The Devil Child
David was a perfect child. Just ask his mother. “If you have a perfect child,” she once said, “then you have a problem child.” He was perfect except two times. One time was when he was three years old.
Both of David’s parents worked and needed someone to look after their three sons. Mrs. Davenport was the perfect person for this task. Her history was full of experience since as an older woman who raised many of her children, and many more of her grandchildren, and even more of her great- grandchildren. Plus, she was a great storyteller. Mrs. Davenport had a draw in her speech mostly due that she was born and raised in the deep south of Georgia. Don’t let her small, thin built, and her dark gray hair and her wide smile fool you. She was not a woman to cross. She was a woman full of love and tenderness that every weekday she came to watch the Gunnell boys; she always came with a small gift.
The Gunnell boys always looked for Mrs. Davenport out their apartment’s second floor window. She would walk down the sidewall wearing a hat. She loved her hats. No matter what season, she wore her hats. It seemed that she had a different hat for each day. Red hat with a red feather sticking from the top, black one that had black mesh covering part of her face, blue one with a white flower on the side, or a plain green one attached to her with a bright white hairpin.
Both of David’s parents worked and needed someone to look after their three sons. Mrs. Davenport was the perfect person for this task. Her history was full of experience since as an older woman who raised many of her children, and many more of her grandchildren, and even more of her great- grandchildren. Plus, she was a great storyteller. Mrs. Davenport had a draw in her speech mostly due that she was born and raised in the deep south of Georgia. Don’t let her small, thin built, and her dark gray hair and her wide smile fool you. She was not a woman to cross. She was a woman full of love and tenderness that every weekday she came to watch the Gunnell boys; she always came with a small gift.
The Gunnell boys always looked for Mrs. Davenport out their apartment’s second floor window. She would walk down the sidewall wearing a hat. She loved her hats. No matter what season, she wore her hats. It seemed that she had a different hat for each day. Red hat with a red feather sticking from the top, black one that had black mesh covering part of her face, blue one with a white flower on the side, or a plain green one attached to her with a bright white hairpin.
With the three boys at the front door at the Gunnell’s one bedroom apartment, David’s mother would open the door and there would be Mrs. Davenport in her gray wool coat and the new hat of the day. David would close the door by pushing the middle of the door with both hands. David love closing doors. Mrs. Davenport always took her hat off first and put it on the side table near the door. Then she unbuttoned her coat, but did not take it off. Instead, she put her small hand into her coat’s deep pockets and pull out her daily gift like a small cowboy or toy soldier, or a piece of hard candy, saying, “Here you go, my angels.”
Mrs. Davenport had shared many stories about her childhood. She told sad stories about how she was born into slavery, but ended the story of how God was dancing with her and her family when she was freed from slavery when she was six years old. Her stories told that in ghastly times how her parent’s love always shined. How God always smiles on upon God's angels. “Even my three angels here,” she told the Gunnell boys daily, “You are special because God love you, and so do I.” She was the grandmother that the Gunnell boys never had.
On one day that started out no different from any other day, David became known from “my little angel” to “my little devil.” Nine year old Terry was out at the playground across the alley behind the Gunnell’s apartment building, and Richard, the baby being under a year old, was napping in his crib. Three year old David was in the kitchen with Mrs. Davenport who was washing the dishes from the lunch she made for her three angels. David sitting to Mrs. Davenport’s side swinging his legs under the kitchen chair watching her smiling at him. This would make David laugh and smile back. When she finished the dishes, she wiped her wet hands on her white apron with pink poke-a-dots and went towards the yellow back door. She turned the lock open and pulled the door open. She picked up the brown paper bag near the door that held the trash from that day’s breakfast and lunch. Open the green wooden screen door, she step out the wooden open-air porch. She put the trash bag inside the garbage can just outside the back door.
Since David loves closing door, he jump down from the kitchen chair and ran to the back door. With both hands out, he slammed the back door shut and the automatic lock locked the door. The curtains that covered the backdoor’s window slowly stop its waving from the door swinging closed, and did its privacy job covering the door’s window.
“Oh, dear me,” said Mrs. Davenport as the door did not open since it was locked. Her purse had the door’s keys, and where else was her purse? In the living room. She knocked on the door and called out, “Angel, open the door for me.” Through a sliver where the door’s curtains meet in the middle, she saw David standing with his hands over his mouth giggling. “David, open this door right now!” She was him move towards the door, and heard the doorknob turning. However, the door remained closed and locked. Through the teeny opening of the curtains, she saw that David was trying to open the door by turning the doorknob, but the lock was a good eight inches above the doorknob, where David could not reach. He could barely reach the doorknob.
