by J. J. Gesher
Needing to confirm her suspicion, she pulled the string that controlled the bare light bulb in the closet. When she saw a white man huddled in the corner, she recoiled, reflexively putting her hands up to shield her face. Her first instinct was to run, but when the man looked more frightened than she felt, she stood her ground.
The man didn’t respond. He stood up slowly, and signaled with his hands for her to stay calm.
She confronted him, “What are you doing here?”
She waited for him to speak, her alarm rising by the moment. “Say something.”
The man looked straight at her but remained silent. Suddenly, she recognized him. He was the disheveled stranger she’d seen sleeping on the church steps weeks ago.
He kept his eyes downcast. No words came.
She recognized Mo’s shirt, the one with a faint grape-jelly stain that never came out, no matter how hard she tried. It might as well have been monogrammed with Mo’s initials.
“How did you get that shirt?” She waited for an explanation, but he stood there, mute and frozen. She now understood why Mo had taken food across the street on several occasions. Her uncle with the bleeding heart.
“You can’t be skulking around here.”
Rosie’s thoughts were incoherent. Why was she confronting this lunatic who could hurt her? She fled down the stairs and out of the church, trying to remember when she’d first seen the strange man. Was it the beginning of the school year? Had he been hiding in the church for nearly three months? She felt gullible and angry. She didn’t care if Mo was asleep. She marched upstairs and banged on his door.
She had an edge of hysteria in her voice as she shouted through the closed door. “That man! I found that man you’ve been hiding. The homeless one. He scared the hell out of me.”
Mo opened the door in his flannel pajamas. His left cheek showed the creases from a pillow. “Excuse me?”
“What the hell were you thinking? The guy’s creepy. He doesn’t talk. How could you harbor a nutcase in First Baptist? I can’t believe he’s been here all this time…”
“Calm down. He’s harmless. He’s been helping with chores and stayin’ out of the way.”
Rosie cut him off. “I’m calling Pastor Johnson. We’re going to handle this right now.”
CHAPTER 16
The next morning, Rosie waited with Mo in Pastor Johnson’s vestibule. The radiator had not yet kicked in, and the church was chilly. Jacob, obeying Mo’s request to appear, stood in the corner, gazing out the window at the steel-gray sky and the wind whipping through the trees.
Rosie fidgeted, preparing her argument against the stranger. Pastor Johnson hurried into the office carrying a box of doughnuts. “Got here as quick as I could.” He looked at Jacob. “Is he the problem?”
He motioned for Rosie and Mo to follow him into the office. He put the doughnuts down, took off his coat, and closed the door, leaving Jacob in the hallway awaiting judgment.
Rosie turned to Mo. “Are you going to tell him or should I?”
“I’m a grown man. I can take care of my own business.” He addressed the pastor. “I’ve let a homeless man stay in the caretaker’s room, and he’s earning his keep.”
Rosie immediately argued. “He spies on the choir from the closet upstairs. There’s something wrong with him. He’s probably a drunk.”
Mo jumped to his defense. “Never seen him drink. He’s a lost soul who needs a helping hand.”
“But you admitted you don’t know anything about him.” Rosie’s voice racheted up. “What if he’s a criminal on the run? What if he’s a pedophile? You want him around Langston?” Rosie had no intention of letting the stranger stay.
“Now hold on.” Pastor Johnson spoke slowly. “Let’s get the facts straight. Mo, you want to tell me what’s going on here?”
Mo recounted seeing the distressed man on the steps of First Baptist, trying to get him to leave, and offering him the caretaker’s room for temporary shelter.
Mo made a final point. “He seems like a decent fellow, not a troublemaker. He’s lost. You ask me? Something happened to him.”
“Why don’t we ask him?” Pastor Johnson said. “He’s standing outside listening to every word we’re saying.” He opened the door to Jacob. “Is there anything we should know about you, young man?” he asked.
Jacob remained silent.
Rosie was emphatic. “See? He’s off. He doesn’t talk. We need to call the police.”
