A Knight to Remember

by Yvonne Lehman

  There it came, that flood of grief that could wash through Thomas without waiting for an opportune time. He could almost hear his dad singing about the little white church in the wildwood. Feel his loving grandmother’s arms around him.

  Jim had to know this affected Thomas, but he kept on. “It made the news for a while. The happenings hit us all hard. We knew of the losses that man’s boys had. Many times I’ve seen the older brother at church events. The church he attends sends an annual donation for the shelter. Became an attorney with a good reputation.” He paused. “Often thought, where’s the younger brother?”

  Thomas faced him squarely then, not caring about his own moist eyes. “The younger brother is close to finding out.” That brought on a hard emotion, too. “When did you know it was me?”

  Jim’s bushy gray eyebrows rose slightly. “Maybe it’s how you salivated when you said soup.”

  They both laughed. It could well be.

  Jim shook his head. “By itself it wouldn’t mean anything. But when you walked in last night I thought there was something familiar about you. Then, watching you, listening to you, it just seemed likely. Then I realized there’s definitely a resemblance.”

  “Beneath all this?” Thomas stroked his beard and shook his ponytail.

  “Yes, even if you do look like a hippie.”

  “Sorry. I think that’s before my time.” He sighed playfully. “I was trying to look homeless. Sure didn’t think I looked like James.”

  Jim laughed. “You’re doing all right with the homeless part. But, um. . .I wasn’t referring to James.”

  The earth sort of shook. Thomas supposed he could see other people but not himself. He never thought of looking like his dad.

  When his dad lost his money, his heart gave out.

  While he still had his sons, his heart still gave out.

  Which was more important?

  “I think I should tell you something.”

  Jim said quickly, “You don’t need to. Don’t have to.” He paused. “But I’m here if you want to.”

  The man on the other side of the table was on the canvas of Thomas’s mind and he was eager to paint that into reality. So he told him briefly what he’d been doing and what he hoped to do. Jim listened intently, and Thomas didn’t detect any judgment or condemnation from him.

  When Thomas finished, Jim said, “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone except my Clara.” He leaned back for a moment, pondering. “I had a dream. I wanted to be a singer. But I didn’t pursue it. Mind you, I can’t complain about my life at all. The Lord chose me to serve Him in a special way. I’ve sung with groups and solo. I’ve used my voice for the Lord. My life is blessed.” He drew a deep breath, and Thomas saw the longing in his eyes. “I wonder what my life might have been if I had. I’ll never know.” His gaze was sincere. “If I can help you pursue your dream, I want to help.”

  “You just did. Thank you.”

  Jim nodded. “And I know this is confidential.” He stretched out his arms on the table with the palms of his hands turned up. “Let me pray for you.”

  He did. And he prayed that Thomas would be blessed in pursuing his dream.

  Thomas knew he would know the answer soon, and the thought came with both anticipation and fear.

  twelve

  With the backpack firmly in place, Thomas walked from Wildwood to the hotel, went around back, and unlocked the door. He stepped out of the bright sunlight into a darkened, stuffy hallway. The air was stale. He went to the kitchen doorway and remembered his grandmother, singing her hymns and laughing and cooking and making everyone happy.

  Across the hall was the dining room, its drapes tightly closed. In the dimness he could make out the room filled with round tables and vacant chairs that could easily seat 300 people. The sights and sounds and smells penetrated his memory like a sweet song, yet also a lament of how what one takes for granted can vanish.

  He didn’t remember the drapes ever being closed before except the day he left over three years ago. At any time he could look out the windows and see the trees and shrubs and gardens. The hotel sat back from the road, on the incline, as if saying it wouldn’t crowd the streets since it wasn’t really a part of those residences and office buildings but a separate, comforting place, a place of refuge. It had been that to him, when his family was alive. Now they were only memories in his mind and in his heart. Only the dull sound of his footsteps sounded along the carpeted hallway.

  The living room was better illuminated from the sun pressing against the curtains as if wanting desperately to enter. Looking around, he smiled at the cozy room with its seating arrangements that could delight a small group or be arranged for a large group. The piano his mother had played while the family sang sat idle in a corner.

  He walked through the room and opened the glass doors. The foyer was brightly lighted by sunshine streaming through the glass panels on the upper part of the front door. Near the wall opposite the door sat the large desk where guests could come in and register. The idle computer sat, along with the lamp and telephone, waiting. The staircase was waiting, too, but Thomas looked past it.

  Across from the living room was his dad’s office. After Thomas’s mom died, his dad cut back on his hours in the law office. He liked to hear the happy voices of people in the hotel, getting to know each other, sitting before the fire in the living room during the winter, feeling like family and being close to his mother since James and Thomas were away at school much of the time, traveling, or just doing their own things.

  Thomas’s dad said he’d spent too much time making money, investing, selling off larger hotels in the chain his own dad had left him. He wanted to make this like the family place that it should have been when his wife was living, instead of holing up in the big roomy house where James now lived. His ambition became to leave his sons a legacy, enough wealth so each would have time to be a family man, not a moneymaker.

