When I was a child, I used to talk to Mr. Harrell, who had a habit of visiting me every Sunday. I don’t remember how old I was back then; probably eight or nine. At the time, we had just moved into a new neighborhood that was starting to settle. The street we lived on was mostly populated by elderly people or young families with no children, so I spent my days wandering the streets alone and teasing the neighbors’ dogs over the fence. In those years, my mother was going through an emotional crisis and got into spiritual practices, cluttering the house with various knickknacks, among which were small boxes and bottles filled with strange substances, as well as colored feathers, pebbles, and posters with symbols I didn’t know. My father paid no attention to it, or just pretended to. Anyway, the atmosphere in the house was of little interest to him. All his attention was centered on his small agency, his own brainchild, to which he devoted all his time and energy. I didn’t have any siblings, and I don’t think I could have ever had any. My only cousin, Derek, who was about twelve, was hundreds of kilometers away, and yet he was really a bully. I didn’t make friends at my new school, or at the old one. Maybe because of my lack of confidence, or maybe because of the ingrained nickname ‘crybaby’, which is what Derek called me when we lived in the same neighborhood. Regardless, I was on my own for days on end, digging through the library my parents had collected, or painting in my sketchbook, leaving watercolor stains on my desk, hands, and sweatshirt. However, what I enjoyed most was riding my bicycle and battling the stinging nettles alone with a makeshift sword, a branch I had found, on the ground where a new house was about to be built.
One day, having been exempted from classes due to a fictional stomachache, I was riding my bicycle through the deserted streets. That’s when I met Mr. Harrell. He was a very tall man with graying, bushy, almost connected eyebrows and a funny mustache. Only a few remaining teeth could be seen in his mouth, and his voice was low and hoarse. He always wore clean and neat clothes: ironed slacks, a vest, and a jacket over it. On his shoulders, as if draped over like a cloak, was a black, austere coat. Mr. Harrell walked slowly, always leaning on a cane with a toad-shaped handle. It was hard for me to tell how old he could be. For me, the world was divided into children and adults, and Mr. Harrell, of course, belonged to the second category in my naive brain.
I never asked Mr. Harrell about his age, I rarely asked him any questions at all, I just listened. It seemed to me that my only friend, who had inexplicably appeared out of nowhere, could read my mind. At that time, I was utterly fascinated by historical novels, and it was incredible how Mr. Harrell immediately found out about it and started sharing his stories about the world wars with me. My heart was in my mouth for how fascinating and chilling they were.
On Sundays, my father would give me some pocket money, and I would buy my favorite popsicle and rush to the corner of East High Street, where Mr. Harrell would be waiting for me in the shade of a cedar tree. I often wanted to treat him to an ice cream, but he would always gently refuse and start telling me another story. I just listened to him, eating my popsicle and unwittingly staining my face and fingers with chocolate. His stories drew me into fairy tale worlds whenever I was bored. They comforted me if I suddenly found myself with tears in my eyes. They supported me if I felt lonely and isolated. His stories never repeated — the amazing Mr. Harrell seemed to be the embodiment of all the books and encyclopedias I could find at home. His words crawled into my heart, guided and healed me. I felt like even the black eye I’d gotten from one of the bullies after school was going away faster.
I looked forward to Sunday more than ever, dreaming of those brief meetings by the cedar tree. I was so happy that I didn’t wonder if Mr. Harrell was a real person, or if I had imagined him. Or rather, I had no doubt that I had made him up; it was my little secret. His stories changed me and after a short time I met Joshua and Nick, and later — Caroline, and finally I stopped feeling lonely. Our gang rode around the neighborhood and I battled the stinging nettles side by side with my friends.
Once, I mentioned Mr. Harrell to them, but no one had ever seen a man who looked like him. As for my parents, I never told them about my friend who visited me every Sunday, and they weren’t really in favor of my fantasies anyway. Later, they decided to ease my loneliness and allowed me to get a dog. In the whirlwind of new emotions, I didn’t notice how the fall flew by. One gloomy Sunday, Mr. Harrell stopped coming to the corner of East High Street. I don’t think I could have found him under the cedar tree, or on the bench next to it, or at the ice cream stand. I didn’t notice when he disappeared. Nobody did.
Nowadays I am forty-two, happily married. Yesterday my seven-year-old son came home from his walk smiling from ear to ear. He had hardly left his bike at the door when he excitedly started telling me about an old man in a black coat he met a couple of blocks away. My son told me it was Mr. Harrell.
He came to tell me he is fine.
About the Author:
Ek. A. Butakova (Ekaterina Butakova) is a Russian writer and poet whose mysteries blur the line between reality and fiction. Her stories pull readers into the unknown, leaving them with a lingering sense of unease and a bitter aftertaste. Currently, Ekaterina resides in Rome, Italy. Instagram: butakowski
