Transparent

I was six.
Early evening on a hot August day.
Golden dust,
hovering, drifting,
glittered in the setting sun,
In joyous terror,
upside-down brooms swinging wildly,
we had just chased a bat out of the house.

Catching my breath,
alone in Paul Henriques's room,
(he had gone to pee),
I stood in awe before the embarrassment of riches.

Alluring toys of every conceivable size and shape
were stuffed haphazardly on the shelves, chairs and desks.
An elaborate electric train set, replete with miniature
mountains, tunnels, bridges, trees, cars, homes, stations, people,
lay sleek and exotic beneath the open window.
Bed unmade,
clothes, candy, books strewn,
and the room was his,
all his,
no sharing with a brother.

Out of the corner of my eye,
I spotted,
poking from a tinker toy tube,
tantalizing as a shimmering lure to a hungry trout,
three one dollar bills.
An inhalation later they were in my back pocket.

Paul returned,
and, in an exhalation,
I bragged exuberantly that earlier I'd found three one dollar bills on the street.
Paul instinctively gazed over at the tinker toy.
Observing the missing three dollars,
he smiled.
His mood soon darkened because I insisted,
incredible as it may seem, unlikely no doubt, yes, beyond all possible belief,
thateverythingIhadjustsaidwastheabsolutetotalhonesttoGodtruth.
He ran, calling his mother.
I followed, heavy, flushed, trapped.
Paul stood to the side,
between his Mother and I,
his voice high and indignant.
Mrs. Henriques listened attentively,
then quietly asked me if I had taken the three dollars.
With a child's cry for a mother's attention, affection and warmth
betraying my every word,
I once more proclaimed my innocence.

A pause, a silence.
All three of us knew the truth,
and all three of us knew we all knew.

Mrs. Henriques,
a sad smile caressing her eyes and lips,
softly said:
'Then that must be what happened.'
Paul, thunderstruck, ejaculated a plaintive curse.

His mother, calm and unflinching, reiterated:
'Paul, if he says he found the money on the street,
then that is where he found it.'

Her son writhing, twisting, whining,
the solemn, maternal angel thanked me for helping to chase the bat,
and suggested,
unless I wished to stay for supper,
that it might be a good idea to return home.

Clutching in my palm three one dollar bills,
I turned
- mute, throbbing -
a willful specter of a then dark, unknown, unfolding familial discord,
and stumbled home.