  But then. . .his dad’s heart gave out when his money did. His investments had been wise. The companies he’d invested with had not been. When the banks failed, when the investment companies went bankrupt, his purpose had died. His purpose had not been his sons but his money. And it had failed him.

  Next to his dad’s office was his grandmother’s bedroom. The hotel had been her life. She wasn’t about to live with Thomas’s dad in the big house. Her joy was her church and the kitchen and her grandsons. She’d said Thomas’s dad could be the executive. She’d be the chief cook, and she’d been the best.

  Thomas took a deep breath and touched the polished wooden railing bordering the elegant staircase, his gaze captured by the crystal chandelier hanging from three stories high. He moved slowly up the steps toward the suite, where no inviting food smells greeted him as they once did, just dry, stuffy air like something closed up for a long time.

  He had no need to explore any rooms on the second floor but climbed on up to the third. He hadn’t locked the inside doors when he’d left. If anyone broke in they wouldn’t have needed to break down any door other than the front or back.

  The third floor consisted of only the suite and the two rooms that had been converted into his studio while he was still in college. He opened the door to the suite first. The sitting room was cozy with a fireplace and a bay window where one might sit and look down upon the beautiful pink-blossomed cherry trees on the green front lawn in spring or the lush foliage in summer, the changing leaves in fall or the blanket of snow in winter.

  Light filtered through the soft white curtains in the bedroom. It was a beautifully decorated room with a king-sized bed. He’d slept there many times. In fact, he’d slept in every room. He’d loved the sleepovers with his grandmother when he was a boy and could sleep in any vacant room he wished or even in the room with her.

  As he grew older however, his real home had been his studio. His heart quickened at the thought of going inside, and that’s why he saved it for last, although his first impulse had been to run up th
e stairs and see if it was still there.

  Of course it was. He stepped inside and opened the blinds, ones that could be adjusted so he could use the right light for his paintings. The view was like the one in the suite’s sitting room: the front lawn and tops of cherry trees. Turning around to survey the room he almost laughed. There were no easels out, except one big one too tall for the closet; no paints; no spills, empty coffee cups, trash cans running over, or canvases. It looked like someone’s abandoned room, not a studio. Supplies were packed away in the closets.

  Two long tables were situated against a wall where he could lay out sketches or frame paintings. A couple artist’s chairs and a stool sat idle at the tables. Off to the side wall was the twin bed. Next to it was the bathroom. He hadn’t wanted to stay in a dorm when in college but wanted to live in this room, and when he didn’t have to study, he’d sketch and paint. He thought he could live in this room forever, it had all he needed—his art materials and a place to sleep.

  But that’s when he had family downstairs and across town. Family and friends.

  Now, with his family gone except James, he felt the emptiness and loneliness of an empty hotel. He thought of James’s family. But he couldn’t allow any envy or hope or thoughts about romantic possibilities. He’d made a commitment. He would see it through.

  He had his memories, his purpose, his Lord. Yet for some strange reason, he had a yearning for something else, a love of his own. But that would have to wait until he’d finished his project. He was on the home stretch. Those yearnings must wait a little longer.

  He’d almost lost his life at times but had found his soul. Jesus said something like that; you have to lose your life to find it. Of course He’d meant spiritually. But the spiritual applied to all areas of life; it wasn’t separate.

  Shrugging out of the backpack, he laid it on a table, pulled out a chair, and started to unfasten the bag. Instead, his arms stretched out on the table, he bent and laid his head down, and the tears came.

  His tears were a prayer. He couldn’t form the words because they were about his entire life. The blessings, the losses, the grief, the wonderful memories, his past, his present, his wandering, and his wondering what he was doing now. And for now having returned for the ending of the commitment he’d made to God.

  Finally, when he raised his head, he felt the peace that only the Lord could bring, felt the joy of life and possibilities and challenge. With it remained the uncertainty of how his three-year commitment would end. He was still just a human being who had a purpose in what he’d done, and his heart’s desire was that it be worthwhile from the human standpoint. But he couldn’t know the ending of what he’d planned, just as his dad hadn’t known his ending.

  He had to think about the practical side of things. He’d contact his agent, Frank, and see if he had any royalties from the reproductions that sold in the area to tourists.

  Thinking of Frank, he remembered his last conversation with him. Thomas had thought he had a ready-made career when James married Arlene and her dad was a well-known agent for writers and artists. Frank had looked at his paintings right there in Thomas’s studio. “Reminds me of Jules’s work,” he’d said, referring to a top-selling client.

  Elation swept through Thomas. At the time, he’d just returned from France after spending a summer there learning his art, visiting the galleries, and painting scenes of Paris, looking at Mona Lisa’s smile, even—

  “You can’t mean it compares to Jules’s paintings,” Thomas said, although he thought his not only compared but exceeded; but he could possibly be biased.

  “Yes,” Frank said.

  “Then you’ll represent me, try to get an exhibit?”

  Frank was already shaking his head. “I have Jules. We’ve worked on his career. You don’t expect me to drop—”

  “No,” Thomas said and scoffed. “Of course not. I know you must have many clients.”

