Child
“This child isn’t mine, but he won’t let me go.”
AUGUST 8, 2024
This child isn’t mine, but he won’t let me go. He’s a weight pulling down, tugging away, and he won’t let me move. I don’t know him. He doesn’t say a word, but he won’t leave. What’s your name? I’ve often asked, receiving no answer. Other times I’ve tried to shake free of his grip, pry open his hand, but I can’t. He just squeezes harder.
I’m not the same man anymore. A child who isn’t mine is clutching my shirt. Now even the simplest things are a challenge: walking among the market stalls, spreading out my blankets to sleep at night, going to the bathroom. I have to brace myself before I try to do anything I once did without thinking.
Among the vegetable sellers, I glimpse a woman burdened with shopping bags. She looks about sixty and her face is red in the heat. She’s carrying three large bags full to bursting. I want to offer my help: here, ma’am, let me carry those for you, where’s your bus stop. I want to take her bags, follow her there. I walk faster, not thinking of the child, but his weight slows me down, grows, drags me backward by the shirt. He’s tired of walking. The woman, meanwhile, walks on without seeing me, the plastic straps cutting into the flesh of her fingers; she staggers between the stalls, thinking what heavy potatoes! what a heavy squash! She has everything she needs and makes her way down the front aisle, by the store. I need to cross and catch up with her. Little by little, she’s moving away with her heavy steps, her aching arms. I could make it, maybe she’ll give me a decent tip, I know how to be polite. But I’m stuck with this child who demands I go slow, pulls me back.
All right, come on, hurry up. My shirt goes taut against my chest, every thread stretched tight, the cloth longing to rip and flutter loose in the open air. Impossible. I want my shirt back, I shake the clinging hand. Let me go! I tell him, let me go already! Nothing. I manage to advance a little. I look for the woman in the crowd. She was right over there, by the store, but now I can’t find her. I squint to see farther ahead, there she is, no, who knows where, there!, she’s leaving the market, the sun falls onto her stooped back. So I’ve lost the coins she was going to press into my hand. I’m trapped, I think.
It’s awful. Ever since he latched onto me, everybody thinks I have a son. If I buy myself some lunch, people look at me, waiting for me to share with him what’s rightfully mine.
Sometimes it’s the other way around. When I stop, the weight doesn’t pull me backward, but heaves me down, dragging my shoulders toward the earth, toward the pavement that burns under my feet. Again, my cloth collar warped as a fish with a ruined mouth, and he’s just sitting there, a mute stranger.
I go to the police to file a report. There’s no station at the market, so I need to go all the way to the commissary. He walks behind me, slowing my pace. He sees something that catches his attention and stops. I tug at him. He digs his stiff legs into the ground and I pull again, clumsy now. I curse him softly, so people won’t judge. He starts walking but won’t hurry up. I’ll have to teach him to step lighter. Soon he gets tired and slows to a trudge.
I used to be fast no matter where I went. I’d take the sidewalk, dart across streets, some people were slower and fell behind. I could walk faster than most. I never asked for this. I don’t want this dangling hand, or the head below it, always right beside me. I want it to go away, the thin, unfamiliar arm, to let me go, to disappear.
We arrive a little after noon. There’s a child clutching my shirt. I’m ashamed to say it, but I had to. There’s a child who isn’t mine and won’t let go of me: shame again. This child isn’t mine, officer. That’s what I say. No one answers. The officer has a pineapple soda and sucks on a straw with his eyes half-closed. The office is small, barely big enough for two desks. Behind them, some planks serve as shelves, crammed with files and loose papers, some more creased and manhandled than others. To the right, a window overlooks a yard that doubles as a parking lot. It’s really hot in here. There are also flies, two of them, that detach from the officer’s desk as I approach and start to hover around me, searching for something on my head. I have to shoo them away with my hand. I’m sure they’ll think I’m dirty. I want to leave, but I’ve already spoken up. The child hanging off me gives my shirt a couple tugs. I look at him and frown.
It’s awful. Ever since he latched onto me, everybody thinks I have a son. If I buy myself some lunch, people look at me, waiting for me to share with him what’s rightfully mine. I hunch down to eat and their eyes weigh heavy on the back of my head. Except for his: he just stares at my bowl. What obligation do I have if he isn’t even mine? Must I pity someone I don’t know? I want to eat, that’s all. I want the whole bowl for myself, because I’m tired and hungry. But the eyes. The arms that freeze in midair between dishes and mouths, waiting for a sign from me so they can keep scarfing their food in peace. So then I have to surrender half my soup to him. Can I get you another bowl? the waitress asks, smiling at him. Okay, I have to tell her, as the others resume their lunch, and I give him half a potato, half my broth, and the whole bone in the end, because I can’t split it in two, and the second bowl they kindly bring over is empty. Who in their right mind would want to take charge? Then it’s the same thing all over again with the main dish.
