The little girl with tiny fingers.(Kevin Hughes) Her tiny fingers, so small, so soft, so determined, tried to hold the needle steady. She was only five and one half years old, and her gloves had no fingertips on them leaving her tiny fingers frozen at the tips.
The candle sat next to her, a symbol only. It didn’t give off much heat, or light. The candle just made the idea of forlorn take shape in the shadows. Still, the girl with the tiny fingers took another deep breath, focused, concentrated, and tried again to get the needle to hold steady.

She was making her Christmas gift to herself. She had lived in the stairwell under the back fire escape ever since her Mother abandoned her on a busy New York Street more than three months ago. The bums and wino’s and strung out detritus that counted as people -only to themselves and a few kind strangers- kept a look out for her. They had built the little wooden hovel she called home with scraps of wood and a large piece of corrugated steel. Her nickname was squirrel to all of the invisible people drifting beside her on the river of woe.

The little girl would dart towards a piece of food, or a bottle of water, or even the worn gloves with no fingertips that a kind Hobo had left for her, snatch it in her tiny fingers, then dart back to the hidden safety of her hutch. She had two ways to get out under the stairs, where no person over the height of three feet could follow. So she felt safe in the Hutch. In the corner by the candle she had her few possessions: A child’s teacup, one tiny spoon, a quarter, two sandwich bags (still new and unused), a plastic dolly less than an inch long with a faded smile on its face, and lastly, a picture.

The picture she had put in a plastic lunch bag (there were three new bags when she found them by the curb- one held the picture now) she held it so often to stare at, that she wanted it to last forever. In her child’s mind, the bag would keep it safe forever. The picture was of a Man holding his Daughter’s hand. He was tall and strong, and well dressed. She was tiny, as small as the girl with tiny fingers, wearing a pink coat, with white shoes, and a pink hat with a white feather. The picture was taken from the back, like the Dad/Daughter were walking away from the camera. It was a wide sidewalk surrounded by trees they were strolling under -together- hand in hand, Dad and Daughter…she loved that picture. She kept her hopes and dreams alive by looking at that picture.

She would pretend that she was that little girl in the pink coat. It was her Dad's hands she was holding as they strolled thru the scenic park. She never had a Dad. She didn’t want a Mom. She had a mom for a while, and well, the drugs had taken all the humanity out of her mom, and left her mother bereft of any semblance of real motherhood, a shell of a mother, with only giving birth to the little girl with tiny fingers as her fragile claim to the title. The little girl did not miss her, nor did she want her back. She wanted a Dad.

Her tiny fingers pushed the needle with the pink yarn one more time through the rag she was using for the body of her doll. She was making the doll that the girl in the picture was holding. One hand of the girl in the picture held her Daddy’s hand, the other hand held a Raggedy Ann Dolly. She couldn’t make a Dad, but she could make a Dolly…she thought. She had yarn, a rag, and few scraps of felt, and some cotton. She found a bag full of those cast away remnants of material in the alley behind the tailor shop on 112th street. She thought she could make a dolly from them, and she was determined to make a Raggedy Ann.

It was dark in the hutch, even with the candle. It was cold too. Too cold for her tiny fingers to work the needle. She made a decision. For her, a big one, one not lightly entered into. She would go to the Library. It was a risk. Grown ups sometimes noticed her, and gave her that stare that said: “Hmm…where is your Mother? What are you doing here? Let me help put you in an Orphanage.” Kind people had no idea how unkind it was to put a kid in an orphanage to be looked at like puppies in cages, rejected time after time. Or to whimper quietly as yet another Foster Parent had to bring you back to wait for yet another chance at a home. She spent almost three months doing that cycle of hope, despair, rejection, and misery.

It was so bad living like that, that she actually ran back to where her mother lived and asked to stay there. That lasted all of a week. Then, her mother abandoned her - and that was more than three months ago. The little girl with the tiny fingers liked her independence. The Adults around her in the alleys and deserted streets she roamed, were not the type to either take her in, or turn her in. It was a tacit, but binding agreement with the other lost souls: You mind your own business, and I will mind mine. They watched out for her, as the next youngest person in that underground community of misfits, lost souls, and broken hearts, was a boy of 12. Like her, he was furtive, darting, secretive and skittish. They got along fine.

