I knew Willow was awake, but she just stretched and burrowed down deeper, enjoying the warmth of the dry bag and the comfort of the soft sofa.
I was reluctant to move myself. This little bit of comfort—or was it hope?—allowed just enough space to let some thoughts I tried to keep at bay come creeping back into my consciousness. While it had been almost a year since my trip to the bridge rail, my mind still flirted with thoughts of the peaceful rest that only death could bring. It would only take a few minutes—less time than drinking a cup of coffee—to drown all memories and end all worries about the future. Maybe I could go to the church service on Sunday and look for someone who would take good care of Willow, someone with a big yard and a big heart and lots of dog treats and bones and hamburgers.
Willow finally began making her way from under the covers, and her head popped out by my shoulder. She immediately began to lick my face. Again I was certain she could read my mind. I heard the big door at the end of the hall open. “A-marching we will go; a-marching we will go,” the teacher and the children were singing as they entered, all still clinging to the rope. “Hi, ho, a-derry-o, a-marching we will go.” As the teacher led them around the corner, one little boy at the very end of the rope spotted Willow and me and turned his head. “Hi,” he said in a tiny voice, the rope pulling him forward.
It was time to get up; I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I pushed the sleeping bag down and began to climb out. I stood up and stuffed my shirt back into my jeans. I found my shoes beside the sofa and sat back down to pull up my socks and lace my shoes. Ready at last, I hesitantly headed down the hall and began the ascent up the stairs. Willow followed right behind, hopping like a bunny rabbit up the stairs.
As I reached the top of the stairs, a line of pictures in gold-painted frames caught my eye. I walked over to take a closer look. A small brass nameplate was tacked to the bottom of each painting. The first was Matthew, then Mark, Luke, and John, and then Jesus—four of the disciples and their leader. They all wore their hair long and in tangles, and their faces were etched. Really, they looked like some of the men I had been eating with daily at Sally’s. The likeness of Jesus reminded me of C.
I could hear the sound of laughter coming from the office down the hall. I held back, hesitant to see the people inside for fear of receiving an eviction notice, but Willow scooted past me and headed for the laughter. I had to pick up the pace to catch up with her.
The little dog rounded the corner and made a beeline for the office. “Well, look who’s here,” I heard a woman’s voice say. “It’s Willow.”
There were two women in the office this morning: Mishara, the church secretary whom I had met the first day I stopped at the church, and another woman, standing by the desk with her hands full of papers. Mishara was bending down petting Willow as I entered. She stood up to greet me. “Good morning, Richard.”
I smiled and sort of mumbled my greeting in return. Willow was now investigating the other woman, who said to her, “Well, aren’t you just a cute little thing?”
“Richard, this is Charlene,” said Mishara, as she reached over to pick up a bowl of salad from her desk.
“Good to meet you,” Charlene said. “I’m another secretary around here.” She lifted a coffee cup to her lips.
“It’s good to meet you,” I replied. I nodded to her, and then a plate sitting on the end of the counter caught my eye. It was laden with what looked like banana-nut bread—perhaps even homemade.
Charlene followed my glance. “I baked that last night,” she said. “Help yourself.” As I reached for a piece of the bread, she added, “There’s fresh coffee in the pot in the kitchen, too. Come on; I’ll show you.”
She led the way out of the office and toward the kitchen. I could smell the coffee. “The mugs are right up here,” she said, opening a cabinet door. She looked over the shelf, selecting the right one. “Here,” she said. “Here’s one with a Santa Claus on the side. Ho, ho, ho,” she laughed as she handed the mug to me.
I accepted the mug and poured a cup of coffee. “Thank you so much,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” Charlene said. “You can have all you want. I’m the only one who drinks it around here during the day. You can have more nut-bread, too. Mishara will eat maybe one piece. She eats salad all day. And Earl will only eat a piece or two.” We moved back toward the office.
