A New Leaf

by Thomas Kinkade

  Fran stared at him curiously, a bath towel dangling from her hand. “What to do? What do you mean, Tucker?”

  “The doctor says he’s still pretty sick. Not well enough to work or travel around. I thought we should let him stay here a while. In the spare room. Just until he gets back on his feet.”

  Fran’s eyes widened in dismay. “Stay here? But he’s been in jail, Tucker. He killed a man.”

  “That was an accident, self-defense. You know that.” Tucker tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at him. “I’m surprised at you, Fran. I thought you’d be more sympathetic to the poor guy. You’ve been running all over town for the past month collecting food for poor people. Well, now’s your chance to really help someone who’s down on his luck. Not just give him a few free cans of soup.”

  Fran’s fair skin turned a mottled pink color. “That’s not fair! One thing has nothing to do with the other. It’s not that I don’t feel sorry for Carl. I do. But he scares me, Tucker. He killed a man, and you’re talking about bringing him into the house with our children.”

  “Come on, he’s not going to hurt anybody. Carl’s not like that. He’s my brother, for goodness’ sake.”

  “One that you haven’t seen in over twenty years. He’s been in jail a good part of his life and up to God-only-knows-what since. We don’t know him anymore. We don’t know what he’s like.”

  Tucker pushed back from the table. He wasn’t used to arguing with Fran. They hardly ever disagreed. He was tired from work and driving in the snow. He didn’t want to say something he’d regret, but he could feel his patience unraveling.

  “Can’t you make other arrangements?” Fran pressed him. “There are agencies and public programs and all sorts of places that can take him in.”

  Tucker had looked into the alternatives, but they all seemed too grim. Too cruel. He knew how dangerous the shelters were. Most homeless people desperately avoided them. Besides, Carl was too sick now for any of those places.

  “Even if I could get him into a shelter that was halfway decent, he wouldn’t stay. He’d find a way out and start hitching rides again, living hand-to-mouth until who knows what happens.”

  Fran shook out a T-shirt and laid it flat on the table to fold. “He’s been living that way for years, as far as I can see. Do you think a few days in our guest room is really going to change him?”

  “I’m not trying to change him,” Tucker assured her. “I just want to help him get back on his feet. I’m not thrilled to have him here, either. But there really isn’t any place else he can go. Not until his health improves. I’ve looked into this, Fran. I really have. If there was some other way, I’d do it.”

  He watched her pick up a white handkerchief and fold it into a neat square. Her face was drawn into a tight expression.

  “Come on, Fran. You’re blowing this way out of proportion. I don’t see that it’s such a great imposition. It will only be for a few days. You’ll hardly know he’s around.”

  “Of course, I’ll know he’s around.” Fran sat down at the table again and held his gaze. “I just feel as if your mind is already made up. You’re going to do this no matter what I say. My feelings about it don’t really matter to you.”

  Tucker sighed, feeling tired and frustrated. Still, he couldn’t deny Fran’s point. Driving home from Southport tonight, he’d considered the options and had pretty much decided to take Carl in. He just hadn’t figured on Fran opposing him so strongly.

  “I’m in a tough spot, Fran. I wish you could be a little more understanding. I’m asking for some patience. For my part, I wish the guy had never come back. But he did and he’s here and I feel obligated to help him.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the alternative is that I turn my back and get a call in a week or a month or whenever saying that he’s been found dead somewhere and I didn’t help him. Now that’s something I just couldn’t live with.”

  Tucker had been careful not to raise his voice. But the look on Fran’s face made him feel as if he had all the same.

  He stood up from the table. His shoulders felt stiff from too much driving, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Fran looked up at him, then just shook her head. “Will you at least think about it a little more? Make a few more calls to places that would take him? There’s probably a social worker at the hospital you can talk to. I’ll call if you want me to.”

  He took a deep breath and then another, trying to use a stress-management technique he’d learned at work. Fran was quiet but doggedly persistent when she wanted something. Maybe that was why she was such a good salesperson.