“David, bring the chair to the door, and climb on it so you can open the door.”
The doorknob was still turning. Again, she asked David, “Bring the chair to the door.” Her pleas went unanswered. “What to do? What to do?” she thought out loud.
Now, Mrs. Davenport knew that Terry was playing at the playground. She could see David in the kitchen through the small opening of the backdoor’s curtains. She knew she put down Richard, the baby, in his crib before she started the dishes and he was asleep in the crib all safe and sound. They were okay for now until…
“The baby,” she whispered out loud, as she heard Richard's crying through the door. “Richard, my angel, it’s alright,” she called to Richard. Mrs. Davenport quickly ran down the wooden stairs to the apartment below. No one answer her fierce knocking. She ran upstairs to the third floor wishing the neighbors would be home. She knew that the couple in the upstairs apartment worked a nine-to-five job, “But maybe someone might be home,” she hoped. No one. She ran all the way downstairs out to the alley and to the apartment building next door. She would knock on every door until someone answer.
In the park where Terry was playing with a playmate, the mother of the playmate heard the pounding sound with a woman’s voice calling, “Help me! Help me!”
“Isn’t that your babysitter?” the playmate’s mother said pointing at Mrs. Davenport, who was knocking on the second floor door in the apartment building next to the Gunnell’s.
“Yep, that’s her,” he answered wondering what was going on.
The playmate’s mother grabs her son and Terry’s hand, and went running to Mrs. Davenport yelling, “What do you need? Are you okay?”
Mrs. Davenport ran down the stairs yelling, “I need a phone to call the fire department!”
"This old black lady sure can move fast," thought the playmate's mother. “Where’s the fire?” she asked Mrs. Davenport.
“No, no, no. There’s no fire. I’m locked out and my baby is crying inside. My angel needs me!”
“Follow me,” said the playmate’s mother, “I live in the building over there,” pointing to the building on the other side of the Gunnell’s apartment building. All four of them ran to her apartment.
“Thank goodness you live on the first floor,” panted Mrs. Davenport as they reached her apartment.
The Evanston Fire Department responded within minutes. The husky fireman, on his ladder looking through the open air vent window above the backdoor, told Mrs. Davenport, “I see the little devil. He’s okay.” There on the kitchen floor in front of the oven was a smiling David. He had opened the oven’s bottom storage drawer and had all the pots and pans out. He was having a gay old time banging them together.
This anecdote’s ending has no axing down the door, or the firemen climbing a tall ladder to an open window. In its place, the husky fireman got a small slender fireman to slide through air vent window on top on the backdoor into the kitchen where David watched in wonderment. When the fireman reached the kitchen’s floor, David ran into the bedroom where Richard was crying. The slender fireman unlocked and open the backdoor. Mrs. Davenport race into the bedroom to swaddle Richard. “Its okay, my angel,” she said in a still voice to stop Richard’s cries. There was David next to the crib smiling at her. She smiled back saying, “It’s okay, you little devil. I still love you.”
Mrs. Davenport wasn’t just a babysitter; she was now a marathon runner. For a woman up in her years, she had a young heart; a loving heart that overflowed to her children and her children’s children. She had so much love still after sharing it with the Gunnell boys.
Mrs. Davenport had shared many stories about her childhood. She told sad stories about how she was born into slavery, but ended the story of how God was dancing with her and her family when she was freed from slavery when she was six years old. Her stories told that in ghastly times how her parent’s love always shined. How God always smiles on upon God's angels. “Even my three angels here,” she told the Gunnell boys daily, “You are special because God love you, and so do I.” She was the grandmother that the Gunnell boys never had.
On one day that started out no different from any other day, David became known from “my little angel” to “my little devil.” Nine year old Terry was out at the playground across the alley behind the Gunnell’s apartment building, and Richard, the baby being under a year old, was napping in his crib. Three year old David was in the kitchen with Mrs. Davenport who was washing the dishes from the lunch she made for her three angels. David sitting to Mrs. Davenport’s side swinging his legs under the kitchen chair watching her smiling at him. This would make David laugh and smile back. When she finished the dishes, she wiped her wet hands on her white apron with pink poke-a-dots and went towards the yellow back door. She turned the lock open and pulled the door open. She picked up the brown paper bag near the door that held the trash from that day’s breakfast and lunch. Open the green wooden screen door, she step out the wooden open-air porch. She put the trash bag inside the garbage can just outside the back door.
Since David loves closing door, he jump down from the kitchen chair and ran to the back door. With both hands out, he slammed the back door shut and the automatic lock locked the door. The curtains that covered the backdoor’s window slowly stop its waving from the door swinging closed, and did its privacy job covering the door’s window.
