by Lynn Austin
I hated my helplessness. I didn’t have a telephone and I couldn’t drive into town to fetch the doctor because of the storm. It doesn’t matter,I told myself in an attempt to push away my own fear. I didn’t even know this man. Besides, it was likely his own foolishness that had gotten him into this mess.
‘‘He stinks,’’ Becky said, pinching her nose shut.
‘‘He does indeed. Fill up the kettle, Becky Jean, and put it on to boil. You boys help me get him out of these...These rags he’s wearing.’’ We stripped him to his tattered long johns and set his clothes outside on the porch. Then I cleaned the wound on his leg as gently as I could and applied a hot poultice, prepared the way the doctor had shown me when he’d treated Sam’s injury. The stranger, only half conscious, seemed barely aware of what we were doing.
‘‘We’ll leave him be for now,’’ I said after I’d finished. ‘‘There’s no time to fuss over him with chores to do.’’ I made up my mind to tend to him on my own. The less my children were involved with the stranger, the easier it would be for them if he died. Even so, his welfare seemed to fill their thoughts that evening— more than the snowstorm, which still raged outside.
‘‘Please don’t let the angel man die,’’ Becky prayed when she said grace at suppertime. Luke surprised me when he whispered, ‘‘Amen.’’ As for myself, I had no faith in the power of prayer to heal him. God would do whatever He wanted to do, regardless of our feeble pleading.
By the time we finished the evening chores, I felt more exhausted than usual from the added effort of struggling through snow and wind to do them. I waited until after the children were in bed before going back into the stranger’s room with a fresh poultice, dreading what I would find. His eyes were open and I could read the pain in them, even though the only light in the room came from the open door to the kitchen. He shivered in spite of all the quilts we’d heaped on top of him. When I laid the hot cloths on his leg he stiffened, sucking in air through his teeth.
‘‘Sorry. I’m trying to help you, not hurt you.’’
‘‘I know,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘You feeling hungry? I can fetch you something.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Just water...please...’’
I turned away, suddenly unable to face him. ‘‘Listen, I’m sorry for yelling at you like I did out in the barn earlier. It’s just that...’’ I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering. ‘‘It’s just that my husband died from a cut on his foot not even half as bad as yours. The doctor said it was lockjaw. There was nothing I could do but watch him suffer. And...and it wasn’t an easy death.’’
‘‘It’s not your fault if I die,’’ he said softly.
‘‘I know.’’ I fought back my tears and returned to his bedside, steadying his head while he sipped some water. ‘‘What’s your name?’’ I asked. His answer was a weak whisper I couldn’t understand.
I soaked a washcloth in the basin of soapy water I’d prepared and washed the grime off his face—something I’d been itching to do since we’d brought him inside. It was hard to tell his age because his shaggy, dark brown hair and beard looked as though they hadn’t been cut in a long time. His face was deeply tanned under the layer of dirt, and his eyes, under thick brows, were the color of coffee beans. His calloused hands were large and strong, though warmer to the touch than the bath water. I unfastened the top button of his long johns to sponge his neck and chest and saw a terrible, jagged scar just above his heart. It had long-since healed, but I could tell that he must have dodged the angel of death at least once before.
By the time I finished, the water in the basin had turned black. ‘‘I’ll let you sleep now,’’ I said before leaving the room.
I carried the basin to the back porch to dump outside and noticed the stranger’s burlap sack beside the door. Jimmy had brought it up from the barn and left it there. I lifted it and felt the weight of something heavy on the bottom, then heard the clankof metal as I set it on the kitchen table.
I felt like a Peeping Tom as I untied the knot around the mouth of the sack and began digging through his things. But how else was I ever going to find out the stranger’s name and where he came from? A pair of mud-caked overalls and a flannel shirt lay on top. I set them aside to wash with his other clothes. Beneath them were a U.S. Army canteen and a well-worn Bible with its front cover torn. Inside a waterproof storm slicker I found a stack of notebooks—the kind Jimmy and Luke carried to school. Penciled writing filled all but one of the notebooks from one marbleized cover to the other. Stuffed inside the last one were three letters from the Chicago Tribune, addressed to Mr. Gabriel Harper at a post office box in Chicago. I said the name out loud—Gabriel Harper.