  “All right. I’ll make a few more calls. I’ll try to track down the hospital social worker. But I’m not so sure I’ll come to any new conclusions on this, Fran.” When she didn’t answer or look up at him, he said, “I’m going upstairs. I have an early day tomorrow. Are you coming?”

  She glanced at him briefly and shook her head. “I need to put the laundry away first. I’ll be up in a while.”

  “Okay, then. Good night.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, but she didn’t kiss him back.

  It was going to be difficult around here for a while, Tucker thought as he climbed up the stairs. Carl wouldn’t shower him with gratitude, that was for sure. And now he and Fran were at odds as well.

  He’d made up his mind on the long drive home tonight that the only thing to do was take Carl in. Now he wondered if it was the right choice after all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TUCKER SAT NEAR THE BACK OF THE CHURCH, ON THE PULPIT SIDE, with Michael and Mary Ellen beside him. Fran didn’t like to miss church, but she had to show houses today to a couple from out of town, and she had raced out to meet them at the train station while he and the kids were still eating breakfast.

  The voices of the choir soared as they sang “Amazing Grace.” The hymn was one of his favorites, but for some reason, the familiar lyrics failed to touch him this morning. Tucker’s mind wandered, chewing over the same question about Carl and still feeling unsatisfied with the answer. Carl would be released from the hospital tomorrow, and a social worker had found him a space at a homeless shelter, a place run by a church down in Beverly. Tucker knew the shelter and didn’t think it was so awful. A far cry from the comfort of his own guest room, but maybe not too bad for a guy like Carl.

  He hadn’t seen Carl since Thursday night so he couldn’t say if his brother really planned on staying there or had only agreed to go in order to get released from the hospital. Maybe he didn’t really want to know, Tucker realized. He’d told Fran on Friday night after dinner about his talk with the social worker and about Carl’s plans.

  She hadn’t said anything at first. Then she dipped her head and said, “Well, that’s good news, I guess. Maybe we could send him a care package or something. Some books and things he might need.”

  Her well-meaning suggestion had irritated him. Carl needed to rest up some place more hospitable than a shelter, Tucker thought. He didn’t need chewing gum and a new package of handkerchiefs; he needed a good bed and a private room and some home-cooked food. But the look of sheer relief on Fran’s face made it hard to open up the discussion all over again. She was genuinely afraid of Carl, no doubt about it, though it seemed clear to Tucker there was no reason in the world she should be.

  Maybe it was just as well that Carl went to the shelter, that they didn’t get any more involved, he had finally decided. Though that was back on Friday, and now, not even three days later, the decision didn’t sit well with him, like something he’d eaten that just wouldn’t go down.

  Tucker focused again on the service. The Scripture readings had concluded, and Reverend Ben had started his sermon. Tucker shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he realized that today’s Gospel was the familiar parable of the Good Samaritan.

  “What is the reason Jesus even tells this story? He is first asked a question.” Reverend Ben glanced down at the open Bible on his pulpit. “ ‘What shall
I do to inherit eternal life?’ ” he read aloud. He looked out at the congregation again.

  “In other words: How do we get to heaven? What do we need to do? Fair enough questions, I think. Jesus first answers that you must do two things: love God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself. Simple enough, you might think.

  “But then the same man asks, ‘Who is my neighbor?’ ” Reverend Ben paused, his gaze sweeping over his audience. “So in answer to this question Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan. A traveler is attacked by thieves and left on the roadside between Jerusalem and Jericho, half dead. Two men pass him, one of them a priest. Neither of them shows compassion or charity, neither of them stops to even see if the wounded man is still alive. Callous and indifferent, they move to the other side of the road.

  “Then the Samaritan comes along. He binds the man’s wounds and takes him to an inn, even though it means he has to walk while the wounded man rides. He then gives the innkeeper money, promising to pay for everything while the man recovers.”

  The reverend paused as if to let the words sink in.