I gladly took Charlene up on her offer and picked up another piece of the delicious bread, all the while listening and watching for Pastor Earl. I thought I could hear him talking on the phone in his office, just adjacent to the main office. But I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“Did you see any mice downstairs last night?” Mishara asked.
I told her I hadn’t.
“Well, there was one greeting me first thing this morning when I opened the office door,” she said. “He ran across my desk, hopped down on the floor, and scurried out the door. He was kinda cute, but some people are afraid of them.”
“I am,” Charlene chimed in, shivering. “They give me the creeps.”
I smiled at Charlene’s shiver and thought that the mice were just like Willow and me, seeking someplace warm and dry while avoiding the predators outside.
“Good morning, Richard,” Pastor Earl said as he rounded the corner from his office. He was a tall man with long arms, and he wrapped them around me in a brief, warm hug. Willow, who had been sitting on a chair by the office door, jumped down and scurried closer, rising up on her hind legs and using her front paws to get the big man’s attention.
“Good morning to you, too, Willow,” he said, bending down to pat the little dog on the head. “Come into the office,” he said to me, turning and retracing his steps.
I followed behind, wondering how this kind man was going to phrase and rephrase the admission of his mistake in allowing me to sleep in the church and let me know when I must leave. Willow stepped past me and jumped into a comfy chair. “That must be her chair,” laughed Earl, sitting down in his own swivel chair. “Hold on a second.” He looked around on his old wooden desk covered with papers. “I’ve got to give this to Mishara to put into the computer.” He picked up a piece of paper, studied it briefly, and made a correction. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He swiveled, got up, and walked out.
I surveyed the pastor’s office. The back wall was full of books. There were Bibles of every kind, in large print and small, and writings of theologians, deciphering every phrase of the holy books and scrolls. There were books on how to pray and when to pray. I saw a copy of I’ve Got to Talk to Somebody, God. There was also a copy of Spong’s A New Christianity for a New Millennium.
Tacked to the wall with a pushpin was a child’s crayon drawing of a brown violin and bow, and the words to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” written in blue. Below the child’s drawing were two large Native American spirit-webs, with feathers and beads of red, white, blue and yellow.
As I turned around in my chair, a poster on the wall caught my eye:
DO all the good you can
by all the means you can
in all the ways you can
at all the times you can
to all the people you can.
As long as ever you live.
I got out of my chair and walked past the desk to look out the window. I saw a picture on the far wall of a yellow duck, its webbed feet on backwards, and at the bottom was printed: Mallard Justed.
Behind the old wooden desk was a print framed and under glass:
Bach gave us God’s Word.
Mozart gave us God’s Laughter.
Beethoven gave us God’s Fire.
God gave us music, that we might pray without Words.
And leaning up against the side of the desk was a violin case.
I could hear Pastor Earl’s footsteps coming down the hall, so I moved back to my chair. He bustled back into the office and sat down. “Sorry about that.”
It was at that moment that I really looked into hi
s face. He had a well-trimmed beard, short hair, and soft blue eyes. His face was lightly etched from some sixty-plus years of living. I thought then that whatever they call him—whether he was a minister, priest, reverend, or pastor—this soul was a man of God. This was not just a business to him, a way of making a living or passing the time for self-gratification. Here was a true believer.
“How are you doing on money?” he asked.
I reached in my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. “Not very good today,” I said, showing him the empty folds of the worn leather.
I expected him to say, “How do you expect to live on nothing today, and the rest of the month?” But instead he reached into his back pocket and opened his own wallet. He took out all his cash—a five, then six ones—and he handed them to me. “Here, this might at least get you some gas.”
I reached out, silently and humbly accepting the gift.
“How are you doing otherwise, Richard?” he asked.
I lowered my eyes to my lap and folded my hands. I felt I could trust this man. He seemed to be a true friend, maybe the first true friend I had ever known, except for C.
