Rope: Repurposed

Plato wiped his face with his sleeve, which was already dampened with tears. In front of him sat a blank sheet of paper; a sheet of paper which he believed would begin his legacy.

He picked up the pencil and scrawled ‘I’m sorry’.

Immediately, he regretted it. It was too melodramatic. He erased it and blew the eraser shavings away.

His mind was as blank as the paper.

Across the room, on top of his bed, there sat a bundle of rope.

He’d purchased it that morning at a utility store. He remembered the cashier asking him what he was getting it for.

“Had a big tree fall down in my backyard. Gotta move it out to the road so the city can haul it off,” he’d lied. It was believable enough, he’d thought. The cashier must have thought so, too.

He sighed and set down the pencil.

There was still something he wanted to do before he died. He had always wanted to visit Italy. It was now or never. So he packed a bag and headed to the airport.

A week later, Plato got off of the plane. His mind focused on one thing: getting his luggage and then going home and finishing his plan. As he turned to exit the gate, he was met by a small boy. He had striking blue eyes, though they were underlined by dark circles. 

“Hi Dad!” The boy squealed excitedly as he wrapped his arms around Plato’s waist in a tight squeeze.

Plato was dumbfounded. He’d been numb throughout the trip to Italy. Even when he was seeing the beautiful aspects of culture and nature, he felt absolutely nothing. This had only solidified his intent to end his life. 

And now, trapped in the grasp of a boy he’d never met, he felt a mild sense of annoyance. He nudged the boy’s arm and said, “Let go of me. You have the wrong person.”

He managed to free himself from the boy and continued on his path to baggage claim.

It took about thirty seconds for Plato to realize the boy was following him.

He leaned down and looked at the boy at eye level. “Where are your parents?”

The boy titled his head in confusion. “What do you mean? You’re not my dad?”

“I’m not your dad.”

The boy became tearful, but Plato managed to ask him for his name and for his mother’s phone number.

His name was Albert. Luckily, Albert knew the number by heart.

“Hello?” A woman answered.

Plato cleared his throat. “Um. Yes, hello. Is this Albert’s mother?”

“Yes, is he alright?”

Plato glanced over at him. “He’s fine. I’m with him now at the airport.”

The woman gasped. “His father was supposed to pick him up hours ago! Damn it!”

Plato was hit by the realization that this young boy is unaccounted for. He’s waiting for his father who seemingly isn’t coming for him. 

The woman continued, “Look, you wouldn’t mind looking after him for a few days, would you? Just until I can get him a ticket home. I just need a little break, alright? You know how kids can be such a pain in the ass.”

Plato was in disbelief. “What? I can’t just take your kid. I’ll bring him to the police station -“

“No!” the woman interrupted. “You can’t tell the police. Please. You can’t!”

“Why not?”

“They’ll take my boy away from me. Please, sir. Please just give me the chance to make this right.”

Plato sighed. Albert looked up. He knew from his own childhood how rough foster care was. He would feel horrible if a kid ended up in the system because of him.

But this wasn’t his problem. He had something to do, and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him. He’d postponed this for too long already. 

Plato lowered his voice. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Albert’s mother cried. “I’m all he has. Please. Just a few days. Three days at the most. I promise.”

“Alright.” The word escaped his mouth before he could stop it. 

Just a few more days, Plato told himself. Then it’ll all be over.

Back at his apartment, Plato jammed the key into the doorknob and twisted.

“This is where you live?” Albert asked.

“This is where I live.”

“Wow.”

Plato went to the linen closet and grabbed a sheet, blanket, and an extra pillow. He laid the sheet down on the sofa and folded the blanket on top, and tossed the pillow at the edge.

Albert pointed at the sofa. “This is my bed?”

“Yes. For now.”

The boy sat down, bouncing himself on the cushion a couple of times.

Plato turned the TV on and tuned to a cartoon channel.

“Here you go,” he handed Albert the remote.

“Where are you going?”

“My room. Keep it down, please. Just let me know if you need anything.”

Halfway through the hallway, the boy’s small voice sounded again. “I’m hungry.”

Plato almost said, ‘Of course you are,’ but stopped himself.

“Okay. What do you want to eat?”

It was a pizza night. Albert ate 4 slices.

“I guess you were hungry,” Plato chuckled.

“Yeah.”

That night, Plato lay awake. It was odd; he had planned to be dead by then. It felt like when a sports game goes into overtime and the stakes just get higher each second.