Mo disputed her judgment. “I don’t see why we have to run him out of town for bein’ quiet.”
Pastor Johnson held up his hands to calm the argument. “If Mo set him up in the caretaker’s room, he’s not trespassing. Has he broken any laws?”
Mo shook his head. “No. Matter of fact, he’s been helping me around here. Been doin’ a good job, too. Did you see the basement? Not a speck of dust.”
Rosie’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Hallelujah. The man can use a broom.” She looked at Pastor Johnson. “The church cannot be responsible for an obviously unstable man.”
“Rosie may have a point here,” Pastor Johnson replied. “We don’t know anything about him. Maybe the best way to help him is to call the authorities.”
Mo again jumped to Jacob’s defense. “So they can lock him up? He ain’t sick in the head. Sick in the heart, maybe. He’s no criminal, and he ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”
“So now you’re an expert on mental illness?” Rosie asked.
Mo knew how to get to Rosie. He stated matter-of-factly, “No sound should be heard in the church but the healing voice of Christian charity.”
Rosie heard Pastor Johnson’s stomach rumble, and she could see he wanted to put an end to this session. He took a deep breath and announced his verdict: “I’m going to trust my gut here and go with Mo—for now.” He held Rosie’s gaze. “He’s not asking for much. Let him stay for the time being.”
Rosie had lost the argument, but at least she would get in the last word. As she gathered her purse and coat, she looked at Mo. “Keep a close eye on him. I don’t want to say ‘I told you so.’”
Rosie ignored Jacob as she rushed through the vestibule. He was busy looking down at his dirty trousers.
That Saturday, Langston happily crossed the street for the Youth Ministry sleepover. Rosie had asked Mo to make sure “Sam” stayed in his basement room during the activities. Rosie got ready for her date with Edmond. Anticipation infused her preparations. She put great care into her hair, makeup, and wardrobe. She was actually looking forward to the evening.
Rosie feared a mildly boring excursion comprising meaningless chitchat and a social pas de deux to determine whether or not she and Edmond had chemistry. But she wasn’t bored at all. He’d chosen a charming restaurant in Tuscaloosa with crisp tablecloths and ambient lighting. He ordered a good bottle of wine. While classical music played in the background, he kept the conversation moving. He was pleasant and had a solid sense of humor. He was current in politics and world events. They were mutually entertaining each other when a momentary lull descended on the conversation. She couldn’t think of a thing to say and apparently neither could he. Rosie fidgeted with her silverware as if it needed immediate rearranging. She was busy noticing that a tine on her fork was slightly askew when Edmond reached across the table and put his hand over hers. His touch caught her off guard, and when she looked up, his comfortable grin was waiting.
“Tell me something interesting about your students,” he said, deftly putting the wheel back on the wagon.
Rosie was relieved to stop talking about herself. She brought up Hansom and the fight in the hallway, and the flow of conversation resumed.
When Edmond offered to walk her to the front door, Rosie felt like she had to take control of the moment. She wasn’t ready for a goodnight kiss. She leaned over and pecked his cheek politely. “Thank you for dinner.”
She could see that Edmond was disappointed at how cool she’d become. She wanted to explain that her reticence wa
sn’t his fault. Even though the paperwork said that she and Robert were divorced, she hadn’t kissed a man since her marriage ended. She was interested in Edmond, but thoughts of Robert had ruined the moment.
Rosie remembered seeing Robert for the first time. She’d gone to the step competition, an annual campus tradition at which fraternities performed step-dance routines. Robert’s fraternity performed bare-chested in fatigues and boots to a raucously cheering crowd. Robert was in the middle of the line, calling out the choreography steps for the other dancers. Rosie couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He was all raw masculinity, intensity, and charisma. At the post-performance fraternity party, they chatted and danced together, and for once, Rosie didn’t feel out of place.
