Lou and Mel

“What did your friend just call you? Lou?”

Simone had just dropped me off, and my old man neighbor Mel was on his porch, again, craning his neck so his wrinkly folds looked even more wrinkly. Ever since his wife Joy died months ago (the sweetest woman who I’d really, really, liked), he literally does nothing else all day except sit out there and be nosy.

I wanted to shoot back a snarky comment, but Mom with her superpower hearing would get a signal and be pissed if I was rude. Even though he’s crotchety eighty-percent of the time. That’s the thing. He never used to be, until after Joy died. When I was a kid, they’d take me and granddaughter Rosie for cones at Mike’s Ice Cream shop on Sunday afternoons, and Mel let me pick any flavor I wanted. Superman, of course, which was not allowed at home. Mom said it made her ill to look at the fake blue and pink scoops, what those artificial colors were doing to my insides. Goofy, I know. Anyway. Without Joy, Mel’s got none, and according to Madre, I need to cut him some slack because of that.

I might. I might, if he didn’t have those horrible MAGA yard signs and “Vote for the Orange Man” covering every square inch of his lawn. I sooo wanted to take a spray paint can to it all in the dead of night, but I was way too chicken.

I took a deep breath and responded to his inquiry about my name.

“Yes. Lou. That’s what I’m going by now. Is that all right with you?”

His shoulders, which were still pretty wide even though he was ancient, shrugged under the red and black flannel shirt. What he always wore. “Makes no difference to me. I thought your name was Louisa, is all.”

“It was. I happen to prefer Lou.” The same way I prefer girls.

I think. Maybe. Maybe not. I might be asexual.

I didn’t say any of that, obviously, but I wanted to, to wipe that look off his face. What did he care what I called myself?

“I was in the army with a friend whose name was Lou. A good man.”

I made a conscious effort to not roll my eyes. We’re having conversation now, between our two porches?

I mean, it wasn’t hard to achieve. This was the city, where you lived what felt like inches apart, but I wasn’t in the mood. Lou was probably dead after having saved the whole platoon. Still, I took the bait.

“What happened to him?”

“He died. Got blown up by a land mine.”

Bingo.

“Uh, sorry. Did he get a medal, or something?”

Mel looked straight ahead. “No. But I reckon he should’ve.”

“Ya. War sucks.” I lifted up my textbooks. “Sorry about your friend, but I gotta go. Studyin’ to do, and all that.”

He nodded, and I headed into the house. Mom was taking cookies out of the oven as I swooped into the kitchen.

“Hey, mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Just in time. Take those ones, they’re cooler. I’ll get you some milk.”

Ravenous, I stuffed one in my mouth, savoring the bittersweet, half-melted chocolate on my tongue. I couldn’t replicate the crispy-yet-chewy goodness of her recipe no matter how many times I tried.

“Perfect. As usual,” I said, gulping milk and sitting down. Mom sat too, her eyes giving me the once-over. Constantly eager for my company. Which was also, as usual, and made me want to race to my room.

“How are you? Did you get your history project done yet? I know you’ve been anxious about it.”

She’d long ago perfected the art of what her parenting magazines advised her: “Be specific when asking your child about their day, to avoid yes or no answers.” I know this, because I used to read the articles if I got bored.

“Not yet.”

A lie, I’d gotten it done and returned. B plus. Not a big deal, but she’d want to know why not an A and I didn’t care why. I was so over grades. Why couldn’t adults be the same? The obsession with them was beyond maddening. There were so many more important things in the world than the subjective nonsense of a letter summing up supposed knowledge. “Says the girl who’s never gotten anything lower than an A,” my friend Johnny moaned, when I’d start in on the topic. Johnny and school were a rotten combination. I felt bad for him, because he was absolutely brilliant on the guitar. The cards you’re given seem so unfair sometimes.

“I got an email today about college night,” Mom said excitedly.

“Yeah? Are you goin’ back?”

The light in her hazel eyes dimmed. It’d never been a secret she’d dropped out of college. What she rarely addressed was the cause: Me. From a union wiped out the instant my BF (birth father) knew of my existence.

“Sorry, mom. Low blow. I wish I was as stoked as you are about it. That’s all.”

I actually wished it was her who was attending. Then she could stop living vicariously through me. She’d been valedictorian in her high school class. How do you go from that, to a title of office manager? Could life get any more boring?