The little girl packed her tiny bag of sewing material, her only needle, then blew out the candle. She only had the one coat to wear, and she was wearing it. It was her blanket too, along with the newspapers she covered herself with at night. She knew when she got to the Library, she would have to take her gloves off before she went in to sit down in the children’s section. They were a dead giveaway. But she knew right where the hidden nook was, the nook where most adults didn’t look, and most kids didn’t want to sit. It was usually a great place to hide for a while.

If she saw the “look” from any of the adults nearby, she would prepare to skitter out of the Library. She didn’t have to leave at the first looks she got, for those were usually just kind of curious looks, with a soft: “Wonder who she is?” It was the second take, the double look, the intense scrutiny look that made her scramble away- that is the look that says: “What? Something isn’t right here." Then good intentions would lead to bad things for the little girl with the tiny fingers. She was always hyper alert in the Library. It was warm tho…so warm. And well lit too. She could work on her dolly until she saw glances in her direction turn into looks.

It was the Warmth that did her in. Hunger she was used to. At least they had a drinking fountain in the Library, so she had had her fill of water. But the warmth had creeped in like a dream to cart her off to sleep. Her dolly, her picture in the sandwich bag, and her needle all splayed out in front of her - laying where they had spilled from her tiny fingers when she succumbed to the gift of warmth.

He was a big man. A quiet man. Pleasant to greet, difficult to engage in conversation. He loved the Library, not only because of the books he so loved, but because you couldn’t talk in a Library. He didn’t have to put his armor on (as he called it) to face up to conversations with complete strangers, about subjects or people he didn’t know, never met, and never would. He never watched the news, did not own a computer, and was probably the last person in New York City with a wall phone. He liked it that way. He was thirty two years old, and had retired three years ago. His design had saved companies billions of dollars, and made him millions.

He bought his small two room apartment in an upscale building three years ago. It had a balcony that he loved, even in winter. It had a nice view too. HIs second home was the Library. He had seen the little girl with the tiny fingers come to the Library several times in the last three months. She never noticed him, because he had the same skills she had at becoming invisible, but he had a quarter century more experience to hone his skills in. His glances were never furtive or jerky, that drew attention, his glances glided over people with the same imperceptible ease of an air hockey puck sliding along. No one ever noticed how much he took in, he was quite aware of your un-awareness. That is why he noticed the little girl with tiny fingers, but she never noticed him. He was better at being invisible. He didn’t register on her radar at all. She lit his up.

He never followed her out of the Library, but he always knew where she was in it. He knew the nook. She never knew that the occasional couple dollars she found on the floor there. Or the bag of chips. Or the half of sandwich still wrapped in paper. All were left by him. It just seemed to her, that something was always left unattended in the nook. She had found so many little things there in the nook, that she quietly took it for granted that she would find a small treasure, treat, or legal tender laying around. It never dawned on her that those things were placed there, not dropped or forgotten. For that would imply kindness, and kindness in her world, amounted to only being left alone.

He was tall enough to be able to look over the shelves into the nook. When he last checked on her, she was busy intently sewing some rags together. This time, she was slumped over in sleep with her few tools scattered about in front of her. The big man quietly fitted himself into the nook, sitting almost Yoga like on the carpet, he took up the picture and looked. It only took him a millisecond to make the connections. She was making a Raggedy Ann. She wanted to be the girl in the picture. He knew it like he knew the sun would come up tomorrow, or the cab driver in Uptown would be from somewhere other than New York, or that being polite is rude in a deli, as it takes up valuable time.

He wasn’t aware of it. Yet. But that picture took root in his mind. He picked up the items scattered about on the floor, took the needle into his large hands with long strong capable fingers and began to sew. His motions were precise, concise, and with purpose. He had cut a shape out to make a pattern, then with quick snips of the scissors, made that pattern come to life. It would be a Raggedy Ann that looked like her skin had been replaced by a quilt, but it would be recognizable as a Raggedy Ann. He worked quietly, quickly, with assurance. He was unaware that he was humming.

The little girl with the tiny fingers woke up slowly. At first, she was unaware or unable to ascertain where she was. The first thing she noticed was the scarf placed around her as a blanket. She was so tiny that it filled this unusual role with ease. The second thing she noticed were the giant padded gloves that had been placed under her cheek as a pillow. They were bigger than her whole head, and oh so soft. They smelled beautiful to her. She recognized that smell, it was called: clean. She stirred a bit, and snuggled back into the gloves, and pulled the scarf around her self. She was warm, felt safe, and comfortable. Those were moments to be treasured in their rare appearance in the life of a street urchin, so she took a bit to savor them all at once.