He looked at the end of his bed where the rope still sat. He stood up and put it in the bottom drawer of his dresser. He didn’t want the boy to see it. A child’s eyes should never have to see such an object of despair.

Three small taps landed on his bedroom door. 

“Yes?” Plato called. 

“Can I come in?” Albert’s small voice carried through. 

“Why?” 

“I’m lonely.” 

Plato rolled his eyes. “No. Just go to sleep, kid.”

He heard the boy’s light footsteps return to the living room. Plato closed the dresser drawer and went back to bed where he fell asleep soon after.

A few days went by and Plato tried to call the boy’s mother. There was no answer.

He taught Albert how to play Checkers. Albert ended up beating him twice. 

The next day, he tried to reach Albert’s mother again. This time, a man answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi. I’m looking to speak with Albert’s mother, please.”

The line was silent. And then, the voice whispered: “She’s dead.”

Plato shook his head in disbelief. “What?!”

“My sister, Paula. She’s dead. She was in an accident yesterday.”

“I have her son. She was supposed to fly him home today.”

“You have my nephew?”

“Yes. Can he go live with you?”

The man sighed. “No. I have five children of my own. There’s no room for him.”

Of course. “Is there anyone else he can live with?”

“Not really. Sorry. His mother was a drunk, and the rest of my family are no different. He’d be better off anywhere else.”

Click. The line went dead.

After the call ended, Plato looked at Albert. He was sitting on the sofa, fixated on the cartoons on TV. Completely oblivious to the fact that his mother was dead.

Plato would have to tell him eventually. But he couldn’t muster the strength.

Instead, the next day Plato went to the social services office. Albert waited in the car.

“May I help you?” A woman approached him.

“Yes. I’ve got a boy whose mother just passed away and he needs somewhere to go.”

“Where has he been living?”

“With me.”

The woman suggested having a meeting with the three of them. Plato got Albert from the car and returned.

They were led into an office, where the same woman Plato had spoken to before sat behind a cluttered desk. Stacks of paperwork towered in front of her. Folders that were crammed so full they looked like they might burst. Plato quickly glanced over some of the forms. Intake form. Child surrender form. Child maltreatment report. Emergency abuse assessment.

The woman smiled. “You must be Albert.”

The boy nodded.

“Albert, are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like living with Plato?”

“Yes.”

Why would she ask him that? Plato stammered. “What-“

The woman ignored him and continued. “Albert, you don’t want to go to foster care, do you?”

The boy shook his head. “No.”

Plato tried to interject again. “Excuse me, I-“

“Sir,” the woman said. “The child is happy with you. You provide him with a safe place to live, food, water, and his other basic necessities. The system is already full, and when possible it’s best to avoid sending more children into it. Now, if you absolutely refuse to keep him, I’ll have no choice but to give him over to the State. It’s your call.”

Albert cried. “Plato, please! Please let me stay. I’ll be good! I’ll watch cartoons and be quiet and I won’t bother you. I’m a good kid, please-“

“Alright,” Plato relented. “Albert, I know you are. You are a good kid. I’m not getting rid of you. Don’t cry, buddy.”

Albert wrapped his arms around Plato’s waist just like he’d done at the airport, and this time Plato hugged him back.

The woman cleared her throat. “It’s settled then. Thank you for stopping by.”

As Plato turned to the door, the woman handed him a business card. “In case you change your mind,” she said. 

Plato was quiet on the drive back home. His plan was ruined. But he was needed now. The boy’s life wasn’t yet ruined. Albert had the opportunity to make sure it wouldn’t be. He would never forgive himself if he passed it up.

They stopped at a department store downtown. Plato let the boy choose his own clothes and a nice pair of shoes. 

Tomorrow, he’ll register him for school. Tomorrow, he’ll begin the rest of his life. Tomorrow, Plato will continue on. 

Four days later, at dinner, Albert asked Plato a question. 

“Do you have a rope?”

Plato almost choked on his food. “What? Why?”

“I saw a tree in the backyard,” Albert stabbed his fork through another piece of chicken. “And I saw a tire in the shed. I thought we could make a tire swing, maybe.”

So that’s what they did. Plato retrieved the bundle of rope from his dresser, and headed out back with Albert to make the swing. Then they took turns swinging on it. 

For a split second, Plato felt like a boy himself. 

That night, Plato tore up the social service woman’s business card and flushed the scraps down the toilet.