He Might Be Hungry
I had seen the old lady every night for a year on my way home from work. She was always setting a plate of food out on her porch. At first, I thought she was just bringing it out to eat later until the day I was at the light for a long time.
I heard her call out, “Bryant, your dinner is ready! I will leave it here for you!”
That made me wonder. She was far too old to have a son that was out playing. She was far too old to be caring for a grandson. I had no idea what was going on, but I was intrigued. Let’s face it. I was nosy.
For months I watched, trying to figure it out, but to no avail. She continued to bring the plate of food and put it on the little blue table on her porch. She continued to call out the same thing in her old, thready voice, “Bryant, your dinner is ready! I will leave it here for you!”
Every time it caused me to wonder. Every time it caused me to try and figure it out. Finally, I had enough.
I had been at my computer, trying to work but wondering about the little, old lady. I logged off my computer and nearly ran to the time clock. I punched in my code and left for the parking garage. I drove straight to the little, old lady’s house and parked across the street trying to get up the nerve to walk upon the porch and knock on the door.
The little, old lady opened her door, plate in hand, and put the plate on the table. Before she could call out, I opened my car door. It startled her a bit, but then she called out, “Bryant, your dinner is ready! I will leave it here for you!”
I stood up from my car and took five or six steps toward the porch. She watched me as I walked toward her.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” she asked.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why do you bring a plate out on the porch every night, and does Bryant ever eat the food?”
“No, he never does.”
She shook her head sadly and sat down at the little table.
“Then why do you continue to leave it?”
“He might be hungry.”
“Bryant might be hungry?”
The lady nodded her head with a grin.
“He loves my meatloaf.”
Where has he been if he doesn’t come to eat the food I wonder. Is it possible that he doesn’t even exist?
“Who is Bryant?
The old lady went on to explain that Bryant was her son, but she hadn’t seen him in a year. She admitted that he had been in trouble when he was a boy but had not been in any trouble for a long time. I told her I would try to find out where he is.
The next day, at work, I researched Bryant McGee. After clicking and clicking I finally found him. He had passed away in a car accident a year and a half earlier.
I stopped at the old lady’s house to tell her so that she could stop leaving food out for her son. I didn’t want her to spend her meager money on food that was just going to waste.
When I stopped at her house, she didn’t answer my knock. The man next door was out working in his yard, and I asked if he knew where she was.
“She’s in the hospital. I think it’s the cancer, again.”
“I didn’t know she has cancer.”
“Yeah, it’s in the stomach. They say she doesn’t have long.”
I thanked him and walked back to my car, distracted by my thoughts. What would be best? Did she need to know that her son was dead or would it just cause pain?
I pulled into the parking garage at the hospital resolute. I had finally decided what to do. I asked for her room number.
I rode the elevator up to the 4th floor and walked to room 420. It was good to see the old lady, but she looked so different. I could see her yellow color under the bright lights. She looked even thinner, but that was impossible in just one day, wasn’t it?
I sat gingerly on the edge of her bed and took her hand. She looked at me, her eyes pleading.
“Did you find Bryant?”
“I did. I left a note at the house. I have a feeling you will see him soon.”
Her eyes watered, and she looked at me with gratitude in her face. I visited with her for a little bit. Then I told her goodbye and made my way to the door. I turned around, and she had fallen asleep. She would certainly see Bryant soon.