Free Mulberry Park by JUDY DUARTE Page B

looking after the child. Of course, that wasn’t Claire’s concern; it was Unkel Sam’s—whoever he was. Perhaps he should stay home more and keep out of trubel.
    Late Wednesday afternoon, Claire found another message written with a red crayon on a lime-green sheet of paper.
    Dear God.
    Do you no some buddy who can play with Mr. Klinfelor? I meen someone not in hevin. Can you tell him to come to the park and talk to an old man who sits by hiself?
    Claire, who’d been so focused on her own misery, had neglected to consider how lonely Walter might be. Not that she was in any position to do much about that, but truthfully? Claire wished she knew something about the game of chess. If she did, she would offer to sit with him one afternoon and play.
    Maybe it would do them both some good.
    Interestingly enough, she’d begun to see the world through Analisa’s eyes and found herself more aware of the people she’d merely seen in passing—those she saw regularly at the park. And she’d begun to feel compelled to put a face to the names Analisa had mentioned.
    Yesterday’s letter, a pale blue note with brown writing, spoke of a child named Danny. There was no telling who the boy or his mother were, but apparently Analisa had reason to believe the family was strapped for cash and that they’d have to sell their house and move far away if the woman didn’t marry a hansum prince who liked kids and had a whole lot of money.
    Today, as Claire sat on the concrete bench under the mulberry, her legs still tense and shaky from her run, she read the latest note drawn on pink paper with a green marker.
    Dear God.
    Trever dint use to beelve in you. He duz now. Thank you for the skate bord. Maybe you dint here me good when we prade about it. Trever reely wanted a red bike. The bord is ok. He is happy and rides it all the time. Did he thank you? I told him he shood.
    Claire sat in the shade of the tree, just as she had each evening this week, and pondered whether she should answer this letter or not. Every other night she’d taken it with her, but now she was vacillating.
    If she did answer, maybe she ought to respond as herself, a woman who’d merely found the letters.
    Apparently, the child had a tremendous amount of faith and had been voicing her prayers out loud, too. She’d obviously asked God to give her friend a bike and believed he’d been granted a skateboard instead.
    And speaking of skateboards…
    In the distance, the sound of wheels on rough concrete drew her attention, and she glanced toward the parking lot, where a boy was practicing on a banged-up board—no helmet, no pads.
    And no sign of any adult supervision.
    As much as she’d like to mind her own business, the former mother in her, as rusty as it had become, couldn’t keep still. She folded Analisa’s letter and put it into the pocket of her shorts, then strode across the lawn to where the boy tried to balance on the skateboard, stumbling more often than not.
    “Excuse me,” she said.
    The boy, his scruffy brown hair badly in need of a trim, stopped in his tracks and gazed at her, his eyes wide and wary.
    “Is your name Trevor?”
    His brow furrowed as he nodded. “How’d you know that?”
    “Just a lucky guess. I’d heard you had a skateboard.”
    “Yeah.” He glanced down at the board that rested beside his untied shoes, then back at her. “I found it in a field, and I thought…Well, whatever. Is it yours?”
    “No, but I couldn’t help worrying about you. Shouldn’t you be wearing protective gear?”
    He shrugged. “I guess, but I don’t have any. Yet .”
    Claire and Ron had purchased different safety gear for every sport or activity in which Erik had been involved. They were in the garage now, including the helmet and pads he’d used for his in-line skates.
    Ron had packed it all away and told her to give it to the Salvation Army, but she’d been unable to part with anything. Unable to let go.
    She opened her mouth to offer them to the