Her back stiffened. “There’s so much opportunity for you, with these scholarships available. Mr. Goodman says the world is your oyster. Do you know how lucky you are?”

I squeezed my eyes shut so they wouldn’t roll back. We had the “you’re so fortunate” discussion at least once a week. Logically, I knew she and Johnny were right. But with a butchy linebacker body, thick, blonde, wonky hair that waves in every direction except the right one, and skin erupting like Mt. Vesuvius every month, (all of which I’d apparently inherited from my MIA father, since my mother has a body and skin like a model and smooth, cooperative locks), lucky didn’t seem accurate. Add “perpetually confused about gender and sexuality” into the mix, for the complete package.

Thanks, dad. I’m pretty sure it’s all your fault.

I opened my eyes. (Which, by the way, I do get complimented on for their light green color) “Yes. I know I’m lucky.”

“Do you? You’re a junior. This is the time to be exploring—”

“Jolene. Stop.” She hated her name, especially the man-stealing association from the song with the same title.

She sighed. “At least keep an open mind about college. That’s one of your favorite rants, isn’t it? That we’d all be better off if we just look at other perspectives? I think what you really mean is folks should agree that your point of view is the right one.”

She had me there. Which meant it was time to make an exit. “Yep.” I got up, gathered my books. “Thanks for the cookies. Gotta go study for a history test tomorrow.”

She watched me mournfully. “Dinner in an hour. I’ll text you.”

“Kay.”

I made my way upstairs, threw books on the floor and flopped onto the bed. Though I did have a history test to study for, my thoughts wandered to psychology. Specifically, our psych teacher Ms. Lopez. Senorita Sofia Lopez, with her exquisite milky skin, black hair, and oversized turquoise hoop earrings. I don’t exactly have a crush on her, (too old!) but I want to be her. Slim, feminine, worldly, foreign, and everyone loves her. Part of it is, of course, that she lectures about fascinating stuff. Human behavior, the brain, psychoactive drugs, experiments, Freud and other weirdos, just to name a few themes. I’m drawn to it, I guess, because I need an explanation as to why I feel so at odds with myself. I think, look, and kinda act like a guy, but the idea of taking hormones to turn into one is not appealing. In the least. Why am I the way I am? Why are there freaks like me? If God made us all, he made the freaks too. Why? Knowing those answers does appeal to me.

Today’s topic in psych was schizophrenia. What a sad, strange condition, with no real cause other than getting the shaft on the genetic front, and whacky brain chemistry. I’d peppered Ms. Lopez with a zillion questions about it, even as I heard fifteen different under-breath protests burning into the back of my skull: “OMG. Again??” “Here we go.” “Teacher’s pet, right on time.” “Noooooo.” “Shut up, lesbo.”

I didn’t care. I wanted to know more, even if the pothead losers didn’t.

“What about homeless people? Are most of them schizophrenic?” I asked.

Ms. Lopez smiled, her porcelain teeth straight, except for the one that looks like a fang. That one is sideways. “Louisa, querida. Always with the good questions! I so appreciate you.”

I could almost feel the student daggers digging in now, and still, it didn’t dissuade me. The way she said Louisa, rolling off her tongue, was like a silky lullaby to my ears. Besides, the last time I felt appreciated was right before my dog Dingo died. He got sick with this bizarre disease that made him dizzy with any movement, so he couldn’t sleep with me. I laid pillows and blankets downstairs on the floor for us both, whispering to him and caressing his fur night after night. His big cherry-brown eyes pooled and his tail barely swished. I knew he was trying to say thank you.

“Louisa asked if most homeless are schizophrenic. To answer that accurately,” Ms. Lopez continued, “I’d have to look up the actual statistics. However, we know that the majority of homeless, in particular those on the street, do suffer from some type of psychosis.”

“Why?” asked Cheyenne, another favored student.

“It varies. From genetics, to financial, to dysfunctional family mechanics, to drug and alcohol addictions. For homeless veterans, it can be severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Or a combination of these factors.”

I stared at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on my ceiling, thinking. The reason for asking annoying questions in class (okay, I always did, but this time I had a specific reason) was because this one corner in our neighborhood recently started attracting what my grandma called, “hobos.” The area is wooded, easy to hide in, but I’ve seen this one guy several times. He wears a ragged backpack, and an equally scruffy dog trots along beside him. I’m not scared, in spite of the posts on our neighborhood’s Facebook page (“Watch your kids! Call the police if you spot these panhandlers!” Which technically isn’t fair. Backpack dude doesn’t hold up signs nor have I seen him beg. Maybe there are others, but I haven’t seen them). So, yeah, I’m not spooked by him. In fact, it’s pathetically sad to say I’m bigger than he is and could probably tackle him. I guess he might have a weapon, although Ms. Lopez says violence is rare among them.

