Harold Moran was haunting the doorway.

He stood inside of it like maybe it could make him invisible or like maybe something about doorways was familiar to him, calming, less empty somehow than other places. He stood there watching in the way that children do because sometimes pretending to be a part of something was easier than saying hello, and so the doorway held him up and he leaned against it wearing wrinkled black pants and a muddy white t-shirt.

Roll call went by, echoed across the floors of the gym, but Harold’s name wasn’t called because really he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be somewhere else, in some other town or on some other planet where things were easier and where people knew his name, and instead he was here. Seven years old in a new town and seven years old in this doorway, seven years old and not on any of the clean white papers that teachers always held when they called out to other children. Harold’s name didn’t get called, but he imagined them calling it. He imagined how he would lift up his hand and say “here” and how he would be less afraid, maybe, if they just called out his name. He thought he would sit next to the red-headed girl in the lime green t-shirt and he would play catch with the boy who had band-aids on both knees. He would laugh at things that were funny and he would make friends, and every time the teacher at the front of the room clapped in excited encouragement and enthusiasm, Harold thought he would clap, too. He would clap his hands, too, and then he would have fun. Everything here seemed fun, Harold thought to himself, and everything at his new home across the street seemed strange. Sad, even. Or scary. Harold liked to pretend that, instead of spending his summer days at home across the street, he would come here and he would be on one of these lists. He liked to watch and he liked to pretend. He haunted the doorway because deep down inside he wanted to speak up. He wanted to step forward and say “My name is Harold Moran, and I’m here.”

But instead he just waited, imagined, and when the teacher at the front of the room glanced over toward the door and offered him a smile, Harold Moran didn’t know what to do. So he ran.

And the teacher followed him, and really that was how Scranton, Pennsylvania changed Harold‘s life.

*****

The screen door had swung closed hard behind the little boy and Andre stood out on the sidewalk, wondering whether he should go back to the gym or stay here and knock. He’d left Caroline with all of those kids and no real explanation, which he figured she’d have a lot to say about once he returned , and it was that knowledge that pushed him toward rapping his fingers against the chipped metal frame of the door of this house. At least this way he’d have a story to tell her, a conversation he could relay and a reason for practically sprinting away from the Boys and Girls Club like his ass was on fire. At least this way he’d have an excuse.

He carefully navigated the uprooted walkway that cut through the center of the house’s front lawn, taking a second to glance around at the mud that probably used to be grass once and the way it had been dug into, carved out, like as if someone had used their hands or a stick and had spent hours writing out oversized words in some foreign language. The front porch was empty except for a solitary wicker rocking chair that sat alone in the corner, motionless and unaffected by the slight breeze that was rolling lazily through the Tuesday morning air. Andre shifted on his feet nervously and wondered what the hell he was doing here.

He knocked and he waited, sucking in a deep breath when the voice of an old man answered, calling out “hang on” like it was a declaration of war or an order from a drill sergeant. Andre suddenly felt unkempt in his calf-length gym shorts and sky blue t-shirt, and had the ludicrous instinct to tuck the edges of his shirt into the waist band of his pants. He scratched at his forehead instead and waited patiently for somebody to show up behind the screen.

Eventually a man stepped forward, appearing like a ghost out of mist or maybe like an actor from behind a curtain, materializing out of the shadows inside the house, standing separated from Andre both by the worn out screen of the door and by his perfectly executed, hard, and disinterested expression. His face had been worn like old leather boots and his head was shaved bald, precise, clean and tan and cracked with age. He was the sort of seventy-something who seemed stronger and larger than any thirty year old man could ever dream of being, mostly because he carried himself with well-earned authority and dignity, his shoulders broad and straight and his crisp white t-shirt pulled taut over the well-defined muscles of his chest. A navy blue anchor had been stained into the skin of his forearm by a needle and was pulled long and faded from years of proud display.

