FIRST PUBLISHED IN ARZONO PUBLISHING’S 2023 ANNUAL
I saw the head lying in a ditch bordering Darrell Bennet’s farm. A man’s head. Short hair. Even features. Mid-thirties. He had a look of embarrassment about him with his furrowed brow and downturned mouth. Understandable, considering the undignified nature of his situation. The chance encounter occurred on my walk home from St. Jude’s, having just dropped off an assortment of old clothes for the annual Bazaar. That’s why I had the empty carry-all bag folded and tucked under my arm. A fortunate happenstance. If not for that bag, I might have left Gordon behind.
That’s what I named him.
Gordon.
With my carry-all put to good use, I resumed my walk with the sun at my back and a clear path ahead. Living within walking distance of the church is convenient. When I think of the cost of gas…well, I wouldn’t be at church nearly as much if I had to drive. And walking is such good exercise. Every step counts when you’re sixty-one. As for St. Jude’s, it’s a God-send. I help out wherever I’m needed. Bible school, fundraisers, outreach. They know they can call on me, day or night. If I’ve told Paster Sedgewick once, I’ve told him a thousand times. ‘You can always count on Milly Cohrs.’ Yes, indeed.
Ten minutes later, I arrived. My home is so very pleasant—small and cozy and inviting. The living room and kitchen are separated by a counter. I have a lovely table in the corner that expands to seat six—the perfect size for an evening with friends. But that pleasure will have to wait until Joan and Dorothy and Pastor Sedgewick are able. Church work takes up most of their time. For now, my table is kept small, with a chair on either end.
I went to the kitchen and pulled out my finest Sunday platter. Then I placed my carry-all bag on the counter and reached in. I had to laugh when I felt the tickle of hair on the inside of my arm. Being ever so gentle, I pulled the young man out and placed him on the platter, where he sat quietly taking in his surroundings. The name, Gordon, came to mind the moment I looked into those hazel eyes of his. I gave him my best smile and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Gordon. Welcome to my home.”
There’s nothing like having a guest—a person to talk to, share ideas with. To my delight, Gordon was gracious and thoughtful. He kept me company while I made a simple dinner, happy to eat whatever I prepared. And he wasn’t one to monopolize a conversation. No sir. Gordon listened with great interest to my thoughts on helping the needy and protecting the weak.
With our meal over and dishes cleared, we sat with our cups of tea in companiable silence. I couldn’t help but feel proud that dinner had been a success. But, then I quietly admonished myself. An enjoyable evening takes two.
Noticing the hour, I offered Gordon the guest room. He was quick to point out that it was unseemly to sleep directly across the hall from me—that he would be perfectly comfortable in the living room. Can you imagine? I’m old enough to be his mother. But I appreciated his sensitivity on the subject. Retrieving a scarf from the closet, I tucked it under Gordon’s chin and wished him pleasant dreams.
The next morning when I came downstairs, Gordon was already awake. That’s one of the things I came to admire about him—his limitless energy. With breakfast finished, it was time for church. There was so much that needed doing in preparation for the Bazaar. How heartwarming that my friends hadn’t wanted to burden me with the extra volunteer work. They told me not to come. But their concern for my wellbeing made me happy, all the more, to chip in.
I asked Gordon if he would like to join me, making sure to add that Dorothy and Joan would love to meet him. But he demurred, saying he would prefer a few hours, alone, in quiet contemplation.
#
Helping out with the Bazaar could not have been lovelier. Pastor Sedgewick thought I was best suited to writing description cards for the items that had come in thus far. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks when he complimented my handwriting. It was even more flattering that the committee felt I could manage the job on my own. I sat at a small desk tucked away in the corner, putting my mind to my best penmanship while the rest of Fellowship Hall was abuzz with activity. Several times I tried to get Dorothy or Joan’s attention, but it was so very busy. Telling them about Gordon would have to wait.