Truth be told, she’d always felt awkward. She’d grown to her full height—five feet, ten inches—over a single summer when she turned thirteen. Although others complimented her willowy build, she felt clumsy and self-conscious. She slumped her shoulders so she wouldn’t stand out. In high school, she preferred novels and her mother’s quick wit to socializing with peers. Robert was her first real boyfriend, and she gave herself to him completely. She could still conjure the tender desire of those first months of their relationship, when she lived for moments alone with him. Would she ever feel that for Edmond or anyone else?
As she slipped her key into the lock, Mo opened the door. “Seems like a real nice fellow.”
She felt like she was back in high school, worried about other people’s expectations. “Edmond is nice. But nice can be boring.”
On paper, Edmond was the perfect match: a teacher, never married, decent looks, a good Christian, and a family man. Rosie wanted time to sort out her feelings.
“Don’t be too picky, young lady.”
She responded thoughtfully, “I can’t afford another mistake. I wasted ten years on one man. Put him through school. Tried to straighten him out. And what do I have to show for it?”
“A wonderful son…”
“Please, Mo. I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me that my son is a blessing. If I want to be picky with the men in my life, then too damn bad.”
As she walked upstairs, she heard the sarcastic tone of her voice lingering in the living room.
CHAPTER 17
Mo grabbed a quick peek at Sam as they bumped along the road to Walmart. The man was hanging onto his door handle like he was riding a bull in a rodeo.
Mo surrendered to speaking his thoughts. “Damn rains—each year they leave holes the size of soup pots scattered on the asphalt. Makes drivin’ unpredictable. You’re either swerving at the last minute, or your guts are bangin’ up against your lungs. Never mind the fact that the truck needs new shocks somethin’ bad.”
That Sam was a strange one. Mo could tell that he was smart, and he was good looking too. He had a strong jaw and perfect teeth, but he hardly smiled. The only time Mo saw those teeth was when he was chewing. Mo thought he should get Sam’s mind off the road, take his nerves down a notch. The truck’s radio hadn’t worked in years, so Mo was going to have to hold down both sides of the talking.
“The way I see it, either we get you a jacket and some warm clothes or we’re gonna be accused of freezin’ you to death. I once knew a man who fell asleep at the bus stop and lost seven of his toes to frostbite.” Mo thought that would get a response, but Sam said nothing.
“Well I didn’t know him really. I read about him in Reader’s Digest.” Mo stole a quick glance at Sam. “What’s with you? Ain’t nobody don’t pick up the bait of Readers Digest. One mention of the Digest and somebody usually brings up one of the hero stories, or the one about those folks that ate each other when their plane crashed, or how much they learned from stories like ‘I am Joe’s Eyeball.’” Mo was so busy filling the air with his one-sided conversation that he took his eyes off the road.
When the truck hit the pothole, he had to use all his strength to avoid losing control of the wheel. The steady flap of the tire turned his chatty demeanor to annoyance as he pulled to the side of the road.
“You hear that? We got a goddamn flat.”
Mo got out of the truck, walked around to the front passenger side, and kneeled down to survey the damage. The tire was blown out. He could see clear through to the rim. He stood up and rapped on the hood with his knuckles.
“Okay, gonna put you to work. I need the jack and the spare.”
Jacob stepped down from the truck. He looked like a turtle in protective mode. His head was retracted into his sweatshirt and his expression was vacant. Mo motioned with his head toward the back of the truck. Mechanically, Jacob searched the truck bed and bent to look underneath, but when he stood up, Mo could see he was no closer to a solution.
“You never changed a tire?” Mo didn’t wait for the response. “Okay, listen up—a man needs to know this kind of thing.”
Forty minutes later, the newly shod truck pulled into the Walmart parking lot. Both men had a hint of grease on their hands. As they entered the store, Mo pronounced their destination to the greeter. He could have asked a question, but Mo made a statement of fact. “Winter coats—men.”
The old man pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Back right corner.”
They wended their way through the store, big women’s clothing, groceries, sheets and towels, pet supplies, lawn mowers, televisions. Mo continued to fill the air between them.
