You could set your clock by him. Every afternoon at two-fifteen, The Walker, as I thought of him, passed my house, head down, his yellow dog pacing at his side, leash slack. If I happened to be on the sidewalk headed somewhere, I'd receive his perfunctory nod, but he kept his head lowered.

One afternoon, I dashed from the house, late for an appointment. At the end of my path where it joined the sidewalk, I skidded across to the edge of the street. A rain earlier in the day had made the pavement slick and my feet slipped as I tried to change directions, landing me on my behind in a mud puddle. 

I heard a chuckle. It was The Walker. I stood and looked with dismay at my muddy clothes. I couldn't go to the appointment in this disheveled state and there was no time to change. I'd miss this interview.

The chuckle became outright laughter, and I raised my eyes to glare at the offender. But stopped when I caught sight of his face – a face I'd never actually seen.

I saw blue eyes crinkled at their corners in merriment, a nondescript nose below them. And nothing else. No mouth. No chin. The laughter stopped when he saw my expression of horror. He ducked his head, hiding the missing part of his face inside his upturned coat collar again and continued his walk. Faster now, as if he had to get away from me.

I'm ashamed to say my open-mouthed stare followed him for a couple of minutes before I composed myself. I returned to my own door, dripping wet, muddy and doused with unbelief at the sight I'd seen.

A couple of days later when I saw The Walker headed up the street, I waited until he'd passed my house before I left to do my shopping. Even though I wouldn't have to meet his eyes, I didn't want to meet him. I glanced at his back as I started down the porch steps.

“I see you waited until he passed,” a voice said. Mrs. Osteen was seated on the rocking chair she kept on her half of the duplex's porch. “And I know you saw his . . . face the other day.”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Kind of hard to take, isn't it.” Creak, creak, the rocker complained.

“It's just . . . creepy.” I shuddered.

“Hmm. I suppose, when you don't know the whole story, it might seem creepy.”

“What 'whole story?'”

“About what happened to him. To Mr. Laundon.”

“And what was that?” I asked, more out of exasperation than curiosity.

“Mr. Laundon was a policeman. One afternoon a little girl was snatched from her front yard on this very street. And an off-duty cop happened to see it--”

“And he gave chase,” I said. I knew the story well. Everyone in town knew that story.

“And there was an accident,” Mrs. Osteen continued. “And Officer Laundon was terribly injured. But he survived.”

“Officer Laundon . . . I never knew what happened to him,” I whispered. “No one would tell me.”

“No. He didn't want you to know, didn't want you to carry a burden of guilt. It wasn't your fault, you know.”

With tears flowing down my cheeks, I watched as he turned the corner and disappeared, as he had disappeared from my life after he saved me.

And what had seemed creepy now seemed beautiful to me..