Sooner or later I’m going to grab some scissors, cut my shirt, and leave him with a handful of cloth. I’ll shake him off and let him lose his way in the street. What do I care. But maybe he’ll come after me, and then I’ll have to make a run for it, try to hurry through the crowds and put some distance between us, or just go for broke and shove my way past all the people milling around the stands, knocking over some fruit as I tear through.
I’m worried they’ll think I stole something, that I’m a thief making my getaway. Or they’ll think I tried to kidnap the child and they’ll lynch me. I saw a lynching once. I still remember it. The man shouted My name is Alberto! I’m a construction worker!, but the crowd kept hitting him. Quick as a flash, they ripped his shirt and tore it off and wanted to pull down his pants, too. He was already bruised all over. I didn’t take anything! he howled, and they spat in his face. They weren’t thinking anymore, all they wanted was to keep kicking. The yellow sweat, teeth dark with dirt. Who could his mother be, I thought when his face wasn’t recognizable anymore. I don’t want to go through that.
They must think I’m one of those fathers who abandon their children. No, officer, really, I say, I don’t know him, I’ve never seen him before.
Officer, I’d like to report that this child isn’t mine, I insist a little louder. I envy him the pineapple soda, the green straw, the unmelted ice. The officer has drained half his glass. He lifts his eyes, looks me up and down, and doesn’t answer. Fixing me with a hard stare, he sucks on the straw until the glass is dry. He must have noticed how thirsty I am, the flies wheeling around my head, the fact that I’ve come all the way here on foot, dragging this weight behind me. The officer sets the glass on the desk.
We’re in the habit of saying hello around here, he says after a moment, and runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking of his lunch, satisfied. Hello, I say, trying to hide a certain look, a certain clenching of the teeth I can’t afford to show right now, not to him, not while I have this one hanging off me.
Hello, sir. He pushes his glass to one side, forgotten now. What seems to be the trouble?, leaning back in his chair. He must be sleepy, he must want to take a nap.
This child isn’t mine, officer. That surprises him. What do you mean? Again: this child isn’t mine. He scrutinizes the child. He takes in the hollow-eyed face, the messy haircut. Leaning across his desk for a better look, he studies the scrawny legs and tattered shoes. Then he notices the hand that grips my dirty, wrinkled shirt. It’s true that I haven’t changed my clothes since yesterday. He looks at me, then back at the child. I’m tired of waiting and there’s not even a chair to sit on, not that anyone has invited me to.
But the officer is bored. I see some resemblance, he says slowly, drawing out his words and raising his voice.
Seated at the neighboring desk, his partner looks at me, at the child hanging off me, and laughs. Two sweat stains spread from the armpits of his uniform. There’s no glass on his desk, but there aren’t any papers or folders or anything else, either. It’s an empty desk.
They must think I’m one of those fathers who abandon their children. No, officer, really, I say, I don’t know him, I’ve never seen him before. Neither one wants to help. The glass is still misty from the cold soda. The first officer sighs before speaking again. So why did you bring him with you? I didn’t bring him, he won’t let go of me. The officer stops to think.
What’s that you say? asks the other officer, getting curious. The top buttons of his shirt are undone. I don’t know him, but he won’t let go of me. And how did he end up holding on to your shirt? I don’t know, I woke up and there he was. The other officer laughs uproariously and the first officer smiles, mocking me too. But it’s not funny to have a child hanging off you.
What’s your name? the officer asks, taking a form out of a desk drawer, which doesn’t close properly and stays half-open. The form has a coffee stain on it and he tries to wipe it off, which is pointless because it’s already dry. He looks for a pen among his papers and can’t find one. His partner hands him one.
Juvenal. Juvenal with a b or a v. With a v, officer. Juvenal what. I tell him my last name and he doesn’t understand it. What’s that? he huffs. I spell it out and he writes it down, grinning. Well well well, I’ve never heard that one before. Where are you from, anyway? I don’t answer. Where are you from? he presses louder, looking up, his eyes two blades. I tell him. He smiles, glancing at the other officer. They make faces. Why are they looking at each other so much, I think.
What about the kid? I look at the child, who isn’t looking at me, I think he must have fallen asleep standing up. Hey! I shake his hand. He whimpers and lifts his eyes. What’s your name? I know he’s not going to answer, I’ve asked before. The officer needs to know your name. He turns his head away.
You should know his name, the other officer tells me. I don’t know why people always have to butt into someone else’s conversation. Why should this guy get to express an opinion about what I’m telling Officer Espinoza? I look at the nameplate on his chest. His surname is written in capital letters to the right of the flag.
You didn’t kidnap that kid, did you? Come on, officer, I would have sold him already, or I would have left him somewhere, but he won’t let go of me, he’s the one who won’t let go.
