text: Alada Porter The Weight of Forgiveness 
   
   
   A Strange Man is Stealing my Fridge  
   
  The first time I saw him he was climbing out of my bedroom window, feet first, my blue mini-fridge nestled precariously under his left armpit as he attempted to limbo his way out onto the roof. 
  My hand seemed to be glued to the light switch, I blinked hard, trying to better process the situation. My heart was too shocked to beat in a normal manner so it simply jumped sporadically against my sternum.  
  “W-What are you doing?” I finally managed. The words seemed to hover in the air a moment, and we both looked up to examine them. 
  “Well, currently, I'm taking your fridge,” he replied after some consideration, slowly shimming his way out the window as he spoke. As though I wouldn’t notice. 
  “Would you please stop that.” 
  He stopped, and with a sigh let go of the mini-fridge. I watched in horror as it hit my hardwood floor, forcing the door to open and causing all of the food and drinks I had been saving for later to spill out.  
  He made an apologetic face as the bottles rolled across the floor.  
  “Oops.” 
  We were frozen there for a time, our eyes locked as he tried to decide if he should run and I tried to work up the gumption to call the cops.  
  But looking at him I felt kind of bad, he was so skinny and scraggly looking. His eyes were sharp and shifty, like a hungry alley cat, and his hair was caked with dirt. I found myself wondering when the last time he had eaten was and before I knew it I was walking over to one of the bottles. I laboriously bent down to pick one up, embarrassed by how hard it was for me, and handed it to him. 
  “Here, you look thirsty.”  
  He looked at the bottle for a second, and then smiled at me, “Well that would be why I was stealing your fridge instead of your purse. Go straight for what you want, that’s what I always say.” 
  He climbed back inside my room and sunk to the floor, happily guzzling from the bottle like a baby calf sucking on its mother’s teat. I just watched him as he drank, half expecting him to tell me off for being creepy, but he never did. When he had finished drinking I took the bottle from him and threw it towards the trashcan on the other side of the room, I listened with great satisfaction as it hit the rim with a hollow sound and toppled inside. If I wasn’t so fat I could be a decent basketball player, as it was I could only make a decent basketball. 
  “Nice shot,” he said, looking impressed. I smiled a little at the compliment. I’m not used to compliments.  
  “Are you hungry?” I asked, picking up the mini fridge with a huff and dragging it back into the corner where it had previously resided. 
  “I’m not, not hungry,” he replied, scratching the back of his head in a way that convinced me that he had lice. I kicked a bag of chips towards him, still out of breath from lifting the mini-fridge. 
  He looked at me for a moment before he opened the bag, his face an odd combination of confused, thankful and embarrassed.  
  “You know, you’re alright for a fat chick.”  
  And it was at that exact moment that I had a beautiful and terrible premonition.     
  I was going to fall in love with this boy, and he was going to break my heart.  
   
   
   
   Conversation With A Drifter  
   
  “What’s your name anyway?” he asked suddenly, looking up at me from his spot on the floor. I blinked at him, surprised that he wanted to stay and talk to me, rather than grab a couple bags of chips and run.  
   “Angela; and you?” 
  “I’m Jack,” he said, grabbing another bag of chips off of the floor and groping inside with greedy hands. I frowned a little; up to this point I had just assumed that he was just some local who had gone through a growth spurt since I had last seen him. But there was nobody his age named Jack as far as I knew.  
   For the first time I felt a small pang of fear. This guy was a total stranger.  
  “Where the hell did you come from? Are you a tourist or something?” my voice had risen up an octave or two, and I found myself stepping back towards the wall. He could be anyone, he could be a mass murderer that I had just fed and sheltered, was I insane?  
  “I guess you could call me a tourist, I hitchhiked here; the guy driving the meat truck I had been stowed in the back of for the last eighty miles or so found me and kicked me to the curb. I walked about four or five miles until I reached this town and decided to stay for a day or so. I was planning on getting myself something to eat and then hitchhiking my way to California.” 
  “Hitchhiking? Isn’t that dangerous?” I said, both surprised and impressed. I couldn’t imagine getting in a car and making small talk for six hours with a strange old man who smelled like fish tacos and rotten milk. But then again I never was the adventurous type.  
  “It’s the drivers that are really scared, if you’re a hitchhiker you can handle yourself but those nice suburban types are always so jittery when it comes to strangers, most of the time they don’t bother pulling over. Bunch of pansies. Stowing away in the back of a semi truck is easier and more convenient; as long as I don’t get caught. This time I’m going to try to find a mattress truck or something, my back hurts like a bitch. Also I’m less likely to get caught since they don’t check on the merchandise as often.” 
  “You’ve really thought this through. What’s in California that’s worth all the trouble?”  
  He looked up at me and smiled, leaning back comfortably against the crumbly baby blue wallpaper and stretching out his legs so that his beaten up boots smeared mud all over the floor I had literally just mopped this morning. But instead of being annoyed I found myself treasuring the gesture, I had never seen someone look so at ease in my room, the only feeling I ever got from these four walls was the tension of disappointment. I found myself smiling back at him.  
  “If I knew what was there already why would I bother going?”  
  No, I had definitely never known him. Or anyone like him for that matter. 
  We both froze as we heard the front door swing open and the distinctive click click of heels on the wood floor.  
  “Oh crap, my mom’s home early. Climb out the window and meet me at Old’s Diner tomorrow morning at six okay?” I whispered, my heart beating so fast that I could barely hear my own words over the sound of my blood pumping. He kind of grimaced when I told him our meeting time but he didn’t complain. 
  “Come on Angela! I brought some salads for dinner.” She called from downstairs. Jack laughed at me from the window. 
  “Ooh a salad, aren’t you in for a treat,” he said, talking louder than I would have liked.  
  “Just go!” I hissed as he quickly slipped out the window. 
  “You’re a good kid,” he said, not looking back at me as he slid down the roof. I watched from the window as he slipped off the edge and landed on the lawn with a thud. I bit my bottom lip, wondering if his legs were broken, but before I could even finish the thought he stood up and took off running.  
   
