break in the one- sided conversation. “But I didn’t get to go very much. We lived in Maine and it was pretty cold most of the year. And we didn’t have heated pools back then. My mother didn’t let me swimming out much-she was always afraid I’d get polio or something from the water.”
The boy looked at him questioningly.
“Polio,” Daniel said, “that was a real kid-killer when my Mom was younger. They had a vaccine for it by the time I was born, but Mom still worried. You know how Moms are.”
The boy nodded gravely.
“Anyway,” Daniel continued, “sometimes I would sneak away to a creek a couple of miles away and my buddies and me would strip down and go skinny-dipping. It was great.
“Now I can swim anytime I want, though. There’s a great pool back there.” He gestured to the doorway that led through the changing room and from there to an indoor pool.
The boy stared at the floor.
“Want to try it?”
Again, there was a slight movement.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go in for a swim. We just played a hot, tiring game, and a cool dip sounds perfect right now.” He stood and walked a few steps toward the changing room. “Come on if you want.”
Daniel didn’t bother to look back, but by the time he entered the changing room, he could hear the boy’s soft tread only a few steps behind him. Daniel reached into an open cabinet just inside the door and pulled out a suit. Boy’s medium. He tossed it to the kid. The kid caught it with one hand, his fingers snapping like small wires around the fabric.
“You guys change over there.” He pointed to a partitioned section of the changing room. “We older guys have to use that side. Meet you right here as soon as you’re dressed.” He grinned at Miles, and for the first time Miles grinned back. It was fleeting, but it was an authentic grin.