  “Is this wounded man a relative of the Samaritan? Is it his friend or someone from his town? No, of course not. The man is unknown to him, a traveler from Jerusalem, we are told. Yet, the Samaritan does what is necessary. He makes an effort, physically, financially, even emotionally, one might surmise. He puts himself out for this stranger. He doesn’t fall back on all the excuses that seem to come so easily when we find ourselves in a similar situation. You know what I mean. We all do it, myself included.” The reverend glanced around. “ ‘I’d like to help this man, but if I stop, I’ll be late for my appointment. I really can’t bother this time. Next time, I’ll help.’ Or, ‘I don’t really have much money myself right now. Someone else with more will probably help.’ And here’s a good one: ‘Gee, I feel badly for the poor man, but what kind of person gets themselves into such a state? He should have known better than to drink, to gamble, to take drugs, to lose his job.’ I’m sure you can fill in the blanks. ‘I’d never get myself into a jam like that,’ we tell ourselves. ‘He pretty much got what he deserved.’ ”

  Tucker sat up and crossed his arms over his chest. He felt his cheeks flush. He knew Reverend Ben hadn’t written this sermon to send a message just to him—but it was starting to feel that way.

  “Does the Samaritan ask the wounded traveler any questions? Does he try to figure out if the man is worthy of his aid? No. He finds a man in distress and immediately takes care of him. And so we find, at the end of the story, Jesus asks, ‘Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was a neighbor onto him that fell among the thieves?’ And of course the answer is, ‘He that showed mercy on him.’

  “So this then is the notion of a neighbor as set forth in this passage. A neighbor is the wounded one we find on the roadside, the one in distress who needs our aid without questions or judgments. Who needs our mercy . . .”

  The reverend continued but Tucker stared down at the floor, hardly hearing another word. All through the story, he saw Carl’s face on the wounded traveler. But he couldn’t cast himself as the Samaritan. No, he was one of the men who had passed to the other side of the road. Or, rather, was just about to, he realized.

  ON MONDAY MORNING TUCKER CHECKED IN AT THE STATION HOUSE, took care of some paperwork, then prepared to go out on patrol. Just before leaving, he stopped in to see his boss, Chief Jim Sanborn.

  “I need a few hours of personal time today, Chief. Say from about eleven to two?”

  “Dentist appointment?” Jim glanced up at him and grinned.

  “I wish. I’d rather have a root canal than sort out this piece of business.”

  The chief looked at him quizzically, then turned back to the papers on his desk. “Sure thing. Just tell Nelson at the desk so he knows you’re off duty.”

  Tucker felt jumpy all morning but focused on his work. He was assigned to a speed trap near the elementary school. He ticketed a teenage girl flying through the stop sign and later stopped a guy in a panel truck doing close to sixty through the school zone. Tucker smelled the alcohol on his breath as soon as the trucker rolled down his window.

  Tucker felt satisfied taking a drunk driver off the road. He had seen enough car wrecks to know that in a small but significant way, he had made the world a little safer today. But overall, day to day and hour to hour, he couldn’t say he faced his job with the same eagerness he had felt years ago.

  He’d never minded being a cop in a small town where the night police report often didn’t amount to anything more ominous than raccoons rattling garbage cans. Lately, though, he’d felt restless. Bored perhaps by the sheer routine of ticketing traffic violations or taking down car-accident reports. He’d been on the force almost twenty years now and would qualify for early retirement in two more. He was starting to think he might be ready to quit the force by then, to do something else with his life, though he wasn’t sure quite what. Being a policeman was all he’d ever really wanted to do. It was all he really knew.

  At eleven o’clock he radioed the station that he was going off duty. With a sigh of resignation, he drove up to the turnpike and headed for Southport.

  He wasn’t sure why or how, but he had somehow decided to drive to Southport and see if Carl would come home with him. He thought about calling Fran at the real-estate office to give her some warning. No, he decided. Better wait to see what Carl says.

  Despite his talk with the social worker last week and despite telling Fran that Carl was going to Beverly, Tucker had been seesawing in his mind all weekend about the situation. Sunday morning in church, though, was what ended the indecision. Reverend Ben’s sermon had gotten to him.

