The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story (9 page)

Worshipers were coming out from the Saturday afternoon mass at Saint Mary’s. Jack saw Father Frank shaking hands at the door, leaning in to talk to each of those parishioners with a smile on his face as though God had created a wonder at their births.

“Now that’s one good pastor,” Jack murmured.

He wished he could say hello. But he had promised to get chicken. With something that felt strangely like regret, he drove past the church, ordered twelve chicken tenders, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, and sweet tea at Chicken Express. He paid for it with the last of his cash.

So much for any other crazy Saturday night plans he might have made.

“I guess it is football with the old man.” He sighed.

The University of Texas beat Oregon State in the Alamo Bowl. He and his father devoured the chicken, as well as some chocolate cake Mary had dropped off. And while Jack still ached over his encounter with Bill, he knew enough to know that he’d
encountered some true wisdom earlier: either Bill would forgive him, or he wouldn’t.

In any case, he had said what needed to be said.

Now, perhaps, something better could happen.

After all, miracles come in all shapes and sizes.

J
ack was already up and dressed when he heard his father moving around in the kitchen. He had a limited window of time for what he had planned, and he wanted to be well under way before anybody could try to stop him. So, even though he knew it was going to be a long—and painful—day, he wanted to begin it as soon as he could sneak away.

Painful because he was sore from the day before. His back, his arms—he already hurt in muscles he didn’t even remember he had. And it would only get worse.

He made his way down the stairs, stiffly, slowly, hoping his muscles might thaw with motion. In the kitchen, he took a couple of aspirin from the cabinet, washed them down with water, pocketed two or three more for later.

“Me, I’d sleep in if I didn’t have to go to church,” his dad called from the table. “You want me to make you some eggs?”

“Toast and jelly is fine,” Jack said, slipping two slices into the toaster and setting two aside to make a sandwich. “Okay if I drive the truck today?”

“Of course,” his father said, buttering his own toast.

“And can I borrow your store keys?”

His father looked over at him. “You have some work left to do that I don’t know about?”

“Yessir,” Jack said.

Tom looked at him thoughtfully. Then he slid the door key off his key ring and across the table. “There you go.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m going over to Mary’s after church,” Tom said. “You’re invited.”

“I’m actually going to be a little busy today,” he said.

“With what?” his father asked. He looked across at him, an eyebrow arched. “Now you’ve got me curious. Is it your batteries? Are you going to save the world?”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll hear all about it,” Jack said. “No secrets in Mayfield.” His toast popped up, and he turned around, snatched it out and onto a plate.

He sat down at the table as his father cut his fried eggs into tiny squares with his knife and fork.

“You know,” Tom said, “I think I may have a surprise for you myself. That matter I told you I’d work on.”

“What?” Jack said.

“That important matter,” his father said, and he couldn’t help smiling a little.

“Finding Tracy and Alison?” Jack’s breath caught.

His father nodded. Jack’s heart fell.

Sure, he would find them. The Internets would track them down, no problem.

“I should have news tomorrow or Tuesday,” he said.

“That would be great,” Jack said, not committing himself to
the possibility at all. He wondered for the first time if maybe the cancer was in Tom’s brain—if maybe he wasn’t all there anymore. “That would be great, Dad.”

Tom sized him up. You could see from the expression on his face that he was considering whether or not to say something.

“Our lawyers filed a motion in Seattle Friday,” Tom said. “They argued that you couldn’t be kept away from your daughter without just cause, and certainly not without a court order, which nobody has filed. The judge issued an order for us. So our lawyers were able to find out where the church’s lawyers were forwarding the checks. An address in Boston. And the private investigator thinks he has them located. He’ll be able to confirm it if and when he sees Alison or Tracy.”

Jack felt as though he had been hit by a brick. His mouth hung slightly open, and he knew he must look like a fish on dry land.

“Boston,” he said at last. He would never have found them. Tracy had never said she wanted to go to Boston, had never come on any of his speaking trips to the Northeast. “You—you did it.”

“I told you, son,” Tom said gently. “The clock is ticking. I don’t have a moment to waste.”

“I know. But you did all this in a week? How— But—” He gave up. “I’ve been calling them for six weeks.”

“Actually, I did all this in three days,” Tom said. Again, that shrug. “People move quickly when you give them a reason to.”

It dawned on Jack, and he looked up in something like horror. “Dad,” he said. “How much is this costing you?”

Tom looked back at him, and he said, his voice calm, without particular emphasis, “Everything I’ve got.”