I didn’t need to dig any further, but I couldn’t resist the temptation to find out what the bulky thing on the very bottom of the sack was, wrapped inside an old blanket. I parted the folds of cloth and stared in surprise.
What an odd thing for a hobo to carry—a typewriter!
CHAPTER TWO
Iawoke with a crick in my neck and was surprised to discover that I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Outside, the sky was growing light. What on earth was I doing, sleeping downstairs all night? I stumbled to my feet, shivering and confused. Then I saw the notebooks spread out on the table and I remembered.
Simple curiosity had nudged me to open the first notebook and start reading. But in no time at all, the story of Gabriel Harper’s travels as a hobo had wrapped me up in some kind of a spell and I couldn’t stop. I had added more coal to the fire and kept on reading—devouring four notebooks before finally nodding off. Mr. Harper told tales of hopping boxcars and flatcars, crossing the Mississippi River, chugging over the Rocky Mountains, riding from the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico, from the Carolina coast to the forests of Washington State. He’d been chased by railroad guards and sheriffs’ dogs; he’d eaten from tin cans and garbage pails; he’d slept in barns and in forests and beneath the Milky Way. He told fascinating stories of the other tramps he’d met—young rascals and old-timers, men and women; people with names like ‘‘Loony Lou’’ and ‘‘Boxcar Bertha.’’ Some were down-on-their-luck and looking for work, others were content to live the free-wheeling life of a hobo.
But as interesting as all their stories had been, Gabriel Harper hadn’t told his own story, and that’s what had kept me reading all night. Who was this stranger who might be dying in my spare room, and what had led him to ride the rails as a hobo? I’d read beautiful descriptions of the many places Mr. Harper had been and the people he’d met, but I’d learned almost nothing about him.
Feeling guilty, I glanced at the door to the room where he slept, embarrassed to think he might have caught me reading his private journals, if that’s what they were. I opened the spare room door a crack and looked in on him. When I was satisfied that he was still sound asleep, I quickly gathered up his things to rewrap in the waterproof slicker. The last notebook in the stack—the only one I hadn’t read—caught my eye. Unlike the others, this one had a title written on the cover: Prodigal Son.
I recalled a sermon I’d heard in a Presbyterian church in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, about the prodigal son and how he’d run away and ended up eating with pigs. The story stuck in my mind because of all the P’s—Presbyterian and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and prodigal and pigs. That’s how my mind remembers things.
Anyway, I couldn’t resist opening Mr. Harper’s story and seeing if it had any pigs or Presbyterians in it. I started to read:
I hate him. I love him. My only brother.
Simon and I shared the same room, the same childhood, the same father. And while my feelings toward my brother seem clear to me, contradictory as they are, my feelings toward my father aren’t nearly as clear. Do I care enough to hate the man? Is it possible to love someone who offers only disapproval and denunciation in return? Have I waited too long to make amends after parting from him in anger? I’ve decided to return home to find the answers.
I stand beneath the chestnut tree that I climbed so often as a boy—usually to escape my father’s rebuke—and stare across the pasture at the farmhouse. It has changed little in the ten years I’ve been gone except for a fresh coat of whitewash. I’ve decided to wait until someone emerges from the house before approaching. Better to watch, to try to gauge my father’s mood, before announcing my return after all these years. I was once adept at judging his mood, knowing when it was safe to draw close and when it was wise to steer clear.
But after watching the house for more than an hour, I’ve seen no sign of life aside from the lazy movements of the hound dog, sprawled in the shade on the back porch. One thing is certain: unlike the biblical tale of the prodigal son, my father isn’t watching eagerly for my return. Nor can I imagine him running to me with open arms or killing the fatted calf.
