A Knight to Remember

by Yvonne Lehman

  She shouldn’t pry too much. And once the sun sank below the horizon, darkness came quickly. “There’s an attendant at the shelter. You can go in.”

  “Is the person who manages it there?”

  “The resident assistant is a volunteer. But I can take you to the church to talk to Jim. He’s director of Wildwood.” Although curious about what he wanted, she didn’t say she might be able to give him some information. After all, she was constantly telling herself she was a temporary fixture at a place that didn’t really need her. The youth meeting proved that. Although young, they had wonderful ideas and plans.

  His words interrupted her thoughts. “That sounds a lot more inviting than the cold creek water.” He reached down to the base of the tree, picked up a large backpack, and shrugged into it. He adjusted the straps over his shoulders.

  She didn’t know the protocol in a case like this but had a strong feeling she’d made the wrong decision. Maybe she should reconsider and say he must go to the shelter and talk to the RA instead of leading him to Jim who was in the church alone. But she didn’t know if this man was homeless. He wasn’t exactly direct with his answers to her questions. However, she reminded herself, she’d seen Jim effectively handle a man who definitely needed help beyond that of the shelter.

  She led the way out of the shadowed woods, past the Wildwood Center, and toward the large brick church where lights shone from basement windows.

  Each time she glanced at him, the man looked over at the woods or switched his gaze to the center or to the church ahead of them. He was probably sizing her up, like she was doing with him.

  After leaving the woods, even in the dusk she could see that his eyes were clear, despite the discoloration beneath his right eye. Otherwise his face, what little she could see of it, looked youngish; his walk was quick and agile like a person in good shape. She was told her first day at the shelter that the homeless were just people, like everybody else, and not to treat them any differently. She was trying.

  But Caleb had been young and strong and seemed to be rational. He was clean-cut and intelligent. Who knew what went on beneath one’s surface? And this man walking beside her, maybe he wasn’t homeless but some wealthy fellow wanting to help out the center.

  Sure! A guy in worn jeans and sporting a black eye.

  She took a deep breath. “My name is Gloria.”

  He looked directly at her then, and she pushed aside the strand of hair the breeze blew from her ponytail and against her cheek. With a feeling of chagrin, she noticed his ponytail was still intact at the back of his neck. What had she come to, comparing her hair to a man’s?

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Thomas. Um. . .”

  She waited, wondering what he had on his mind. When he said it, she was floored. “Are you homeless?” he said.

  Her breath came out fast, almost a laugh. Normally the answer would be ready, and she’d say no, she just helped out there, and add the thought that she was a product of nepotism and charity.

  For minimum wage.

  Part-time.

  Temporary.

  But something in the way he studied her, the way he asked, made her think more deeply.

  Not everyone who was homeless lived in a shelter. What, and where, is one’s home? She didn’t appreciate his reminding her that she would have to answer that question at some point.

  But she shouldn’t be discussing her personal life with. . .with a pony-tailed male stranger.

  Tilting her chin upward, she looked into his dark, probing eyes. She tried to make her words sound flippant, as he had earlier. “Depends on who you ask.”

  “Mmmm.” A smile moved his beard.

  The sound he made, and the single nod of his head, gave her the impression he had read her mind.

  five

  Thomas put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. He glanced back and watched Gloria walk away.

  Judging by the jeans and shirt she wore, along with the sneakers, perhaps she lived nearby and had simply taken a walk along the creek. But she’d seemed deliberate about being there, talking to him, and leading him back toward the church.

  The homeless had many kinds of eyes—helpless, hopeless, vacant, frightened, downcast, hopeful, thankful. Hers seemed concerned. Perhaps she was close to the man who fell into the creek. Although she said someone pulled him out, that didn’t mean he was alive. Thomas felt he should have been more sensitive to her.

  But his mind had still been as full of memories as the pad he’d sketched in all afternoon. He’d sat on the other side of the creek until shadows began to creep over his pad and the path.

  Now he watched her walk off in the direction opposite the center, across the church parking lot and toward the residential area. Although he’d detected a sadness about her, she’d been cordial.

  Until he asked if she were homeless.

  Interesting.

  She apparently knew there was more than one kind of homelessness. He’d known a few people who owned nice houses, but their lifestyles indicated those were not homes.

  Turning toward the door, he opened it, and his gaze fell upon a scoreboard on the wall opposite him. Prominent on each side were basketball goals on a board attached to the ceiling. A man’s voice said, “Welcome, friend.”

  Thomas stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and observed an older but spry-looking man walking toward him. “Name’s Jim,” the man said, shifting the broom into his left hand and extending his right one. Thomas gripped it and exchanged a firm handshake.

  “I’m Thomas. A young woman said you direct the Wild-wood Welcome Center.”

  “Well, at least I oversee that it’s directed, which means I’m able to delegate authority and see that others do their jobs. It’s too much for one person.” He tapped the broom handle. “As you can tell, I’m sort of a Jack-of-all-trades.”

  Thomas had a feeling he was probably master of many, contrary to the negative connotation of the adage.

  “Come on in. Have a seat.” Jim reached over where folding chairs were stacked against the wall and brought one forward.

