Matilda Blank

Matilda Blank

It was eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve and young Matilda Blank wanted nothing more than to get away.  Frost grew on the bus stop sign above her.  She thought she shouldn’t be waiting much longer.  Vaguely festive strings of lights glimmered around her, a reminder of the stories she used to believe.  It was only days before that she had learned who really put the presents under the tree, and the lights hadn’t looked the same since.  Matilda could not stay, knowing what she knew.

A few feet ahead, a traffic light flickered from red to green and she wondered if the lights change when there’s no one around to see them.  She imagined the colors shifting infinitely, regulating an empty night, and hoped that they didn’t.  She figured it was nearing midnight now; disheartened and a little bit tired, it occurred to her that the sun felt very far away.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”  The voice came from behind her, gruff and worn.  Matilda turned to the old man.  He wore a curious grin, and even under the faded moonlight she could see that his cheeks were flushed.  He stood above her, shivering jovially, apparently waiting for a response.

“I think it’s too cold,” she replied.  White steam fell heavily on her lips as she spoke, as if to emphasize her point.  She turned away in conclusion, but the man did not retreat.  Instead, he leaned down with a slight groan, and took a seat next to Matilda. 

“I used to come here every Christmas eve and listen to the quiet,” the man said distantly, watching the empty street, “Everyone is inside with their families tonight; it’s the only time these streets are silent.”  The old man held himself as he spoke into the chill winter night.  He began to shiver again.

“I left my family,” Matilda murmured after a moment.  She looked up and met the man’s gaze.  He had pale blue eyes, glazed with a sense of perpetual understanding.  He smiled dolefully and looked back into the vacant street.

“Are you lonely?” he asked.  The question seemed strange, though laced with welcoming warmth.

“Only tonight,” she said, and he nodded because he was alone too.

“You’re not staying for long?” the old man asked, examining the miniature suitcase that waited behind her.

“Only tonight,” she said again. 

The man grunted, and then they were both silent for a while.  Matilda looked back to the traffic light, but the bulbs had all grown dim, leaving in their place a magical darkness that only appears in the absence of artificial light. 

The man looked from Matilda to the empty traffic light.  “I breathe easier with the lights out,” the old man murmured.

Curiously, Matilda returned her gaze to the old man.  She examined him more closely this time �" his full white beard, his thin round glasses, the red in his cheeks.  “Who are you?” she asked with a breathlessness that only children can achieve.

The man smiled endearingly as he looked into the child’s lost face.  “Leonard Stansky,” the man said, “My wife always called me Leo.”

Matilda sighed and met the man’s smile.  “For a minute I thought…” she muttered, but she stopped; she knew it could not be.  She moved to speak again, to ask for his story or at least to thank him for sitting with her, but before she could form the words, Leonard Stansky was already rising from the curb.  He stood above her now, and they looked at each other in a curious silence.  A festive chime rang from the old man’s pocket watch; it was midnight, and he beamed in the glow of tomorrow’s moon. 

The old man shuffled his feet as he searched for the appropriate closing remarks.  Finally, he put on a serious face and said to Matilda, “Stay in town a while longer; the sun will come out soon enough.”  He buttoned his bright red coat around his big belly and looked up at the stars.  “It really was a lovely night,” he muttered into the sky.  Then, offering Matilda a knowing wink, he said in the jolliest of baritones, “Have a merry Christmas, my dear.”

The man then turned from Matilda and began unhurriedly forward, toward the single traffic light waiting in the distance.  The bulbs regained their functionality as Leo Stansky sauntered under them, though Matilda was sure they shone more brightly now than they had before.  Matilda’s days of waiting for magic had come to a close, but maybe they could be replaced with something more tangible, something even finer.  Snow began to flurry as a sweet understanding filled the child’s belly.  The dark was slowly fleeting, and as Matilda Blank turned in the direction of home, she could not help but feel a little bit less alone.