Picking Up The Crumbs by Rene Tyo

One step. That was all it would take. One small step, and Kelvin could put an end to his miserable existence.

Seventeen, and nowhere to turn, no one to talk to. His parents were more interested in their respective careers than their troubled son, an only child. There had been a miscarriage when Kelvin was four; his mom had lost the baby twelve weeks into her pregnancy. He hadn’t fully understood the emotional baggage that she suffered—neither had his dad. Kelvin only knew that he would not be an older brother. He lost a sibling that day, and for all intents and purposes, his parents as well.

Kelvin could feel the rumble of the coming subway train underfoot before he could hear it. Perhaps this would be the night. He looked about: he was the only one on the platform this late in the evening. If he jumped onto the rails now, he would be crushed under the subway car. It happened all the time—every other month, it seemed. He’d be just another statistic, missed by no one. Kelvin lifted his art portfolio bag from his shoulders by its strap and gently lowered it to the ground. He lurched forward. His expensive-sneaker-clad right foot lifted.

Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him: rushing footsteps. Kelvin pinwheeled his arms to maintain his balance, his thoughts of suicide thwarted. He didn’t want to subject anyone to dealing with him having clearly taken this action deliberately. He thought of that person describing to the authorities that it was not an accident—how that could scar someone. Kelvin stepped back and turned to look at the stranger approaching the platform.

It was a squat girl his age, maybe older. Not anyone he knew. She slowed considerably as he looked at her. She seemed winded (she’d obviously rushed to make the train) and came to a full stop a metre behind Kelvin. An odd, not-quite smile lit up her features, and her round face looked clammy. She looked down at her weather-beaten, slip-on loafers. The girl hugged her two-sizes-too-large coat around her shoulders. She was seemingly uninterested in eye contact. This suited Kelvin fine. He turned back to the subway tunnel as the sound of the approaching train drowned out whatever it was she said.

~~~

Claire knew that she should have been on the subway heading home hours ago. Darleen, the manager of the group home where she lived, would be very concerned. Having entered the subway at the Finch West entrance, Claire knew that she had a half-hour ride to her stop at Eglington and getting back at nearly midnight would cause everyone a fright. (Claire knew all this from intuition more than full comprehension.) She smiled, though, as she thought of her evening and the wonderful therapy group she had interacted with. Her friends were many.

Claire continued reflecting on the rest of her evening as the subway train approached. Her lateness was due to her scone and the passersby’s. The café where she enjoyed both, along with a cup of chai latte, had raptly held her attention. She loved how the scone was simultaneously moist yet crumbled when she pulled it apart. She had pushed the crumbs around the plate and consumed them a few at a time with her moistened index finger. Claire looked at the people walking the streets of Toronto from the safety of the café window and wondered who they were, what their lives were about. She discovered that, with many, she knew some details.

A server telling her that they were closing in ten minutes had shaken Claire out of her reverie. Had she been there for two hours already? Was it truly going on 11 p.m.? Claire thanked the man, scrambled out of her chair and made her way out. She left a generous tip. Treat people well, and most will do the same, Claire could hear Darleen instructing in her head.

Claire rushed to the subway station. A boy, much younger than her, stood waiting at the very edge of the platform. She felt bad that she’d startled him. As he turned from her, Claire could feel that he was distressed: he needed a friend. Momma had told her on her deathbed many years ago that Claire was an empath—but even more powerful than she’d been. Momma had encouraged Claire to use her skills for personal protection and to help others.

Claire took a few steps closer to the boy as the train rattled to a stop. She shouldn’t know his name, but she did. It felt right.

“Hello, Kelvin,” she whispered.

~~~

The train pulled away before they were even comfortably on board. They sat quickly, Claire directly across from Kelvin (even though the car was mostly empty). Only one other passenger shared the space: a dark-skinned teenager, two seats down. The tall, athletic boy was massive. He cradled a device that was dwarfed by his hands. It had Walkman printed on it. The teen was currently changing one CD out for another he’d pulled from a duffel bag with York University emblazoned on its side. Claire knew what CDs were, although she had been brought up listening to artists such as Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, and The Mamas and the Papas on black discs her momma called “vinyl.” Claire even fashioned herself a kinship with Mama Cass Elliot from the latter band.

The boy hit the play button on his device. Even with his ear pod thingies employed, Claire could hear sounds that were mostly foreign to her. She assumed it must be that ‘rap music’ she’d heard about. She stared at him, her attention unnoticed by the smiling teen. His thoughts were a scramble to Claire: something about 8 Mile, M&Ms (candies that she loved) and how “white guys can’t rap.” Even as vividly as she could read his thoughts, none of it made sense to Claire. The boy seemed to be enjoying the music in spite of his judgements. He must really love chocolates, she thought.

