Spirit Pouch (7 page)

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say.  I lay the blankets out on the floor while Henry and Elizabeth watch.  I lie down and pull the blanket over me.  “Thanks again for letting me sleep here tonight.  You are very kind.”  I don’t think that I have ever spoken so politely to an adult in my entire life.  But if there ever is a time for politeness, I reason, now is the time.

“You’re welcome, Jared.” Elizabeth smiles.  “See you in the morning.”

Henry blows out the lamp and while my eyes adjust to the dark I hear two pair of feet pad softly into the next room.  A bed creaks, and then there is silence.

My blanket is warming up and the only significant light comes from the scattered coals in the fireplace.  I close my eyes and in the back of my mind, mixed up in the cloudiness of confusion and the drowsiness of dreams, I think,
God knows where I am.  I’m not really lost.  I just need to pray
 
…

Friday

In my opinion, morning comes too early.  And this morning is no exception. For some strange reason I can smell a mixture of bacon and burning pine wood. 
I guess Mom is fixing breakfast,
I think. 
But what is that firewood smell.  I haven’t smelled a fireplace since we left Salt Lake City.
  Tucson Arizona has no need for fireplaces, really, although I know some people have them, mostly for decorative purposes. 
This bed is sure hard!  Maybe I need a new pillow.

A girl nearby giggles.  At least in my sleep stricken mind it sounds like a girl. 
But what would a girl be doing in my bedroom?
I puzzle, not quite awake yet.

“He sleeps with his mouth open,” the girl giggles again.

Okay, I am awake now.  I sit straight up and gasp, surprising the girl who has been kneeling on the floor near my blankets, staring down at my face.

She jumps backwards and her mouth falls open.  She lets out a short startled scream, as if she has just awakened a three thousand year old mummy.  In her scurry to back up she lands sitting down on the floor with such a jolt that her long brown hair flops over her head and covers her eyes.

I smile, not because I delight in scaring little kids half out of their wits.  But, because it was unintentional, the humor is genuine.

Sitting there on the floor, she looks like she could be in about fifth grade.  Her white nightgown is wrinkled, but clean, and ten inches of pink lace adorn the front.

“His name is Jared,” Elizabeth calls softly from the kitchen.  I fight the urge to correct her and let her know that my name is Jet.  After all, a guy needs a little dignity.  Besides, girls like the name Jet.  It has class.  Elizabeth continued, “Now don’t bother him, Annie.  He’s sleeping.”

“No, he’s not,” she cries, scampering into the kitchen with her mother.

Elizabeth walks out of the kitchen and talks toward the bedroom in a loud voice, although she seems not to yell, “Breakfast will be ready in five minutes.  Hurry up, boys, or the sun will be up and breakfast will be cold.”  She turns to me, and lowering her voice, she speaks, “Jared, would you pick up your blankets and then help Annie with the table, that is if you can stay for breakfast?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say out of politeness.  I jump up and grab the blanket that has been wrapped around me.  I am glad that I had slept in my clothes last night.  That way I do not have to fuss with trying to get dressed with so many females around.  I decide that I like my privacy.  My own room.  My own bathroom.

As I fold the blanket in half, and then in half again, I think how it all seems like a dream.  It all seems so far away and imaginary.

I finish folding the blanket and set it onto the floor just as Annie enters the room with a stack of bowls.  She glances at me like she might run back into the kitchen if I say the wrong thing, so I kneel down and grab the cushion of blankets that I had slept on last night.  They are still folded, sort of, so I double them over and stack them with the first one.

Annie sets the bowls onto the table and attempts to slide the table out from the wall.

“Let me help you,” I say standing up.

Annie freezes and I can tell she is contemplating darting for the safety of her mother.

“Please?” I say smiling, trying to be obedient to Elizabeth, who has offered me breakfast.  One thing that did not change, even when you are lost, is that you still get hungry, and I can still smell the aroma of cooking bacon.  Breakfast is a good thing.

To my relief, Annie relents, and I see just a hint of a reciprocating smile.

“I’ll get this side,” I say quickly, moving to the far side of the table.  “We’ll move it very carefully so we don’t knock the bowls off.  Ready?”

Annie nods her head, and they both lift and scoot the table out to the center of the room.  Then we each slide a bench up to the side of the table.

“How about if I do the bowls and you go get some spoons and stuff,” I say.

“Okay,” Annie says, relieved to be able to retreat to the kitchen once more.

Annie has brought out eight bowls and so I place them evenly around the table.  Annie appears once again.  “Here, do these,” she directs, handing me eight spoons.  I take them and she scampers back to the kitchen.

Methodically I place a silver spoon just to the right of the nearest bowl, then move on to the next.  Behind me I hear the clomp, clomp of boots on the hard wood floor, and I know it will be Henry emerging from his bedroom for breakfast.

“Good morning!” I say cheerfully as I spin around and make eye contact.  To my surprise, however, it is not Henry.  The young man I am staring at is even more surprised than me, however.  His pace falters slightly, and he brushes the sandy colored hair that tops his almost six foot frame.

“Good morning,” he says, recovering quickly.  “I didn’t know we had a guest for breakfast.”

“I did,” smiles a blond headed boy following right behind.  His blue eyes sparkle.  “Annie told me.  She also told me that you sleep with your mouth open.”

“Well, I guess I do then,” I laugh.  “Hey, Annie,” I call.

Annie appears from around the corner.

“Annie, does …,” I point to the blond kid.

“His name is William.  William Henry.”

“Yeah.  Does William sleep with his mouth open, too?”

“Um,” Annie thinks for a second.  “No, I don’t think so.”

William chuckles and folds his arms in confidence.

“Is there anything I should know about William, that is, since he knows that I sleep with my mouth open?”

“Yeah,” Annie says.  “He talks in his sleep.”

