Chapter 10 - The Spring on Elm Street
Six months later, the frost on Elm Street was long gone.
The bitter winds that had blown off the river were replaced by a soft, humid breeze that carried the smell of blooming clover and fresh paint.
Where Barlow Recycling had once stood—a dirty, gray eyesore of rusty iron, oil-stained gravel, and crushed cans—there was now a green lawn that stretched across an entire city block.
There were long, smooth concrete paths for tricycles, three yellow oak swings that didn't squeak, a small pond with wooden ducks, and a heavy brass plaque mounted on a granite stone near the entrance.
THE EMMA AND LILY WILSON PLAYGROUND Built in Honor of Courage, Love, and Forty-Three Cents.
It was three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon.
The park was filled with children. Dozens of kids from the lower ward—kids in soft, clean clothes—were running across the grass, their laughter rising into the clear blue sky.
Sitting on a green bench near the pond was Clara Wilson.
She was wearing a yellow cotton dress that showed the healthy, pink color of her arms. Her dark hair was shiny, tied back with a blue ribbon, and her cheeks were full. She was reading a book, but every few minutes she would look up, her eyes soft with peace, to watch her daughters.
Across the lawn, two five-year-old girls were running behind a large, golden retriever puppy that was clumsily chasing a red rubber ball.
Emma and Lily were wearing matching blue denim overalls and brand-new red sneakers with white soles that didn't have a single piece of duct tape on them.
Standing near the swings, holding a paper cup of coffee and wearing a simple gray linen shirt with the sleeves turned up, was Harrison.
He watched the puppy trip over its own floppy ears and tumble onto the grass, making both girls collapse into fits of breathless, high-pitched giggling.
His driver, Thomas, stood a few paces back, wearing a casual polo shirt instead of his dark uniform.
"They look happy, sir," Thomas said softly.
"They are happy, Thomas," Harrison said.
"And you, sir?"
Harrison looked down at his right hand.
In his palm, he held a small, polished brass charm that he had attached to his key ring. It was shaped like a tiny, crushed aluminum can, stamped on the side with four simple numbers: 0.43.
"I’m quiet, Thomas," Harrison said. "For the first time in my life, my mind is completely quiet."
Emma saw him standing by the swings. She stopped playing with the dog, grabbed Lily by the sleeve, and the two of them came running across the green lawn, their new red sneakers making quick, rhythmic taps against the grass.
They didn't stop until they hit Harrison’s legs, both of them wrapping their small arms around his knees.
Harrison laughed—a deep, booming sound that made three mothers sitting nearby turn their heads and smile—and reached down, lifting both girls into his arms at once.
"Is the dog being good?" Harrison asked.
"He ate my sneaker," Lily reported proudly, holding up a red shoe that had a small wet bite mark on the toe.
"I’ll buy him a ball that tastes better," Harrison promised.
Emma reached out her tiny, clean hand and touched the lapel of his linen shirt. She didn't look at his shoes, and she didn't look at his watch. She looked directly into his eyes—those dark, clear eyes that no longer looked cold.
"Mister Harrison?" she whispered.
"Yes, Emma?"
"Are we still poor?"
May you like
Harrison looked past her shoulder to the green lawn, to the thirty children playing in the sunshine, to Clara sitting on the bench with a book in her lap, and then down at the two small faces looking up at him with complete, unquestioning trust.
"Emma," Harrison said softly, pressing his forehead gently against hers. "We are the richest people in the whole world."