Then she opened her eyes. This time, she almost leaped from supine to standing in a single fluid stunned motion. Her Dolly was done! It lay right in front of her like a wish granted. It had a shiny quilt like appearance, button eyes, yarn for hair. It was the grandest most beautiful Raggedy Ann doll ever. She picked it up and held it tight. She would never let go, never! Then she looked over and noticed the big man sitting up against the book shelf. She backed up against the corner of the nook. Uncertain, confused, but thinking furiously. She looked down at his big hands, then over at the gloves. She looked at the scarf that thought it was a blanket. Her mind, sharpened by months on the street, figured it out in a single heartbeat. Those were his gloves, his scarf. How long had she been asleep?

She looked at his shirt. Two big buttons were missing from it. She looked at her Dolly. Then, for the first time, she looked at him directly. Even though he was sitting down, and she was standing, she had to look up a bit to make direct eye contact. He was looking at her looking at him. She held the doll out in front of her, half as a shield, half presenting her treasure to be admired. “Thank -you. You made this while I was sleeping, didn’t you?”

The big man smiled. “Yes, young lady, I did.”

No one had ever called her: “Young lady.” No one had ever made her a Dolly, or anything else for that matter. No one had ever spoken with her before without an ounce of superiority or that adult look that says: “I know what is best for you.” The big man just continued to smile and be …well…safe.

The little girl with the tiny hands pulled the Dolly in close. Then surprising both herself, and the big man, she threw her arms around him and hugged him with all the strength in her tiny arms. She had no idea why she was crying. Nor did he. He didn’t even know he was crying until she leaned back, and used one of the arms of the Dolly to wipe his tears. She used gentle soft butterfly strokes to trace the rivers of tears he had rolling down his face. In turn, when she was done, he took the other arm of the Dolly, and with gentle pressure, and sure soft gliding strokes, used the quilted arm of the Dolly to wipe away the small rivers of tears that had flooded her face.

Then he took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and with the same care and precise movements he had wiped the little girl with the tiny fingers face off, he wiped off both the Dolly’s arms so that they were dry too. She watched with great care, and held the Dolly carefully still, inspecting his work as soon as he was done.

“She is dry now.”

“I am glad." He said.

Just then, a Librarian spotted the two of them. She came over, took in all the scraps of material, glanced at the doll, and smiled.

“Well your Dad and you will have to clean up your Arts and Crafts now. We are closing early today. Tomorrow is Christmas. Even and we won’t open again until the 27th. I love your Dolly!”

She walked off, having no idea the gift she had just given the little girl with the tiny fingers. The Librarian had thought he was her Dad! She, for a brief moment, thought so too. Then she realized that once they left the Library - that gift would be over. It brought a sad smile to her face. But, she wrapped that single joyful mistake in memory, and put it deep in her heart to pull out when needed. For a moment, just a moment- she had a Dad.

The big man saw the smile of joy fade to a wry sad smile on the little girl with the tiny fingers face. He knew what it meant. He had studied that picture while she was sleeping. He had used his organized mind to lay out the steps he needed to take. He could, and would, make that picture real.

“You heard the Librarian, Little Lady. We need to gather our stuff and go."

“Go where?”

It had been so long since the little girl with the tiny fingers had felt hope, that she didn’t recognize it in her own voice until she heard it out loud. Hope covered her two words: “Go where?" like snow blanketed fifth avenue, or syrup on pancakes, or the sun drenched a beach. Hope was dripping from those two words.

“Why home, of course. Your Dolly needs a place to stay."

He stood up while scooping everything into one of the pockets in his coat. Except for the picture in the bag. She noticed that he took that, and placed it carefully in the top pocket of his shirt. It was safe there next to his heart. He reached down with his other hand to take her little hand with the tiny fingers in his. She reached up, as natural a movement for her as breathing. Surprising her that she hadn’t noticed how unafraid and completely safe she felt. His hand felt perfect in hers. Her Dolly was comfortably locked in the crook of her other arm. Her Dad, her Dolly and her… they all left for home together.

As they walked out of the Library, the two Librarians watched them with a twinkle in their eyes. The younger one said out loud:

“That would be a great picture.”

The older one said:

“Yes. It is."


by Kevin Hughes

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