Roy Exum
It started late Thursday morning. I was driving to town, late for a meeting, when I saw a black woman walking the opposite way with what appeared to be an armload of laundry in a driving rain. “Oh my goodness woman … seek shelter until the rain let’s up,” I thought to myself but as I passed her I saw the “laundry” was a child, totally exposed to the elements.
Immediately I thought, “Oh God, turn around, get the two in the car and take them to the Krystal! Give her $20 to get something warm and maybe the rest would pay a cab to wherever they are going …”
But, no … “What if she is armed? I was not ‘carrying.’ You can’t risk it in today’s world. Forget it,” my sane voice out-shouted my compassionate one so I, in heavy traffic, kept going. But the sight still weighs heavily on me and I hope somebody with more guts than I had the other day gave the mother-and-child a ride. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I want to be. But that’s who I was. And I am still ashamed I could have created a kindness and I didn’t. Then again, what was the smart thing to do?
Maybe I’ve read too many thrillers lately. I always have my head in some book and I enjoy books that create emotion. Mysteries and detective stuff replaced my TV long ago and every night I read. But maybe the incident seeing the black lady in the rain set me up for what happened to me later.
Close to 3:00 on Thursday afternoon my body reminded me I had not eaten all day so I stopped at Chik-fil-A on Brainerd Road, got a combo meal and was opening my ketchup packet when a young woman and a boy, maybe nine or 10, came through the door. This was in my direct eyesight where I was sitting.
The young woman, obviously not the child’s mother, said something to the boy as she went to the restroom and the boy stood silently next to a condiments counter. He was a sweet looking kid, long blonde air, but as I studied him my warning bells began to ring. His face was devoid of all expression. He looked scared and his hands never quit churning.
At first I didn’t pay a lot of attention but three minutes spread to five. The kid looked like he wanted to evaporate into the corner that held him. Not long ago I did a story on the fact there are three children trafficked a day in Tennessee and, for the life of me, something was wrong with this picture.
So what should I have done, other than lose my appetite? Anybody who walks into a Chik-fil-A does what? You get an ice-cream cone, or a Coca-Cola, or a kiddie meal, and park the child in a booth with something to eat before you disappear to the ladies’ room, right? But, no, the woman parked the kid next to the napkins and ketchup and is gone for what, at least 10 minutes now.
I am desperately praying a Chattanooga police officer will show up, somebody with authority who I can tell that something is strange about the child with the twisting hands. But … no, it didn’t happen. After about 15 agonizing minutes, the girl with a clip board comes out, collects the child, and they go to a booth. Neither has any Chik-fil-A food or Cokes or ice cream. They sit and the woman with the clipboard begins to do paperwork with barely a word said. Is this what human trafficking looks like in real life?
The child’s face is still void of any emotion … a smile, a frown, a complaint, a plea for a Coke … nothing. Have we got an autistic kid here, or a dyslexic? I am not smart enough to know. Is the boy awash in illegal sedatives? I can only believe something was strange, not right, and disturbing. Am I paranoid, too juiced after seeing the black woman in the rain and doing nothing?
Think about it. If I barge over and demand the girl with the clipboard explain herself, identify the child and cause a scene, then what happens next? I am thinking I’ll be sued, banned from Chik-fil-A forever, and held up in ridicule for the rest of my life. “Mind you own business!” a judge might remind me. The woman could have been the child’s teacher, a social worker. I have no authority to challenge her.
A clever lawyer might stymie me with what is my definition of a “scared child.” Those who go to church with the family of the long-haired blonde boy may craftily turn the tables on me, calling me the real pervert due to my overt interest in the child as I ate the last of my chicken nuggets. I contend something was going on, studying the child with a growing concern in my heart, but any lawyer could prove I am hardly an expert and am easily led by my predilections, especially so close to April Fool’s Day.
In the end, I did nothing, just as earlier in the day. No Chattanooga police officers materialized. Nobody else seemed to notice. Chances are good nothing was out of sort. So why, when I went to bed Thursday night, was there an image of that boy’s face in my mind?
And the dreadful thought -- I may have failed him by being silent. What should we do when we witness something we can’t seem to get our arms around? What should we do when we see something weird going on? All I knew to do was pray, asking the Lord to surround the child with a thicket of thorns. And to please make sure the black woman and the child she was carrying were warm and dry.
royexum@aol.com