ANNA MONICA

Writing in loving memory Little Johnny stared at the front door of the house. In fact, standing in the street, he had been staring at it for some time. There were so many questions going through his child’s mind, and as he continued to view the scene before him, his young mind became even more puzzled. He knew the people who lived in that house very well, especially the two young boys very near his age. Their mom and dad had always been very kind to him. When he played outdoors with them he was always invited to go inside and get a soft drink or ice cream when they did. He was also invited to their birthday parties, and when Santa Claus came to that house at Christmas time, he was there, too. Johnny was especially fond of his friends’ dad who always had a kind word and took a keen interest in him and the other children in the neighborhood. That dad had once been a popular coach of Garyville’s Little Leaguers and had taken the group on several nice trips out of state. Johnny’s own parents often talked about that. What Johnny really knew for sure, though, was the dad was always at the ball games when his sons played and was a very earnest score-keeper for the teams. In fact, people made sure they didn’t interrupt him while he was doing that job because he wanted to be right. Everybody knew, too, the dad was a very serious sports fan who seemed to always know the answers when any of the youngsters had questions. He was one of their favorite people; surely he was Johnny’s. People continued to come in and out of the door of the house as Johnny watched. Cars would come and go with one coming in as soon as another left. He made sure he stayed out of the way of the cars, but somehow he just didn’t want to go home n not yet; there was something he wanted to do. Seeing all those cars, though, reminded Johnny of the many times he was invited to ride with his friends and their dad to get an ice cream. He wasn’t the only one; almost every neighborhood child had been taken to a ball game or for an ice cream at some time by the dad. Johnny felt somewhat of a yearning to be getting into their car right now because doing that was so much more familiar and uncomplicated to him than what he was looking at now. A sinking feeling that had been in his heart was getting heavier and heavier. Still, he couldn’t leave because his young mind knew there was something he needed to do, but he just didn’t know how. The dad had a fine reputation in the community, and although Johnny didn’t really know what a “reputation” was, he knew everybody really liked the dad. It was that dad that always brought the extra Christmas candy from a party at his place of work to give out to children who didn’t get much candy. That, Johnny clearly understood because he, too, often got candy or some kind of treat from the mom and dad of that house. They acted like good friends, and their house had a special warmth to it. Johnny could feel it. Finally, it was late in the day and Johnny once again looked down at his shoes, now dusty from standing there so long and from the cars coming and going. He grasped his hands and his heart pounded a little harder as he realized no cars were coming or going. Slowly, he moved toward the door he had stared at for hours, but before he could knock, one of his friends quietly opened it. Johnny looked at them and slowly walked by to the mom sitting quietly on the sofa. The mom looked up at Johnny, and he could see she had been crying. Nonetheless, she smiled and held out her arms to him. Johnny’s tears mixed with hers as he climbed onto her lap. “Miss Linda,” he managed to stammer, “I’m sorry Mr. Sugar Baby died.” This story is true, embellished only somewhat. It is in loving memory of my brother, the late Anthony F. “Sugar Boy” Monica, on what would have been his April 8 birthday. ANNA MONICA, a resident of Garyville, writes this column every Wednes-day for L’Obser-vateur.