I Gave My Coat to a Cold, Hungry Mother and Her Baby – a Week Later, Two Men in Suits Knocked on My Door and Said, ‘You’re Not Getting Away with This’
Before I donated my winter coat to a shivering young woman and her infant on a frigid Thursday in a Walmart parking lot, I believed that the silence would be the worst thing that could happen to me eight months after the death of my wife of forty-three years. I assumed I would never see them again.
The house has felt too quiet since my wife Ellen passed away eight months ago, and I’m seventy-three.
“It’s you and me against the world, Harold.”
The kind of silence that seeps into your bones and makes the hum of the refrigerator sound like a fire alarm, not a quiet that is peaceful.
It was just us for forty-three years.
coffee in the morning at the shaky kitchen table. As she folded laundry, she hummed. Her hand finding mine in church, squeezing once when the pastor said something she liked, twice when she was bored.
We never had kids.
Not precisely by accident, but also not by choice. One poor surgery, doctors, time, money, and then it was just the two of us.
“It’s you and me against the world, Harold,” she would put it. “And we’re doing just fine.”
It feels chilly in bed.
The rooms seem larger now.
It feels chilly in bed.
I still make two cups of coffee some mornings before I notice she isn’t coming down the corridor.
I rode the bus to Walmart on Thursday to buy food. Bread, bananas, canned soup, and half-and-half—the brand Ellen preferred. Even though I don’t use cream, routines are more enduring than people.
The wind struck me like a dagger as soon as I went outdoors. One of those windstorms from the Midwest that makes your eyes water and your joints curse.
She could feel her lips getting blue.
When I spotted her, I was squinting against the cold.
A young mother with a baby pressed against her chest stood close to a light post. No car, no stroller, no baggage. The wind and her alone.
She wore only a thin sweatshirt, hair whipping about her face. A tattered towel, more suited for a kitchen drawer than a nursery, was used to wrap the infant.
Her knees trembled. She could feel her lips getting blue.
“Ma’am?” I called as softly as I could, approaching her like you would a scared bird. “Are you alright?”
She slowly turned. Her eyes were clear with a crimson rim.
Maybe it was instinct.
Whispering, “He’s cold,” she said. “I’m doing my best.”
She moved the infant and tightened the towel around his little frame.
Maybe it was instinct. The empty house might have been waiting for me. Perhaps it was the way she cared for that boy like if he were her last remaining child.
I didn’t consider it. I just shrugged off of my bulky winter coat.
Two winters ago, Ellen had purchased it. She had pulled the zipper up to my chin and remarked, “You look like a walking sleeping bag.” “But you’re old, and I’m not letting you freeze on me.”
“Your baby needs it more than I do.”
I extended the coat to the young lady.
“Here,” I said. “Take this. Your baby needs it more than I do.”
I was surprised at how quickly her eyes filled.
“Sir, I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t take your coat.”
“You can,” I replied. “I’ve got another one at home. Come on. Let’s get you both warm.”
She paused, scanning the parking lot as if someone may suddenly appear and refuse her request.
Nobody did.
“I’ll get you something hot.”
She gave one little nod. “Okay,” she whispered.
We stepped back through the automated doors, into brilliant light and cheap heat. I guided my cart next to her and gestured for her to go to the café.
“Sit down,” I urged. “I’ll get you something hot.”
“You don’t have to—” she began.
I said, “Already decided,” “Too late to argue.”
For a brief moment, she nearly grinned.
“We haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
I ordered chicken noodle soup, a sandwich, and a coffee. She had the baby nestled inside my coat when I returned, his little fingers sticking out like pink matchsticks.
I said, “Here you go,” and slid the tray in her direction. “Eat while it’s hot.”
She closed her eyes as the steam struck her face and first wrapped her hands around the coffee cup.
“We haven’t eaten since yesterday,” she whispered. “I was trying to make the formula last.”
In my chest, something twisted. I’ve felt that anguish before, the night Ellen died, when the world suddenly seemed too huge and too harsh.
I said, “Is there someone you can call?” “Family? Friends?”
“It’s complicated.”
She gazed at the soup below.
She stated, “It’s complicated,” “But thank you. Really.”
She appeared to have been let down so many times that she had lost all hope.
“I’m Harold,” I introduced myself. “Harold Harris.”
She nodded after hesitating.
“I’m Penny,” she introduced herself. “And this is Lucas.”
After giving him a kiss on the top of his head, she began to eat the soup as if it were her own at last.
“You did the right thing.”
That evening, we discussed a wide range of topics. I found out that she had had a boyfriend, who had ejected her that morning. She took the baby and fled before the yelling escalated.
“He said if I loved Lucas so much, I could figure out how to feed him myself,” she replied bluntly. “So I did.”
Many things can be spoken by an elderly man. They didn’t feel large enough.
I was able to say, “You did the right thing,” “Getting out. Keeping him with you.”