I kicked at my bedpost. What gets me is the dog. I mean, the guy himself looks beaten down, even from afar. Rough. Long beard, hair in a ponytail. But the two of them are insanely thin, and I don’t say that as a chunkster who thinks everyone is scrawny. I got up, a revelation pinging in my head. A big bag of Dingo’s food sat un-used in the pantry, along with other items that were his. We’d been meaning to take it all to the shelter, an errand put off by mom since she didn’t want to be tempted by another dog. Not yet.

I scrambled down the stairs.

“Good timing. I was about to text you supper’s ready.”

“Okay, but can it wait a little bit?”

“Yes. Why, wha—”

“You know how I told you I keep seeing the homeless guy with his dog? I remembered that we have Dingo’s food here. I wanna give it to him. He looks like he’s starving. They both do.”

“I don’t know, honey. Do we want to be supportin’ that? Enablin’ people?”

I gave her my “are you crazy?” face.

She laughed. “All right, all right. It’s certainly not the animal’s fault.” She pointed to her steaming chicken and dumplings casserole, which is soooo good. “Here. Might as well bring some of this. Wait, though! I was going to share with Mel, too. Not sure now if I’ll have enough—"

“Give him cookies,” I said flatly. “Maybe the sugar will improve his disposition.”

Mom frowned, something southern women are taught to avoid for fear of inducing lines. It’s how I knew she was truly irritated. “Leesy, we’ve talked about this. Have some compassion, the same way you do for this homeless man.”

“Ha! Where’s his compassion? Encouraging people to vote for a racist, sexist pig? Whose policies only benefit his white, patriarchal self?”

“Dear Lord, don’t get all spun up on politics now. I feel a migraine coming on as it is. Please.” She scooped the chicken mixture into a plastic dish. “I think I should come with you. What if he’s, I don’t know, dangerous?”

“No. Only come if you want to be a civil human being. Not act like some suspicious scaredy-cat.”

“You’re my daughter, for land’s sake. He’s an unpredictable drifter.”

I wrapped some cookies in foil, put the food and plastic silverware in a bag, and grabbed the dog food. A slice of guilt cut through me. Jolene was never less than civil to anyone; she was the most well-mannered person I knew. It wouldn’t kill me to offer a little assurance.

“I’d guess “the drifter” is a hundred and twenty pounds at most. Do I need to tell you what I weigh? Plus, I know Ju-Jitsu?”

“Yes, but—”

“You stay. I’ll be fine. I have my phone. Take your migraine meds and lay down.”

I left before she could protest. It was a pleasant Tennessee September day, not too humid. Thank God, because in addition to all my manly qualities, I also sweat like one too. Mom took pity (I’m sure I embarrass her, un-lady-like wet circles stamping every shirt I wear) and bought me a special anti-excessive anti-perspirant. The stuff burned like hellfire and made me break out worse than my face. The only advantage over bumpy, flaring cheeks was that nobody could see my spotty armpits. My pediatrician (ridiculous, right? At almost seventeen? Sitting in the waiting room with toddlers is mortifying, but Guess Who insists) says perspiration and acne are normal body functions, and hormones go haywire in adolescence. Like I didn’t know that. Doc also suggested birth control for the zits, which didn’t sit well with Guess Who either. As if! It’s not like I have prospects banging at my door, and if I did, I’d run for the hills anyway.

Tell me again how these are supposed to be the best years of my life?

I came to the corner, where the grass was flattened by foot traffic, and glanced around. Nobody. I followed the track for a while and stopped.

“Hello?” I called out, feeling dumb but not sure how to proceed. “Anyone here? I have some food for your pup, if you want it? And for you, too?”

As soon as I said the words a dog came half-running, half-limping, out of a thicket of bushes. His tail thwapped and his eyes were happy.

I bent down and scratched his black and white ears. “Hi there, cutie.”

“Joe! Joe! Come back here!”

Joe did not obey, his eyes slits at my continued petting.

The man emerged. Panicky, wild-eyed.

