When I Needed You

by Tina Martin

  Ahmalee

  I swing by Kroger to pick up some groceries then hurry home, hoping to find the man still here. I turn into the driveway and come to a sliding stop on the rocks. I jump out of the car, grab the bags and run inside the house. In my haste, I carelessly drop the bags on the counter. I completely forgot about the glass jar of salsa I’d bought. Luckily, it didn’t break. I unlock and exit out of the back door in search of him. He’s nowhere to be found.

  “Hello?” I call out, but why am I surprised he’s not here when I told him to go? I didn’t even know the man’s name, and I told him to leave.

  Crestfallen, I look at the umbrella table on my back porch to see the twenty-dollar bill I gave him still there under a rock. He didn’t take it. He told me he didn’t want it. Said he needed food and a place to live and I—

  I sigh.

  I fold the money and slide it into my pocket, then stand there and massage my temple out of sheer frustration. My mind floods over with different ways I could’ve approached this. He said he needed a place to stay. I did nothing. Now, where is he? Is he sleeping somewhere in the woods? On the streets? On a cardboard box? Where is he?

  Jesus, what have I done?

  I push guilt to the back of my throat and take the porch steps down to the ground, walking across my freshly cut lawn to close the door on the shed since noticing it’s not latched properly. I push the door, but something is preventing it from closing. I open the door wide to find out what it is and see raggedy boots.

  It’s him! He’s lying face down next to the mower.

  “Oh, no!” I say in a panic. “Hello. Hello.” I touch him, trying to wake him up. How long has he been here? It’s four-alarm-fire degrees out here.

  Did I—?

  Did I kill this man?

  “Hey, hello. Wake up. Hello?”

  Tears come to my eyes. “Please wake up!”

  I’m scared out of my mind. His pants are hot to the touch. He’s not moving and I’m trying my hardest to stay calm, but how can I when I did this to him. I could’ve let him stay in the camper. It’s not like I have a pressing need for it. This could’ve turned out differently.

  I lower to my knees to get on his level. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

  “Hey,” I say, moving closer to his face. He’s dirty – so dirty and lifeless. Still, I search for a sign of life. He’s breathing. His skin is as hot as his pants, but he’s breathing.

  “Hey, wake up. You have to come with me,” I tell him. “Please. Wake up.”

  He moves a little. I hear noises. Mumbling sounds. I think he’s coming around.

  “Hey. Can you hear me? Look at me?”

  He cracks his eyes open and I see gold. I’ve seen them before, but never this close up. This homeless man has the most beautiful brilliant eyes I’ve ever seen. Makes me wonder how such a delicate soul could be so lost and hopeless.

  “Can you get up?”

  “I…I don’t—I was going to leave. I…just…want to…sleep, ma’am. Please, don’t call the—”

  He can hardly catch his breath.

  “Don’t call…the…the police. Please…”

  “I’m not going to call the police,” I say, taking his hand. “I want to help you.”

  “You…you want to…to…to help me?” he asks. His body quivers like he’s cold, but he’s far from it.

  “Yes. Do you think you can stand up?”

  He attempts to get up but falls short. I try to catch him, but he’s a lot of man to be catching. Homeless or not, he’s still bigger and stronger than I am. And he’s much taller than I am. If I had to guess, he’s about six-four or five with a thin build, although I can’t be sure what’s beneath the soiled trench coat he has on. And he smells – mixed with the heat, that’s enough to make anybody pass out, but I push past the smell. The way he smells or looks does not and should not determine his worth. He’s a man. A person. A human. I’ve resolved that I will help him in any way I can.

  “Okay, let’s try this again,” I say, still holding on to him. I assist him with getting up a second time.

  It works. He’s up, but he’s also wavering a little and moving from side-to-side like he can’t steady himself. He’ll fall without me trying to do what I can to keep him upright.