Andre definitely felt like he should tuck in his shirt.

“Sir?” he began because the captain, or sergeant, or whatever he had been once, was stubbornly silent and Andre wasn’t sure how else to begin, wasn’t sure why he was even standing here like this, blubbering, young and foolish and intimidated by the knowing, suspicious look in The Captain’s eye.

“What is it?” he barked out gruffly, sniffing after the words were out of his mouth, and Andre thought this guy would’ve been a pirate in another time. Or maybe a king. And either way Andre was ill-equipped to stand up to him.

“Uh, I’m sorry to bother you, I just…” he shifted on his feet again and cleared his throat as The Captain looked him over, glanced down and frowned for a second at Andre’s unclean Sketchers. “Is there a boy living here? About seven or eight years old?” he wondered, his voice light and his eyebrows raised up high and frightened and The Captain just watched him, stared him down and readjusted the belt at his waist like he was getting ready to reach right through the screen and grab Andre by the neck. Eventually he offered up one single nod of his head, which Andre took to mean that yes there was a boy living here and who wants to know about it? He cleared his throat again, awkward, unsure, and he gestured over his shoulder toward the big brick building he’d just come from. “I work over at the Boys and Girls Club, Sir, and I’ve noticed a young boy standing in the doorway of our gym for the past few weeks and today I saw him come in here. So, um, I was just wondering if he wanted to maybe sign up or…um…” The Captain crossed his arms and tilted his head, squinting and assessing and Andre wondered if it would be considered rude of him to just turn around and run away at this point.

“Harold is my grandson, and he is not ready for socialization at this time, young man,” The Captain proclaimed and Andre felt himself nodding like a bobble head, agreeing just because it seemed so much like the thing to do with this guy. “But thank you for taking notice of his interest,” he finished and Andre thought he heard a little bit of warmth in that, and it was like God himself had reached out and patted him on the head. He kind of felt like saluting, or bowing, or maybe shouting out “Aye Aye, Sir!” but instead he just smiled and took a few steps back, waving a hand through the air like an idiot.

“Ok then,” he offered, watching in fascination as the man nodded one more time and then backed into the shadows, disappearing like he’d never even been there and Andre felt himself slump forward as if he was finally “at ease.”

He walked back to the gym slowly, considering The Captain and Harold and what exactly it meant to say that a child was not ready for socialization. He considered this house and it’s yard and why The Captain hadn’t noticed that Harold was constantly across the street instead of at home. He considered a lot of things and when Caroline stuck her hip out to the side and frowned at him, shaking her head and muttering something about him being totally useless he just waved her off and walked right by because he was considering things, thinking, and he decided that the next time he saw Harold he was going to invite him inside. Because, Andre thought, maybe the kid just didn’t want to be a seven year old soldier, and maybe his grandfather didn’t really know much about whether or not he was capable of being social. Sometimes grown ups could be wrong about things, and sometimes kids were the ones who suffered because of it.

Except the next week when Andre asked him inside Harold just shook his head, turned around, and walked away, careful and slow, leaving Andre with a frown on his face and quite a few more things to consider.

*****

“Is it just something about watching me carry heavy things around that makes you happy, Andre? Is it like your mission in life not to help, or what?”

Laughter felt like affirmation to Jim’s ears and so he shook his head, irritated, red-faced from hauling bags full of bats and balls and gloves and bases back inside the gym. He licked at his lips and he turned to glare over his shoulder once his hands were empty and propped up against his hips.

“This is hilarious to you,” he assessed and Andre just grinned into the sunshine, his arms crossed and his expression smug and totally satisfied. Jim turned to face him and pressed his lips together, nodding, accepting it because he was Jim Halpert, and usually accepting things was what he did. It was especially what he did on summer Saturday mornings at the Boys and Girls Club, because Andre was an old friend who had a unique and richly colored sense of humor that took years of getting used to, and years of learning to accept. Jim, unfortunately, was a complete expert.

