2. Who’s Larry?

Horrific visions of our new guest meeting Legolas at the door filled my mind, and I ran to answer the buzz. But the door was already open.

“Hey, Toni, hey, Paul.”

It was our cousin Michael, dropping in from around the corner like he often did. He usually called first, though.

“Hi, Mike,” I said. “Oh, this is . . . Larry. He’s from out of town.”

“Hi,” Michael said, holding his hand out to Legolas, who eyed it in confusion. Apparently they didn’t shake hands where he came from. Mike took the hint, and turned it into a little wave.

Then he remembered what he was here for. “Here,” he said, holding out a photocopied article. “My mum said to give this to Auntie Jo. It’s what she was asking about last night.”

“She’s not gonna be at Auntie Ellen’s?”

“No, she had to work.” Michael’s mother, Auntie Kathy, worked as a hospice nurse, so she worked a lot of weekends and holidays.

“Will you be there?”

“We’ll be there for dessert. I gotta go into work this morning.”
”Well, see you later then.”

“See ya. Nice meeting you, Larry.”

As soon as he left, Paul gave me a look that would have melted steel. “Larry?”

“Well, what else was I gonna call him?”

“Don’t call him anything! He’s leaving, remember?”

“We can’t just dump him somewhere! He doesn’t even remember where he lives!”

“How about we drop him off at the train station?” The train to Boston stopped only a few blocks from our place, making for an easy, carless commute.

I looked at Legolas, who stood at the window, looking out at the street. Elf or not, he seemed so out of place here. We couldn’t just abandon him like this.

“I’ll walk him down there,” I said. That would give me time to explain everything, if I could.

I went up behind Legolas and touched him on the shoulder. “Hey,” I said.

“Where am I?” he muttered, probably more to himself than to me. Poor guy, I felt so bad for him.

“Listen,” I said. “Let’s have some breakfast, and then I’ll walk you down to the train station. I think the next one leaves in about forty-five minutes. Okay?”

“Train?” He gave me that blank look again.

“The commuter train into Boston.”

“What is a train?”

“It’s . . .” The northbound express went by just at that moment. “That’s a train there. That’s not the one you’ll be taking, though. Yours goes the other way.”

“I will be . . . on that?” He looked—well, scared, actually. Maybe he was telling the truth.

“Breakfast is ready!” Paul announced.

Twenty minutes and a plate of runny eggs and burnt toast later, came the moment I had been dreading.

I pushed my chair back from the table. “We have to go now.”

“Go?” Legolas asked. Then he remembered what I had told him. “Oh. The train.”

“Yes. It’s just down the street here. Get your stuff together and I’ll take you.”

“Stuff?” He looked so cute when he was confused.

“Did you have any luggage or anything?”

“What is luggage?”

Paul was rolling his eyes and sighing as he took our plates off the table.

“Forget it,” I said. “Just grab whatever’s yours and we’ll go. I don’t want you to miss the train.”

Legolas disappeared into my room and came back with a small bag that looked like a one-shoulder backpack, and something I couldn’t identify right away. It was a long, slender pole slung over his shoulder.

“I’m ready,” he said.

I grabbed my jacket and led him out the door.

It was a nice day, still early enough in the year to be cool, but not too cold. It was sunny, and the neighborhood kids were out on their bikes and roller blades, or just running up and down the street. I waved to them.

“People are very friendly here,” Legolas remarked.

“Yeah, it’s a nice neighborhood.” I walked along, the breeze ruffling my hair. I was glad I had finally cut it after “thinking” about it for so long. I used to have really long, thick hair (it’s the Italian in me), but it got to be a pain to keep up, so I took the plunge and cut it all off. I was left with a pixie cut that my mom said looked “cute” and Paul said made me look like Winona Ryder.

We got to the corner, and I saw that Crazy Joe was in his usual place.

We didn’t know what his real name was, of course. If you live in or near a big city, you’ve seen guys like him: scruffy, disheveled-looking old men, sitting in a doorway or on the curb with a paper cup (usually from Dunkin’ Donuts) full of coins in front of them, muttering to themselves. Joe had a little sign propped up in front of him that said PLEASE GIVE TO A HOMELESS VETERAN.

Joe was pretty much a fixture of the neighborhood, and I tried to give him a dollar or two every time I passed. There but for the grace of God, y’know? I would have said hello if he had shown any sign of being aware of my presence. Little did I know . . .

I was reaching into my purse for a dollar when Legolas said, “Gandalf?”

I looked up in surprise. Crazy Joe was looking at us with interest, and delight.

“Well, well,” he said, in a voice completely unlike his “Crazy Joe” ramblings. “Legolas, my dear boy! What brings you here?”