She didn’t glance up as she nodded.
She drew my coat tightly around them both and got up when the soup was gone and the baby had finally fallen asleep.
“Keep the coat.”
“Thank you,” she offered. “For seeing us.”
I urged her, “Keep the coat,” when she attempted to dismiss it. “I’ve got another.”
“I can’t—”
“You can,” I replied. “Please. Call it my good deed for the year.”
She looked at me as if she wanted to disagree, then shook her head and threatened to cry once again.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Okay.”
With my coat draped over her knees and the infant tucked in close, I watched her return to the cold.
Someone beat on my front door a week later.
It was enough, I assured myself on the bus ride home. A tiny act of kindness. A warm spot to sit, some soup, and a coat.
By habit, I set out two plates at the kitchen table that evening and then put one back.
I said, “You’d have liked her,” to Ellen’s vacant seat. “Stubborn. Scared. Trying anyway.”
The creak of the heater and the tick of the clock were the house’s response.
Someone knocked on my front door a week later, right as my leftover casserole was about to finish cooking in the oven.
The knock was not courteous. It made the picture frames rattle and caused an awful sensation in my chest.
I no longer get unannounced visits.
“Are you aware of what you did last Thursday?”
After using a dish towel to wipe my hands, I opened the door.
On my porch were two men dressed in black suits. They are both tall. Both are serious. Men who appear to iron their shoelaces.
I said, “Can I help you?”
The taller one moved to the front.
“Sir,” he said. “Are you aware of what you did last Thursday? That woman and her baby?”
The other man leaned in before I could respond.
With a voice as icy as ice, he stated, “You understand you’re not getting away with this,”
When someone wants you to be afraid, they say stuff like that.
I felt sick to my stomach.
When someone wants you to be afraid, they say stuff like that.
I gripped the doorframe tighter.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” I responded. “And who are you? Police? FBI?”
The taller one gave a headshake.
“No, sir,” he replied. “Nothing like that. But we do need to talk to you.”
I considered slamming the door and dialing 911, but then I remembered their dexterous hands and my sluggish knees.
A weird little kick went through my heart.
A car door slammed out on the street before I could make up my mind.
I bent over them.
At the curb was a black SUV. A woman emerged from the passenger side, holding something in her arms.
A weird little kick went through my heart.
Penny was the one.
She was now wearing a heavy winter coat that zipped up to her chin. Her ears were covered by a knitted hat. Lucas, the infant, was wrapped in a fluffy snowsuit and a small bear-earred hat.
I felt a little less stress in my shoulders.
They appeared cozy. secure.
Penny rushed up the path.
Calling, “It’s okay,” she said. “These are my brothers.”
I felt a little less stress in my shoulders.
She said, “We just needed to make sure you actually lived here,” and moved Lucas. “We didn’t want to scare some random old man.”
“Too late for that,” I whispered.
I said, “How did you even find me?”
“No sense freezing on the porch.”
The younger brother raised his voice.
His words, “We went back to Walmart,” “Security pulled the parking lot footage. Got your license plate. The police already had a report going for our sister, so they helped with the address.”
Almost apologetically, he shrugged.
“I’m Stephan,” the taller one continued. “This is David.”
Slowly, I nodded.
“Well,” I replied, “since you’re already here, you might as well come in. No sense freezing on the porch.”
“You mind explaining before I die of curiosity?”
We filed into the living room. In the corner, the heater hummed softly. Ellen’s family photographs gazed from the walls.
Penny and Lucas sank down on the couch. David and Stephan remained upright, their hands clasped in front of them as if to protect the president.
My throat was cleaned.
“Now,” I glanced at Stephan and said, “about that ‘you’re not getting away with this’ business. Would you mind explaining before I die of curiosity?”
A smile appeared on his face for the first time.
“I meant you’re not getting away from your good deed, sir,” he replied. “Where we come from, good doesn’t disappear. It comes back.”
I released a breath I was unaware I had been suppressing.
I released a breath I was unaware I had been suppressing.
“You have a heck of a way of saying thank you,” I said.
David chuckled quietly.
He remarked, “We told him that,”
Stephan disregarded him.
“When Penny called us,” he said, “she was at the police station. She’d gone there after you left. Told them everything. They called us. We drove up that night.”
Suddenly, my hands felt awkward.
Slowly, Penny massaged Lucas’s back.
“The officer kept asking how long we’d been out there,” she muttered. “I told him about you. How you gave us your coat, bought us soup, didn’t ask for anything back.”
She looked up at me and said, “He wrote it in the report. Said it showed how bad things really were.”
Suddenly, my hands felt awkward.
“Report?” I asked again.
According to Stephan, “her ex is trying to get custody,” “Out of spite. He’s saying she’s unstable, can’t provide. The report helps show what he did.”
I felt a gradual, burning surge of anger.