“You look like you need a beer, buddy,” Andre decided in faux sympathy, patting Jim on the back. Jim nodded because that was a seriously accurate assessment. He needed like six beers, or seven, or possibly fifteen, and noon somehow felt remarkably like cocktail hour.

It had been over two years since the last time Jim had agreed to help out at the summer baseball/basketball camp that Andre ran annually, and he’d sort of purposely forgotten how grueling and overwhelming it could truly be. When Andre had appeared on his doorstep the night before begging for help, when he had explained that someone had left him hanging at the last minute, when he’d sworn that Jim was the best coach there was anyway and the kids deserved someone great to teach them to swing a bat, when he eventually in desperation promised to do Jim’s dishes and laundry for three months in payment, Jim had had a momentary lapse in judgment. He’d conveniently forgotten how early 8 AM could be on a Saturday, and also how the voices of fourteen seven year old boys could reach decibels only dogs could hear when the weather was nice and their parents were gone. He’d gotten a sudden case of amnesia, or maybe he’d gone insane for that one moment. Something had happened, had gone wrong, had flipped sideways, because he was sure that if he’d had his wits about him he would not have agreed to any of this.

Maybe he’d had mad cow disease, he thought to himself as he followed Andre across the street, his eyes fixed steadily on the sign of the only local pizza place that happened to serve beer in the middle of the afternoon. The door was noisy on its hinges and the linoleum floor seemed particularly dirty in the summer sun.

“Well I‘ll be damned,” the man behind the counter greeted loudly, “James Halpert, this is truly an honor. I haven’t seen you in months,” he accused with warmth in his tone, wiping his flour covered hands on a towel that was equally flour covered.

“Bobby, how’s it going?” Jim responded warmly, reaching out to shake the owner’s offered hand despite the mess and despite the surety of Jim’s clothes ending up covered in chalk-white finger prints.

“So, you’re back to doing this guy’s dirty laundry?” Bobby wondered good-naturedly, tipping his head toward Andre and leaning forward toward Jim conspiratorially, his elbows propped large and beefy against the metal of the lined up napkin holders. Jim chuckled and shrugged his shoulders, reaching out to push the corner of one of the napkins back into its rightful place.

“Actually he’ll be doing my dirty laundry, I think. That was part of the deal when I agreed to help him out,” Jim corrected and Bobby laughed, loud and boisterous, and Jim thought maybe this summer thing wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. There was something nice about the idea of coaching and then heading over to Bobby’s for a drink and a slice of cheese pizza. There was something great about the outdoor seating and the noise of whatever sporting event happened to be taking place on the old black and white television that had been haphazardly mounted in the corner of the room for the past thirty five years. There was something comfortable about Andre and Bobby and baseball and beer.

Except maybe that was just nostalgia talking.

Because Jim had had childhood summers with these same people and with this same park and pizza, running across the dusty blacktop, sweaty with a dollar bill in one hand and a basketball in the other, yelling to Bobby that he wanted extra cheese and feeling special when Bobby handed him a slice along with a free ice cream sandwich for the road. He remembered breaking his arm right outside when Chris Bellingham had shoved him off the curb, and he remembered that the first bike ride he’d ever taken alone had been to Bobby’s for a coke, dressed messily in a little league uniform with four quarters jingling in his pockets. He’d been young here, and so probably the certain affection he was feeling was more for that than for carrying the Boys and Girls Club’s grossly heavy sporting equipment every weekend across a field sprinkled with litter and weeds.

Jim was about to ask Bobby about the Pirates, about to comment on the game a few days ago, when Andre shoved an elbow into his side and said he’d be right back. Jim didn’t have much time to respond before his friend was out the door and jogging down the sidewalk, and so he followed him because curiosity was a thing more powerful than baseball or beer.