  We make it to the porch. We both trip coming up the stairs and when I collect myself (and him) we proceed to the kitchen. I pull out a chair, help him sit down. He needs to cool off. I get him a glass of room temperature water. He’s so hot, ice-cold water would probably shock his system. I’m being super careful.

  I hand him the glass of water and with his unstable hands, he drinks the whole thing in two gulps. I fill up the glass again. He downs that one, too.

  Okay, what next, Ahmalee? Oh. Bath!

  He needs a lukewarm bath and some clothes. I can’t run out and buy him clothes right now since that would mean leaving him unattended inside of my home. I’m definitely not going to put him back outside so he can continue melting. This is my do-over – my opportunity to really help him. I plan on taking it this time.

  “You stay here and cool off for a minute, okay?”

  “Can I have more—more water, please, ma’am?”

  “Sure.” I refill the glass a third time before leaving the kitchen. I go to my bedroom in search of some clothes that could fit him. I find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt – not ideal for a man of his size, but it’s better than what he has on. That’s for sure.

  I run him a bath, squeeze in some liquid African black soap – one of the items from my skincare line of products. It’s the best for cleansing the skin of dirt, grime, dead skin cells and germs – all of which he has at the moment. I return to the kitchen after the tub is a little over half full to find him at the sink dashing water onto his face.

  “Hi,” I say to get his attention.

  He turns to look at me. His skin is much lighter than I imagined it would be after coming into contact with water.

  “Sorry. I—I wanted to wash my face.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I tell him. “I actually ran you a bath. Don’t take offense. I just think you need it. To relax, you know, and cool off. Let me show you to the bathroom. Is that okay?”

  The faucet is still running while he’s staring at me – ain’t saying nothing. Did I offend him? I’m not sure. I can’t read him at all, but the awkwardness reminds me that this man is a stranger. A stranger who happens to be standing next to my knife drawer.

  Ahmalee, this man ain’t looking to kill you. This is the same guy who stacked your mail and mowed the lawn, remember?

  “Um, come with me,” I tell him.

  Leaving the faucet running, he follows me to the bathroom in the hallway. I explain the bath – not sure if I need to – actually, I don’t know why I felt I had to. He’s a grown man. He’s had baths before. I know I’m doing too much, but maybe that’s what he needs. Someone who does the most. That’s me. Always been me. When I’m in and committed to something, I’m all in.

  “I found some clothes,” I tell him. “They probably won’t fit you all that well, but they’re…clothes.”

  He uses the counter to balance as he comes out of his boots without bothering to untie the shoestrings. He takes off that awful coat. He goes for his shirt, and—

  “Okay. Imma leave you to it. Call me if you need any help, okay.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I close the door and leave him to it. The faucet is still running when I return to the kitchen, so I wash my hands then turn it off before preparing dinner. Judging from the way he tore up those sausage, eggs and grits this morning, I figure a hearty meal is what will relax him – make him feel human again. So, I fix some steaks on my George Foreman grill and make a side of homemade mashed potatoes. It takes about an hour for me to prepare it all. I make our plates and just as I was about to go tap on the bathroom door to check on my guest, he emerges in the kitchen.

  He’s clean.

  Tall.

&nb
sp; He has on my clothes. They look wonky on him.

  Still, he’s clean.

  He looks more like a man. A handsome man. Like a man who could be a king if the right woman had his back. Someone to help him grow, thrive and reinvent himself – not to say a man needs a woman, but a man needs a woman. The problem is, most women ain’t checkin’ for a man who’s at the bottom. They’re looking for the ballers – the men with ‘bank’ who’ve already been through the struggle. Still, I say all hope isn’t lost for him. He definitely has potential. Does he know that about himself, or is giving up easier than maintaining hope?

  “I cooked,” I tell him.

  He looks at the table – sees two plates. His face goes slack. “You want me to eat here? In your kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you—are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He takes a seat and begins eating immediately without being prompted. He’s eating fast, too, like if he doesn’t eat it fast enough, somebody’s going to steal his food.

  “Take your time. I have more.”

