A Chilly Winter Evening
It was sometimes between Thanksgiving and Christmas time. The air was chilly and crisp. There was a hint of approaching snow in the air. My sister had come for a visit from California, and Peter had suggested that we should go to Brooklyn to a restaurant that was well known for its seafood. We were in the habit of going there in the summertime when we could look out onto the ocean and enjoy the view. The noisy seagulls hovered over the huge expanse of water, keeping a sharp eye in case some unfortunate fish happened to lift its head in curiosity to glance onto our world. The birds would then swoop down and catch it, making a superb meal out of it as it writhed and wiggled in an attempt to set itself free. However, that was in summer when the skies did not darken until much later in the year. It was winter now, and night fell early. The skies were dark. We seldom came here during this season. However, my Brooklyn-born and raised husband missed no opportunity to proudly introduce any visitor we got to his home borough, the one in which he was born and lived for so many years.
As we exited the car, the cold air hit us in the face and body, making us shiver. We huddled closely together as we crossed the street and quickly entered the restaurant. There were street vendors displaying their wares on the sidewalk, hoping for sales since it was just before the holidays. I gave them a quick glance and remember feeling sorry for them standing there in that winter weather instead of being indoors in the warmth of their homes. We quickly entered the restaurant. Soft Christmas music greeted us, as well as a tastefully decorated tree. On each table stood a flickering battery-operated candle, a small branch of a juniper tree, and shiny tiny glass baubles nestled among the branches. The room smelled of evergreen. We were led to a table, sat down, and ordered drinks. We looked about us. The room was not crowded, but neither was it empty. There was a hum of conversations and laughter in the room. The waiters and waitresses flitted about the tables as if in an intricate and graceful dance as they served each table.
Once we had ordered, we leaned back in a relaxed manner and began catching up with each other’s news. It had been quite a while since my sister had come for a visit. Peter and I asked about my parents. Our jet-setter parents had slowed down; they no longer traveled from one country to another as quickly as before. They were aging rapidly. We talked about our children. As we nibbled at our dinner, we chatted on and on. Peter told stories in his humorous way. He was such a raconteur.
A long while later, our meal was finished. It was getting late. We had our coffee, paid the check, and got up to leave. Outside, under a lit street lamp, by a makeshift table, stood a dark-skinned man. He wore a balaclava-style hat, a long scarf wrapped around his neck and chest several times, and a threadbare coat. He seemed quite cold. His dark brown face appeared to be more grey than brown. His hands were firmly stuffed into his pockets. He seemed to be shivering. My heart went out to him. I glanced at his table, where hand-carved animal bone jewelry was displayed. I leaned down and chose a pendant. ‘’How much is this?’’ I asked.
With a heavy African accent, he replied, ‘Ten dollars.’ I gave him the ten dollars.
At this point, my sister started arguing with him. ‘’How cruel it is to kill an animal and carve its bones into jewelry! Don’t you have any heart?’’ she exclaimed.
The African man looked at her in confusion. He could not grasp why she was upset. He was only trying to make a meager living. Peter raised his eyebrows.
‘’How long have you been in this country?’’ I asked him gently.
‘’Six months, ma’am,’’ he replied.
‘’Good luck to you. Have a good night,’’ I said as Peter and I steered my sister towards the car.
‘’I do not understand you. While we were pleasantly dining and whiling our time away in the restaurant, that poor man was standing in the bitter cold for hours, trying to sell his baubles. His clothes were threadbare. He was shivering. It is ten o’clock at night. If he were not impoverished, if he did not have to feed his family, do you really think he would have been out here on such a night?’’ I asked her. “Why were you arguing with him!”
My sister is a very kind-hearted person, but sometimes she does not think practically. She did not answer, but there appeared a rueful look of dismay upon her face. That was so many years ago.
Because of the Coronavirus, we are now all isolated in our homes. This day, as I was tidying up my bedroom, I came across the carved bone pendant. I gently held it in my hand and recalled that chilly winter evening. I remembered the poor shivering immigrant. How hard it must have been for him and his family. My fingers curled gently around the bauble. I prayed that the young man and his family had succeeded in this country. I imagine him in his home on this windy, rainy, cool April day, during this time of the Coronavirus pandemic, sitting with his family around him. He must be a middle-aged man now. I pray that life had been kind to him. All these thoughts sprang up into my memory because I happened across a pendant I had bought on a cold winter’s night so many years ago.
The wind howled, and the rain thrashed against the windowpanes. The house shook in fury as the storm expressed its rage. I continued tidying up the bedroom. The radio played sweet classical music in consolation as my thoughts drifted back in time.