August of last year made good on the month’s reputation. People looked for ways to beat August’s heat. Some sat in front of window AC units. Some spent the hottest hours wandering local green grocers’ aisles. Many resorted to an old-fashioned dip in a pool.
My daughters were scheduled to visit during that oppressive heat. The elder would bring her own daughters, both under ten years old, to visit Gramps. I thought it a good idea if I had a kiddie pool for them to splash in while adults chitter-chattered.
When my girls were my granddaughters’ age, we had an industrial ten-foot diameter inflatable pool. Army-issue sturdy, ten inches deep, twelve, if it was filled to the point of sloshing-over-the-sides. When my daughters retired from childhood and moved away, I ‘loaned’ the pool to the county park. Part of a unique arrangement the county devised to provide playground equipment for public use without spending tax dollars. Portable soccer nets, adjustable low basketball hoops, pedal cars, and of course kiddie pools. Why they just didn’t take outright gifts, I dunno.
But it worked out for me. Or, it could have worked out for me.
My youngest, without children, but with one in the oven, arrived a day early. As we discussed the heat and arriving granddaughters, she reminded me I still “owned” that loaner pool. Done deal. I’d visit the county park. If the pool was still there and not in use, I’d “borrow” it back for a couple days. With my “loaner ownership chit” there’d be no flap over my request.
While my youngest went off to support local clothing retailers, I headed to the county park. At six pm when I arrived, the security station – essentially a phone booth with, of course, a phone and place for a security officer to wait for major crimes to be perpetrated – was unmanned. I left for the children’s playground.
Walking into the playground, I heard muted children’s laughter or whatever noise it is you hear where children deal mostly with other children. I saw no children. I saw no one, in fact. Ah. It was after six pm. They were probably all home, sitting down to ‘pasghetti’ dinners.
The storage shed at the rear of the fenced playground was accessible. Entering, I saw the old pool, inflated, empty, leaning against the back wall with three smaller hard plastic and also empty pools. Borrowing back, I determined would not leave playground customers without pool facilities. I pulled the pool from the wall and looked for the air valve to deflate the monster.
I heard a voice. “What are you doing, mister?”
Accustomed to adult line-of-sight conversation, I turned to see no one standing there. Resourceful, I looked down to see a small boy, six years old, certainly no more than seven, looking up at me. His cherubic face held big, round, curious eyes, lacking only the twinkle of six-year-old boy mischief. Barefooted, his miniature beer belly poked out from between his shrunken tee and the elastic of his shorts’ waistband.
“Um, I’m going to take this pool home so my granddaughters can splash in it.” It struck me immediately how selfish that must have sounded to the lad.
“Oh,” the boy said, devoid of emotion.
“It’s my pool, you see, I’ve loaned it to the park here. They have others they can use.” I thought that did little to improve my motives in the eyes of the lad.
“Okay. I guess.” His remark underlined my poor standing as an adult. His eyes were impossibly disappointed.
“Ah,” I began, “this is your favorite pool?”
“It’s the bestest one.”
“Hmm. In that case, maybe I should just leave it here.”
“What about your granddaughters?”
“I’ll stop in town and get a new one.”
“Okay.” I’d expected more enthusiasm. Perhaps I didn’t deserve it because I had, after all, threatened to remove the bestest one from the park.
“You take good care of this one, okay?” I suggested.
The lad managed a smile. I stuck out my hand. Such a stupid adult thing to do but I did. He surprised me and shook hands. Such a tiny hand. Weightless.
I asked, “Your parents? Where are they?”
“Around,” he replied. That, in six-year-old parlance, means to answer all questions.
“Should I help you find them?”
“No, they’ll find me.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yup.” He turned and left the shed. Probably took off running because by the time I got to the shed opening, he was nowhere to be seen.
Giving up on rescuing the old wading pool, I stopped at the security station. Still no security officer. Summertime hours, you’d expect one there. Not wanting to linger, I tore a page from my notebook, scribbled a note about my wanting the pool, briefly mentioned the boy, leaving the pool there, and jotted down my contact particulars. I dropped the note through the slot in the station door.
Stopping by the local superstore, I found no pools, not even the smallest wading pool to take home. My youngest still shopping, I putzed in the garage before going into the house. I was surprised to see the answering machine blinking when I did go inside. We’d been threatening to disconnect that landline for a couple of years. Out of habit, I’d recorded that number in my message to the security guard, obviously, because the blinking light announced a message from him:
“Hello. This is Edward Philips, security at the county park. Got your note. Shame I wasn’t here. Was no need for you to leave without your pool. Surprised you ran into a child. Children’s side closes at five pm. Anyways, you decide you want to come back and pick up that pool, that’d be good. No need to check-in with security.”
Edward Philips hung up. I erased the message.
My preggers daughter returned. She complained that none of the clothes she liked fit. After we this and that-ed about this and that, I told her of my experience in the children’s playground. She listened silently.
“Unbelievable,” she said.
“Not really,” I suggested. Then I told her of the call from Edward Philips. Her concentration as I continued amused me. When I finished, she silently sat there, a little pale. From the shopping trip, I imagined.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You alright?”
“Dad, you don’t remember?”
“Obviously not.”
“About ten years ago, a little after Sis and I left there was a tragedy at the county park.”
“Tragedy? How’s that?”
“Can’t believe you don’t recall.”
“Don’t. Tell me.”
“Well, kids from the orphan’s home had an afternoon at the park. In the confusion of loading buses to return to the home, a six-year-old boy was left behind. As the police put it together, no one to play with, he snuck over to the swimming pool, managed to get through the gate and escaped the attention of the lifeguards.”
“And?”
“After closing time, they figure, he fell into the pool.”
“And drowned?”
“Yes. Sad, huh?”
“So?”
“So, ever since, folks have reported seeing a six-year-old boy wandering the park. After closing. Disappears before anyone can take him in hand to find his parents. People want to believe it’s a ghost.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Fine. Curious to know the orphan boy’s name?”
“Yes?”
“They call him Little Eddie Philips.”
“No.”
“Yes. And Dad?
“What?”
“They stopped having security at the park five years ago. A phone call from a security guard makes no sense.”
I probably won’t go back to the county park. No need. My daughters and granddaughters have gone home. I’m not sure how I’d handle meeting Edward Philips or seeing little Eddie Philips again anyway.
© spwilcenski
spwilcenwrites “Fiction” October 17, 2023
Ramblings 