  Tucker reached the hospital at half past twelve. As he crossed the lobby, the elevator doors opened, and he spotted his brother being wheeled out of the elevator by a nurse. Dressed in ill-fitting secondhand clothes, Carl held a bunched-up plastic bag and a new set of crutches across his knees. All he has in the world in his lap, Tucker thought.

  Tucker hurried to catch up with the wheelchair, aware that if he had been a minute later, he would have missed him. He wasn’t sure if that was a lucky break or an unlucky one. Carl saw him and a bitter expression came into his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” Carl demanded. “Can’t you give me some peace?”

  “Simmer down. Just let me talk to the nurse.”

  The nurse pushing Carl looked Tucker over. “Are you here to pick up the patient, Officer?”

  “That’s right. I’m his brother,” Tucker said. “Do I need to sign something?”

  “Mr. Jones has to sign,” the nurse told him.

  “Hold up, here. I didn’t give him permission to pick me up,” Carl told the nurse. “You don’t have to do what he says because he’s wearing that uniform.”

  The nurse looked confused. She checked her clipboard, then looked up at Tucker. “The social worker has made arrangements for Mr. Jones to be transported to a shelter in Lowell. A van is coming soon to take him there.”

  “Lowell? I thought he was going to Beverly.”

  “There wasn’t any room in Beverly. My travel agent had to switch my reservations.” Carl smiled slyly at him.

  Tucker didn’t answer. The shelter in Lowell was awful, a real pit. If he’d had any doubts at all about taking Carl in, this clinched it. “Lowell is hours from here,” Tucker said finally.

  “What’s the difference? You worried about visiting me or something?” Carl laughed, then coughed into his hand. “I’ve been to worse places than Lowell, believe me.”

  Tucker did believe him. That was half the trouble.

  He paused for a moment, realizing that if he just let Carl go, all his problems would be solved. Carl hadn’t asked him for his help. Quite the opposite. He was his usual surly, ungrateful self. But finally, Tucker just couldn’t do it.

  “You don’t have to go there, Carl. You can stay at my house for awhile in the spare room.”

  “You
r house?” Carl shook his head. “That’s not for me. What do you think you’re doing anyway? Swooping in here like Superman, saving the day? You make me laugh, Tucker.”

  Tucker glanced at the nurse. “Will you excuse us a minute while we talk?” She nodded knowingly and walked toward the front desk.

  “Stop arguing with me,” Tucker said wearily. “It’s a long drive back, and I don’t have that much time. Now just sign the paper and let’s get out of here.”

  “I know why you’re doing this, Tucker. You can’t fool me. You just feel guilty. Too much church, that was always your problem. You’d be just as happy to see the back of me than set me up in your spare room. Isn’t that right?”

  Tucker folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m not going to lie to you. But you have no money and nowhere to go, and the doctor says you’re too sick to get a job or even travel. So either I can drive you to my house and give you a clean, comfortable bed and three meals a day or you can get on that van and go to Lowell,” he stated bluntly. “What’s it going to be?”

  Carl stared straight ahead, his jaw set and a blank look on his ravaged face. He gripped his bag tighter. For a moment, Tucker thought he might choose the shelter just to spite him.

  “All right,” Carl said finally. “But I’m not staying long. A few days. Just until I get my second wind and this darn leg gets better.”

  “That’s all I’m inviting you for. Just until you can travel,” Tucker agreed, though he was sure it would take more than a few days.

  “I’m due in Portland, you know. My friend is waiting for me.”

  “I know, I’ve heard all about it.” Tucker wheeled Carl over to the information desk and found the nurse with Carl’s release form. Carl scrawled his name in the designated places and grumbled his thanks to her good wishes.

  “I don’t need this chair. I can walk out of here on my own,” Carl complained as Tucker pushed him.

  Right, that’s why they gave you crutches as a going-away present. Because you’re ready for the Boston Marathon, Tucker was tempted to reply.