“You can’t take him. I…I got his license now. An, his shots. I got his shots the other day.”

I stood. I was at least three inches taller than him. “I’m not here to take him. I live nearby and saw you together, so I thought you might like this.” I held up the Iams bag. “My dog died,” I blurted. “On New Year’s Day. We never opened it.”

I willed the tears back. I’ll be glad for the day when I can think of Dingo for more than a minute without bawling.

Joe went back to his owner. “Good boy,” he said soothingly.

“I also brought some chicken my mom made. She’s a great cook. Would you like it, umm…sorry, can you tell me your name?”

“I haven’t had chicken in a while.” He ignored my question and stared at the ground. “I…I used to be a damn good cook too. Back in the army, I was.”

“Yeah?” My head swiveled around, searching for a place to put the stuff down. Not like he’s gonna have a kitchen in the middle of the forest.

“Is there somewhere you can sit and eat?”

“Why?” Panicky again. “Why do ya wanna see that? You can’t take my chair.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. I thought you might like to sit down.”

“I only got one chair.”

I tried to sound reassuring. “I’m not stayin’, sir. I gotta get back.” I set the bags down on the ground. “I’ll put these here. My mom made some good cookies, too.”

He nodded, didn’t look up or move.

“It was nice to meet you and Joe. My name’s Lou. Maybe I’ll come back in a few days with some more stuff for him, that used to be my dog’s. If that’s okay.”

His head moved up and down a tiny bit, and I walked away.

“You not gonna call the cops on us, are you?” His voice trailed after me. “I got nowhere else to go, because nobody wants Joe. It ain’t cuz I drink or do drugs. They don’t want the dog.”

I turned. “No. I won’t call the cops. But there’s other people in the neighborhood who might. Just sayin.’”

He looked down at Joe, who returned the gaze with adoration. “I reckon we’ll have to move on soon then.”

“Well, have a good night,” I said awkwardly. Have a good night, in your home without a bed or a bathroom.

As I left, he called out, “Name’s Paul.”

“Okay. Have a good night, Paul!”

And then I took the path back that led to my own house.

*****

I walked in front of Mel’s. He was on the lawn this time, planting yet another godforsaken sign with Orange Man and his running mate’s name plastered in red, white and blue. His partner of choice in the race doesn’t improve his campaign, either. One more homophobic putz we don’t need in office.

Disgust grew in me like the dandelions did overnight. I stood in front of Mel’s white picket fence.

“You know, I don’t believe Joy would approve of your lawn advertisements. Not the way she took care of her garden and her beautiful flowers.”

I willed the eyeball-water back for the second time, thinking of her trimming the bushes and bringing us bouquets of iris and peonies. The birthday cakes she made from scratch for me every year. My favorite kind, coconut cream, the top always decorated with fancy cursive writing and icing roses.

He straightened from his bent position.

“What would you know about my late wife’s political preferences?”

I shrugged. “I think she’d think those signs are like…litter.” Same as me.

“Is that so?”

His amused tone made me even more irritated. Defensive.

“I know she was kind and gentle. She loved America. Everyone in America, not just people a certain color. Or a certain ethnicity.”

“You’re right about that, young lady. She’d also hate to see what our country has become. No thought for servin’ the common man, tryin’ to get by, tryin’ to find a foot in this world. Nope. Only what’ll get ‘em re-elected.” He shook his grey head. “Course, it’s always been that way, just these days they hardly bother to hide it. Downright obscene, all the lyin’ and corruption.”

I could feel my eyes bugging. “As if Orange Man hasn’t contributed to that! How can you be okay with a greedy creep like him in charge of the U.S? And this insane idea to build a wall. I think we should build a wall to keep him and his big mouth out! He’s what’s obscene!”

Mel wiped his face with a hankie, actually smiled a little. “I’ll grant, the man ain’t gonna win any personality contests. Though I’d argue bein’ likable don’t amount to a hill of beans when you’re a world leader.” He bent down again to snap an errant weed. “It’s too bad we don’t have more crooks to choose from, since that’s what every damned last one ends up bein.’ Pickin’ our pockets to line their own. I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on who’s the better choice.”

I huffed and stomped to our sidewalk like a two-year-old.

Mom was in her chair knitting. “Hi! How did it—”

“Fine. I gave the stuff to him.” I headed straight for the stairs, unable to stem the dammed-up tears any longer.