Funny how all those Bible stories I once heard thundered from the church pulpit and proclaimed at the dinner table have stayed planted in my mind all these years. If I lean my head against the chestnut tree and close my eyes, I can clearly recall my disquieting childhood, living beneath my father’s iron rule:
I am four years old again, seated at the kitchen table not daring to fidget or squirm, listening to my father’s voice as he reads the daily portion from the Holy Scriptures: ‘‘ ‘God is jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and is furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies...The LORD hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet....’ ’’
‘‘Mama...?’’
My son’s voice startled me. I closed the notebook, guilt-stricken. ‘‘Jimmy! Oh, good, you’re up. It’s time for chores.’’ I lifted the lid on the cast-iron stove and poked the embers, adding kindling and coal.
‘‘Where did all this stuff come from?’’ Jimmy asked as he approached the table. ‘‘Is it the hobo’s?’’
‘‘Yes...Ithought I’d better try and find out who he is and where he comes from. It seems his name is Gabriel Harper.’’
‘‘Gabriel? Wow, he must really be an angel!’’ Jimmy picked up the notebook I had been reading, but I snatched it away from him before he could open it.
‘‘I don’t think angels are supposed to get sick, Jimmy, and Mr. Harper is very ill.’’ I wrapped the notebooks inside the slicker again and stuffed everything back into the burlap bag.
‘‘Luke thinks the man’s gonna die,’’ Jimmy said quietly.
I felt a pang of alarm. ‘‘Did he tell you that?’’
Jimmy nodded.
‘‘What else did Luke say?’’
‘‘Not much,’’ he said with a shrug. ‘‘You know Luke.’’
Sometimes I wondered if I did know Luke. He had been a happy little boy until his father died. Then, for a while, he had looked to his grandfather to take Sam’s place. But when Grandpa Wyatt had suddenly died, it seemed as though the little boy in Luke had died along with him.
‘‘Do you think they’ll cancel school today?’’ Jimmy asked, interrupting my thoughts. ‘‘It’s still snowing.’’
Outside, the wind still hadn’t let up. I could barely see the barn through the gray, swirling flakes. ‘‘I don’t care if there is school. You’re not going any farther than the barn on a day like today.’’
Jimmy did a little dance of joy as he gathered his hat and mittens from beside the stove and began bundling up to do his chores. Luke wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘‘Guess what, Luke! No school today!’’ Jimmy announced.
‘‘Is the m-man dead yet?’’ Luke asked.
His words felt like a knife in my heart. I looked into my son’s hollow eyes. ‘‘Listen, Luke—’’ I began, but Jimmy interrupted me.
‘‘Hey, Luke! You’ll never guess what the hobo’s name is! Gabriel... like the angel! And his last name is Harper. Get it? Harp... the thing the angels play in heaven?’’
I hadn’t made the connection until Jimmy pointed it out. Now the stranger’s name sounded phony to me. Maybe it was a nickname like my aunt ‘‘Peanut’’ whose real name was Cecilia, or my mama who had been called ‘‘The Singing Angel.’’ If the hobo was some kind of a writer, maybe Gabriel was his pen name. I shoved my arms into the sleeves of my coat and wrapped a scarf around my head.
‘‘Keep an eye on the fire until we get back, okay, Luke? Throw on more wood if the coal doesn’t catch.’’
I was so tired from reading most of the night that I plodded through my chores as if in a dream, my thoughts on Gabriel Harper’s tale of the prodigal son. I wished I’d had time to read more of the story. I could easily picture the prodigal’s father reading about the wrath of God at the dinner table. Grandpa Wyatt had always read from the Bible after dinner, too, allowing no one to leave the table until he’d finished an entire chapter. I’d never seen much point in reading a long list that told who begot whom, or a bunch of rules about priests sacrificing animals and sprinkling their blood every whichway, but I hadn’t dared to question my father-in-law. Like the father in Harper’s story, Grandpa Wyatt was not an easy man to approach. Since his death, the Bible had remained in the bureau drawer in his room. None of my kids had asked me why.
As I trudged out of the barn, lugging a milk pail in each hand, a sudden movement near the back porch caught my eye. Across the wide expanse of white, two dark, hunched forms emerged from the house—one tall, one short. I saw a flash of red—Luke’s hair—and realized that Mr. Harper was leaning on Luke, limping across the yard through the snow toward the privy.
