Walter The Homeless Man

by Tekoa Manning

  Walter

  The Homeless Man

  A Novel

  By Tekoa Manning

  ISBN-13: 978-0615928012 (It’s All About Him, Inc.)

  ISBN-10: 0615928013

  Walter the Homeless Man Copyright 2013

  It’s All About Him, Inc.

  Second Edition

  All rights reserved:

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Picture on Cover from ©iStock.com/Editorial12

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate Walter to two very special friends. One friend, the Ruach Hakodesh, the blessed Holy Set Apart Spirit and the other, Deborah Testa. If it were not for both of these friends Walter would have never been birthed, and I would not be the person that I am today.

  Acknowledgements

  I started writing this story before I ever became homeless, before my mother grew demented and at times did not recognize my father. Even the song sung by Walter, “Fallen Leaves” was written in this book before it was ever decided by my father to be played at my own mother’s funeral. Life is filled with irony and at best can be scribed through bitterness at times. However this crushing of flowers only causes potent perfumes to erupt.

  In 2005 I decided to place a couple chapters of this story on a site that was for those suffering with Multiple Sclerosis. Immediately people fell in love with the main character Walter, who is named after my grandfather. By the year 2008, I like Walter, had lost is all. My best friend Deborah Testa became a sounding gong as she never forgot about Walter and pressed me over and over to finish this book. When I exclaimed, I am broke and have no gift to send you for your birthday or holiday, she would say, “All I want is another chapter of Walter” and so the story was written in the course of several years. It was a story that was laid down and picked up, and now I pray it touches your heart.

  Walter

  Chapter 1

  Walter Kendal lay beside the tree stump his head resting behind his arms in a heap of fall leaves. The air was crisp and cool with a freshness that beckoned the sun to come up. The tall evergreens trees stretched their arms towards the horizon. The woods were faintly dark with slivers of light just beginning to peek through. It was very still, except for the occasional rustling of foliage falling to the earth and the soft cooing sound coming from the metal cage that held Walter’s only companion.

  From the wooded area where Walter lay, he could easily watch the small middle-class neighborhood come to life. Flickering pools of light brought a warming glow to a scattering of homes. In the distance, just a crow’s caw away, he heard the sound of engines warming up to begin the day, doors slamming and voices calling out to greet neighbors. The familiar sights and sounds reminded Walter of a life he once knew.

  He had been waiting patiently for the dark blue mini-van to pull out of the driveway on Wildwood Court. He walked the path he’d worn to the opening past the prickly pine trees with their scabby bark and squatted down a bit, veiled almost completely by their fury needles. The house he had his eye on belonged to Desiree Levite. Through the French double doors of her kitchen, he watched her prepare breakfast for her two small children and knew it wouldn’t be long now.

  Desiree left each morning at around six thirty. He assumed this gave her plenty of time to cart her children to the sitter, hit the freeway, and begin her shift at Bailsman, Friedman, and Stiltz Law Firm. Walter knew Desiree was a file clerk and full-time student on her way to becoming a paralegal. He thought her ultimate goal was to become an attorney. He occasionally read a term paper left lying about and sometimes sifted through her mail.

  Walter was thankful that the ground had not become cold and hard yet and that arthritis in his joints didn’t ache as much as usual. He buttoned his trench coat and watched the lights of the minivan disappear from sight. Then he counted under his breath slowly from one to fifty seconds, making sure Desiree hadn’t forgotten her briefcase, diaper bag, or her oldest son’s backpack. Walter had been caught off guard more than once by the forgetful disarray of the drowsy mother. Making his way up the path, he walked briskly to the back porch of the modest three bedroom brick ranch. Then Walter raised the rock that was next to the welcome mat, retrieved the key and let himself in. Walter had felt nervous the first few times he had entered, peeking through the blinds at the sounds of each passing motorist. The unexpected clank of the brass mail slot had once left Walter frozen with fear, but after a few weeks, he had settled into a routine. He had no excuse for entering. He knew it was wrong, and eventually he would have to stop or fate would rear its ugly head and he’d be a criminal.

  “Maybe I have succumbed to this sort of lifestyle after all?” He wished it were all a bad dream, but as he turned on the faucet that belonged to a stranger and raised the ribbed glass to his parched lips, he knew it was far too real.

  It had happened by chance the first time, Walter stumbling upon the key. He had merely wanted some fresh drinking water. Walter was headed out of the woods, on his way to a nearby gas station to fill his empty jug in the men’s room. The Chevron had bath stalls in the back of the service station, and Walter didn’t have to enter the store to get washed up or refill his empty container. Sometimes they locked them after midnight, he assumed to keep people like himself out. While he was cutting through the neighborhood, he noticed the green garden hose. While reaching for the hose, he accidently knocked over a decorative rock with the name Levite painted in black. Its only function was to show ownership of the property Walter stood on and to hide a key. The power to enter lay within Walter’s reach. It made his heart pound. He could picture the food and imagine the sound of the thermostat clicking on and blowing warm heat. He longed for a shower and the company of television. It had been over a year since Walter had felt the comforts of a real home. He had a home three hundred miles away, just before the rich green hills of Kentucky turned into the mountains of Tennessee, a home full of memories too painful for Walter to face.