   
   
   Family Values  
   
  Dinner is always riddled with silence.  
  The grandfather clock on the wall chimed every fifteen minutes, the air conditioning buzzed, and my mother made crunching noises as she bit a little too forcefully into the occasional crouton, but words were hard to come by. 
  “So, Angela, did you go for your walk today?” she asked slowly, her fork perched halfway between her lips and her plate. The salad dressing made the green lettuce shine and glisten on her fork in what I considered a kind of ominous way.  
  “Yeah,” I said, looking everywhere but at her. I could feel where this was going, and I was already getting mad.  
  “No you didn’t,” she sighed, setting down her fork, “look Angela, you can’t keep going on like this. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Do you realize how-“ 
  “What mom?” I interrupted, choosing a spot on her forehead to talk to, “Do I realize how embarrassing it is for you? Is that what you were going to say? How  excruciating 
    it is to hear people talking about your parenting skills, or lack there of? Is it hard for you mom? Please, tell me how  you 
    feel about  my 
    weight.” 
  “I-I’m only worried about your health, I just don’t understand how you could let yourself get this way,” she said slowly, no word leaving her mouth without being perfectly weighed and measured.  
  “Go to hell.”  
  I stood up and made my way over to the stairs, my eyes burning with the promise of tears. It was always the same.  
  “Goddamn it Angela! I’m doing my best! What the hell was I supposed to do after your father left? I’m sorry I’m gone so much, but I try to make it up to you when I am home. Damn it, it’s my job to raise you and you’re just not letting me! What the hell am I supposed to do? Just sit back and watch you turn into a-a  fat pig 
   !?” she screamed from behind me, her voice shaking from the effort of holding in her tears. I felt my heart crumble like a piece of charred firewood, lifting up and drifting off with the wind.  
  “I’m sorry that I look just like you mom,” I said quietly, “I know how much pride you take in your appearance, it must be difficult to see a younger version of yourself a hundred pounds overweight. But I’m not you; in fact you can just pretend we’re not even related. Why don’t you just go back to the office? Please don’t concern yourself with me; I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.” 
  She didn’t say anything, and after I closed my bedroom door I heard the door slam and the car start. As she drove away I lay on my bed and wondered if things can change without you making an effort to change them.  
   
   
   
