Welcome
written by: Kim Favors
Dammit, I’m gonna be late again, and I still don’t know what to wear. Why did I let them talk me into this — I’m 77 years old for Chrissakes.
Wait, there’s that funky T-shirt someone left in the donation box outside the shop.
Says Welcome in different languages. Including Ukrainian.
And it fits — if I suck in my gut. It’ll have to do.
Not that that’ll help much.
What if she sees me and runs screaming back onto the bus? Last time I got up close and personal with a mirror, I looked like a balding warthog with tusks as teeth.
Most folks in this small town know me as Dusty, who runs the Dime N Dollar thrift shop. A few also know how cantankerous I can be in the mornings. Especially if I’ve run out of coffee. Wonder if she can cook? I doubt it.
If I just don’t show, maybe she could go home with someone else.
I see people out walking. Quite a crowd gathering up the street. I’d better close up and get going.
Damn, the first bus has already arrived, and everyone has gotten off.
The church ladies have their tables set up. Two for registration, the rest for food and donated stuff.
One of them is waving me over. It’s that nice Ukrainian gal who settled here last year. And she has a young girl with her.
“Dusty, once again, you’re late,” Nadiya smiles. “We’ve been talking all about you.”
The girl with her is scrawny, with straggly brown hair, wearing a backpack and dragging a battered suitcase. Maybe 8 or 9. I can tell she’s both exhausted and scared, yet still on alert.
She’s looking at me warily. I’d look at me warily, too.
Speaking first in Ukrainian, then English, Nadiya says the girl is called Alina, and she’ll be staying with me for three or four weeks until her father or other relatives can be located.
“If not, then we’ll place her with a Ukrainian family.
“Alina understands English and speaks it a little. Alina, this is Dusty. He’ll take good care of you.” I just nod, not sure what to say or do.
Alina points to a Welcome on the front of my shirt and signals with her finger for me to turn around. At least the girl shows some spunk.
She seems to relax a bit.
“Your shirt on the back says Welcome in Ukrainian,” Nadiya says. “Now, before I send you off, is there anything, Alina, that you want to tell Dusty?
“Don’t tell me, tell him, it’s OK.”
As I reach down to pick up her suitcase, Alina taps my arm and whispers, “I make good coffee.”
I try to hide my grin. “How about if you call me Uncle Dusty. Can you do that?”
She nods, and with a hint of a smile, takes my hand.
Alina and her Uncle Dusty. What a pair.