The fool! He was in no condition to be wandering outside in a storm! Suppose he slipped and fell? I hurried toward them as quickly as I dared, the milk sloshing in the pails.
‘‘Hey!’’ I called. ‘‘Hey there! What do you think you’re doing?’’
As I had feared, Mr. Harper’s knees suddenly gave out and he crumpled to the ground, pulling Luke down with him. I set the pails down and slogged through the drifts to help. Before I could reach him, Mr. Harper crawled the last few feet to the outhouse on his hands and knees. Luke was up and brushing snow off his clothes by the time I got there.
‘‘Are you all right, Luke?’’
‘‘He f-fell.’’
‘‘I know. It wasn’t your fault. He’s much too weak to be out of bed in the first place.’’
‘‘He asked me.’’
‘‘And it was nice of you to help him, Luke. But you have no business being out here without a hat or mittens. Go back inside now, before you catch your death. I’ll help him.’’
I watched Luke plod back to the house, following his own trail of footprints. A few minutes later, the privy door creaked open. Mr. Harper leaned against the door frame, bundled in Grandpa Wyatt’s old coat. My anger boiled over.
‘‘What do you think you’re doing running around outside? We have indoor plumbing upstairs, you know. You tryingto kill yourself, mister?’’
‘‘I needed—’’
‘‘If you couldn’t manage the stairs, you could have found what you needed under the bed.’’
‘‘I have no right to ask that of you, ma’am. I’m a stranger to you. I don’t have a dime to my name and no way to repay you for what you’ve already done.’’ His voice was soft, his face very pale. His teeth chattered in spite of the heavy wool coat he wore. He looked so pitiful I quickly swallowed all the harsh words I wanted to shout at him.
‘‘You need to get back inside. Put your arm around my neck and I’ll help you.’’
‘‘Thanks. I’m feeling...a little...dizzy.’’ He closed his eyes and slowly slid toward the ground, leaning against the doorframe. ‘‘I’m...sorry...’’ he mumbled.
‘‘Stay put. I’ll get the boys to fetch the sled.’’
It seemed to take forever to load him onto the sled again and haul him the short distance to the house; longer still to wrestle him up the porch steps, through the kitchen, and back into bed. All
the while, my anger kept swelling inside me like yeast in a batch of dough. I didn’t know why, exactly. I wasn’t angry at Gabriel Harper—he hadn’t done any harm to me or my kids, only to himself. Why, then, did I feel like throwing things or breaking something? I would have worked out my rage on the woodpile if Mr. Harper hadn’t chopped so much wood already.
Instead, I fixed fried potatoes and scrambled eggs for breakfast, then bundled the kids up once they had eaten and sent them outside to play in the snow, since the storm had finally stopped. I wanted to tend to the stranger’s leg by myself. While I waited for the water to get hot for a fresh compress, I did something I hadn’t done since my husband died—I prayed. Except you couldn’t really call it a prayer, I don’t think, since most of it was just me yelling at God inside my head.
I had asked for an angel, I told Him, and instead He sent me a dying man! Couldn’t He see how upset my kids were by all this dying? It was bad enough that God had taken my husband from me—although I admit I probably deserved to be punished for all the lying I’d done. But what on earth had Jimmy and Luke and Becky Jean ever done to deserve losing their daddy? Or their grandfather? Didn’t God care that Jimmy had to do a man’s share of the work now, or that little Luke barely said two words anymore, or that Becky didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive? Maybe I deserved to be punished, but my three children sure didn’t. This farm was their home, and how in heaven’s name did God expect me to keep it running until they were old enough to run it themselves if He didn’t send me any help?
‘‘And speaking of help,’’ I told God, muttering the words out loud, ‘‘you’d better make up your mind to help that poor, raggedy man laid up in that bedroom because I won’t have him dying on us! I won’t stand for it, I tell you! I’m all through begging and pleading for things because you don’t seem to hear me when I ask nice. You’ve got to make him better, you hear? And if he’s your idea of an angel, then you’d better send somebody else, mighty quick!’’