Lee Fitts Read online

  “Did my dad seem okay when he was walking to the bus stop?”

  “What, your dad? Yeah, seemed like he always is. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t see me and have another nuclear explosion. So, listen, I got more news. I got my old apartment above the bar back. They couldn’t find anyone who wanted to rent that rat trap. They even knocked off ten dollars a month in rent, but if they found me hooking into their cable TV again they’d kick my ass out. So, I’m back where I started, all’s right with the world. Things have changed big time at work; no more layoffs. Even with winter coming, the weather’s been warm and we got plenty of landscape work. I want you to let me know if you want a job, I can get you one now no sweat.”

  “I might need a job. I might also go down to the diner and wait with the others.”

  Lee told Reid what Christie said about the diner and the men that waited there for work. He also told Reid about the church’s homeless shelter and how he was going there that night with Christie.

  “Listen, you want to go to the homeless shelter, that’s your business, but stay the hell away from the diner. You don’t want to work for any of those guys who come to the diner looking for workers – they’re bad news, man. A lot of time they never give you the money they say you’ll be getting. And some of those guys that wait down at the diner have gotten beaten up a couple of times if they complain too much. No, keep your ass away from the diner. Hey, I got to get back to work, I just wanted to give you your money and let you know I moved. Come over some afternoon this week, let’s talk about everything and you know what, don’t be rushing things too much with Christie. But you come over this week; we’ll talk.”

  St. Luke’s Church stood on a hill at the end of a winding, gravel drive. Lee had never been there, but Christie was expert at negotiating the turns. There were a dozen cars in the parking lot and lights atop the church building which amid the woods looked like some type of frontier outpost.

  “That’s the parish hall,” said Christie as she shifted the large tin of snickerdoodle cookies she held in her arms. She pointed to the A-framed sanctuary which with the other building formed an L shape around a small courtyard. “Over there is where we’re building the new parish hall. It’s going to be great; we’ll be able to do so many things.” Lee looked in the direction of a sign that was now only slightly taller than a massive tangle of vines.

  “That is a nice place for the new parish hall. You will have a very nice view of the main road and people down there will be able to watch as the building is being built. Well, maybe not when the leaves are on the trees.”

  They walked down the gravel path alongside the parish hall, toward a door in the middle of the building. Lee saw the sanctuary door open and several people walk inside. The rushing light framed a small birdbath and several small bushes in the courtyard.

  “I know our church is not much to look at; in fact, when it was built twenty-years ago it was supposed to be a temporary building. But there are a lot of good people here. And did you know that we never lock our sanctuary? Anyone can go in there to pray at any time of day.”

  Lee thought for a moment. “That must be very convenient. I mean if you need to pray in church, you do not have to worry about not fitting it into your schedule. But suppose someone breaks something or steals something?”

  “It’s never happened.”

  Lee began to worry about the people driving below who might see the new parish hall being built. Maybe they would want to break into the new building and then if they saw the church and found it unlocked, well, then there would really be a problem.

  Christie waved Lee into a crowded kitchen where she placed her cookies on a small table with the other desserts for that night. Organized, purposeful women, the kind usually running church functions, coordinated the warming of casseroles in the double oven that had once been in someone’s home kitchen. Several teenagers were tossing salads in large bowls, next to several loaves of bread that had been put into baskets.

  In the main room, the homeless sat at ten folding tables with white paper tablecloths. There was a couple with two young children, two women with toddlers, several middle-aged women. The rest were men; in ages ranging from early twenties to, well, to Lee they were old and gray, their leathery faces with lines as deep as those on a pumpkin. Lee thought about which ones he would have guessed were homeless if he had seen them walking around at the mall. None talked; they turned occasionally towards the kitchen, waiting anxiously for whatever emerged that was hot and filling.

  Lee recognized one of the men bringing a steaming casserole bowl to the first table. It was Mr. Cantoli, one of the greeters at his church. He realized then that he hadn’t seen Mr. Cantoli in a while. That was very strange. John Cantoli, with his crisp Windsor knot in his tie; white, starched shirt, trousers with a razor-edge crease; and sturdy tie shoes with a buffed polish was a fixture at Lee’s church. The John Cantoli in front of Lee now was thinner and his gray hair longer. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and well-worn sneakers.

  “Lee!” Mr. Cantoli said with a hearty fellowship that Lee had not heard before in the voice of the older man. “It’s good to see you again, Lee. What are you doing here?”

  “Hello Mr. Cantoli. It is good to see you also. I am here tonight with my friend Christie Veit. She was telling me about the homeless shelter that her church helps with and that is why I am here tonight to see how the shelter helps the homeless people.”

  “Hello Christie. Yes, I’ve seen you in church, but we’ve never actually met.”

  “I do not understand, Mr. Cantoli, Christie does not go to our church. How could you have seen her in our church?”

