The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story

by Brennan Manning

  Warren had gotten a call from someone after church and drove in from the ranch. He was now happily using a nail gun nearby. Father Frank heard about the roofraising and was sitting on the hood of that 1986 LeBaron, Mayfield Wildcat maroon and white, talking with some of the wives and mothers who had joined Mrs. Calhoun in bringing refreshments. Some conjunto music played from the open windows of one of the pickup trucks on the street. Somebody had unloaded a smoker and was smoking hamburgers and bratwursts. Somebody else had brought menudo in a big pot and started dishing it out in bowls. A bottle of red wine and then another made the rounds, and someone filled an ice chest with Lone Star beer.

  He wasn’t sure how many of Mayfield’s citizens drove by or dropped in, but it was a lot. At one point, as they neared completion and Jack had run out of room to work, he looked down across the yard to see several couples dancing. He saw Father Frank backing Mrs. Calhoun carefully around the front yard in something approximating a two-step, heard her hooting with laughter. It sounded like maybe she had taken a sip or two of the red wine.

  Jack’s father was sitting in a lawn chair with some other seniors from the Lutheran church like they were watching a Mayfield ball game.

  The pastor of First Baptist, Brother Raymond, was out directing traffic on the street, along with a couple of other deacons from that church.

  As for local law enforcement? Jack saw Randy parked down the block in a police cruiser, looking sourly at the goings-on and maybe wondering if they needed a permit of some sort.

  As Jack looked out at the street, which had been bumper-to-bumper all afternoon with onlookers coming and going and staying, he even saw Bill Hall’s red Ford truck pause for a moment to take in the scene.

  From the roof, Jack raised a hand, a Texas wave.

  Bill saw him.

  Then the big red truck rumbled slowly away without another sign.

  At last, the roof was finished. The men and boys on the roof looked at each other and let out a cheer. They clasped hands, patted each other on the back, sore but happy. People in the yard began to clear away the trash and old shingles.

  It was done.

  But it seemed to Jack that an occasion like this needed to be marked in some way, that people couldn’t simply be allowed to drift away.

  He looked around, saw Father Frank, and had an idea.

  “Will you bless the roof?” he asked. That seemed like the proper thing to do—if, in fact, their common labor of love had not already blessed it beyond need.

  “Would you like me to do that?” Frank asked Mrs. Calhoun, with whom he was still dancing in some fashion.

  “It would be an honor,” she said. “And maybe keep it from leaking.”

  Father Frank made his way over to the ladder, put a foot on the bottom rung, climbed slowly and carefully up until his outstretched right hand rested on the new shingles on the eaves.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he began. All of the Catholics present crossed themselves, as did some of the Lutherans. Jack followed suit after glancing around.

  “Peace be with this house and with all who live here,” Frank said in a loud outdoor priest voice, and he paused while a handful of the Catholics, including Mr. Rodriguez, right next to Jack, returned the customary, “And with thy spirit.”

  Father Frank made the sign of the cross over the roof. “When Christ took flesh through the Blessed Virgin Mary, he made his home with us. Let us now pray that he will enter this home and bless it with his presence.” He bowed his head for a moment.

  Then he stopped, slowly crept back down the ladder, made his way across the yard to Mrs. Calhoun who was watching with hands clasped. When he spoke again it was in a quiet, intimate voice that people had to strain to follow.

  “May he always be here with you,” he said to Mrs. Calhoun. “May he share in your joys, comfort you in your sorrows.” He reached out a hand, put it on her shoulder. “Inspired by his teachings and example, seek to make your new home above all else a dwelling place of love, diffusing far and wide the goodness of Christ.”

  “I will,” she said, blinking. “I promise.”

  “I know you will, Nora Calhoun,” he said softly. “You always have.”

  Then he winked at her.

  Father Frank turned to all of those gathered, workers and gawkers, all of those at the feast, Catholics and Protestants and unbelievers alike, and he raised his hand to shoulder height and gave the benediction. “And may the blessing of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—be upon you this day, and remain with you forever.”

