The Noticer Returns

by Andy Andrews

  Baker left out the part about killing the birds because he was afraid of what Jack’s reaction might be. Neither did he say anything about the old man touching the underside of the starling’s wing. Baker had worked that moment over in his mind more than a few times and couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. So how could he possibly say to someone he just met, “I saw a guy touch a bird and the black feathers turned white?” Ah . . . no. He couldn’t tell anyone that story. That tale, Baker knew, would only make folks think he was strange.

  The last thing Baker skipped was the part about the old man putting the bird in his pocket. By now he loved Jones and knew Jack felt the same way. The whole putting-a-dead-bird-in-your-pocket thing felt too awkward. Baker thought it might make the old man seem senile or something. In any case, it was unnecessary to the larger story, so he kept it to himself.

  When he finished, Jack had a couple of questions. “Where is your family living now, Baker?”

  “We’re in an apartment,” he answered. “It’s a room for us and a room for the girls. Nothing fancy, but it’s fine. I was embarrassed at first. Now, I just want to figure out some stuff and get rolling in the right direction.”

  “How are you set for vehicles?”

  Baker rolled his head over and smiled. “Well, the two pretty ones we had, I took ’em back to your place.” Jack winced, and Baker laughed. “Oh well, don’t feel bad. I don’t. Your guys at the dealership got us in something used—pre-owned, I think was the term they preferred—and we are good. Hey, I can actually afford these.”

  “I don’t mean to be nosy, but if you don’t have your land anymore and the land was your source of income . . . and you don’t have a job yet . . .”

  “How’d I get the money for the cars?”

  Jack lifted his chin and smiled. “Just curious.”

  Baker shrugged. “Man, you have no idea how much stuff we had in that house. Trust me, it was a lot. We had a few days to get out, and it was one massive yard sale until we left. We sold almost everything. Three televisions, several cameras, a pair of binoculars, two sets of golf clubs . . . We didn’t need all that in an apartment.” After a pause, he added, “Truthfully, we didn’t need all that stuff at all.”

  Baker brightened. “You know, what’s great is that Sealy is good with everything we’re doing. It was hard at first . . . okay, actually, it’s still hard, but we’re toughing it out. We’re living indoors, right? There are folks who aren’t.”

  “That’s true,” Jack said. “That is a well-chosen perspective.”

  “Yeah, Jones told me that,” Baker said. “I keep saying it, you know . . . the part about living indoors? I need to remember that. I feel better when I do.”

  Jack agreed. “That is a human absolute. We all feel better when we are grateful. There is great wisdom in understanding that no matter the situation, there is always something for which we can choose to be grateful.”

  Baker thought about that and commented, “That’s true. It never occurred to me that when I am grateful, I have chosen to think that way. That is a new one . . . that I can choose to . . .” Baker’s eyes brightened. “Hey, that is perspective, right? Perspective is, ultimately, how I choose to see a situation.” He reached over and playfully slapped Jack on the leg with the back of his hand. “Here is something I am grateful for . . . I did not have to sell my Kamado Joe!”

  Jack laughed. “So you have one too? No wonder you know so much about them.”

  “Mine isn’t the BigJoe, though. It’s the Classic. I told Sealy if worst comes to worst, we might be living outside, but we will be eating well.”

  “That’s it,” a voice said, and the two men turned to see Jones smiling and slowly clapping his hands in applause only several feet away. “I think he’s got it,” the old man said. “What do you think, Jack?”

  Twelve

  Jones!” Baker exclaimed. “Where did you come from?”

  Jack didn’t say a word but stood and went straight to the old man, wrapping him in a bear hug. “I can’t believe it’s you,” he said.

  Jones delivered a hug of his own before struggling to escape the arms of the much larger man. “It’s not going to be me if you squish me like a bug,” he laughed.

  Baker got up from the table and stood to the side with a grin on his face, watching the reunion. Jack finally released his old friend and wiped tears from his face.

  Jack put his hands on his hips, suddenly striking a mock-serious pose. “Do you know how long you’ve been gone?”

  The old man’s white eyebrows went up. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” Jack answered. “You’ve been gone more than twenty-eight years.”

  “Hm . . . seems like yesterday to me.” Jones moved to the water’s edge and motioned for the men to follow. “And anyway, I haven’t really been gone. I’ve been around.” Jack opened his mouth to comment, but before he could get a word out, Jones spoke again. “This place is beautiful, son. You’ve worked diligently . . . wisely.” He waved an arm at the crowd of people, mostly children, and added, “I’m proud of how you are using the rewards of your success as well.”

  Once more, Jack was about to speak when, again, Jones spoke first. Lifting his arms as if to encompass the entire property with all the children and their parents, he said, “It was your efforts years ago that made all the parts of this day possible. You worked in faith. You labored on through confusion, around despair, above distractions, and occasionally under attack. You did the work with a song in your heart and a smile on your face. You did this even when you did not feel like singing or smiling or even going outside to face another day.”