As I lifted my eyes to speak, I could feel the presence of others in the room. I turned my eyes to see Andy the Weed pulling a book from the shelf, and Karen (who had jumped from the Manette Bridge) looking out the window. Marcia (from the hospital waiting room) was beside me with a hand on my shoulder, and the Lady in Red who had emptied her purse and pockets for me so long ago was sitting on a chair, gently petting Willow.
Andy turned toward me. “Look, Richard, no walker anymore. And I don’t need a ride to the liquor store.”
The pastor sat silently and patiently, waiting for my answer to his question. I was sure that if I told him what I was seeing, he would think I was crazy.
“You are lucky to find a man like him,” said Karen, still looking out the window.
“Why don’t you let your subconscious—you know, your soul—talk to his soul?” asked the Lady in Red.
I turned my eyes to Pastor Earl, and it happened so easily. I let him see my soul. And in that second, he seemed to understand the mistakes I had made as well as the good I had done in life. I felt a sense of unconditional love. He reached out a hand to me, and I unfolded my hands to clasp his.
“I’m okay, I guess,” I said, as I began to try to answer his question in the conscious world. “It’s been kinda cold living in my car.” I paused. “I think maybe I am ready to give up.”
He looked at me with his heart in his eyes, searching for the word that would console me.
I asked my soul to talk to his.
“You know the song, Pastor: ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother.’ It’s from the sixties. Well, I am heavy. I see all these sayings on your walls, all your books, the people who respect and love you, your thoughts, dreams, and plans, your violin in that case—that is your identity. I have no identity. I don’t want one. I had one once, and, well, it’s gone now. I have no hope.”
“It sounds like you need hope,” Pastor Earl’s soul replied.
“I know you want to help me, but I am too heavy for you to carry. I am a smart man. In the past year and a half I have seen men who have been on the streets ten or fifteen years, just hoping death would come gracefully in the cold of the night. I have seen the fear in the eyes of young women and children, knowing there was just enough food, just enough cash, just enough begging to get by another day. Somehow they go on. They are stronger than me.
“So my soul asks your soul, in the future are you somehow going to let me stay and sleep in this church?”
“I will. This is your sanctuary.”
“And when I fail to get a home, will you help me find one?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And when my dog Willow gets ill, will you help me find a vet?”
“I will, and I’ll hold your hand until Willow is well.”
“And when I need someone to talk to in dark times, will you come listen to me and wipe the tears from my eyes?”
“I will, and I will cry with you.”
“And if I ever begin dreaming again, will you dream with me?”
“Dreams do come true, Richard,” his soul assured me.
“All my life I worked, loved, raised children, sang songs, danced, played games, and celebrated life,” my soul said. “I gave to others. But now I have nothing to give you.”
“Oh, yes you do,” Earl’s soul replied. “You have the greatest gift to give me: the chance to give to you.”
“I pray for Richard when he goes to sleep at night,” my soul said, whispering, somehow being inside and outside me at the same time. It was like I was now listening to another part of myself. “He catches me praying for him, for his children and grandchildren and loved ones, and he tells me it’s a waste of time, but I wait until he falls back asleep. And I pray for C, Major Baker, and, well, all the people he has met on his journey.
“You know, every night before he climbs into the back of the van to go to sleep, he puts a note on the dashboard that says: ‘If I die in my sleep and you find me, PLEASE find a good home for my dog. Her name is Willow.’ And most of the time, just as sleep comes, he feels sad that no one would miss him—sad that no one would come to his funeral. Would you come to his funeral?”
“Only if he comes to mine first. Either way, I will be there,” his soul said with a laugh.
My soul laughed, too.
“And I get the feeling that I won’t be the only one there! There will be many,” his soul said, with warm assurance.
Pastor Earl also assured me with real words, back in the room with the old desk and the sayings on the walls. “I’ve got to make a couple of telephone calls to get it totally approved, but I’m pretty sure that we can have you and Willow stay for as long as it is necessary for you to find a place,” he said. “I can be pretty persuasive when I need to be.” He laughed that pure-of-heart laugh that made everyone within hearing breathe more easily.