  “Amen,” they all replied. It sent a tingle up Jack’s spine, and for a moment, he found himself unable to move.

  It was as if God had reached down and sparked something into being.

  He wasn’t the only one who felt that something holy had just happened. They all looked around, blinking as though a flash had gone off in front of their eyes. But after the blessing, they slowly departed, stopping to shake a hand, to share a hug, to finish off a Lone Star. An old Hispanic couple started dancing again to the conjunto music. Mrs. Calhoun shook the hands of every person there, some of them multiple times, as if either her memory was imperfect or she had indeed been nipping at the red wine.

  She stopped finally at Jack, and at first he feared that she was going to cry again. She showed every sign of it.

  “I did pray for a miracle, Jack,” she said. “This morning.” She smiled. “Just a small one.”

  He nodded. “That’s exactly what you got,” he said.

  “What did I say to you the other day?” she asked. “In the store. About you coming back at a good time?”

  He smiled. “It was a good time,” he agreed. “You needed a new roof.”

  “I needed more than that,” she said, batting at him with one hand. Her face became suddenly serious. “After what happened with those men, I needed to believe in something.”

  Jack nodded again. He understood that, more than she knew.

  “Me too,” he said.

  “And what are you finding to believe in?” she asked, the old Sunday School teacher poised.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “after a day like this? I don’t know.” He looked around. “Well, to start, I’m beginning to think that most people are good, deep down.” He shrugged. “Where that comes from, that goodness, I don’t know. But that’s something to hope for, right? That maybe most people will do the right thing, given a chance?”

  She looked around the yard, at the people saying good-bye, at her blessed new roof.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “I am sorry that someone took advantage of your trust,” he said. “You’re a good person. You deserve better.” He shrugged. “Today you saw something better.”

  He suddenly yawned, stretched. “But now I’m tired. And I’m ready to get off my feet.” He yawned again. “Come see me in the store?”

  “I will,” she said. “Thank you, Jack.” She crossed her hands on her chest. “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  He wandered the yard, gathering his tools, helping others load the final old shingles into a truck for the trash heap.

  His aches had aches of their own now, but despite that, he couldn’t stop smiling.

  His father folded his chair and said good-bye to his peers. He looked across at Jack, clasped his hands in the air like a prizefighter claiming victory, called, “See you at the house,” and departed.

  Father Frank walked over to Jack. “So, Nora Calhoun was telling me that this barn raising just sort of spontaneously erupted.”

  “I believe it did, yes,” he said.

  Frank fixed him with a knowing eye. “One of my parishioners reports that it had a ringleader.” He grinned. “A head elf, I believe he said.”

  “Well,” Jack shrugged, “maybe.” He resolved to remember that Mr. Rodriguez was a blabbermouth. “But then there were two people and things just started to snowball. And then nobody was the ringleader an
ymore.”

  Frank led Jack away from a knot of laughing people, took him by the arm, and looked him straight in the eye. “Did you know anybody was coming to help you when you climbed up on that roof?”

  Jack hesitated. He shook his head. “I—hoped. But I knew that I needed to do something. Whether or not anybody else came. I needed to.”

  “Today was something,” Father Frank said. “It—surprised me.”

  “Surprised you?”

  “When the prodigal son limped home from his riotous living, his motives were mixed, at best,” Frank said. “He stumbled home simply to survive. But after that, after he got home, who knows how he changed?”

  He fixed him with a long, appraising look as though he could see Jack changing in front of his very eyes. “Someone did a good thing here today, Jack.”

  Jack looked around at the yard full of people, at the houses beyond. “I’d guess that somebody does a good thing in this town just about every day, Father Frank.”

  Frank nodded. “You’ve got that right,” he said, then he held out his hand. “Well. Welcome home, boyo.” Jack took his hand and shook it twice. He smiled. “Buy you a pint?”