I felt a gradual, burning surge of anger.
“He threw his own child out into the cold,” I responded.
“Yes, sir,” David said in response. “And you made sure they didn’t freeze.”
Penny’s tone faltered.
“I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stopped,” she replied. “Maybe I’d have gone back. Maybe I’d have done something stupid. But you fed us. You made me feel like we mattered for an hour. That was enough for me to walk into that station.”
She sniffed while simultaneously grinning and sobbing.
“Let us do something.”
She concluded by saying, “So we came to say thank you,” “Properly.”
Stephan gave a nod.
He said, “What do you need, Mr. Harris?” “Anything. House repairs. Rides. Groceries. Say the word.”
Feeling ashamed, I shook my head.
I said, “I’m alright,” “I live small. Don’t need much.”
Penny bent over.
“Please,” she said. “Let us do something.”
“I wouldn’t say no to an apple pie.”
I thought as I scratched my jaw.
“Well,” I concluded, “I wouldn’t say no to an apple pie. Been a long time since I had a homemade one.”
Penny’s entire face lit up.
She said, “I can do that,” “I used to bake with my mom all the time.”
A framed picture of Ellen on the mantel caught her attention.
She questioned, “Is that your wife?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s Ellen.”
“I’ll bring the pie in two days.”
“She looks kind.”
“She was,” I replied. “She’d have liked you showing up here with a baby and trouble.”
Penny grinned, her cheeks flushed.
She stood up and said, “I’ll bring the pie in two days,” “If that’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay,” I answered. “Just knock before Stephan gives me a heart attack again.”
Stephan flinched.
“Yes, sir,” he’d replied. “Fair enough.”
As I was doing the dishes, I noticed that I was humming.
They departed with handshakes, promises, and Lucas’s drowsy little fist wave.
After they were gone, the house felt different. Not more loudly. Less empty, that is.
As I was doing the dishes, I noticed that I was humming. I was shocked by that.
I was discussing whether or not cold cereal qualified as dinner when the doorbell rang two days later.
The aroma of butter and cinnamon wafted in before Penny did when I opened the door.
She held a pie in a dishtowel while she stood there. Lucas’s small mouth was open as baby slept in a carrier on her chest.
“I hope you like apple,” she answered. “I used my mom’s recipe.”
I had to close my eyes after just one bite.
“If I don’t, I’ll lie,” I informed her. “Come in.”
The kitchen table was where we sat. Ellen always saved the nice plates for company, so I pulled them out.
When I cut into the crust, it flaked. Curling up into the air was steam.
I had to close my eyes after just one bite.
“Lord,” I said. “You weren’t kidding. This is the real thing.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she chuckled.
“If you say that after the second slice, I’ll really believe you,” she replied.
“He just doesn’t want me to have anything.”
We conversed and ate. She told me more this time.
When she was young, her parents passed away. David and Stephan had filled the void as best they could.
“They act tough,” she remarked, rolling her eyes. “But they cried more than I did when Lucas was born.”
She discussed the forthcoming court dates. How a judge intervened and her ex-boyfriend abruptly realized he was interested in fatherhood.
“He doesn’t want Lucas,” she stated. “He just doesn’t want me to have anything.”
She gazed at her dish.
“What if I mess up again?”
“I’m scared,” she said. “What if the judge believes him? What if I mess up again?”
“Listen,” I leaned forward and said. “I watched you out there in the cold. You’re scared and you’re tired, but you were still holding that baby like the whole world depended on it. That counts for something.”
Her eyes grew wide.
She questioned, “You really think so?”
The answer was, “I know so,” “I’ve seen parents who didn’t care. You aren’t one of them.”
She gave Lucas a look.
“Then maybe I can learn something from you.”
“Sometimes I wish I had someone older to talk to,” she stated. “Someone who’s already messed up and survived it.”
I gave a snort. My response was, “Oh, I’ve messed up,” “You’re looking at the reigning champion.”
She grinned.
“Then maybe I can learn something from you,” she replied.
In response, “I’ve got coffee,” “And a table. Those are my qualifications.”
She looked around the kitchen, at the small porcelain rooster Ellen had cherished, the additional chair, and the pile of crossword puzzles.
“I’m going to bring you a berry pie on Saturday.”
“I’m going to bring you a berry pie on Saturday,” she abruptly announced. “If you don’t mind.”
A warm, strange laugh rose up in my chest.
“Mind?” I asked. “I haven’t looked forward to a Saturday this much since Ellen used to bribe me with pancakes to weed the yard.”
She also chuckled.
“Then it’s a plan,” she remarked as she got up and put on her coat. “You make the coffee. I’ll handle the sugar.”
I led her over to the door. The sky was clear, but the air outside was crisp.
The words “Drive carefully,” I said. “And tell your brothers they still owe me an apology for the dramatic entrance.”
She smiled.