   The Last Breakfast  
   
  “I thought you wouldn’t show,” I said, leaning up against the counter as he walked into the diner, the little bell over the door twinkling cheerfully.  
  “Why would you think that?” he said, sitting down next to me with a groan. He looked like he had just woken up; his eyes were still puffy with sleep and his breath smelled like raw sewage.  
  “Well you’re an hour late for starters.” 
  “Hate to break it to you toots but homeless guys aren’t so great at knowing what time it is,” he yawned, placing his cheek against the counter and closing his eyes. I blinked at him; of course I must have known that he was homeless, it was patently obvious from the get go what with his dirty clothes and thin face, but hearing it just said out loud like that gave me a bit of a shock.  
  “So why did you come at all? You could be sleeping right now.” 
  “I can sleep anytime; it isn’t every day that I get offered a free meal. You are going to feed me right?”  
  “Of course,” I replied, laughing despite myself. I turned away from him and faced the tall old lady who was polishing a glass behind the counter, “Hey Marie, you know what I want.”  
  She looked at me over the top of her glasses, “Does your mother know how you’re spending your allowance?” 
  “Oh come on Marie, mom’s been making me live off of salad for the past three weeks. Besides, I promised Jack here a hearty breakfast.” 
  He snored lightly against the counter, dead to the world for the time being.  
  “You’re a sneak alright, I won’t tell your mama, but you better give that poor boy at least two thirds of your order. He looks like he’s going to drop dead any minute.” 
  “Sure thing.”  
  I watched him as he slept, his dirty brown hair falling over his eyelids, his face squished against the counter top in a kind of endearingly childish way. His face showed none of the strain I associated with a hard life, and I tried to guess what he was dreaming about. California? The thought was like a knife twisting in my heart, but I tried my best to ignore it. 
  “Here you go hun,” Marie said, placing the tray of freshly made donuts on the counter with a sharp clack. Jack startled awake and stared at the tray of food, blinking hard to get the last of the sleep out of his eyes. 
  “Holy crap, this is your regular order? No wonder you’re fat… no offense,” he said, grimacing slightly at his own brutal honestly. I just shrugged, for some reason nothing he said ever seemed to hurt my feelings, maybe because I knew he didn’t mean anything by it.  
  “What can I say? I like to eat. But you go ahead, have as much as you want.”  
  He clapped his hands and proceeded to shove an entire cream filled doughnut into his mouth; I didn’t know human jaws could unhinge like that, but I guess you learn something new every day.  
  After wolfing down two donuts he looked over at me, “Why are you being so nice to me?” 
  The question startled me a little, and I gaped at him like a fish. 
  “Uh, because it’s the right thing to do?” I managed, biting my lip.  
  “No it’s not. I tried to steal your stuff, why would buying things for me be the right thing to do?” he sounded almost hostile as he said it, and I could feel my heart rate rising. 
  “W-what?” I said, feeling nervous. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He seemed to notice my palpitations and softened a bit.  
  “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to people being so nice to me. Especially when I don’t deserve it.” 
  I hesitated for a moment, “No, you deserve it.” 
  “Why?” 
  I felt my vision blurring a little bit and I looked away so that he wouldn’t see me, I felt ridiculous. Why did he have to make me say it out loud? 
  “B-because you stayed and talked to me, instead of leaving as soon as you could, just like everyone else.” 
  There was a silence then, as painful as a million dinners with my mother, and I felt my heart break all over again.  
  I stood up quickly, turning my back to him, “I think I’ll just go. Finish your breakfast.”  
  I took one step forward but felt a sticky hand grasp my wrist and I turned around in surprise. 
  “Hey, hey, not so fast. You haven’t paid yet,” he smiled, his muddy brown eyes twinkling at me. I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand, trying to decide what it was exactly that I felt.  
  “Yeah, I suppose I should at least wait until I’ve paid.”  
   
   
   
   Hello, Goodbye.  
   
  We sat on the sidewalk for a while, watching the cars drive lazily by, and for once the silence didn’t seem so bad; mostly because I was afraid of what would be said if we started talking.  
  He must’ve known I had fallen in love with him, and I felt bad that he knew; that my kindness wasn’t just genuine kindness but some kind of ploy to get him to stay with me just a little bit longer. But he didn’t seem to care.  
  “You know, I’ve met a lot of people. Most of them deserve what they got, and what they don’t got,” he started, laying down on the sidewalk and staring up at the wide blue sky above us, “But I really think you deserve better Angela. And I’m sorry.” 
  I bit my lip, afraid of what was coming next, “Sorry for what?” 
  “Just look in your wallet when you get home,” he said, for the first time unable to look me in the eyes, “I found a guy who’s offered to give me a ride. He’s actually waiting for me right now; I just thought that I should say good-bye. You at least deserve that.” 
  “Thank you,” I whispered, staring at my feet as he stood up. 
   
   
   
   Forgiveness  
   
  When I got home that night I plopped onto the couch and looked in my wallet. All my money was gone. 
  “Wow what an asshole,” I laughed, the tears streaming down my face, my laughter peppered with pathetic little hiccups. Then I saw the note that was shoved into the side pocket. 
  Angela, 
  Don’t grow bitter, people are selfish, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care about you. I stole your money and left you this note because I want you to understand that. Also because I really really needed the money, but you get the idea. I care about you, it’s impossible not to, and I’m sure you have plenty of people who care about you too. 
  -Jack 
  p.s. you’re pretty hot for a fat chick 
  I turned at the sound of the door opening, and my mother and I stared at each other for a long time.  
  She sighed, “Look Angela, I just want to say-“ 
  “Mom?” I interrupted, standing up with the tears still streaming down my face. 
  “Um, yes?” she asked, looking kind of confused.  
  “Can you just hold me?” 
  Word count: 3,000 
   
   
   Publication Date: January 29th 2013 https://www.bookrix.com/-mokomonko