Claire turned her attention to the other teen sitting across from her. His head was tilted back on the headrest. He was as tall as the first boy, though far less muscular. “Rake” and “Lurch” entered her mind, but she felt that those were not friendly endearments. She could sense the bullying that he was subjected to. A lone tear ran down his cheek.

The train came to a halt at another stop. The Black teen clambered off the subway. Claire took this opportunity to move across the aisle and sit beside the forlorn boy. She was not much of a conversationalist, so Claire lightly placed her hand on his knee. She felt heat growing under her palm. The boy’s eyes flickered open. He jumped slightly at her closeness but otherwise remained still.

“Show me,” Claire said in her lisp fuelled, drawn-out enunciation. She was pointing to the portfolio bag that sat beside him.

“Wh-what… my artwork?” Kelvin stammered. He slid away from the odd girl. Up close, he could tell that she was much older than he originally thought on the platform. She had crow’s feet around her much too close together eyes. Crumbs lay in in what could only be described as a beard—not thick like a man’s but rather fine, wispy hairs. Kelvin had heard of people afflicted with what she appeared to have but could not think of the name of it. Her middle and index fingers kept a tenuous touch on his jean-clad leg as she continued to stare raptly up at him. Although his every instinct screamed to remove himself from this person, Kelvin felt oddly at ease in her presence.

“Yes, your art.”

He knew he should get away, but Kelvin did the opposite, remaining right there. “They’re just for me, really. I… I don’t share them.”

“They are good, I can tell. Please?”

Kelvin relented. He reached to his bag, laid it on his lap, unzipped it and folded it open. His many drawings, etchings and paintings nearly spilled out as the train swayed to another stop. Kelvin managed to keep all but one on his now trembling knees, and the lone picture—a charcoal drawing—fluttered to the floor. The lady beside him took her hand off his knee and reached for it. With the contact broken between them, Kelvin felt a momentary sense of loss.

He was dismayed by the picture she picked up: one of a cloaked figure holding a lantern. It was one of his earliest charcoal drawings and among his darker pieces. Kelvin had drawn it thinking of the image associated with Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” except his was much more menacing.

“Um… th-that one isn’t done quite yet.” Kelvin reached for the sheet.

Holding it at arm’s length, she turned from the page and stared up at Kelvin. She slowly peeled her eyeglasses from her face, her eyes squinting. “It’s beautiful. Deep and, well… beautiful.”

“Thank you. No one looks at my stuff. Rather, I don’t let anyone look, since my parents laugh at me—”

“‘About my artwork,’” Claire finished.

“Yes, that’s it. Exactly! They don’t understand me… don’t even try.” Kelvin’s shoulders hitched and he started to cry, breaking down in uncontrollable sobs. Claire reached up to the boy. He bent down and accepted her embrace. With his head on her shoulder, Kelvin wept. He felt an overwhelming sense of grief—at no particular loss, just an unexpected outflowing of emotion. His thoughts and feelings unleashed, not unlike water through a bursting dam.

The train made several stops before Kelvin started to pull himself together. He was embarrassed with what had taken place. He didn’t even know this woman.

She removed her hands from him and started looking through his portfolio. There were pastel watercolours, pen-and-ink pet portraits, and many more charcoal drawings. They were rough and lacked perspective but were still remarkably accomplished for one so young. Claire wasn’t fully able to articulate how she felt about Kelvin’s artwork, but she was moved by his pieces, nonetheless.

Finally, she tried. “I think you should show these to the manager at my group home, Darleen. She knows people that teach art. You are very good,” Claire struggled.

“Thank you. I d-don’t know what to say. I don’t consider myself very good at… at anything.”

“Good? You are great! We’re all great at something, even me! You look at me and you don’t judge. You are a good artist and an even greater person. I can tell. You don’t pick on me or pull away from me when we speak. Even me with my D-Dow-Down syndrome, I can tell you are good.”

The train came to another stop. Kelvin, realizing that this was his exit, folded up his portfolio and dashed out of the train. “I’m sorry, this is my stop. I gotta go.”

He’d barely gotten out as the door closed behind him. Kelvin fell over, dropping his leather satchel, scattering pages in the wake of the departing train. He looked back at the moving car. The lady was smiling through the window, her face a full moon staring back at him.

Kelvin gathered up his artwork. He pulled the last piece to his chest as it fluttered in the air current and looked it over. It was unmistakably a work of his—the lines, the shading, the smudging, the feel of it—however, it was not an image he remembered creating.

It was a portrait of the lady on the train. The person who, unknowingly, had saved his life that night.

Kelvin didn’t believe in the concept of guardian angels. He smiled as he picked himself off the subway floor, pondering how he might have to rethink that notion.