  “Oh yes, but tell you what. I can’t do anything with the Paris pictures.”

  Thomas felt his heart drop. Those were the ones in which he’d put the most time and hope.

  “But I can see about having reproductions made of the DC pictures. Those should sell to tourists.”

  Well, it was a start, so Thomas signed a contract. At least he had an agent.

  Frank looked at him like a businessman not a relative. “You have anything else?”

  “I’ve done portraits.”

  Frank’s eyes bore into his. “Portraits?”

  He was making Thomas feel uncomfortable. “I guess there’s not a great market for portraits.”

  Frank shrugged a shoulder. “I might be able to get work for you occasionally. It’s a chance. Mention you while playing golf and ask if anybody wants their wife painted. Contact some businesses and see if any CEOs want a portrait.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “No. I’m being honest. I could do that. I’d think the assignments would be few and far between though.”

  “Yeah, I agree.”

  Frank walked to the window and turned his back on Thomas. After a while he turned. “You’re good, Thomas. As good as thousands of other artists out there. So, since you say you prefer portraits, why don’t you paint people?”

  Portraits are people. “People?”

  “Paint people who have a special meaning to you. These,” he said, gesturing to the ones in the dining room that Frank said tourists would like, “are what’s out there.” He’d pointed out the window. “Paint what’s in here.” He’d patted his heart.

  Frank left that day leaving Thomas feeling like a failure. He’d already painted his mom and dad. People? What kind of people did he care about? The elderly like his grandmother, whose every line in her face was dear to him? Would that mean anything to anyone else?

  He couldn’t force the creativity, couldn’t conjure up some passion. He had had none.

  But that had changed. And it wasn’t finished yet, so he needed to get the studio set up and the supplies he needed. This was a three-year pass or fail course.

  He couldn’t stop before getting the final grade.

  thirteen

  Each morning, Gloria passed the dining room, heard Thomas’s voice, and from the doorway glimpsed him in the kitchen. She walked on by, went into Jim’s office, and turned on the computer at her desk. She didn’t know what to think about Thomas. Or herself, for that matter. Her sprinkling water on him and his referring to her as Catwoman seemed inappropriate after she asked Jim about him and learned Thomas was taking Caleb’s bed for now. So he was homeless and not a volunteer.

  Later that morning he stepped inside the office and said he hoped he hadn’t offended her by taking over the cooking that morning. She politely told him no, and looked hard at a form on her desk as if she were very busy. If he’d been a volunteer she would have joked and said she wasn’t much of a cook anyway. Jim said they’re just people, and she knew that, but she didn’t think she should be too friendly with a homeless man.

  One of the residents stuck his head in the door later and said, “Just wanted you to know I liked my eggs hard cooked.” Jim was there, and they had trouble holding back their laughter until he had time to get far away enough not to hear them.

  In the following days however, she discovered Thomas did a good job painting the kitchen. And although living there like a homeless man, he volunteered for just about everything, and Jim allowed it. He took over cooking breakfast and came up with a surprise every Wednesday morning, saying it was the middle of the week and he didn’t want anyone to get bored. He certainly wasn’t boring. When Thomas popped in to prepare a special supper once a week they applauded and whistled.

  Lois gladly became his assistant. Gloria wondered if he was trying to take over Lois’s job. But in the weeks that followed, nothing came across her desk to indicate Jim was paying him.

  She was relieved to be out of the kitchen but felt less needed than ever. Now that spring was turning into summer, the flowers and veg
etable gardens were thriving, and she had more time to tend to her and Clara’s flower beds in the backyard. Clara had admonished in a Bible study, “Bloom where you’re planted.” At least the flowers obeyed, so she often adorned the dining room tables with fresh ones. Amazing how much the men appreciated such little effort. They’d stop by her office and tell her.

  Anything a person did for the shelter was worthwhile, and she liked the feeling of being helpful. She liked the men, the workers—loved Clara and Jim—even liked. . .how Thomas livened up the place, kind of like the flowers.

  She rather regretted not joking with him like the others did, but no way could she encourage any false impression in a homeless man. And who knew what his problem might be? Curious, she said suddenly, “Jim, doesn’t Thomas have to fill out an application?”

  “No. He’s temporary in case Caleb returns.”

  She didn’t question that because Jim was the director, but she’d been under the impression they closely documented everything and everyone. She thought he might have lost his job and hadn’t found another. But he didn’t leave in the mornings like the men looking for work, although he was gone in the afternoons. After she noticed him sitting in on classes taking notes, she asked Jim, “Does Thomas have some kind of condition I need to be aware of?”

  “No worry. But his condition”—Jim chuckled—“is confidential.”

  So. . .he was temporary and confidential.

  That description brought Raymond to mind. His confidential with someone else is what led to her and Raymond being temporary instead of permanent.

  Focusing on the computer screen and glancing at the time in the corner, she realized she hadn’t accomplished a lick of work in thirty minutes. Why was she thinking about him anyway? Certainly didn’t have anything to do with that infamous state of being she’d heard about. If she were on the rebound she’d turn to Greg who had his life in order and made clear his availability. But she always did like trying to figure out the mystery in a book.