How am I supposed to know his name if he’s not mine? Maybe they think I’m being rude. Even so, says Officer Espinoza, you should know. That’s the issue here, officer, I don’t know, because he’s not my son. I fell asleep in the square, under a tree, and when I woke up, he was sleeping right there, resting on my chest and hanging on tight to my shirt. He hasn’t let go ever since.
I wish I could open my eyes and find myself back in the square, repeat that moment, encounter what’s supposed to be there: the tree, the broken wooden bench, and me, alone, in the late afternoon, as the wind picks up and ruffles my hair, the market ladies about to shutter their stalls for the day, and they’ll give me some bananas, oranges, bread.
You didn’t kidnap that kid, did you? Come on, officer, I would have sold him already, or I would have left him somewhere, but he won’t let go of me, he’s the one who won’t let go.
This was one of my fears: that I’d be accused of something, anything. The police are always trying to find someone guilty, that’s their job.
But there must be a reason he won’t leave, says the sweaty officer. Now Espinoza speaks to me slowly, informally, calling me by my name: You ever had yourself a woman, Juvenal? Because maybe he’s your son and she told him to go off with you. He must think I don’t understand because I’m from the market. No, officer, I haven’t.
You’ve never had a woman ever? the other laughs, and Espinoza joins him in mocking me. I wait for the joke to blow over, I want to get out of here. I don’t have children, I say.
Espinoza thinks again, scratches under his ear, murmurs something to himself, looks up to the ceiling, then finally shakes his head. We need the kid’s name, he concludes. I don’t know his name, I don’t know him.
So why won’t he let go of you? I don’t know, whenever I tell him to let go he just holds on tighter. I give him a shake so he’ll open his fist, but he doesn’t.
And we start all over, repeating the whole thing again and again, and I can’t find a way out, I just turn in circles until I get dizzy, it’s pointless, all of it. You know what, you look a little faggy to me, actually. He spits on the ground beside his desk. So why aren’t you going to do what I say, huh? I don’t want to hit you, I say. There will be other taunts, I shouldn’t have come. Can I just say seeyoulater and head on out? Nope, no you can’t, that’s child abuse, there’s no need to be violent, say no to domestic violence. He isn’t my family. Still, you can’t hit minors, it’s against the law.
I haven’t worked since Tuesday. I can’t carry anything with the child hanging off me, and I wanted to watch some cars for change, but all the blocks have car-watchers already. Relax, sir. That’s not the police’s problem. The blades in his eyes. Yes, officer. But I want to report that this child isn’t mine and leave him here until his parents turn up.
Espinoza and the other officer look at each other, as if I’ve threatened them with something terrible. We’re not an orphanage here, you know, we can’t take responsibility for minors. But he’s not my son, there’s no reason why I should take care of him. We don’t know that, give us the kid’s ID to prove he’s not your son. I don’t have any, it’s just him, but he won’t talk and he won’t let go of me. It’s like a curse.
All we can do is report him to child services, but we need the kid’s ID. There’s nothing in his pockets. We need his name and ID. He doesn’t have anything, and I don’t know his name. Why don’t you bring him back later, then. In case someone reports a missing child. Maybe it’ll turn out to be him and you can hand him over. Officer Espinoza puts the form with my name back in the drawer that won’t close and looks over my head to see if anyone else is coming.
You’re keeping that form? Of course, you’ve already filled it out. What about my report? Did you write it down? Yes. And my name? That too. I want to take the form with my name on it. You can’t, it’s for the police. But it’s my name. It’s already on record, you can’t take it back. What if I withdraw my report? What’s done is done, you can’t erase it now. There’s no way out. It’s all pointless and the hand is still there, sweaty, gripping my shirt, pulling occasionally with his full weight, the cloth collar stretched and huge.
Sometimes there’s even a reward for returning a missing kid, the other officer says, anything to get rid of me. The child hangs on. An old woman appears behind me, limping, dragging her feet as she approaches. The flies instantly travel to her instead and she doesn’t bother to shoo them away. Beside me, the child who weighs me down stands staring, dumbfounded, at her misshapen foot, her swollen eyes. She walks over to the desk, picks up the empty glass, puts it into a blue bag. She just takes the glass and walks out again. Espinoza doesn’t look at her. Next! he shouts.
The rage hovers before my eyes, but there are no words. I clench my teeth. I clutch that hand, I squeeze it tight. A whimper down below, slipping out of the mouth that refuses to open. I should grab a pair of scissors and cut this dirty shirt, but I’m too ashamed. Go on then, we’ll see you back here tomorrow, not looking at me anymore, rattling the bloated wood of the drawer, trying to push it closed.
This story appears in Claudia Peña Salinas’ collection The Trees.
PHOTO: Freepik
✺ Published in “Issue 19: Fiction” of The Dial