  I sit with him after placing two glasses of sweet tea on the table. He’s shoveling mashed potatoes in his mouth by the heaping spoonful, moaning again. Ain’t no shame to his game. I suppose I’d do the same if I was starving and homeless.

  I proactively fix him another plate so he doesn’t feel weird about asking for more. He eats. I try not to stare, but I fail at that. His beard is thick and matted like sheep’s wool and so is his hair. I think he had some dreadlocks that grew out of control, started doing their own thing, and he never got them properly maintained. I can’t tell if he washed his beard or hair when he was in the tub. All I know is, he doesn’t smell anymore, and his skin is a beautiful, creamy caramel color.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He’s steadily chewing. For a minute there, I didn’t think he heard me until he responds softly, “Cain.”

  “Cain? Your name is Cain?”

  He gives me a single nod.

  “Oh. Okay. Um…where are you from, Cain?”

  “Charlotte.”

  Okay, so he’s not much of a conversationalist…

  I’m not either, but in this instance, I feel it’s necessary if I’m going to help this man. I sip tea, never taking my eyes off of him. The way he’s eating has me feeling like I’m the best cook in the world.

  I stir the potatoes on my plate because I’m not in the mood for dinner. I’m hungry to know more about Cain, but he’s not talking. He’s eating. I try to engage him again by asking, “How was the bath?”

  Really, Ahmalee? You’re asking the man about his bath?

  “Good,” he answers. “I—” He pauses.

  “What were you going to say?” I ask, eager for him to continue talking.

  “Um…that I—” He frowns, trying to get his thoughts together. “I left my clothes on the floor. And my coat. And my boots.”

  “Oh. Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  Sitting here with him now, you couldn’t tell he was homeless – not that homeless people have a certain look, but you know what I mean. His beard hides most of his face. From what I can see, he has no scratches or anything. He looks pretty darn good now that he’s squeaky clean.

  And his eyes…

  His eyes are amazing. They can light up a room like the single flame of a candle. I see a mystery in them. I’m sure he has a story to tell. He probably doesn’t want to tell it to me, but there’s something there.

  He’s a hairy guy – has a lot of hair on his arms and legs. I glance down at his feet – they’re nice. Coming out of those worn, filthy pair of boots he had on, I expected to see some bear claws or something, but nope. His feet aren’t bad at all. They’re big as all get, but that’s how men’s feet are supposed to be, especially for a man of his stature.

  “So, um…you’re from Charlotte,” I say trying to engage him in conversation again.

  He doesn’t respond – doesn’t even look up at me.

  “Cain?”

  He glances up this time but doesn’t try to hold eye contact with me. My dad used to tell me if a person couldn’t look you in the eyes when they talked to you, it meant they were shy, ashamed or being deceptive and most of the time, it was the third choice. For Cain, I’ll make an exception. I think his failure to connect with me is more along the lines of being ashamed. I’m witnessing him at his worst. If I was in his shoes, I’d be embarrassed, too.

  To be fair, he already answered the question and probably doesn’t want to answer it again. It’s not his fault I’m nervous – well, actually it is. I’m used to being alone when I’m home. I usually don’t have to talk to anyone unless I call somebody on the phone, or they call me.

  I say, “I’m sorry. I’m not much of a talker.”

  “Especially with homeless people, huh?” he asks in a rough low rumble.

  “It’s—I—it’s not because you’re homeless. It’s just the way I am. I don’t know you. I’m just trying to do my best to help, but this is highly uncomfortable for me. You’re a stranger. You could be a killer. This could be one of those occasions that proves ‘no good deed goes unpunished’.”

  “If you were that concerned, why’d you do this for me?”

  “Well…you followed me home after being at my store, so you obviously needed the help. I could sense your desperation. That’s why I did this for you.”

  “I didn’t follow you home, ma’am.”

  “You don’t have to keep calling me ma’am. My name is Ahmalee—”

  His eyes dance around my face before he says, “I didn’t follow you here.”