  “Lee, I go to St. Luke’s now; Christie’s church. Our church, Rev. Taylor; don’t get me wrong, that church and my good friends still mean a lot to me. But, for some time I was getting the feeling that I needed more, that I wasn’t doing enough to immerse myself into words that I would hear every Sunday at church. I have a friend a couple of houses down from me who goes to St. Luke’s. He was involved in more projects and activities with the church, you couldn’t believe it. And I had heard that people around town knew about St. Luke’s and what it did to reach out to the needy. So, when my friend invited me to go with him to church one Sunday, I did. From that day forward, I knew that St. Luke’s was the place for me. Heck, I’m involved in more activities and groups than you can shake a stick at. But each hour gives me a feeling that come Sunday morning, well, the words during the service just wrap me up in their arms.”

  “So, you do not go to our church anymore?” Lee asked as if he needed to find out if it were still okay for him to attend his church and to continue to believe that Rev. Taylor knew everything there was to know about Jesus.

  “No, Lee, I go to St. Luke’s now. But don’t think that your church isn’t right for you. You have to be where you’re comfortable.”

  Lee was thinking just that, maybe Mr. Cantoli and Christie knew something he didn’t. Maybe he should join St. Luke’s. He wondered if he could do that right then. Yeah, he was sure he could that tonight. Wait a minute, came his voice from when he went to Sunday school, you can’t leave your church. What would your parents say? What would your sister Ellie say? What would Rev. Taylor say? What would Jesus say? Lee never even thought about people going around switching churches. He had been taught the way of his church. Maybe Mr. Cantoli would come back.

  “Another course ready to go,” a middle-aged woman in a bulky turtle-neck sweater and jeans called out.

  “Come on Lee, let’s go, we need to get the hot food out on the table,” Christie said.

  “I’m glad you’re here tonight, Lee,” said Mr. Cantoli. I know you’ll get a good feeling by helping out.”

  “I am glad I am here also, Mr. Cantoli.”

  Lee placed a steaming bowl of beef stew in front of the man. It was hard to tell how old the man was. His blue knit cap was stained and the part hanging over his ears was frayed. His puffy eyes atop a face partially hidden b
y patches of unruly whiskers wouldn’t let the bowl of stew out of their sight. The layered odds and ends of clothing which he had chosen not to remove gave him an amorphous shape, much like that of Lee when he was a youngster and his mother would wrap him to death in layers of winter clothing before he could play in the snow. As he pulled back after serving the stew, Lee was careful not to disturb the man’s crutch; a crutch of chipped, weathered wood with layers of dirty tape and foam wrapped around the top. The man’s leg hung at an unnatural angle below the knee. Lee thought at that moment that no one in the world deserved that bowl of hot stew more than the man with the crutch. Lee felt good that he had given the man that bowl of stew. Maybe that was what Mr. Cantoli meant. Maybe Lee should join St. Luke’s. He looked at Christie. She was beautiful; she seemed to be even more beautiful as she served that hot beef stew. He wondered what else he could do for the man with the crutch. If he brought the man home to his house to have a warm place to stay and have plenty to eat, maybe Lee might even feel better than Mr. Cantoli regardless of all the hours he devoted to St. Luke’s programs and activities. Lee forgot to tell his father about the man with the crutch who was now sitting at their kitchen table. It was not a pleasant sight. Lee was glad he hadn’t brought the man with the crutch home.

  “We’re doing good work here, Lee,” Christie said as she rinsed the last of the dishes and handed them to Lee to dry. She rolled up the sleeve of her sweater and reached into the deep stainless-steel sink of soapy water for the drain stopper. Before saying anything, Lee reached for a dry towel for Christie and when he turned to give it to her, found she had stepped toward him. His hand with the towel had not expected to land on her breast.

  “I did not mean that Christie. I did not mean that Christie.” She would never let him join St Luke’s now. She might never even speak to him again. She might scream. The old man with the crutch might start hopping toward Lee and swinging that old wooden crutch.

  Christie’s smile disarmed the bomb that was about to detonate in Lee’s head. The old man with the crutch was still eating his dessert of apple pie and Redi-Whip. “Thank you for the towel, Lee. Let’s see if there is anything else we need to do, but I think we can go home.” Her glance turned toward the old man with the crutch. His profile, even camouflaged by the wiry, uneven beard, and the lines and swelling that homelessness had branded on his features, was one she had seen before. She walked toward him even as he scraped the last bits of pie from the plate with his fork. It couldn’t be but it was. Photos, video footage, and even the image of the man emerging in a wheelchair from the courthouse, raced through her head carried by a flashing current of hate and vengeance much like that which might flow through the brain of the most ardent Nazi hunter who had finally cornered his prey.

  “Speakes. Damn you. It’s you, isn’t it Speakes?” Christie yelled.

  The old man turned his head. He dropped the fork and with a powerful push off on his good leg, stood and grabbed his crutch. His only glance back, one of fright, was at Lee. Everyone in the room froze, looking at Christie and then at the old man furiously limping out the door.

  “Speakes,” Christie said in a voice smothering in sobs the last letters of the name that had tortured her for almost ten years. She looked at the door, but the bus driver was gone.