“What about your supper?” I knew right at that moment the knitting needles dropped in her lap, alarm growing.

“Later,” I shouted down. “Promise.”

After I dried my face and blew my nose, I tried to clear my mind of Mel, Joy, and presidential races.

Think, Louisa.

What would be the best way to help Paul and Joe? If there was anything? And the more interesting question: why did I care so much? Was I trying to be a white superhero rescuing the downtrodden?

I couldn’t answer, except that I did. Care, that is. For some reason, their situation filled me with curiosity. What happened to Paul? Where was his family? Was he ever in love? Married? How does somebody come to accept living like that? Why do we look the other way and feel loathing at the sight of them? I mean, I didn’t. What did that say about me? Maybe I’m the weirdo. Not an unlikely possibility.

I flipped open my laptop and pulled up our neighborhood Facebook site. There was the usual useless information: a birthday party at the Smith’s, the Tilly’s were tailgating for that weekend’s NFL game, and Marcy Simpson had a baby girl a few days ago. I typed as fast as my stocky fingers would let me.

It’s come to my attention that many people around here are spreading fear about the homeless man who’s been living in the woods by Edison Drive. I’m here to tell you it’s unfounded. I met him and his dog, (Paul and Joe are their names) and they don’t mean anyone harm. And he’s not begging, or doing drugs or drinking. He’s a veteran who’s just had some tough breaks.

I didn’t know that last part about tough breaks specifically, but I knew it like I knew Marcy Simpson wanted a boy so bad she’d keep getting pregnant (the new baby girl was her seventh kid. Give it up, already). I babysat for her all the time, so there’s job security, I guess.

Paul did say, “They wouldn’t have the dog.” Probably a shelter turned him away because of Joe. So that would count as one tough break. I typed on.

I’m going to talk to him some more, but I think he would like a home with his dog. I’m starting a Go-fund me to help make that happen. I hope you’ll contribute when I get it up and running.

There. I did it, it was posted, and now I’d have to feel him out. I got nervous at the thought. He might tell me to go to hell for all I knew. Who was I to decide what kind of life someone should live, when I didn’t know my own ass from a hole in the ground? I was so far out of my league here it wasn’t funny. I peeled off my shirt, dampened anew from my lovely anxiety, and patted my pits with powder before putting on pajamas.

I sat on my bed cross-legged, chewing the end of a pen cap. Maybe Joe was the key. Paul likely was used to being a nomad, but it had to be rough on his old dog, judging from that limp. But how would I approach that one? “Hey dude, you’re taking shitty care of your pup. Here’s the solution.”

Oh God, no.

My belly rumbled. Mom always says you can’t concentrate on an empty stomach, and I won’t argue on that one. I put my laptop to the side and went downstairs to get some chicken casserole.

If she hadn’t given it all away to crabby codger Mel.

*****

“I brought you Dingo’s bed,” I said to Paul the next day. “It’s almost brand new.” I didn’t add expensive. It was one of those orthopedic beds Mom thought he might like, and Dingo wouldn’t go near it. I was glad to note Paul did have a tent, since if the bed got wet from the rain it’d be ruined.

“That’s nice,” he said quietly. “What if you get another dog?”

“We aren’t, not for a long time. It was…so hard, to…say goodbye. We have an extra one though, if we do.”

The lie came so easily I wondered again if something was wrong with me. Dingo used to chew through dog beds like they were helpless rag dolls. It didn’t matter. We’d buy another bed if it came to that.

Joe sniffed the bed and curled up in it contentedly.

“Look at that, he likes it!” Paul laughed.

I was surprised to see Paul had all his teeth. They weren’t dirty, either. In fact, his face transformed with the smile.

“He does.” I cleared my throat, prayed the nervous sweat gathering under my arms wouldn’t soak through. “Um, I was wondering. If you could get a place with Joe, like an apartment or something, would you take it?”

His neck snapped around, suspicion lacing around his tense body. “Why? Did someone call the cops and you think I gotta leave?”

“No. Not that I know of. I’m asking about what you want, that’s all.”

He relaxed and knelt down next to Joe, petting him. “I like it outside. I like the freedom. It’s getting harder on him, though. The rain, and when it’s cold…the vet said it isn’t good for his joints.”

Yaaas. I was right.

“What if I helped you find somewhere you could be with him?”

His lips thinned. “I already looked. Nobody wants us. ‘Sides, you’re jest a girl. What do you know ‘bout any of that?”