  Safely inside, he slowly exhaled and made his way to the refrigerator for his morning juice. He never took enough for anyone to notice, but instead consumed just one egg, one small bowl of cornflakes, or one piece of toast. Then carefully the sixty-seven-year-old washed, dried, and returned his plate, saucer, and cup, putting everything back in its original place.

  Occasionally the phone rang and startled him. Although he used to sit behind a large desk answering calls, he had now become accustomed to sleeping under overpasses, across park benches, and in wooded areas. The days of phone calls had been years ago, before his retirement, and now they were a distant memory.

  After breakfast, Walter took a shower, leaving not a speck of water to be found. The soft green, slightly damp towel was folded neatly back on the rack to dry, his toothbrush was placed into the frayed pocket of his tan London Fog coat. He wanted to shave but stopped himself for fear that his gray facial hairs would be noticed. He settled for a dollop of hair gel. Walter ran his fingers through his graying hair, relishing the fact that he still had some. Although he had lost some on top, all and all he still had plenty. Leaving the bath, he walked down the hall. According to his watch, it was seven thirty a.m. He had, at least, seven hours before her return.

  The small house was tidy and clean, except for an occasional toy left lying about an
d the many books that lay in heaps. There were educational books on common law, child psychology, and the Constitution. There were also hardbound classics, poetry, and children’s books. Shuffled amongst the collection was a New King James Bible, and from the looks of the worn leather, he figured it had been opened quite often. Walter had never experienced so many books, and at times, he found himself skimming through the volumes to pass the day. He had wondered at first if the books were for show, but now believed Desiree had read the majority of her collection.

  It seemed strange to Walter that after entering her home for only a few weeks, he already felt as if he knew her. There were photographs of her children on the mantle, scented candles, and the usual displays of potted plants. The one thing that had confused Walter was a recent portrait of Desiree with a dark haired man who appeared to be her husband. He worried at first that the man in the portrait might be a traveling salesman who could abruptly show up and end Walter’s only refuge. Then he found the sympathy cards full of kind remarks about the loss of Desiree’s husband, John.

  Walter didn’t know what the future held for him. He was never one to take handouts, and he knew he had to repay this young mother for what she was unknowingly giving to him. Sometimes he did small repair jobs, like fixing the younger child’s rocking chair. The leg had been broken at some point. Walter simply glued it back into place. He had also unclogged the kitchen sink when Desiree carved pumpkins for Halloween. On this cool November morning, he didn’t see anything needing his handy work. So, after resting a bit on the tweed recliner, he drifted off to sleep.

  Desiree

  Chapter 2

  It wasn’t her ears that were off-set. No, they lay nicely pinned against her head. It wasn’t her nose either, for it was an average sized nose. Although it wasn’t petite or slightly turned up, it was shaped solid and almost unnoticeable. It wasn’t her eyes, for they were large and striking in color, the long dark lashes batting in sequence. Her mouth was just as adorning, curving upward, hiding the polished straight white teeth. Offsetting this picture, the one thing that tarnished all her good looks was her hair or the lack thereof. The clumpy, bald spots, revealed a few desperate follicles, sprouting up like a wiry cactus amongst the array of tresses. Desiree covered them with floppy hats or brightly colored bandanas. She had tried wigs but found them hot and unnatural looking.

  The shedding had begun following her husband’s death. The doctor attributed it to nerves, saying, “Give it time and take some antidepressants; rub the topical ointment into your scalp; it will grow back.” That had been over a year ago, and as far as Desiree could tell nothing had changed.

  She clasped the shower head and stepped into the shower stall. The warm beads of water refreshed her. The shiny silver drain revealed more hair strands. Desiree bent over and grasped the yarn-like threads of hair; she glanced at them then tossed them into the commode to be flushed. They reminded her of her son’s cruelty the night before. Josh had pulled out all the hair from Desiree’s hair brush as well as from her daughter Tabitha’s brush. He then balled it up and sat quietly next to her on the couch. Rubbing her head with his hand, he released the hair he had gathered letting it fall onto her lap, exclaiming, “Look mom! A big clump of your hair fell out again.” Tears had welled up in Desiree’s eyes, as Josh laughed uncontrollably. “It’s a joke. See, I pulled it out of the brushes.”

  Josh was only seven, but he knew what he was doing. He enjoyed pinching nerves, crawling under his mother’s skin. In fact, he had become an expert at this since his father’s death. Desiree felt somewhat responsible for his manners because of the time she spent away from him while at work and school.

  Stepping out of the shower Desiree sat at her make-up chair applying a mask of liquid foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and a copper lipstick to finish. She then parted her hair, combing what she could forward and placed the pink cotton scarf around her head.