“Dad.” Jack shook his head. “But—”

“But nothing,” Tom said fiercely. “I can’t take it with me. Nothing can be done for me, no medical treatment, no lastminute heroics. That money will not prolong my life. My time will come, and when it comes, I will die.” He pointed a finger across the table. “I talked with Mary. She agreed with me. That money needs to be used right now, used for this.”

“But you’ve worked your whole life—” Jack began. He thought of the countless hours, of the sacrifices, of the ceaseless toil. His father was one of the hardest working men Jack had ever known. “You saved this—”

“It’s my money, Jack,” Tom said. “I get to spend it any way I choose.” His shoulders relaxed a bit. “And I choose to spend it finding my granddaughter.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Okay. I get it.” Or he thought he did, anyway. He could see himself making the same choice if he were in a similar position.

Still, it was a lot to absorb before his morning cup of coffee—especially if that coffee was only Maxwell House.

“Got to go,” Tom said, checking his watch. “I’m teaching Sunday School.”

“I figured,” Jack said. He had been waiting for this window of a couple of hours when his father and others would depart early for church. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

His father plied him with that measuring glance again. “You’re not going to get into trouble, I hope. Or get me in trouble? I don’t think I have enough money left to mount a strong legal defense for either of us.”

“Dad,” Jack said. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Tom looked at him, his head a little to one side. Then he nodded. “I do, Jack. I do.” He raised a hand. “Have a great day.”

As soon as Tom was out the door, Jack made a sandwich, threw it in a sack with a bag of chips and a couple of apples, and hurried out to the truck. He checked his watch—it was a little after nine.

Church would let out at noon, if not before. There was no telling how they worked the schedule without a regular preacher, but they certainly wouldn’t run longer than noon. People’s Sunday dinners might be in the oven.

At the hardware store, he rushed about assembling everything he needed: a nail gun, the right nails for the job, a sturdy bucket, a rope, a claw hammer, a cat’s paw to pull nails, a utility knife, a tape measure, a chalk line, a good strong ladder.

He checked his watch again. By now, everyone who was going would be at Sunday School.

He drove over to Mrs. Calhoun’s house, parked in the driveway, and put the ladder against her eaves. Slowly, he made his way up the ladder, his calves and back already aching.

He pulled the thick tarp away and was pleased that while the roof under it was in particularly bad shape, he didn’t see any large holes. The boards underneath appeared stable.

Then he climbed up to the crown of the roof and began pulling nails and tearing off the old shingles. At first, he winced every time he pulled a nail, but either the aspirin began to kick in or his muscles began to warm. He knew that later he was going to feel every single nail he was pulling now. But it was important to get a good start and work quickly.

If he had much of the old roof pulled off by the time Mrs.
Calhoun got home from church, she could hardly object if he started putting on her new roof, could she?

The weather was still fine—warm, sunny, a beautiful springlike December day. They weren’t expecting rain all week—something he’d checked when he first got this idea. He didn’t know how long it would take him to strip and roof this by himself—he’d never roofed except on a crew, and that was just one summer for extra money. It might actually be a multi-day job since he was working alone.

He remembered his short time as a roofer, had relived it before deciding to take on this project. That had been a vision of hell—the July sun beating down with tangible force, the shingles so hot beneath him that they could burn flesh. He, Bill, and Van all wishing they had never come home from their respective colleges to melt on some godforsaken rooftop.

But today was nowhere near as hot. Except for the wind, which was gusting a bit, and the fact that he was uncomfortably high off the ground, the only challenge was the work itself.

The first curious bystander showed his head during the first twenty minutes of the job. While Jack had supposed that the entire town would be at church, the truth was that some people didn’t go, and many of the Catholics had gone the afternoon before. One of Mrs. Calhoun’s neighbors saw Jack on the roof from his backyard, came over to the fence, and called up, “Hey,
hombre
, what are you doing up there?”

Jack looked down at him. It was Mr. Rodriguez, the high-school shop teacher. “Hey, Mr. Rodriguez,” he called back. “It’s me. Jack Chisholm. I’m putting on a new roof for Mrs. Calhoun.”

“Jack Chisholm?” He stood there for a moment thinking, then
he nodded in recognition, and Jack’s heart fell. Mr. Rodriguez was recalling his entire history, distant and recent.

“Didn’t you take Home Ec?” he shouted up.

Jack pulled loose another shingle and flung it into the front yard. “You know I did,” he called back. “Everybody knows that.”

“Maybe I should climb up and give you a hand, then,” Mr. Rodriguez said.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Jack said. “You got a cat’s paw?”