  Thomas quickly reached for another chair and unfolded it. They sat on the only furniture set out in the room marked off with lines for a basketball court, obviously a multipurpose room. Jim propped the broom handle against his leg.

  Most of the room looked cleanly swept, although a few streaks of dirt lingered near where they sat. Paper plates and foam cups were visible in an open plastic bag against the wall. Returning his gaze to Jim, he had the feeling that man likely could see beneath one’s facade.

  “How can I help you?” Jim asked.

  “Well. . .” Thomas thought a moment. How much should he say? “That’s what I was about to ask you.”

  The man’s gaze remained steady as he simply waited for what Thomas might say next. He might well be thinking that Thomas had the kind of mental problem they didn’t handle at the center.

  Thomas leaned forward slightly. “The way you can help me is to allow me to be a self-imposed homeless volunteer.”

  “Self-imposed homeless volunteer,” Jim mused, studying him with his gray eyes that seemed to turn bluer as a grin touched his lips. “What do you mean by self-imposed?”

  Thomas didn’t think it wise to mention the hotel where he could find plenty of blankets that would keep him warmer than he’d been during the nights he’d spent in alleys. But he could mention the better option. “I have family in the area. A brother with a wife and two children, but I’d rather not impose on them.”

  Jim nodded, as if understanding, but a question remained in his eyes. “The men help out where and when they can but none have ever asked in quite that way. We usually tell the residents what we expect.” He paused a moment. “Just what are you wanting? What does ‘homeless volunteer’ mean to you?”

  “It means I’d like to be one of the homeless for a while, but I want to be free to come and go when I’m not needed.”

  Jim’s eyes held doubt. “Without any qu
estions?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say it that way. If you need to know, I’ll tell you. But I don’t want anyone at the center to know about my personal life. It’s nothing. . .” He began to say more and caught himself for a moment and grinned. “Nothing I’m ashamed of. I’m not in trouble. Not addicted to anything.”

  Strange, how his mind worked. No, if his obsession was harmful to anyone, it would be only to himself. Might cause James a little distress, but he’d get over it.

  Jim seemed to study him the way Thomas studied people’s faces, the ones that ended up in his sketch pad. “All I have right now is something temporary. At least I hope our resident will be able to return.”

  Thomas wondered if that resident was the man who fell into the creek.

  “Temporary is all I need.” Famous last words came immediately to mind. If he’d learned anything, it was that anyone, perhaps everyone, could be one step away from hard times.

  Just as Jim opened his mouth as if to ask another question, a cell phone rang. Jim slid it from his shirt pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, with a worried look on his face. “It’s my niece.”

  six

  Gloria had to call. She couldn’t bear it if she caused any trouble. “Uncle Jim?”

  “What’s wrong?” he said quickly.

  “Nothing, I hope.” Gloria sighed. “I sent a man to see you, but maybe I should have sent him to the shelter. Is—is everything going all right?”

  He laughed lightly. “You did the right thing. Everything’s fine. Are you home yet?”

  Now it was her time to emit a small laugh. “The house is in sight.”

  “Good. Tell Clara I’ll be there shortly.”

  Gloria returned the phone to her tote. Cars were parked in the driveway and two at the curb. She reached the house and walked up onto the porch. Light shone from the living room window, and she could see Clara with a Bible on her knees and several women sitting on the couch and in chairs. Bobby lay a few feet away, near the corner, stretched out on his stomach, coloring a picture with much more force than necessary. Keep that up and he’d wear holes in the paper, maybe the carpet.

  His head raised and impatient eyes looked toward his mother. Gloria stepped back quickly lest he see her. Going around to the back would be like sneaking in, and they’d probably hear her anyway. Rather than sit in the light shining onto the wicker settee, she turned and sat on the shadowed step.

  She’d hoped the meeting would be over by now. That was one reason she told the young people to go on home and let her take care of the cleanup, what little of that there had been. Toss a few pizza boxes, wash off a knife, and clean any crumbs. They’d deposited their own plates and cups into the trash bag, and two of the boys folded the bendable legs and propped the table against the wall.

  As substitute event planner of the evening, taking Greg’s place, any anxiety about her role proved unfounded. The young people obviously cared about the residents, and some of them volunteered an hour or so during the week. Before they left, they’d thanked her, as if she’d done more than listen and approve their plans.

  She really didn’t do enough to get paid and often felt guilty because of the volunteers who were so caring. She could enjoy it more if her small savings had not been depleted and she had not needed to use the small salary for personal items like gas for the car and—

  A bevy of voices interrupted her thoughts. She stood when the porch light snapped on and the front door opened. Singles, ranging from early twenties to one woman in her seventies, began to pour out onto the porch.

  She was greeted warmly, and the older woman said she missed her but Clara had said she was at an event-planning meeting. “You’re such a great help to Clara and Jim,” Marge said with warmth in her face and voice. “And the shelter.”

  Marge patted Gloria’s arm and carefully walked down the steps, holding onto the railing.

  Gloria heard Bobby’s whine before she opened the screen door and walked inside. “I don’t wanna go home. I want my daddy.”