“This store got everything a body could want…and if it don’t, the rest is at Sears. Those two stores and you’re set for life.” Without warning Mo stopped short at a circular display rack. Jacob almost walked right into him as Mo started rummaging through the jackets. He pointed Jacob to a second rounder with coats.
“You look over there,” Mo said. “You’re tall enough for a large, even if you are on the skinny side.”
Jacob examined each coat. He fingered the material—some were flannel and warm to the touch, some, cool and puffy. When he came to the sole wool coat in the rack, he stopped. It reminded him of his overcoat back in Brooklyn. He pulled the double-breasted pea coat and showed it to Mo.
Mo shook his head vigorously. “That wool don’t move,” he said as he held up a bright red ski jacket under Jacob’s neck. There was a brief moment of assessment and then swift judgment as Mo sucked a tooth. “Don’t like this either. You don’t look like somebody who’d be hittin’ the slopes.”
Mo returned the jacket to the rack, picked out a navy parka, and shoved it at him. “Try this one. Won’t show dirt.”
Jacob unzipped the jacket, put it on, and waited for the sound of Mo’s tooth-sucking verdict. “Not bad.” Next, Mo handed him a maroon hat and glove combo from a nearby display.
“Take this. You lose ninety percent of your body heat through your head. I read that in Reader’s Digest too.” Jacob turned over the price tag on the jacket: $49.95. How was he supposed to pay for this?
Mo answered the unspoken question. “I’ll lay out for you. You can work it off.”
Jacob’s “thank you” came out without any thought. It was more of a croak than a voice. He hadn’t used his voice in the longest time. For so long his responses had been locked inside, and now, without warning, the words slipped out. He wasn’t sure if he felt betrayed or relieved by the subconscious mutiny of his vocal cords. He wasn’t even sure if he had said anything at all.
Mo’s lifted eyebrows told him otherwise. He couldn’t hide the shock. His face danced into a smile. “Well how do you like that? He speaks!”
On the way home, Jacob, like a toddler learning how to walk, made forays into speaking. Mo would offer him a conversation starter, a finger held out to balance the lurching child until he was secure enough to venture on his own. Mo found that Jacob was most successful making small talk. In-depth questions about his past prompted a series of shrugs and silences.
Mo pulled up in front of First Baptist. He and Jacob sat in the truck and watched Langston playing basketball by himself in the parking lot. The boy was awkward, downright un
coordinated.
“Glad the boy is smart,” Mo chuckled. “‘Cause the NBA won’t be callin’.”
Mo tapped the horn to get Langston’s attention, and Jacob got out of the car in his new winter coat and hat.
Langston dribbled past him and made an unsuccessful attempt at a free throw. Jacob stopped to watch. The boy didn’t even hit the backboard.
Jacob remembered Yossi’s first attempts at basketball, also clumsy. His son always had his nose in a book, and Julia feared that he’d become a loner. She suggested that Jacob teach him some basketball skills so he could play with the other boys at recess and after school. Yossi’s dexterity was limited, but he studied everything about the sport, spouting statistics for players, percentages, and trades like an ESPN analyst.
“Shoot again,” Jacob offered as he walked past the boy.
Langston had gotten used to the silence of this strange man, so when he spoke, Langston stopped in his tracks and stared.
“Try again,” Jacob said.
“Hey, you can talk?”
Jacob nodded. “Bend your knees.”
Langston bent his legs and aimed. The ball arced, hit the rim, slowly circled, and then popped out.
“It almost worked!”
Mo honked his horn again, and Langston put the ball under his arm and headed home.
Jacob concentrated on each step as he walked to his basement room. There was something comforting about this space—its sparseness and simplicity. With his brand-new parka still on, he stood in front of the small mirror over the sink and examined his image. He stepped back and angled his body, trying to see as much of himself as possible. He was taken aback by his own reflection—he looked like a model in a department store advertisement. He looked so all-American. He could disappear into this stranger forever.
Jacob stepped toward the mirror, swiping the new wool beanie from his head. His hair was a clump of curls, overgrown and wild. He fixated on his own eyes, searching for a person he knew once existed. The face that looked back was bewildered.