He told her his story in his own simple way for that’s what he was, a simple man, in the literal sense of the word. The neighbourhood children made fun of him, called him names, “retard,” “mongo,” “Mr. Slowboat.” It didn’t seem to bother him, maybe he was too simple even to understand the children’s insults or maybe he was just innocent enough to believe in the goodness of children.
He told her his story. Told her of his family and of the man who treated him so harshly, he forced him to leave his wife, his daughter. He told her bits and pieces of it over the years while he cleaned her yard in Minister’s Village. He rode their on his prized Hero bicycle twice a week and as he cleaned and she sat on her verandah usually with a book and pitcher of juice with two glasses, he remarked on how much she reminded him of his daughter. And in that way, she put the story together.