“Oh, dear me,” said Mrs. Davenport as the door did not open since it was locked. Her purse had the door’s keys, and where else was her purse? In the living room. She knocked on the door and called out, “Angel, open the door for me.” Through a sliver where the door’s curtains meet in the middle, she saw David standing with his hands over his mouth giggling. “David, open this door right now!” She was him move towards the door, and heard the doorknob turning. However, the door remained closed and locked. Through the teeny opening of the curtains, she saw that David was trying to open the door by turning the doorknob, but the lock was a good eight inches above the doorknob, where David could not reach. He could barely reach the doorknob.
“David, bring the chair to the door, and climb on it so you can open the door.”
The doorknob was still turning. Again, she asked David, “Bring the chair to the door.” Her pleas went unanswered. “What to do? What to do?” she thought out loud.
Now, Mrs. Davenport knew that Terry was playing at the playground. She could see David in the kitchen through the small opening of the backdoor’s curtains. She knew she put down Richard, the baby, in his crib before she started the dishes and he was asleep in the crib all safe and sound. They were okay for now until…
“The baby,” she whispered out loud, as she heard Richard's crying through the door. “Richard, my angel, it’s alright,” she called to Richard. Mrs. Davenport quickly ran down the wooden stairs to the apartment below. No one answer her fierce knocking. She ran upstairs to the third floor wishing the neighbors would be home. She knew that the couple in the upstairs apartment worked a nine-to-five job, “But maybe someone might be home,” she hoped. No one. She ran all the way downstairs out to the alley and to the apartment building next door. She would knock on every door until someone answer.
In the park where Terry was playing with a playmate, the mother of the playmate heard the pounding sound with a woman’s voice calling, “Help me! Help me!”
“Isn’t that your babysitter?” the playmate’s mother said pointing at Mrs. Davenport, who was knocking on the second floor door in the apartment building next to the Gunnell’s.
“Yep, that’s her,” he answered wondering what was going on.
The playmate’s mother grabs her son and Terry’s hand, and went running to Mrs. Davenport yelling, “What do you need? Are you okay?”
Mrs. Davenport ran down the stairs yelling, “I need a phone to call the fire department!”
"This old black lady sure can move fast," thought the playmate's mother. “Where’s the fire?” she asked Mrs. Davenport.
“No, no, no. There’s no fire. I’m locked out and my baby is crying inside. My angel needs me!”
“Follow me,” said the playmate’s mother, “I live in the building over there,” pointing to the building on the other side of the Gunnell’s apartment building. All four of them ran to her apartment.
“Thank goodness you live on the first floor,” panted Mrs. Davenport as they reached her apartment.
The Evanston Fire Department responded within minutes. The husky fireman, on his ladder looking through the open air vent window above the backdoor, told Mrs. Davenport, “I see the little devil. He’s okay.” There on the kitchen floor in front of the oven was a smiling David. He had opened the oven’s bottom storage drawer and had all the pots and pans out. He was having a gay old time banging them together.
This anecdote’s ending has no axing down the door, or the firemen climbing a tall ladder to an open window. In its place, the husky fireman got a small slender fireman to slide through air vent window on top on the backdoor into the kitchen where David watched in wonderment. When the fireman reached the kitchen’s floor, David ran into the bedroom where Richard was crying. The slender fireman unlocked and open the backdoor. Mrs. Davenport race into the bedroom to swaddle Richard. “Its okay, my angel,” she said in a still voice to stop Richard’s cries. There was David next to the crib smiling at her. She smiled back saying, “It’s okay, you little devil. I still love you.”
Mrs. Davenport wasn’t just a babysitter; she was now a marathon runner. For a woman up in her years, she had a young heart; a loving heart that overflowed to her children and her children’s children. She had so much love still after sharing it with the Gunnell boys.
Picture:
Mrs. Davenport, the Gunnell boy’s Guardian Angel.The Gunnells visited Mrs. Davenport at least once a year. Here is Mrs. Davenport with David and Richard during their winter 1968 visit at her home in Evanston.
The days after, the morning greeting changed just a little. David’s mother would open the door to let Mrs. Davenport inside. As always, David would close the door by pushing the middle of the door with both hands. Mrs. Davenport would take off her new hat of the day and put it on the side table near the door. When she finished unbuttoned her coat, she put her hand into her coat’s pockets and pulled out her daily gift. As she handed Terry’s gift she would tell him, “Here you go, my angel.” She pulled out Richard’s gift. “Here you go, my angel baby.” She pulled out David’s gift and while handing it to him saying,” Here you go my little devil.” And give him an adoring hug.