Small Acts Of Kindness

[Redfren]

Even small acts of kindness
Can make a profound
Difference to somebody else.
~Misha Collins​

Friday afternoon, Steve raked the autumn leaves into a big pile on his front lawn. The days had grown shorter, and with them loomed the knowledge that his seventy-fifth birthday was coming. The years had not been kind to him, thinning white hair covered the top of his head, though he maintained his crew cut, never having been able to quite part with it. His clean-shaven face showed aged wrinkles touching around the scowl lines of his mouth and along the ridges of his eyes. His face had hardened with time as his body was starting to fail him a little more each day.

As an old 1977 Mercury Marquis backfired while it drove down the cul-de-sac and passed by the neatly lined houses. Steve nearly fell to the ground, dropping the rake and grasping at his chest. Horrific images of Gunship Helicopters overhead no less than five flashed in his mind's eye. Soldiers stretched out in waist-high grasslands as smoke filled the distant tree line. "Down, down, down!" someone screamed as rapid gunfire brought down several men near him. One taking a bullet to the side of his cheek and ripping the flesh open as he spun toward the ground screaming in agony. Steve dropped into the grass immediately his vision completely sapped by the weeds, he only hoped and prayed the same was true for the enemy that took aim at them.

His eyes blinked and he realized he had laid himself down on the pile of leaves he had just raked up. Two young teenagers which had been getting out of the Mercury chuckled and pointed toward him until it boiled up into laughter. "Good for nothing brats!" Steve yelled, struggling to get to his feet. Just as he made it to his knee and secured himself placing it firmly in the dirt a small 5-year-old child, dived headfirst into the leaves Steve had just crawled out of.

His shiny brown hair was straight and prior to jumping in the pile had been parted to the left going down just past his ears. His features had not fully filled in yet and he still had those cute baby cheeks and bright blue eyes. A small button nose and ear to ear smile crossed his little face as he poked his head out of the leaves and lifted his arms. "Boo…" he said his voice filled with innocence and purity of sheer joy that could not be faked.

Steve jumped slightly at the suddenness of it all. Then scowled and glared down at the boy, his face reddening quickly as his anger boiled out of control. "Get the hell out of here!" He yelled waving his hands as if shooing away a rat or small animal. His hatred only grew as he looked up at the rushing mother hurrying over toward her son. "I'm so sorry Mr. Baker" she quickly scooped her son into her arms. The young woman was in her late twenties at the most and shared her son's brown hair, hers curling around her shoulders. She had a small bruise on her cheek, most likely from where that drunk of a husband slapped her. Her voice was frightened as she quickly stepped back.

"Keep him out of my damn yard! All of ya! Just leave me alone. Bunch of disrespectful ingrates!" He stood to his feet, then slowly started to reach for the rake which had fallen to the grass. The young mother quickly bent down and grabbed it holding it up for him. "I'm very sorry, I'll keep a closer watch on him." She said as Steve gripped the handle and jerked it from her dainty hand. "Do that!" He snapped then muttered to himself. "Should be calling child services on the whole lot of you."

The day's passed and while the outside of Steve's house had been something pleasant the inside was anything but. Old stained 1980's style furniture filled his living space, blue with rose-pink flowers stitched into the sofa and armchair sat along the wall, a small round wooden end table covered with a faded pink drop cloth rested on the right side of the sofa. Old newspapers filled it now, and books old and new sat piled on the left side and a few tucked into the cushions themselves. He was leaning back in the armchair which had already lost its spring and was sinking inward. Reading an old paperback called A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo.

Suddenly the sound of several thuds hit his window and front door. The book fell to the floor as he grasped his chest again. Pop, Pop, Pop, Pop… there was a pause, and he was nearly on the floor now. His mind played its role as he saw fellow soldiers march in thick mud that reached over their ankles, long weeds climbed to mid-thigh a mixture of light brown, green, and dark brown stretched out below them. On his left thick lush green forest reached out as far as the eye could see. In front of them rested a valley, that they were marching toward which split between two passing mountain ranges.

A loud Ping and sudden Thud sounded out, as nearly six men up from him, one of the men fell to his right as if he were just tipped over. It only took a second for the screams to start as another shot fired and echoed across the area. "SNIPER!" someone screamed as the men dropped down face-first into the mud at a Lowman's crawl. "Kyle! Where is he?" Steve yelled and rolled into a thicker patch of weeds causing the slick mud and muck to fill up his chest and trickle into his uniform.

Pop, pop, pop, this time when the sounds changed and Steve blinked, he was tucked up against the front side of his sofa tears forming in his eyes as his heart raced and adrenaline flooded his system. Laughter could be heard outside, as Steve grabbed the edge of the sofa and slowly started to stand up. "Eat shit old man!" someone yelled as he stumbled toward the door the laughter only got louder. His hand slipped on the end table pushing over the stack of papers and revealing an old photo of a young blond-haired woman who looked like a nurse. Her hair bobbed up around her jawbones, as she smiled brightly at the camera. The photo had aged and was starting to discolor in areas.

Steve sighed as he looked at the photo forgetting all about the kids outside. The sound of a car backfiring echoed the night as the squealing whistle of a damaged engine faded until only silence was left. He recalled the peaceful look on his wife's face the day he found her. Nearly thirty years ago he thought. She was so set against going to the doctors when her chest pains increased, he should not have listened to her. If he had been as stubborn then as he was now, she would not have passed from cardiac arrest in the middle of the night. He had never been blessed with children, never wanted another woman after his Lucy had passed.