When I returned home, Gordon was in such a dreadful state he could barely look at me. Not even the offer of a sherry put him at ease. And no wonder. Most men feel childish when tears form. I gave him my most reassuring smile and told him he could unburden himself in his own time.
While enjoying our dinner I attempted to lighten the mood, chattering away about the Bazaar, but my jovial stories did nothing to erase the sad expression from his face. During a lull in the conversation, his lips seemed to come together in a line of focused courage. I admired his resolve when, sufficiently bolstered, he shared his dire circumstance.
Gordon had lost his home. He had nowhere to go.
Oh, my. To this day I marvel at how such a distinguished person, intelligent and sensitive, would find himself thus. But that’s not to say I didn’t understand. Five years ago my home succumbed to fire, and I shared that fact with Gordon. He looked around the room with surprise and said the house didn’t seem the worse for wear. I, of course, clarified. It was my childhood home that I had lost, some three hundred miles away—the one I shared with Mother. Fifty years of memories erased in one dreadful night. If Mother had survived the fire, it would have shaken her.
Gordon asked the question anyone might pose upon hearing such a harrowing tale. ‘How did the fire start?’ Yet another example of the measure of the man—putting his concerns aside for another. And the lesson wasn’t lost on me. I quickly changed the subject to where it rightfully resided—Gordon’s precarious living situation.
I looked him in the eye and said he was welcome to stay—as a boarder, of course. And for payment…well. I was sure we could work out a trade of some kind. Truth of it was, I was happy for the company.
The relief on Gordon’s face was immensely gratifying.
#
Two days later the Bazaar officially opened. My friends had insisted I act as a welcomer of sorts, rather than work at the tables. I was to walk up and down the aisles, smiling at customers as they browsed the many offerings on display. Dorothy and Joan knew they could trust me to avoid distracting the customers in any way. They said that just my smile would make people feel welcome.
This was the perfect opportunity to introduce Gordon to the community.
We both woke early. I was a tad concerned to see a slight drooping on the left side of Gordon’s face—and I told him as much. He gave me a tut-tut and said it must surely be my imagination. He felt fine.
After a hearty breakfast, I suggested that Gordon avail himself of my carry-all bag, just in case he was, indeed, coming down with something. He felt I was being overly cautious, but acceded to my suggestion.
When we arrived, I was surprised that things were underway. Here it was, 11:00 and already there were people rummaging through the tables. I must have misunderstood Dorothy when she told me what time to come. It was worrisome. I didn’t want her to think I was undependable. But I reminded myself that Dorothy was nothing if not understanding.
Seeing her at the refreshment table, I hurried over. She had just finished with someone’s coffee purchase when she turned in my direction. Her sigh and slightly upturned smile made me feel truly welcome. I put my carry-all on the table and reached in with both hands for Gordon—all the while telling Dorothy how excited I was for her to meet my new friend. But before I could help him out of my bag, one of the volunteers rushed over with a problem that needed Dorothy’s full attention. Ever the lady, she excused herself. But not before rolling her eyes at the interruption. I consoled myself with the knowledge that there would surely be another opportunity for them to meet.
As the day wore on, Fellowship Hall became quite crowded. So much activity. So many people. I fear it was too much for Gordon. By 3:00 he had reached his limit. Perhaps he was coming down with something. He apologized most sincerely and asked if we could go home.
I don’t mind saying I was disappointed, but what choice did I have? I shouldered my way through the crowd surrounding the refreshment table to extend my apologies to Dorothy. She gave me a reassuring smile and insisted I take my time before coming back to church. Dorothy added that a friend’s wellbeing should always be one’s top priority—a thought on which we both agreed.
#
The next few days passed more quickly than I can say. Gordon loved sitting outside in the garden surrounded by my gladiolas and daylilies. We would while away the afternoon sharing ginger snaps, fresh lemonade and hearty conversation. But we never stayed out long. The flies were unusually plentiful for this time of year. We found them quite bothersome.
