Little by little, I began to feel strong again. The doctor told me the surgery was a success. The sickness was gone from my body. It might come back someday, he said. None of us live forever. He told me to take it easy.
But I knew better. I had made a promise to the higher power that if I was given any more time on this earth, I would continue to work for the children.
And that’s just what I do. The shelter was rebuilt soon after the fire and I go back every day. No sitting around the apartment for me. I am needed. I comfort the women who are hurt, and I feed the children who are hungry.
I have a new helper too. Sergeant Kosinski is not a sergeant anymore. He retired from the police force. Now he’s just plain old Tom. And he is here every morning, rain or shine, ready to help. Retirement is no good for someone like him, he says. He has to keep busy, or he’ll just get old.
Tom is a lot like me. He never had time to get married or raise a family of his own. His work always came first. He chose a different path in life from mine. He decided the best way to fight the good fight was on the street. But we both ended up in the same place. There are many paths, but there is only one way.
“You ought to feel lucky,” I tell him. “We don’t usually allow men in here. Just the good ones.”
Tom is sitting on the floor. He has a kid on his lap, and there are several more sitting around him. He’s reading to them from a book. He knows I’m just teasing him. Now that he doesn’t wear his uniform anymore, his sense of humor is stronger. He looks up at me and smiles.
“I do feel lucky,” he says.
Sometimes the kids gather in the play area. I can hear them telling stories to each other. The story of Jacky Wacky is one of their favorites.
After all this time, the story has changed little by little, as stories do. Sometimes Jacky Wacky drives a big truck, and he uses it to take all the gangbangers away to jail. Other times he runs a restaurant where kids can go and eat anything they want— ice cream, roasted chicken, hamburgers and french fries. All free.
One thing hasn’t changed though. Jacky Wacky still wears raggedy clothes and a big floppy hat. He still carries two suitcases, one black and one white. And he still punishes the adults who are bad to children.
Tom shakes his head at this.
“Where do they come up with these stories?” he asks me.
“Children will be children,” I say. “They live in a scary world. They have to find some way to make sense of it.”
“If only there really was a Jacky Wacky,” Tom says. “It would have made my job a lot easier.”
“There’s always some truth to every story,” I tell him. I know better than to say too much about what I know to be real. Tom is still a practical, no-nonsense man.
I could tell him that his job might have been a lot harder if Jacky Wacky wasn’t real. We never know how things might have been different. We only know the way they are.
But I don’t want to confuse him.
“You should let me walk you home later, Mother,” Tom says. “It’s not safe, you wandering the streets at night.”
“No, thank you,” I say. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“I never said you couldn’t,” Tom says. “I’m just saying you might be safer with me.”
“So you can play the hero?” I say. “What are you gonna do? Beat up anyone who crosses my path?”
“I still got it,” Tom says, flexing his arm and winking.
“Listen to you two,” says Linda Mae. “You sound just like an old married couple.”
“Now that’ll be the day,” I say.
And Tom just laughs.