  “Rain check,” Jack said, rolling his shoulders and stretching again. His body was in agony, and tomorrow would be worse. “I hear a hot bath and maybe some muscle relaxers calling my name.”

  “Well, it’s a standing offer at Buddy’s,” Frank said. “Shayla and I will make you feel welcome. Or you can always come and have some wine at God’s house.”

  Jack looked at him. “Isn’t that—you know—against the rules?” Jack held up his hands. “I’m not Catholic. I’m not, you know, even very much of a Christian at the present moment.”

  “It’s not my table, Jack,” Frank said. “It’s not even the Church’s, God bless it. God’s mercy overfloweth. It goeth where it goeth.” He grinned and then he winked at him as well. “In any case, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Jack smiled back. “Maybe,” he said. “Anyway”—he climbed into the truck—“I’ll see you, Father Frank.”

  They waved at each other. Jack backed out carefully, watching so he didn’t hit any people or fenders. Everyone was waving at him as he backed out. Everyone was waving at each other.

  Someone did a good thing here today.

  I’d guess that somebody does a good thing in this town just about every day.

  Funny, he and Grace Cathedral had done good things for people on the other side of the world. A lot of good things. For a lot of needy people.

  But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done a good thing for someone standing right in front of him.

  The last time he’d helped somebody face-to-face.

  And not to minimize doing good things for someone in abject poverty or someone without clean water. But he wondered if it might be easier for the rescuers to do good for someone they would never see again than to try to rescue those they see every day.

  When he pulled in, his dad was sitting in the kitchen, something was baking in the oven. “Lasagna,” his father said. “Mrs. Riley sent it home with me.”

  “Mrs. Riley used to be an amazing cook,” Jack said, suddenly hungry.

  “Still is.”

  At each of their places, Jack saw chilled mugs of what looked like beer. His dad was actually setting his mug down after taking a sip.

  “I thought you didn’t like having beer in the house,” Jack said. That had been a hard-and-fast rule his whole life. No beer, no wine, no alcohol of any kind.

  “I used to worry what people would think,” his father said, waving a hand. “And that I liked it too much. Neither are a worry for me now.” He smiled. “And I thought today, of all days, you deserved a cold beer.”

  “Father Frank thought so too,” Jack said.

  “He gave me the idea, actually.”

  Jack sat, sniffed, raised his mug, drank. It was a blond ale, smooth, with a little tang of citrus. A great beer to drink after a hard day of roofing.

  “Wow,” he said. He held up his mug to the light. “That is not Bud Light.”

  “It’s called Fireman’s Number Four,” he said. “From a little brewery in Blanco. Won a medal this year at some big beer contest.” He shrugged. “We’re not Seattle. But we do make some good beers hereabouts.”

  “God bless the Germans,” Jack said, raising his mug.

  “God bless the Germans,” his father agreed. They drank.

  They didn’t talk, but it felt comfortable, each of them looking at the mugs, appreciating how good it tasted.

  “Umm, Dad,” Jack said, as he remembered all the supplies he had taken from the hardware store that morning—nails and tools and probably more than he could pay for in a month of hard labor.

  “Yes,” Tom said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he set down his Fireman’s Number Four.

  “I think I, uh, took out a pretty big advance on my pay today.”

  Tom smiled. He reached a hand across the table, patted the top of Jack’s bruised and blistered hand.

  “Why don’t you and Mary argue about that,” he said. “It looks to me like Chisholm’s just opened a sideline in contracting. Anyway, I don’t think we’ve finished our year-end inventory. Who knows what was on those shelves and what wasn’t?”

  “Tomorrow’s the thirty-first. I guess we haven’t finished yet.”

  “New Year’s Eve,” Tom mused. For a moment he seemed a thousand miles away, then he looked across at Jack. “You made any big plans?”

  “Not yet,” Jack said. “I’m holding my options open.” Elton might call; the White House might demand his presence.