Looking away he opened the door seeing the cracked shells of eggs dripping down his windows and door. More than a dozen covered his porch. Grumbling in anger he moved back inside to collect the bucket and filled it with warm water and some soap. Grabbing an aged sponged from between the pots and pans that filled his sink he walked back outside.

To his surprise, the small young boy was standing their grinning ear to ear again. Reaching down he picked up one of the partially broken eggs, his hand barely able to wrap around it. Proudly he threw the egg on the ground and started laughing as it finished cracking and spilled out onto the walkway. "Damn little brat! Get out of here! Go on git!" he yelled. Still laughing the young boy turned and started rushing home. He watched as the small boy made it to his door, even from his porch he could hear the mother and father of the child yelling at one another. He was not sure what it was about, he did not even care. He needed to get the egg cleaned before it dried.

Over the next several months, these little appearances of the small boy continued to randomly happen. When he was mowing his lawn, he saw the boy pushing a plastic mower in his own yard watching him. The boy seemed unfazed by his demeanor and continued to wave, or yell, or attempt to gain the attention of Steve whenever he could. Things truly came to a boil near the end of the month when he heard a small tapping on his door.

As he slowly got to his feet, he opened the door but only found a macaroni art piece sitting at his doorstep. If the boy were out in the yard, he could not see him, grumbling he leaned over and picked it up. Spiral brown noodles had been used for the hair and eyebrows, regular mac and cheese noodles were used for the eyes and outline of the face, and three were used to form an upward smile. He glared down at the art piece as his face grew red again with anger. "Stay out of my damn yard!" He yelled out into the night before stepping inside and slamming the door shut.

These Macaroni crafts and crayon drawings among other things continued to show up at his doorstep every few days or at least once a week, though the boy had noticeably been absent. His mother was keeping a much closer eye on him, especially after being yelled at. When a rock was caught up in his lawnmower which had two sticky eyes on it and a marker-drawn smile.

Late in December as he was attempting to shovel the snow before it got too high and became difficult to move, he saw a newer looking sedan out front of his neighbor's house. Pausing to see who it was an older man in his mid-forties got out and collected a for sale sign from his trunk then pounded it into the front yard. Giving a nod of his head toward Steve he climbed back into his car and drove off leaving a cheaply made metal sign lightly swinging in the wind.

A few days later he was outside shoveling the snow again and laying out salt when he saw the young woman attempting to shovel her own walkway. She gave a half-hearted smile and waved a little toward him then started walking over. She glanced at the sign and frowned as she neared their fence line. "Hello Mr. Baker, I'm sorry again about all the trouble little Nicky caused. I'll never understand that boy." She said warily. Steve scowled as he saw the fresh bruise on her face, finally speaking in a gruff voice. "You should leave that man." To this, she gave another half-hearted smile and pointed at the for sale sign. "I did, he moved out last week." Steve hmphed loudly and started to move away shoveling the snow in a different direction.

"Have a wonderful Christmas Mr. Baker" She called after him then proceeded to continue her own shoveling. Tears glistened in her eyes as she turned away, the droplets nearly freezing instantly to bright rosy cheeks as she hurried and readied herself for work.

Steve sat in his recliner his eyes barely open as he heard the scream from outside. He did not need to get up he knew what it was that had her yelling. The young mother had pulled up to the front drive and unbuckled young Nicky from his car seat when she went to check the mail. Holding him upright and tucked against her hip so he would not need to walk in the snow. She had brought a friend home with her but they were already heading toward the front of her house.

The Mailbox was heavily filled when she opened it. What she expected to see was the eviction notice she had been avoiding from the bank. What she saw instead, was a very thick envelope without a name or address on it. Setting Nicky down she opened it and within she found the title to her house, insurance, and paid property tax receipts from the bank. The title read, Lot 1 followed by her address and several numbers followed with the ownership of one Abigail Gunjan, bought and paid for by one Steve Baker.

As she screamed out in excitement and rushed toward his house to thank him. He let his eyes close and a long exhale of breath escape his chest. His mind played tricks again but this time he saw a beautiful young blond woman waving franticly toward him as she ran with her arms outstretching. A slow smile crawled across his lips as his stern features slackened and finally relaxed. "Oh, my God! Call 911" was distantly heard as he embraced Lucy.

Following the passing of Mr. Baker, Abigail learned that near the end of his day's he set up a trust leaving everything he owned including his home to one Nicky Gunjan. His assets which were considerable, as he was a very frugal man who never spent much money, to begin with, were left in a trust to be released to Nicky Gunjan on his eighteenth birthday. The only exception was the purchase of Abigail's home which was signed to her directly. There was never any documentation found or last statements. Though when cleaning his house every macaroni art, and classroom drawing was found in an old Vietnam war chest sitting right on the top of his uniforms and military decorations.

I rushed to the end of this story, as I realized I was starting to ramble and get sidetracked from the point of the story. This was a fictional telling, though I used many real references to complete it. I do not have anything I thought was worthy enough for this Open Challenge, so I made this which I hope was as enjoyable reading as it was to write. Merry Christmas everyone.