As is so often the case, those lovely afternoons engendered the sharing of personal histories. Gordon had grown up an only child and, as such, couldn’t find his way towards making friends. Loud crowds made him uncomfortable. I never would have subjected him to the Bazaar if I had known.
I, too, had had difficulty when I was young. Many a night had been spent at home with Mother gently chiding me over my lack of friends. She had been a great beauty in her day and understanding my quiet ways was difficult. At her insistence, I would join a club or volunteer for a project, but the swirl of activity at those venues never seemed to include me. To keep me from giving up, Mother took to calling me ‘the invisible one’. It seemed harsh at the time and I must confess, the bruised feelings caused by that sobriquet stayed with me through adulthood. But five years ago, we came to an understanding and I now find my feelings on the subject much improved. In all truth, if not for Mother’s concern, I wouldn’t have the wealth of friends I have today.
Life’s lessons are often hard won.
Gordon seemed fascinated by my story as he listened, unblinking; his lips slightly parted. I suspect no one had ever made the effort to coax him out of his shell as Mother had done for me. My stars. It was enough to make a person weep to see such a fine young man left to his own devices. As I shooed away a particularly irksome fly, I told Gordon it would be my pleasure to introduce him to my friends. A dinner party seemed in order.
If only Gordon hadn’t fallen ill.
#
The morning after our talk, Gordon chose to stay indoors. Surprising, considering how warmly the sun shone in the garden. But nothing I said or did, roused him from his malaise. Why, the poor man could barely keep his jaw from falling open, no matter how many times I propped it up. By evening he pleaded fatigue and went to bed without supper. This was most unusual. Gordon had a robust appetite.
When he woke the next morning, sickness was plainly upon him. His cheeks had begun to hollow and his eyes were sunken in. I found it worrisome and insisted he try a little warm soup. He obliged me with a few spoonfuls, but even that small act proved difficult. I had to wipe away dribbles of soup as they ran down the sides of his open mouth while he stared ahead in obvious embarrassment.
By day three Gordon’s eyes had developed a translucent appearance and he was clearly too weak to move. I found myself wondering if his eyesight had been affected as he looked off into the distance with his jaw lax and his teeth bared. The suggestion of a doctor’s visit seemed appropriate, but when I proffered the idea, Gordon refused, saying he had no money. “I’m happy to pay,” I’d said, pushing a loose tooth back into place, “What is money between friends?” But Gordon wouldn’t hear of it.
I must confess my concern was palpable. After a restless night, I decided to call Pastor Sedgewick. He would be able to talk Gordon into getting help.
The Pastor was, of course, accommodating. After discharging a previous engagement, he promised to come directly. I tiptoed into the living room and told Gordon he was to have a visitor. I could see by the listing of his head that he was upset by the prospect. Gordon felt he was in no fit state to entertain. But I offered to help him prepare. I combed his hair into place, reattaching whatever chunks came loose in the process. I, then, wiped his face with a cool cloth, careful to keep my expression in check when his left ear drooped, precipitously. He thanked me for clearing away most of the slick coating that had accumulated on his skin. Luckily, the procedure left only two rips, one on his cheek and the other over his eye. I managed to smooth over both, leaving barely any evidence of the mishap. After moistening his dry lips with the cloth and gently brushing the maggot from his eye, we sat together and waited.
At 1:00 Pastor Sedgewick arrived. Before introducing him to Gordon, he joined me in the kitchen where I shared my concerns. It so moved the Pastor that he took out his handkerchief and brought it to his nose and eyes. I touched his hand and, with a smile, assured him that between the two of us, we would bring in whatever help was needed.
We went into the living room where I took my place at Gordon’s side. Pastor Sedgewick’s concern was immediately evident, for he let out a quiet gasp upon seeing him so ill. I prayed Gordon didn’t notice. He is, after all, very sensitive. To shore up his courage I gently placed my hand atop his head and, with a slight bow to our guest, said, “Pastor Sedgewick. It is with great pleasure that I introduce my dear friend…Gordon.”
END