  “You do that,” Tom said. “Hold your options open.” He got that faraway look again. “Because I’m thinking it could be an exciting day.” He raised his mug, took another sip, and—because apparently this was now the thing to do—he winked at Jack.

  Jack raised his mug in salute, drained it, and got to his feet. Lasagna was baking, and it smelled good, beyond good, but what he was really hungry for more than anything else right now was a long, hot bath.

  10.

  Jack woke suddenly at the sound of his name.

  Someone was calling him. Where was he?

  In his bed. In his old room.

  What year was it?

  He was very old, apparently. He couldn’t move.

  He lay there for a moment, wondering if maybe he was strapped to the bed, and then he came to a better, more informed conclusion.

  He could move. It was just better if he didn’t.

  It was Monday morning, he remembered now. New Year’s Eve, a day after he’d helped put on Mrs. Calhoun’s new roof, two days after he’d loaded and unloaded three truckloads of timber and concrete and shingles.

  A few years back, on the first day Jack had started lifting weights again as part of his regular workout routine, he’d started on back and biceps, and he had done way too much, gone too heavy, relived his athletic past in ways that were no longer wise or even possible. He was not the sort of person to do things halfway.

  And he had awakened the next morning like this, stiff, sore, miserable.

  This was worse than that time, though. This was back and shoulders, legs and neck and abs, every part of him that he could name and most he couldn’t, the cumulative effect of two days of hard labor like he hadn’t done since he was in college.

  “Jack,” his father called from downstairs.

  “Uhnn,” Jack answered. So that’s why he woke up. He rolled to one side, somehow heaved himself upright.

  “Jack,” his father called again.

  “What?” he said. Didn’t Dad know he was dying up here? What could possibly be so important?

  “How many eggs do you want?”

  Jack groaned. He checked the clock—7:35. Okay. He’d slept in. Breakfast questions had some validity.

  “Two,” he called. “No. Three.”

  He was in pain, but he was also hungry—starving, actually. He hadn’t ea
ten lasagna last night, but had gotten out of the bath, climbed into bed, and fallen asleep immediately.

  Now he tried to get dressed and found that he could do nothing without it hurting. Pulling a shirt over his head hurt his rib cage, his shoulders. Pulling up his pants hurt his back, his biceps.

  “This is what you get for doing good deeds,” he muttered to himself.

  “It’s on the table,” his father called up.

  “Coming,” he said. “I’m moving a little—ugh—slow up here.”

  He moved gingerly down the stairs, crept into the kitchen, eased slowly into his seat.

  His father smiled at him. “You shaved that little—” He flicked below his lip to indicate a soul patch.

  “And put on some Wranglers,” Jack said. He groaned. “I am too sore to even think about pulling on skinny jeans.”

  “That’s what you get for doing good deeds,” Tom said.

  “I know,” Jack said. “Right? I never woke up bruised from a day in the pulpit.”

  “Speaking of stepping in the pulpit,” Tom said.

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Jack said.

  “It’s just that I’ve heard a couple of folks might talk to you about saying a few words from the pulpit.”

  Jack crossed his arms and looked down at the table. “At the church.”

  “The Lutheran church,” his father said.

  “Sort of Lutheran,” Jack said.

  “Just so.”

  “I can’t preach,” Jack said.

  “No,” his father said. “Not preach, even. Just say a few words. Especially after what happened yesterday.” He pushed himself back from the table, got up to refill his coffee. “This town hasn’t had much to be hopeful about. And never much in that long stretch between the end of football and two-a-days.” He shook his head, although he was as big a football fan as had ever breathed.

  “Yesterday was something, Dad. But most of us were there. We saw what happened.”

  “But what did it mean? You could just say a few words about it.”

  “I can’t, Dad. I don’t have any words.” He took a bite of his eggs, then another. They were perfectly cooked. “I don’t know what happened yesterday. How can I get up and tell people what to believe if I don’t even know myself?”