  “Speakes? Nelson Speakes the damn bus driver?” Reid Fletcher asked as he put the last of the cartons down near the window facing the street. Without the oversized TV and home theater paraphernalia, he realized he didn’t have much in the way of belongings to bring back to his room above the old tavern. “What the hell would Nelson Speakes be doing at the homeless shelter? I thought they sent him to prison.”

  “Nelson Speakes was in prison. Christie said he got out of prison two years ago, much sooner than expected. I know it was way sooner than my dad thought. But no one could find him and I know Ellie said she and my dad asked a lot of people. I think there were a lot of people that wanted to hurt Nelson Speakes because of what he did. When my dad saw him on TV one time coming out of the court house, he yelled that he was going to rip Nelson Speakes out of that wheel chair and beat him over the head with the wheel chair.”

  “Well, that dumb bastard killed a lot of kids and others got hurt real bad. You remember much about that day, Lee?”

  “I do not remember much about that day. Christie talks a lot about it, because of her brother. She tells me about everything that happened that day. Then when I am by myself and some thought about that day jumps into my head, I do not know if I am remembering things about that day or only remembering things that Christie has told me about that day.”

  Reid looked at the emptiness in Lee’s eyes. “That son-of-a bitch messed you up Lee. Damn, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. You’ve always been all right in my book; you’ve always been my best friend and always will be. What did you say to that old, crippled bastard? Did you feel like punching him or something?”

  “He was out of the room so fast I did not know what to think. The only thing I could think about was Christie. She was hysterical, she just stood there sobbing. Her face was buried in her hands. Mr. Cantoli came over to help, but she just kept screaming: 'He killed my brother; Speakes, the bus driver, killed my brother.' I ran outside thinking that was what Christie wanted me to do, you know, find Speakes. But when I got outside, there was no trace of the bus driver. I went back inside and Christie was still sobbing and Mr. Cantoli and some woman were trying to comfort her. And I thought Christie would probably want me to find out where Speakes stayed, so I asked some of the homeless men. One told me that Speakes lived near some old camp in the woods behind the library; he said he would take me there if I wanted him to. Then the man with the boniest face I have ever seen told me no one was at that camp anymore and that he had never seen Speakes before. Another man with what would have been the boniest face if it had not been for the man I just told you about said he too had never seen Speakes before. Most of the homeless people stopped looking at Christie and went back to finishing their dinner. So, we never got any information about where Speakes was staying. Mr. Cantoli drove Christie and me back to Christie’s house in her car and the woman at the shelter followed behind in Mr. Cantoli’s car. I stayed with Christie for a while. She stopped sobbing but did not want any of the hot tea I made for her. She just said how much she hated Speakes; that he had killed her brother and then just kept saying how she couldn’t believe that we were actually feeding him, helping him at the shelter. I did not know what to tell her, other than maybe he had gotten what he deserved. That he was a crippled old man, homeless, with no one to care for him. And that I thought that was what she told me the shelter was for; to help people even if it meant people like Speakes. Maybe the other people at the shelter had done something terrible at one time; there could be no way we could find out. But if these people had done something bad, they seemed to be suffering enough now, without us trying to make them suffer more. That is what I told Christie. I do not know where all those words came from, but she stopped sobbing. She held my hand and said she couldn’t think any more and would have to go to sleep. She seemed much better when I saw here the next morning.”

  “So Speakes is still out there somewhere?”

  “I guess, but I do not know where. I have not told my sister or my father about seeing the old bus driver. I know my father would start yelling at me for not catching Speakes and I think Ellie might be upset if I told her about that night. I think it is better to just forget about him. Christie is doing much better. She even got her old job back at Mrs. Plennington’s spa. Mrs. Plennington told Christie that there had been a change in her plans for Fitness Fling’s future and that she had found a place for Christie in these new plans. She was even going to give Christie a raise in pay. The first day Christie went back to the spa, the elderly ladies told her that they had gone to Audrey Plennington and told her that if she didn’t bring Christie back they were going to cancel their memberships and make sure no one in their families, any of t
heir friends, or anyone else they could think of, came to Mrs. Plennington’s spa. Christie was laughing when she told me this, but she said she has been careful not to have Mrs. Plennington see her laughing, because sometimes she just didn’t have the best feeling about Audrey Plennington.”

  “Lot going on in your life since I last seen you, buddy. Going to be working anywhere?”

  “I am not sure. I guess I have been thinking a lot about Christie and when you gave me my money back, I guess having that if I need it, I have not been thinking too much about getting a job. But I know that I should.”

  “Told you, just let me know, cause I can always put you to work. This landscaping work is really taking off around here. I even been thinking about opening my own business. Damn, I learned all about this business, I could make a real killing and I know how to talk with all these immigrants; my boss doesn’t even try. Without me, yeah without me, I think he’d be in deep doody. But I need some, what they call start-up capital and maybe even a partner. I got a truck already. I know it’s not the best, but I can rent other stuff I need. Way I been figuring it, with a couple of thousand dollars, the next landscaping empire is born.”

  “I do not think I can give you that money now Reid. You are my best friend too, but I do not think I can give you that money now. I am trying to save my money. I know I have to find some job, but . . .”