“Oh yeah,
no problemo
,” he said. Sam Rodriguez was famous for saying “No problemo.”

Drive a nail into your forehead? No problemo. Go see the nurse, hombre.

He disappeared into his shop out back, and a few minutes later Mr. Rodriguez was on the roof next to Jack, pulling nails with an economy of motion that Jack could only envy.

Jack actually did pull nails like someone who had taken Home Ec.

“I heard about those guys that took Mrs. Calhoun’s money,” Mr. Rodriguez was saying to him now. “
Descarados
, all of them. Jerks. Who steals from an old woman?” He was a small man, fit, in his sixties now, but he moved across the roof with the grace and skill of a dancer. Unlike Jack, who lumbered. “I didn’t figure she’d ever get her new roof.”

“Same here,” Jack said.

“I didn’t even think of this,” Mr. Rodriguez said, his face reddening. “To offer this.”

“It’s okay,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t have either. Not until this week.”

They looked around at what needed to be done, smiled at each other, started pulling nails and shingles loose again.

They worked steadily. With two of them now, they were clearing the roof down to the plywood quickly. It wasn’t long before two more workers joined them.

“I called some of my students before I came up,” Mr. Rodriguez explained as two high-school boys climbed up the ladder and stood looking around. “Devon and Ricardo,” Mr. Rodriguez said.

The two boys said hi, shook hands with Mr. Rodriguez and Jack. They were carrying claw hammers and wore knee pads. Both looked like they knew their way around a roof.

By the time church let out, the four of them were well on their way to having the old roof off. Mrs. Calhoun pulled up in her Lincoln at fifteen minutes after twelve to find her front yard full of gawkers, six men and boys standing on her roof, and a rain of old shingles littering her front yard.

“Jack Chisholm,” she called up at him after she got out of the car and did some gawking herself for a moment. “You come down here right this instant!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he called back, prying up his shingle and tossing it well away from where she stood. He got slowly to his feet—his back was hurting most of all, now, from the bending and stooping—and climbed down the ladder.

“What in the world,” she said, pointing up at the roof, “is going on up there?”

“Well,” he said, “some folks thought this might be a way to help you out a little bit.”

“Some folks thought,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“A little help.”

“Yes’m,” he said. He did an uneasy little dance under her gaze.

“Are these”—she could not hide the smile that spread across her face—“elves?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiled in return.

“Jack, were you the angel behind this little miracle?”

“Oh no,” he protested. “It was, like, spontaneous. You know how things are in a small town.” He held his hands up, shrugged. “People help each other out.”

Tears began to form in her eyes and her face crumpled. She raised that tiny balled fist to her mouth, and spasms ran through her as she struggled not to weep.

“Hey,” Jack said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Calhoun. You’ve done a lot for the people of this town.” He patted her shoulder, then stood uneasily. “You’ve done a lot for me.”

She blinked rapidly, still incapable of speaking, and tried to smile.

“Jack Chisholm,” Mr. Rodriguez called from the roof. “Tell Mrs. C. that you have to get your Home Ec–loving
culo
back to work.”

They smiled at each other.

“Well,” she said, “maybe I’d better make some coffee. And lemonade.”

“That would make us very happy,” Jack said. He turned to go.

She put out a hand, surprisingly strong, and grasped his arm.

“It is a miracle,” she said.

He looked down at her arm, patted it, and smiled. “All shapes and sizes, Mrs. Calhoun,” he said. “All shapes and sizes.”

Then he climbed back up the ladder and got his Home Ec–loving butt back to work.

After lunch, seven more workers joined them. Once they’d pulled off all the old shingles, they began laying down the new
felt, starting the new shingles at the edge and working back up toward the crown. By late afternoon, more people were on the roof than could comfortably fit, and Mr. Rodriguez sent down his students and some of those who’d been working the longest. He tried to send Jack down, but Jack was enjoying himself too much.

“No, hombre,” he said. “I’m head elf. I gotta be up here.”

Warren had gotten a call from someone after church and drove in from the ranch. He was now happily using a nail gun nearby. Father Frank heard about the roofraising and was sitting on the hood of that 1986 LeBaron, Mayfield Wildcat maroon and white, talking with some of the wives and mothers who had joined Mrs. Calhoun in bringing refreshments. Some
conjunto
music played from the open windows of one of the pickup trucks on the street. Somebody had unloaded a smoker and was smoking hamburgers and bratwursts. Somebody else had brought menudo in a big pot and started dishing it out in bowls. A bottle of red wine and then another made the rounds, and someone filled an ice chest with Lone Star beer.