  Jones put his hand on Baker and briefly squeezed his arm. Nodding toward Jack, he said, “This man knows the uncertainty you are facing right now. He has been through the fire—several times, in fact—and the Jack Bailey you see now is a product of that fire. He has allowed himself to be molded and shaped. Jack’s life seed—which he planted intentionally and tended carefully—is now producing the fruit he expected as the just reward of obeying principles and doing the required work.”

  Jones’s blue eyes carefully searched the yard. When he found the person he was looking for, the old man smiled and pointed. “The tall girl in green . . . long blonde hair . . . she’s pushing the two children in the swing. Do you see her?” Both men responded affirmatively.

  “Her name is Bella. Bella Serra. Beautiful name, isn’t it?” Jones asked. After the men agreed, he said, “Yes. It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful young girl. She is not sick. Neither does she have a close friend who is ill. Bella has a heart to help those who are hurting . . . those who are less fortunate. And she’s not the only one,” he said to Baker. “There’re quite a few folks—young and old—who have been inspired by Jack and Mary Chandler.” Jones placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Yes sir,” he said to the much taller man, “I am proud of your influence and example.”

  “Speaking of Mary Chandler, here she comes,” Jack said. “I’ll warn you in advance, Baker, she can get bossy at times like this.”

  Jones laughed at the comment. Baker, attempting to hide his grin, asked, “Times like what?” The three men were on the edge of the wharf, facing the house, and Mary Chandler had just walked out the door.

  “Times like this: cleanup time.” Jack paused, and they watched his wife hurry down the back steps. “She’s beautiful,” he went on, never taking his eyes from her, “but when there’s work to be done, especially out here, she is in full event mode, so look out!” They all laughed out loud as they watched her walk toward them with purpose.

  The party was over. There was still an hour or so of daylight left and a lot to hose down, mop up, and put away. Mary Chandler was rounding the pool with an eye on her husband and his guest, whom she had met earlier. Her jaw dropped, her face brightened, and she actually picked up speed when she recognized Jones.

  Sure enough, Mary Chandler had a long list of things that needed to be done right then, and she was not shy about
including Baker in the detail. Of course, he had been happy to help and appreciated the opportunity to spend even more time with Jack.

  Jones, as it turned out, had not been asked to do any work at all. Mary Chandler had whisked him away to sit on the back porch, declaring that for once, she wanted the old man to herself. For the next several hours, every time Jack looked their way, his old friend was deep in conversation with his wife.

  Jones sipped his iced tea and watched the graceful woman closely. She was right in front of him, seated on the couch with its back to the water in order that her guest might enjoy the view. Jones was not really interested, however, so at that moment, as spectacular as it was, the view was going unappreciated. He was with this woman at this time for a specific reason, and that reason had nothing to do with whether or not he enjoyed gazing at the bay.

  That reason, when he had broached the subject seconds before, had totally shut down the previous, engaging conversation. Mary Chandler Bailey was no longer smiling and holding his eyes with her own. She was no longer the polished hostess. Instead, she looked to the side, down and away, avoiding his question and now, apparently, him as well.

  Years ago the old man had spent his time almost exclusively with Jack and had met Mary Chandler on only a couple of occasions. Incredibly, however, after almost three decades away the old man seemed to know the woman almost as well as he did her husband. He referenced places and people she knew, and she was amazed, enjoying every word. Until he brought up the one thing she did not wish to discuss.

  Mary Chandler had grown up in a middle-class home as the only child of two loving parents. Her father was an outdoorsman and taught his daughter to shoot and to ride and to fish. She dearly loved her father, but it was her mother who was her very best friend. Mary Chandler remained best friends with her mother during her teen years and on through college. Even after she and Jack were married, Mary Chandler very much enjoyed her mother’s company and welcomed her advice.

  It was after the children came that some sort of distance between them became evident. Mary Chandler was never quite sure why she felt the way she did, but the resentment was real. Don’t tell me again how you would do it, she often thought while looking directly at her mother. But outward respect for older people—especially her parents—was deeply ingrained in Mary Chandler, so she remained silent, never giving voice to any of her irritations.

  Not talking about the disconnect only widened the gulf between the two women over time. Mary Chandler didn’t say anything because she didn’t understand why she felt the way she did and wanted to avoid an argument. Her mother didn’t say anything because she loved her daughter greatly and was worried that any conversation about whatever was happening would make it worse.

  So it happened that for years, the two had allowed a festering unknown to create distance between a mother and daughter who loved one another. Their relationship was never horrible; it just wasn’t what it had once been. And now Mary Chandler often reminded herself, it was too late. The conversations with her mother were over. She would never have another.

  “Mary Chandler,” Jones had asked, “how do you think your mother is doing?”

  “Not well at all,” she had answered and pursed her lips. As she broke eye contact with the guest with whom she had been thrilled to engage only seconds before, Mary Chandler unconsciously crossed her arms, then her legs.

  “I don’t mean to intrude,” Jones said, “but I’d really like to know. How do you think she is?”

