The wet snow pelted his face like an army of stinging bees as he left the shelter of the dingy hallway. The third floor of their crowded tenement at his back, he walked quickly through the night. The cold stifled his breath, and he thought, “at least this time, I had time to step into my slippers.”

Poorly lit by only two working streetlights, the downtrodden neighborhood was less than desirable.  Many would be appalled by a young boy in the dark streets alone at night. What no one knew: the danger lurked not in the streets but in his home.

With only another six houses to pass by, he prayed the tiny corner store would be open. At least tonight, he had the five coins needed jingling in between his two cold hands.

If the store was closed, he had only two options. He could return empty-handed to his father’s wrath and a belt,  or he could stand in the doorway on the stoop shivering in nothing but worn pajamas, waiting for the last beer to render his dad unconscious. The temperature of the night often determined the outcome of his limited choices.

To protect his younger brothers and sisters, he endured the frequent ritual of buying cigarettes for his drunken father. He was the oldest and assumed the responsibility, so they didn’t have to.  As each night progressed, he heard a slurred version of, “Get outta bed and get my Pall Malls and don’t think about coming back until you get ’em.”

Some nights were better than others. If the store was open and he had enough coins squandered to buy one package of cigarettes, it was a good night. Sometimes he would take an empty package out of the trash and refill it with half a pack hoping his dad was soused enough not to notice. Many nights, he would wait him out if he didn’t have the money or the store was closed.

Unbeknownst to him, two houses down, an older widowed woman often unable to sleep would sit by her first-floor window and witness the strange ritual. In her dimly lit room, she wondered why the scantily dressed boy, often barefoot in all kinds of weather, roamed the neighborhood at night. Sometimes he sat on his stoop freezing rather than go inside.

As time went on, it bothered her. She knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong because, during the day, he went to school, was polite, and always acknowledged her. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she felt compelled to confront him the next time she saw him leave his house in the late evening.

It was mid-December, and he was again spotted in the street. She grabbed her shawl and went to the doorway, and startled him. Motioning him over, she said, “Earl, I don’t want to intrude, but I don’t sleep well. So I sit and knit in my chair by the window, and I see you out here so many nights, no matter the weather. Is everything ok?”

Everything is fine, Mrs. McGreggor; I just have to get my dad cigarettes if he runs out. He is not very happy if I come back without the Pall Malls.

She listened intently and said, “Ok, I just wondered why you’re out without a coat, and sometimes you don’t go back in the house right away.  At least now I know.”

She returned to her parlor, and he went on his way, but having grown children of her own, she couldn’t bear the thought of what “he’s not very happy” meant. She also knew of the senior Earl’s drinking, which further caused her concern. She couldn’t get the conversation out of her mind, but she knew she had to do something.

Several nights passed until she saw him again.  As Earl stepped in front of her house, she quietly called him in. He hesitated, knowing he had a short time to complete his mission. As he entered the warm hallway, she said, “I don’t want you to have to do what you’re doing anymore. I have a carton of Pall Malls. You come here, warm up and take a pack whenever you need them. I’m an old lady, and I don’t sleep. I’m always in my window. I’d enjoy the company even if it’s for a few short minutes.”

He never again waited alone on a cold stoop or got the belt for not having cigarettes on his return. One woman’s kindness allowed him to be open to all the goodness in the world and not perpetuate the abuse he suffered. He protected his brothers and sisters, and Mrs. Mc Greggor, the lady in the window with the Pall Malls, protected him.

Young Earl was my dad, the kindest, most selfless, and loving man I’ve ever known.