Suzie



  Suzie

  a shortstory

  by Lyz Russo

  © Copyright: Lyz Russo, 2011

  Originally part of the collection “Chiaroscuro”

  e-shortbooked by www.pkaboo.net

  No part of this story may be reproduced by any means, electronic or otherwise, without permission of and credit to the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. All apparent resemblances to real people or situations are purely incidental.

  Suzie

  It was a Tuesday when I first met her.

  I had been battling with a nasty article all morning and could barely think straight anymore; when I closed my eyes I saw the computer screen’s imprint on my retinas in fluorescent green. I’d been getting accordingly crabby, so my colleague who has the dubious luck of sharing the office with me, suggested I “take a hike, Tommy!”. Which I did, seeing that it was lunchtime.

  I had wandered down a few roads, and found myself out of the city centre, at Finch Park, with its stream, its willow trees, noisy kids and dog walkers. I breathed the air, which was a few cigarettes short of centre of town, and my attention was drawn to two finches having a tiff. They came across just like a young married couple. With a smile I took out my camera and trained it on the two, and forgot about the article about the new road regulations, and the stresses of work.

  As I was filming the small domestic drama, I realized I was being observed. I lowered the camera and glanced at the little girl who’d parked herself, arms crossed, at the edge of the playground.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Are you a photographer?” she asked sternly, as though it were some kind of misdemeanour.

  I smiled at her. “Photojournalist,” I said. “I first take a lot of pictures and then I have to write an article about them in the newspaper for your parents to read.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replied knowingly.

  “Here,” I said on impulse, bending down to show her my camera. “Have a look.”

  I don’t generally bother with children, to be honest I’m mostly not even aware of them. But there was something about this little girl. Something dreadfully mature and serious.

  So I let her have a peep through my camera; but – and coming to think of it, this should have struck me as odd too, but as I said, I don’t know much about children – when I offered to her to hold it and make a few snapshots, she shrank away. Oh well.

  I pocketed my camera again, thinking in retrospect that it was probably better that way and that it was silly of me to allow a small tot to handle my work equipment. She started chattering away, telling me all about her playmates and the kids in school, and not to be rude, I followed her as she walked down the road, inserting the odd “uh-huh”, and “really?” into her monologue.

  “I’m Suzie,” she volunteered at one point.

  “That’s nice. Suzie, where are we going?”

  “Oh, I’ve just got to go home, Mommy will be ready with lunch now,” said the little girl. “But you can come along some of the way.”

  I thought I had better walk along. The road we were following was quite a busy one and I wondered at her mother’s lack of judgement, letting her little daughter of probably only six or seven walk home alone.

  We got off the busy roads after a little while. I wondered at the distance this child was walking all by herself. These were smaller, older roads now; the properties were beginning to look a bit dilapidated. I took a few shots, thinking there should be a community project about this place; all the while Suzie was bopping alongside me, chattering on happily.

  “Do you walk home by yourself often?” I asked.

  “Every day,” she replied. “Mommy always tells me to play in the park after school, until she is ready with lunch. It’s because of the baby, he takes such a lot of time.”

  I nodded to myself, mulling what kind of a mother would let her daughter play hungry in the park because she was inefficient.

  And then Suzie held up a hand.

  “This is how far you can come with me,” she said. “Bye!” And she bounded off, her red dress bouncing with her running leaps, and her blond pigtails flapping next to her ears.

  “See you,” I called after her and waved, and watched how she disappeared up the steps and into the doorway in one of the elderly houses.

  I took a few snaps of the houses, fascinated by their style; that kind of image comes in useful for all sorts of things and even fetches a nice price online. And then I turned and retraced my steps to the office, getting stuck back into that boring report with a sigh.

  My thoughts kept returning to that little girl, though, playing alone and hungry in the park every day.

  The next day I was still wondering about her, so I returned to Finch Park at lunchtime to see if she was there. I took a few choice photos of silhouettes of trees and the playground, discovering that children are actually natural photo subjects, especially when they don’t realize they are being observed.

  And suddenly I felt her stare in my neck again, and I turned; there she stood, in the same little red dress as yesterday that was actually getting too short for her with her skinny legs sticking out, and her fierce, piercing gaze and her folded arms.

  “So you like my playground?” she asked.

  “Hi, Suzie,” I replied, feeling oddly guilty at her accusation. I am not a child; I don’t belong on a playground!

  But I am a photojournalist and our job is to be everywhere; and a good opportunity for pictures should never be ignored. I aimed my camera at her.

  “You shall not take a picture of me!” she said with such vehemence that I lowered the camera, taken aback.

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be right,” she said with determination.

  Of course you never take a picture of a subject against their express wishes, so I put the camera away, and she lightened up.

  “Did the birdies fight again today?” she asked, and off we were into her bright, non-stop chatter. And before long we were trailing down the same busy roads as yesterday, and then the older roads; and I realized that what had brought me back was worry over her. A child like Suzie makes it on her own, or she dies, and nobody cares. I set my mind that I’d definitely be doing an article on community involvement in the safety of such children.

  It also explained to me, at the time, her unusual air of maturity. If you have to fend for yourself, you grow up fast.

  At the same place she’d left me yesterday, she once again held up her hand.

  “You can’t come past this point,” she commanded, and I had to smile. It sounded like a magical incantation, with me being the Balrog.

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “Will you walk with me again tomorrow?” she asked brightly.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “Bye then,” she trilled and bounded off.