“Hey!” he heard Andre call out, his hand reaching forward to grab a kid by the shoulder, “Hey, Harold slow down a second, slow down,” and Harold came to a stop, it seemed, less because he wanted to and more because Andre had requested it. “I didn’t see you around this morning,” Andre assessed, crouching down to see Harold’s face more clearly. The boy just sort of squinted and stayed silent and it made Jim remember some things, so he stepped a little closer in interest.

Andre had told him something about this kid named Harold. He’d told him some things like how Harold never spoke and Harold never joined in and Harold seemed to stand around in doorways most of the time. He’d told him that Harold lived with a stern sort of grandfather, and that things seemed mysterious in that house. Andre was plagued by curiosity, which was a very powerful thing, and now Jim felt it tickling his skin as well, standing here and watching Harold say nothing like he maybe had no tongue at all. Eventually Andre went on because the average thirty year old had a hard time living in such complete and utter quiet.

“It was fun. We missed you,” he pointed out, “maybe next Saturday you can come over to the park and play catch.”

And still, Harold was silent.

Andre stood up straight and scratched at the back of his head, sort of perplexed and sort of thoughtful. Turning with a resigned smile that spoke volumes, in the way Andre’s smiles often did, he gestured toward the little brown haired boy.

“Jim, this is Harold. Harold, this is my good friend Jim,” Andre introduced. Jim stuck a hand out toward Harold and offered him a grin, waiting patiently while the seven year old visibly debated whether or not he should shake hands. Eventually he reached his fingers out and his hand was little and covered in dirt, rough against the flour that still lingered in the crevices of Jim’s palm.

“Nice to meet you, Harold,” Jim greeted, and Harold squinted up at him, his blue eyes bright in the sun and his cheeks pulled up tight to his eyelashes, his lips pursed in consideration. Jim just looked right back, frank, equally as serious as Harold seemed to be and wondering what exactly the story was behind all of this silence. “Do you like baseball?” Jim asked finally, driven to speak because the quiet was hanging there and practically visible, heavy like a summer heat wave. Andre sighed beside him and shifted on his feet.

“Harold doesn’t seem to say much,” he explained and Jim nodded, pulling his hand away and crouching down like Andre had, draping his elbows across his knees.

“A man of few words,” he commented quietly, “That is very mysterious of you, Harold,” and Jim thought the boy almost smiled, but it was hard to tell because it might have just been a flinch against the brightness of the sun. The silence lingered there for Jim to swim through, see through, and after a few moments he stood up tall and planted his hands on his hips, tilting his head, assessing the round face of the boy and the way he stood perfectly, almost inhumanly still. Andre heaved a sigh and Jim felt a grin tug at the corners of his lips. “Well, Harold,” he said warmly, “I think next week you should come play with us and maybe tell us more about yourself,” he offered, and Harold’s head tipped too, mirroring Jim’s, his eyes squinting and shining up at them, and this time the hint of a smile was clear and undisputable as he pushed past them and sprinted down the sidewalk on his quick little feet.

Jim glanced at Andre, amused, and turned back toward Bobby’s with a shrug of his broad, t-shirt covered shoulders.

“Cute kid,” he commented and Andre sort of laughed at that, chuckled.

“Yeah, you should meet his grandfather,” he answered. His shorter frame seemed dwarfed by Jim for a second as he stood motionless behind him, and his expression was pensive, quiet, considering still, as he had been for the past week. Jim raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together in response, leading Andre to blink his thoughts back into focus. He shook his head down at the sidewalk in front of him, shrugging at Jim’s questioning expression. “Beer,” he answered decisively and Jim nodded his head.

“Beer,” he echoed, and so they headed back to Bobby’s to drink beer and eat pizza, both of them still wondering what could make a kid choose not to speak, or forget how, or maybe think he shouldn’t. They drank their beer and they ate their pizza and they decided mutually that Harold Moran needed something in his life, and that Jim and Andre were maybe the guys to bring it to him.

Somehow.