  Mary Chandler rolled her head back toward the old man and looked at him over her reading glasses. “Jones,” she said in a suddenly weary voice, “I have heard Jack talk about you for almost three decades. If I have learned one thing about you during that time, it is that, yes, you do mean to intrude. No offense, you understand. Of all people, I am grateful for your intrusion into our lives years ago. But this is different. Not even you can give my mother perspective about anything anymore. So please . . . please . . . I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

  Taking a deep breath, Mary Chandler looked out at the wharf and saw that Jack was still there before turning back to Jones. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?” the old man asked.

  Her eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “For not talking about my mother.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jones said pleasantly. “So, Mary Chandler . . . how do you think your mother is doing?”

  “Not . . . well . . . at all,” Mary Chandler said through clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this? What’s the point? What do you want me to say? She’s alive, but not really . . .”

  Jones saw the tears tracking down the beautiful face of the middle-aged woman and said, “It’s okay. I’m your friend. I am also a friend of your mother’s.”

  With that, Mary Chandler’s head jerked up. “What?” she said incredulously. “You know my mother?”

  “Of course,” he shrugged. “I’m old. I’ve been in and out of Mississippi for years. I know a lot of folks.”

  “But my mother?”

  “Yep. I know your mother,” Jones said. “And, frankly, I know how she is doing. I just wanted to know how you thought she was doing.”

  “Well, I told you.”

  “Yes, you did,” the old man said. “May I ask why you are so angry about her situation?”

  Mary Chandler’s jaw dropped. “Have you seen her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you don’t need to ask that question. My mother is dead—except that she is not. Alzheimer’s has completely shut down her brain. For two years it got worse and worse. Now she doesn’t even talk anymore. She eats, sleeps, and goes to the bathroom. That’s it.”

  Mary Chandler was quiet for a moment, and Jones didn’t say anything either. He waited, knowing she had more to say. “What my mother is experiencing is cruel and unusual punishment,” she continued. “There is no reason for her to live. There is no purpose in this. Yet the doctors say that she is strong and well physically. Why? This is wrong. It should not be allowed to happen. God is not paying attention.”

  “Why do you think that?” he asked.

  “Because if God were paying attention, He would allow my mother to die . . . to pass away peacefully. As I said, my mother can no longer serve a purpose, and without purpose what she is experiencing is absolutely meaningless, unnecessary, and, yes, cruel.”

  Jones leaned forward. “I’m curious,” he said. “Can you not think of a single purpose for your mother’s continued life on this earth?”

  Without hesitation and barely disguising her increasing annoyance, Mary Chandler bluntly declared, “None.”

  Jones sat back with a sigh. “Another discouraged seller of shoes, I see. Well,” he said as he slapped his hands on his thighs, “I’ve dealt with a lot of them. No worries. Let’s get to it.”

  Mary Chandler frowned. “Get to what? And you said I am a what? A seller of shoes? What does that mean?”

  Smiling, Jones said, “We are going to get to a place of proper perspective. And what I said was that you were a discouraged seller of shoes. It’s just my own little inside joke. It’s my way of referring to folks who base their conclusions on a single view from the wrong side of a situation. Tragically, it usually shuts them down completely. But in your case, it’s tragic and ironic.”

  Mary Chandler did not smile or even move her head. “At the risk of becoming more offensive,” she said tersely, “why don’t you just explain the discouraged seller of shoes thing?”

  “All right,” Jones responded. “A hundred years ago two shoe companies each sent a salesman to Africa. They traveled on the same ship and arrived at their destination at the same time. Within twenty-four hours, however, the first salesman was composing a telegram for his boss, declaring the company’s expansion into Africa to be a disaster of epic proportions. ‘Stop all increased production!’ the salesman wrote. “No one here wears shoes!’

  “At the same time the other salesman was also composing a telegram for his boss.
‘Send more salesmen,’ he wrote, ‘and push the factory to twenty-four-hour production. We have hit the jackpot. No one here wears shoes!’”

  Jones cocked his head, waiting to see if Mary Chandler understood the point of his story.

  “So you are saying there is something I do not see,” she stated carefully. “Tell me, please.”

  “Do you understand the reality of what is known as the butterfly effect?” he asked.

  Mary Chandler frowned briefly. “Yes,” she said. “I think I do. The reality would be that a person’s actions are akin to the flap of a butterfly’s wings or a ripple in a pond. A person’s actions always affect the life of someone else, who affects the life of someone else, and so on. The initial action continues to make a difference for generations to come, correct?”

  “Yes,” Jones nodded, “that is correct.” Narrowing his eyes, he asked, “Mary Chandler . . . I consider you a wonderful person. You are a valuable wife, mother, mentor, and friend. Do you—or maybe I should ask did you—did you ever use anything your mother taught you?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Mary Chandler answered. “Of course I did. And I still do. Every day. I use and pass on lessons my mother taught me about life. Every single day!”

  “When did you decide you had learned enough?”

  Mary Chandler stared at Jones. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Allow me to put it another way,” Jones said. “When you decided your mother’s life was without purpose, you chose to forfeit the lessons she still had to teach.”

  “Jones,” Mary Chandler said. “Allow me to say this again: she cannot understand anything. Anything, okay? My mother cannot understand anything!”