Warman Avenue

The maples and hickories that lined Warman Avenue spread their branches broadly above the pavement like a deep green umbrella.  We walked on the sidewalk, sheltered from the bright sun, past tidy white houses with wide brick porches.

The route around the block was familiar, the only permitted outing beyond the backyard. We turned the corner onto St. Clair and walked on the concrete sidewalk into the treeless space beside the three story red brick building, the Catholic elementary school.  Sunlight glared from overhead and bounced up from the pavement at our feet.

I caught a glimpse of a quick movement to my side.  Startled, I feared it was a stray and rabid dog. Instead, it was a tall thin boy with short hair the color of ashes, passing us on the sidewalk. 

Oh, I thought you were a dog.

The boy took offense at this remark.  He moved close to me and balled up his fists close to his chest.  He pounded my arm. 

I  looked at Betty.  She was only 5 and I was responsible for her protection.  

Run home. 

But she stood there, small and alone, staring at me with a sad kitten face.

Eventually the boy moved on, and Betty and I made our way home.  She said nothing about our adventure.

A few weeks later, I saw that same boy at Mass, sitting with Patty Rutherford and her parents.  A few weeks later I  heard that he had been killed, hit by a car while crossing the street.

Even at 8, I knew these events were not causal, yet they remained connected. Fifty years later, I spoke about this incident to my sister, but she had no memory.

Whether the encounter on St. Clair was reality or not, I often wish I had never left the verdant embrace of the tall green trees on Warman Avenue.