  Her son, Josh, was screaming from the other room. For dread that he would wake Tabitha, her four-year-old, Desiree hurried to the bedroom door. Staring her son in the eye (who continued to scream), she tried to figure out who this child was and where he had come from, just as she had numerous times before. She had carried Josh for nine months, given birth, and when they placed him in her arms she felt nothing. She loved Josh but had never bonded with him. He stared back with a joyous grin, stopped screaming, and mouthed, “Oh you’re awake? I was having a dream. I was going down a big roller coaster; I had to scream.” He smiled wickedly. Desiree felt her skin crawling. He knew he had gotten to her again! This delighted him all the more. “Juice, juice, juice! I want juice!” Desiree ignored him. “Here are your clothes, Josh. Put them on, and then brush your teeth, and be quiet or you’ll wake up your sister.”

  But, of course, it was too late. Tabitha stood inaudibly in the doorway, rubbing her eyes with small chubby hands. She gazed at her older brother as if he were an alien creature. Josh’s feet hit the floor kicking as his fingers wadded the shirt Desiree had neatly laid out for him. The shirt was brand new and displayed brightly colored soccer balls with the sports logo Nike in blue. “I hate that shirt!” Josh yelled as he threw it against the wall.

  “Josh, we’re not playing games this morning! Get dressed.” Desiree scooped up Tabitha and carried her to the kitchen, plopped her in a chair, where she sat quietly and waited for Cheerios. Desiree spread butter on wheat toast and then apple jelly, Tabitha’s favorite. She looked at her daughter’s angelic face, wondering how both Josh and Tabitha had come from the same womb with such radically different temperaments.

  Josh came bouncing into the room, dressed not in the soccer shirt Desiree had given him, but an old faded t-shirt with a bleach stain through the hem. He knew this was inappropriate to wear to school, and he beamed brightly as Desiree tried to ignore his effort at getting attention.

  “What kind of cereal do you want?”

  “I want Fruit Loops,” he said, placing his face directly in front of Tabitha’s, breathing heavily and blocking the path of her own spoon. Tabitha began feverishly swatting at him. Then abruptly, Josh slapped Tabitha in the face. Stunned, Tabitha dropped her spoon and starred red-faced up at her mother. With her bottom lip quivering, Tabitha said, “Josh is mean.” Josh burst into mocking tears and let out a fake heart-wrenching scream. Desiree stood at the counter drinking her morning coffee and felt her anger begin to boil as she screamed. “Josh stop! Don’t be spiteful to your sister. She wasn’t bothering you.”

  Josh rose from his chair, anger flashing in his eyes, “you always take her side. She hit me first, almost knocked my teeth out with that spoon.” He then pointed to a three-day old scratch. “Look! You’re just gonna let me bleed to death! You don’t care about me! I hate you! I hate you!” He ran from the room. Desiree lifted Tabitha and tried to soothe her tears. Desiree loathed the routine. Shortly she would find him, and then console him in order to get him to school on time, and herself to work by seven.

  Once they were all strapped in the car and headed to the sitters, Desiree began to relax. Work sometimes seemed like a retreat; she felt so empty inside. There was so much pain and even more anger since the death of her husband. He was only thirty-two, much too young to die. The constant recollection of that day spread through her body like cancer. It rose beneath her skin, self-pity, self-defeat, and depression. How ironic, thought Desiree stoically, that such imaginary cancer should cause her hair to fall out without chemotherapy. With each memory of her husband, with each confrontation from her children, and with each loss of her hair, bitter seeds grew.

  Tabitha and Josh became leery of making new friends, wondering if friends would leave as their father had. Tabitha had horrible nightmares, often crawling into bed with her mother. Desiree had told them on more than one occasion that their father was a guardian angel in heaven. “His new job is looking after us,” she tried to explain. But the explanation was starting to unravel; strange things were cropping up, unexplainable situations. Desiree thought about t
he kitchen sink refusing to drain, clogged with pumpkin bits and pumpkin seeds. It had been stopped up all weekend. But on Monday evening, upon returning home, Desiree found it clean and shiny, draining with a swish. What had happened? She had no answer but was truly thankful all the same. Money was tight during the school year and plumbers were expensive.

  The following day Tabitha dragged her white rocking chair into the TV room. Her rosy cheeks and brown curly hair bounced with each tug. It was her favorite chair. Together, Desiree and Tabitha had painted pink daisies all over it. Then, Desiree had stenciled Tabitha’s name across the back in bright green paint to match the leaves. Four-year-old Tabitha smiled as she dragged the chair over the stack of cars and trucks Josh had left lying in the middle of the room. She blew air out of her cheeks and wiped her brow. After finally reaching the precise place she wanted the chair, Tabitha put her hands on her hip and exclaimed “No broken Mommy.” She sat down and began rocking joyously. Desiree couldn’t remember if the chair had in fact ever been broken. She hardly had time for either of her children now but was more focused on work and school. She felt like she was waiting for everything to be over so she could live again. “I’ll exhale after I finish this semester, after I get this term paper finished, the children’s dentist appointments, and John’s things removed from the house.” There was always something she was waiting for, some event that needed completed before she could start living life again. Right now she knew she wasn’t living but merely going through the motions.

  She wished she could stop and put life on hold. Yes, if only she could stop long enough to make a real day for the children. She wanted so much to be the mom she used to be before the accident. She desired so much to feel again. Or maybe the problem was she felt too much? She glanced up at John’s picture on the mantle and felt her heart ache and her throat close. Focus Desiree, focus!