“I do not!” William protests.

“Yeah, you do,” Annie replies.  “Last week you even said some girl’s name!”

“She’s right, William,” the first boy chuckles.  “Let’s see.  What was her name?”

“Oh hush, Tom.”  William pushes on past us and goes into the kitchen.

“Good job, Annie,” I say, holding the palm of my hand out.  “Give me five!”

Annie just stares at me like I am an alien from outer space.  I thought every kid in the world knew how to give five.  If you are going to be cool, there are some things that a person must learn.

“When I say, ‘Give me five,’” I explain, “it means that you’re supposed to slap my hand with five fingers.”

Annie thinks for a second.  “Oh, I get it.”

“Okay, then.  Give me five!”  I hold my palm out and Annie slaps her hand down onto it.

“Give me ten!” she laughs, holding out two hands.

I slap two hands and we laugh.

Elizabeth enters the room carrying a bowl of what looks like cereal and William follows behind with a plate that is covered.  My guess is that it contains bacon.  I can still smell it and my mouth is watering already.  William sets it on the table next to the bowl of cereal.

“Gather  ’round for prayer,” Elizabeth says.  “Breakfast is getting cold.”

Tom and Annie are the first ones to kneel down, resting their arms on the edge of the bench.  Elizabeth kneels also, but a bit more slowly.

I know this routine,
I think. 
It’s family prayer!

William takes a step toward the bench and kneels down just as Henry enters the room and a small boy, still in his night shirt, darts over to the table and slides to a kneeling stop next to Annie.  I follow William and kneel down next to him.

“I will offer the prayer this morning,” Henry says reverently as he joins his family, kneeling and bowing his head.

“Our great and merciful God, who is our Father in Heaven,” Henry begins.  “We thank Thee this morning for this new day and for our bounteous blessings.  We are thankful for Thy son, Jesus Christ, and for His great atoning sacrifice for each of us.  We are grateful for our home, and for our food, the eggs and bacon and grits that have been prepared for us.”

Did he say grits?
  I almost open my eyes to check what is really in that bowl! 
Grits are nasty!
  Not that I have actually tasted grits.  But I have seen them, and I know that all that grits really consist of is coarsely ground dried corn.  I have heard others talk about grits, and they do not have anything nice to say! 
How can anyone be thankful for grits?  I’m thankful for eggs and bacon!
  My thoughts fly back to the prayer like a boomerang. 
What is he saying?

“… And bless Jared,” Henry continues.

I have missed part of the prayer while worrying about grits!

“… that he will find his way home in peace and safety, and that his mother will be comforted while he is away.  And last of all, please bless George in his studies at school … Amen.”

I open my eyes and see seven year old Joseph nearly fly onto the bench.

“I’m starving, cuz I had to wait too long!” he sings.

“I know,” Annie whispers quietly through her closed lips.  “Father always prays long.”

Tom reaches for the bowl of grits as I seat myself on the bench next to him.  He takes a large spoonful of grits and passes the bowl to me.  I cautiously put a small taste into my bowl.

“It’s a long time until supper, Jared,” Elizabeth says in a mother’s tone of voice.  Even though I am a guest in their home I know that tone.  It means, ‘do as I ask because you are the child and I am the mother, and I know what is best.’  “You’re a growing boy and you need a full breakfast.”

“I … ah … I don’t want to take all of Annie’s grits,” I say hesitantly.  I know that is a lie, but I do not want to insult the cook who has so far been very generous and charitable to me.

“I made plenty of grits, so eat up,” Elizabeth says smiling.

I take a full spoon of grits and put on my best poker face, even though I have never played poker in my life.  It seems as though everyone is watching me now, so I spoon up some grits that seem destined to be my breakfast and delicately slide them into my mouth.

“Mix some eggs and bacon into the grits,” Tom says with a slightly exasperated tone of voice that comes from being the older brother.  I do not have an older brother, but I have heard that tone of voice from some of my friends that have younger brothers.

“Thanks,” I say, even though I think the idea is a terrible waste of perfectly good eggs and delicious bacon.

Tom finishes his bite of grits and eggs and then turns his head toward me.  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Of course not,” Henry and Elizabeth answer for me in unison.

“I live on Cromwell Street,” I say, looking around the table.  “Anyone know where Cromwell is?”

Each person shakes their head in denial and says nothing.

I take a deep breath in an effort to expel the frustration and despair that settles on my heart like a thick fog in the night.  “Okay,” I say.  “If you don’t know where Cromwell is, then just tell me where
I
am.”

“Ha! That’s easy,” Joseph laughs.  “You’re in our house with us!”

Everyone laughs, and even I think it is slightly amusing and force a smile.

“No, silly,” Annie jabs him in the ribs with her elbow.  “Jared wants to know what street we’re on and what town we live in, because he’s lost.”

“Oh,” Joseph says.

I can see in his eyes that he feels sorry for me.

“It is no fun being lost.  I lost my shoe once,” he says.  “But I found it outside.”

I smile again.

“You are in Dogtown,
[14]
” George says as he seats himself next to Tom.  He is late and missed the family prayer.

“Be on time for the prayer next time,” Elizabeth says quietly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dogtown?” I say trying to steer the conversation back to my situation.  “Where is Dogtown exactly?”  I envision a small neighborhood, perhaps near the Tucson city dog pound, or the Humane Society.

“It’s halfway between Central City and Nevadaville,” George continues authoritatively.

“Are you saying that I’m in the state of Nevada?” I ask, even though I know that is a really stupid question.  I guess I ask it just to see if I am talking with sane people.  I am beginning to think I am the brunt of an elaborate practical joke.  Well, if they say I am somewhere in Nevada, then I will know it is all a joke.  How can I possibly get from Tucson, Arizona to Nevada in a few seconds?