  “Then how did you know where I lived?”

  “I found your address on some papers in the dumpster.”

  “In the dumpster?”

  “Yeah—behind that place where you work.”

  “Why were you digging around in the dumpster?” I ask and immediately feel stupid for asking the question.

  “I’m homeless. That’s what I do. I know bakeries usually throw out entire packages of cupcakes and donuts at the end of the day. I was hungry. I was looking for something to eat.”

  He was looking for food in the dumpster…

  Breaks my heart to hear that. No one should live that way.

  “Ivy and Eden is not a bakery. I make candles. Scented soy wax candles. Some of them may smell like cupcakes and donuts, but nothing I make is edible.”

  “I know that now. I guess you can say I found out the hard way.”

  “And yet, instead of moving on to an actual restaurant or the bakery right up the street from me, you decided to come to my house.”

  “Yes.”

  He lays his fork on his plate and looks at me with intention. I don’t know what to make of it, but it’s unnerving.

  I get up to get him another glass of tea. When I place it on the table, he responds, “Thank you, Ahmalee.”

  So, he heard me when I told him my name…

  I wasn’t sure at first, but I’m positive now. “You’re welcome, Cain.”

  He takes a sip. I’m surprised he didn’t guzzle the whole thing like he’s done everything else I’ve given him.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Cain. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “What? Invited a bum into your lovely home for a meal?”

  Something about the way he describes himself as a bum doesn’t sit well with me. Why would he say that about himself? I clarify by saying, “What I meant was, I usually don’t invite strangers into my home.”

  “I kinda picked up on that when you told me to leave earlier. I also recognize that you don’t need to help me at all, so why are you?”

  I shrug.

  “Why?” he presses.

  “Why do you care? As long as I’m doing what I’m doing, the why in all of this really shouldn’t matter to you.”

  “What if it does matter to me? What if I want
to know why?”

  “Okay. I felt guilty for telling you to leave this morning. You stacked my mail on the porch after I ran away from you. All you asked for was food. You had to cut my grass to get my attention and then I let you cut the entire yard before giving you something to eat. It bothered me so much, I had a hard time focusing at work today. So, I stopped by the store and picked up a few groceries so I could come here and prepare you a real meal—all the while hoping you’d still be around when I got home and I, um—”

  I stop talking when I feel myself growing emotional and I have no idea why these feelings are floating to the surface. I don’t know this man from Adam. I just knew he needed help. He needed me. Instead of taking the stance that he’s somebody else’s problem, I, for once in my life, decided to be the person who could positively affect someone’s life.

  “I thought you were dead when I found you in the shed. Gosh, I couldn’t have lived with myself if you were—”

  I glance up to find his eyes on me. He quickly looks away.

  “Look, Cain—I’ll take you up on your offer. You can stay in the camper for as long as you need to. I’ll continue to give you food and help you out with whatever else you need, but you have to do what you said you’d do and help me out around here. Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” he says. “I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

  I nod then clear our plates from the table. “I use the camper for storage. I’ll have to clean it out a little.”

  “Is that why you have it? For storage?”

  “No, it wasn’t intended to be used for storage. It belonged to my parents. They were supposed to travel the country together, but that didn’t quite go as planned.”

  I place the dishes in the sink and say, “I’ll go clean it out for you. In the meantime, you can help yourself to more food. I have some snacks in the cabinet, too. You’re welcome to whatever.”

  “Okay,” he says, but doesn’t move. I suppose he’s comfortable where he is. Full and comfortable.

  I go about taking extra boxes and whatnot from the camper and move them to the shed. Cain comes outside to assist me. He takes the box I’m holding out of my arms and carries it to the shed. I sweep out the camper – his new, temporary home. I go back to the house to get pillows, sheets, and other covers for the bed. The camper is actually not a bad place to live. It’s like a small apartment on wheels. There’s a sitting area with a built-in couch, a kitchenette and the bedroom that houses a full-size bed.