  Heather looked helpless as she spoke to Gloria. “I hoped I could talk to you for a minute, but I’d better get him home.”

  By this time the boy’s lower lip was out and his eyes blazed defiantly.

  “Please, honey,” Heather said. “Be sweet, now. It’s your bedtime.”

  Staring at her, he wadded up the paper he’d been coloring.

  “If you two want to talk. . .” Clara said, her eyes questioning, and Heather nodded. “I have another idea.” She didn’t look at Bobby. “I’ve been wanting to watch my new VeggieTales video, but I don’t suppose anybody else wants to.”

  “I do. I do,” Bobby said. “Don’t wanna go home and go to bed.”

  Clara was nodding, so Heather released a sigh of relief. “Well, I suppose I could let you stay up a little later.”

  The defiance left him. “Oh boy!”

  “But first, pick up your crayons and coloring book.” He did and Heather looked greatly relieved.

  “I’ll just grab a sweater,” Gloria said when Heather picked hers up and slipped her arms into it.

  “Popcorn?” Clara was asking as Gloria and Heather walked out the door, and Bobby’s “Oh boy!” rang out again.

  “I think I’m too easy on him,” Heather said when they reached the yard. “But everything’s turned upside down since Caleb came home and left again.” She looked around. “Shall we walk down to the playground?”

  Gloria nodded. The street was well lit with sidewalks on both sides. She and Heather spoke to a couple sitting in a swing on their porch. The evening had only a slight chill in the air. The moon was visible, but no stars shone yet in the light gray sky.

  Both were quiet. Gloria felt the two of them were as different as the sound of their shoes. What could Heather want to talk to her about? They walked two blocks and reached the playground at the back of the elementary school. That, too, was well lit and considered quite safe. She’d rather wander along the path by the creek, but much of it was secluded and not recommended for a single female’s stroll at night. Jim said it used to be a favorite walking place until the church was turned into a shelter. Some people feared the homeless.

  It disheartened Gloria to hear Clara talk of how different times were now than when she was growing up and the world seemed a safer place. “But,” she said reluctantly, “you do have cell phones now if something goes wrong. That helps.”

  Gloria thought of her silent cell phone now. Yes, she could call out, but she rarely received a call anymore. Raymond used to call. . . .

  “How’s this?” Heather pointed to the swings.

  Gloria nodded, and they sat in swings next to each other, holding onto the chains. If Heather wanted to thank her for going with Clara and Jim to see Caleb when he was at the hospital, she could have done that back at the house. She looked over at the dark-haired woman whose eyes took on a helpless look, like when Bobby hadn’t wanted to leave Clara’s.

  “I wanted to ask how in the world you do it,” Heather said.

  That was puzzling. “Do? What?”

  “Handle your life so well. I know you lost your job, but you seem so content to live with your aunt and uncle.”

  Content? Where did Heather get that? But she could be honest about one thing. “It’s not hard living with Clara and Jim. Nobody could be more loving than they. Actually, I feel more comfortable with them than my parents. Their home is like my home. When my parents go on furlough, they stay with Clara and Jim or a church mission house.”

  Heather nodded. “That’s what I wanted to know. You see, my parents want me and Bobby to come live with them. Since Caleb isn’t with us, and I don’t know if he will ever be, I know it would be good for Bobby. But they already belittle Caleb. I don’t think we’d ever get back together if I go live with them. You see, Mom had an alcoholic dad, and the thought of drinking sets her off. But I’m hoping Caleb will change. I mean, not just change but get help. He needs help. He watched his best buddy get blown apart by a land
mine. He drinks because of his war experiences, not just for the alcohol.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  Gloria wasn’t sure what to say. “I think it might. I guess it’s like Bobby wadding up the picture he colored. It’s not about the picture and it’s not about you. He wants his daddy.” She paused. “And you want him, too.”

  Heather nodded the whole time Gloria made that speech. She did pray on the way to the playground that God would give her the attitude and words she might need, or just a listening ear. But she had a feeling her understanding how Heather felt had something to do with Gloria having gone, seemingly overnight, from feeling as though she had answers to just the opposite.

  And, too, Gloria lived with some very wise people. Besides that, she empathized with Bobby, who longed for his dad. She knew what it was like to want your parents, but they were off in a foreign country helping other people’s children. At that thought guilt, as usual, twisted her insides. She immediately apologized to God. That was no way to honor your parents who were just doing God’s will.

  At least they knew God’s will for their lives.

  She didn’t, for her own.

  But the more Heather talked, the worse Gloria felt. Particularly when she said, “So would you advise me to go live with my parents or ask friends to take care of Bobby and try to find a job? Or go to a homeless shelter for a while until I know how Caleb is going to come out of this? You see”—her voice softened and she batted at the moisture forming in her eyes—“I know Caleb isn’t bad. He’s just had a bad time.”

  The first thing that popped into Gloria’s mind was the shelter’s grace and mercy plan. If a resident broke the rules he had to leave. He would be directed to whatever place he needed to go for help and could return to the center after thirty days. His room or bed would be waiting. If the situation warranted it, his indiscretion was forgiven, and he could again call the shelter his home.