“You know, I just had an idea: Maybe you and Willow could be security guards for the church at night. We couldn’t offer you any money for it, because we don’t have any. But we can get some food in the fridge—some milk and cereal and stuff. Willow could be the church guard dog.” I smiled at the picture of my little white dog with a security dog badge hanging around her neck.
“That—well, that would be great,” I said, when I was able to find words at all. “I have been writing a book; maybe I could work on it at night.”
“Really? What kind of book?” Earl asked.
“It’s about the homeless people I have met, mostly,” I said. “I’m almost done with the writing, but it still needs a lot of work.”
“You know, my wife has always wanted to edit a book,” Earl said, his blue eyes dancing. “I’ll run it by her tonight at dinner.”
I could hardly believe how different this conversation was from the one I had imagined, and dreaded. “About staying here...” my voice trailed off. “I am just afraid that the people of your church may look at Willow and me as church mice. Some will see us as cute little pets, while others will be afraid of us.”
“Not in this church,” he replied. “Anyone who gets to know you and Willow will treat you with dignity, respect, and love. Have courage, my friend.”
“Then I would like to thank you for being so kind to me, a stranger,” I said.
“For some reason, you are not a stranger to me,” the tall, gentle man said. “You seem more like the brother I never had.”
Pastor Earl let go of my hand, sat back in his chair, and then stood up. “Have you had anything to eat yet today?” he asked.
“Just some of Charlene’s delicious banana-nut bread,” I said.
“Well, come on. I’ve got to stop at the bank to get a little cash, and then I’ll buy you lunch,” he said, smiling. “I’m hungry. Maybe we can talk about your book.”
Earl reached over to get his coat from the back of a chair, and I slipped mine on. As we
headed for the door, I looked back at Andy, Marcia, Karen, and the Lady in Red and nodded.
Andy put down the book he was reading and smoothed his hair back with his hand. He leaned toward the Lady in Red and said, “Anybody ever tell you that you look just like Vanna White?”
“No, they haven’t,” she blushed.
“Well, what are you doing today?” Andy asked.
“I have no plans,” she replied.
Chapter 31
JUST ANOTHER HEADLINE
I was happy this Friday, December fifteenth morning when I pulled into Sally’s parking lot for lunch. Being warm and dry most of the time for almost three weeks had done a lot for my spirits. There were still nights when I just couldn’t quite trust my good fortune, and Willow and I would sleep in the van again, but it was never because we felt unwelcome at the church. I felt that if we should have to move on one morning, the loss might not be quite so devastating if we hadn’t started to think of the church as “home.”
I was a little late, and Sally’s was packed. But because it was getting so close to Christmas, the Major had instructed the cooks to make extra, and there was plenty to eat—mashed potatoes, corn, and meatloaf. I grabbed my tray, and Chef Pat greeted me with a warning about being late, but her eyes were dancing all the while. There was only one seat left in the room, but it was a good one—right in the middle of a group of my friends: Mitty, John, and C.
John and Mitty were the sages of Sally’s. John “the Mayor” was always a gentleman and Mitty a lady, and their collective personae often set the tone of the table. “What a bunch of characters,” I thought as I moved toward the table. It occurred to me that I must be viewed as a character myself, and each diner could be thinking exactly the same thing.
I remember distinctly the first time I saw Mitty at Sally’s. I was sitting at a table of young men on New Year’s Eve when I eavesdropped on the conversation of two of my tablemates: “She’s from L.A. She was an old film star, someone told me. She’s been around here for a long time now. When no one else will help you, she will! All you have to do is ask. You got nothing to lose.” After the men finished their lunch, one walked over to the lady sitting at the next table and whispered something in her ear. I watched as she reached into her pocket and handed a few dollars to the man. I would learn over the next year that Mitty practiced random acts of kindness, often providing survival cash and expecting nothing in return.
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