Mary's Song - My First Short Story!

  Mary’s Song

                On a quiet street in New York City a young woman was locking the door to her house, a rather shabby brick building in a row of identical, rather shabby brick buildings. She tucked the key into her pocket and lifted her skirts to clear the steps. Smiling, she lifted her face to the sun-soaked May morning.

                “Oranges for sale, good, fresh oranges, out of season and only 10 cents a dozen!”

                A street hawker peddling a cart piled high with the round, bright fruit waved cheerfully at her from the other side of the narrow street.

                “G’ morning Ms. Mary! Headin’ to the church?”

                “Good morning, Tom!” called the woman. “Yes, but I can’t stop to talk now; I’m late for choir practice!”

                She hurried along the sidewalk, pulling off her coat and folding it over one arm. She hadn’t expected it to be so warm. Everything Ms. Mary wore was neat but faded. The tired brown coat, the carefully patched Sunday best skirt and blouse, and especially the scuffed, sensible work shoes.

                It was hard sometimes -working as a music teacher in a nearby elementary school didn’t pay much- but Ms. Mary always managed to find a few dollars for the collection tin at church. She carried this money in a black pocketbook so old the leather was worn smooth in the places where she held it. The pocketbook was more often empty than not, but today it contained three crumpled dollar bills. Two were for the collection tin, one for groceries.

                Suddenly the air was filled with song, one she’d never heard. Standing on the corner was a small boy, no more than eight or nine. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he sang, eyes closed, head bent.

Ms. Mary approached the boy until she stood in front of him. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, revealing a chipped font tooth. She smiled back and listened to the last stanza of the song:

O Mary! we crown thee with blossoms today,
Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May,
O Mary! we crown thee with blossoms today,
Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May.

“What was the name of that song?” Ms. Mary couldn’t help but ask. She loved to sing, that was why she’d become a music teacher in the first place.

                “It’s ‘Bring Flowers of the Rarest’, ma’am.”

                “It’s lovely. Could you sing ‘Amazing Grace’?” she asked. The boy nodded.

                “Of course, ma’am.” His voice was as sweet and clear and innocent as when he’d sang, with no sign of the typical street kid slang. Now he sang:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me…

I once was lost but now am found,

was blind, but now, I see.

                A small group of people had gathered around the boy’s corner. A shabby, no-nonsense-looking woman sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

“He sings just like ‘n angel, that he does, ” she said to no one in particular and dropped two small coins into the hat at the boy’s feet. He smiled shyly at her,  pushing untidy chestnut curls out of his eyes.

“Thank you, ma’am. Do you have any requests?”

She chucked and shook her head. “Real polite, too! If all the boys on the streets were sweet as you… It’s a shame, such a shame…” She didn’t finish her sentence,  just shook her head and hurried away. Ms. Mary knew what the woman had been going to say. It’s a shame that you have no future. Without money, talent was useless.

By now the little knot of people was loosening, some humming the melody under their breath as they drifted away. Ms. Mary turned to go, then stopped. She reached into her pocketbook. Her fingers touched the corner of the three folded bills. She couldn’t afford to give the boy any money. But. He stood in front of her, not expecting anything, his brilliant blue eyes meeting hers steadily.

Ms. Mary tucked a strand of hair back into its bun. She couldn’t help but notice how frighteningly thin and white the boy was, with clumsily patched, ragged garments. All the same, he was very beautiful, with a wide, sweet smile..

Before she had time to think Ms. Mary dropped a dollar into the almost empty hat. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you, ma’am! That’s very generous!”

“You’ve earned it, you sing very well! Please, call me Ms. Mary. Ma’am makes me sound so old!”

The boy laughed. “I think you’re the prettiest lady I ever saw, Ms. Mary,” he said, in that sweetly-serious, confiding way little boys have. Ms. Mary felt her heart melting. “Well, thank you, although I don’t quite agree!”

Suddenly,  Ms. Mary remembered. The choir! “Oh, I almost forgot. I’m late for choir practice. If you’ll excuse me…” The boy smiled wistfully. “That sounds wonderful. Goodbye.”

Ms Mary turned once again to leave, but stopped. “Would…would you consider joining?”

“Me?” The boy stared at her. “Oh I couldn’t…but it would be so nice…” He clasped his hands and gazed up at Ms. Mary with eyes bright as evening stars. “Oh, yes please…if they would have me!”

“I’m sure they would,” comforted Ms. Mary. “But if we don’t run, we’ll never make it!” She grabbed the boy’s hand as he scooped up his hat and raced the remaining three blocks to the church.

                                            Sincerely,
                                                                                           A Writer