I felt the air leak out of my rising balloon. “I, I don’t. I could try, though, if I had your permission.”

He laughed. “Been a long time since anyone asked me for my permission. You knock yourself out, girl.” He made eye contact with me for the first time. “I don’t git it, why you’d bother. You jest tryin’ to get rid of us here?”

“No. I swear on my grandma’s grave, that’s not it.”

Shit, now what? Jesus, help me get the words right.

“I guess I feel like you deserve better. I mean, you served our country. And Joe deserves better, in his old age.”

His green eyes got shiny, while for once mine remained dry.

“True ‘nough about him. But the world don’t owe me nothin.’ Not another washed-up head case taking up space.”

I rose from the ground. I wanted to tell him he was more than that, but I knew too well it’d fall on deaf ears.

“I can’t promise a thing. ‘Cuz like you said, what do I know? I’ll promise to do my best, though.”

He looked off into the setting sun, the light cutting through the trees. He had a nice profile under the wild beard and hair.

“That’s more than I’ve done, kid, so it’s good enough for me.”

*****

I created the fundraiser and waited. A week later, nothing. I was too embarrassed to go back to Edison Drive with zero contributions and no plan. What a fool I was for giving Paul hope. I kicked at the beaten-up bedpost, pulled up my bank account on my phone. Seven hundred in savings. Mom would have a cow if I gave every bit away, so I forked over a hundred and waited a few more days.

Nada.

I researched housing that allowed pets, my balloon leaking more air with every click. How did anyone afford city living, let alone a jobless, homeless guy? I’d not asked him if he got any assistance with rent or bills, before blowing smoke about doing my best. How dumb was that?

I knew I should ask Mom for help. She refused to join Facebook, so she didn’t know about any of my do-gooding attempts. The thought of the resulting lecture was enough to stop me. And my bruised independent streak. I wanted to prove kids could do things, too. Great things. Instead, the main thing I was proving was my idiot-ness.

For the first time in forever, I prayed before bed.

Lord, help me. We’re supposed to be our brother’s keeper, so we’ve been told, and I’m trying and making a mess of it with Paul. Tell me what to do. He’s one of your children, too. Have you abandoned him, the way I abandoned You? I’m sorry. Please—please help me make this right. Amen.

I turned out the light. My faith drained out of me the minute I thought I might like girls, the sin too great to combine the two, but praying was worth a shot.

Maybe the salvation Paul, Joe, and I all needed.

*****

“Are the peanut butter cookies gone, Mom?”

It was after school and I was hungry as ever.

“Yes, but I made banana muffins. On the counter.”

I dug into one and sat at the table, as did she.

“I suppose these are going next door, too,” I said, not very nicely.

“Actually, I wanted to tell you news about Mel.” She sipped from her ever-present cup of coffee. “He had a bad fall and broke his hip.”

“Oh. Really? Is he okay?”

“I think he will be. His granddaughter Rosie, you remember her, stopped over and told me. He’s in the hospital and then goin’ to a rehab facility for a few months it seems. As you know—” she gave me one of her eagle-eye looks—"he’s a tough old bird. So, he’ll probably heal fine.”

“That’s good.” I ate more muffin, bored with the subject already.

“Here’s somethin’ interesting. Rosie dropped this off.”

Mom set an envelope on the table. “She said Mel was quite insistent that it be given to you immediately.”

Now we were both rabidly curious, staring at the manila rectangle with Lou Anderson written in capital letters across the middle.

“Huh,” I grunted, opening it, and read out loud, since Mom was practically salivating over my shoulder.

“Dear Lou,

Looks like I’ll be laid up for a while, or I’d meet up with you in person on the porch. I’m not good with words so Rosie is helping me write this. It may or may not surprise you to learn that an old dog like me follows Facebook, but I do. I’m a “lurker” as they say, reading and observing others, mostly. I recently saw your post about fundraising for the homeless man nearby, and I’ve made a check out to you to aid in your efforts. I’ve also enclosed a business card of a colleague of mine, Nancy Griffiths. She works at the VA as an advocate for veterans, and can guide you every step of the way. Please make an appointment to see her, and don’t be afraid to tell her I sent you. She’s a good friend! Good luck in your endeavor. My faith in youth is restored, thanks to young folk like you and my Rosie.

Best, Lou

I looked at the check, hardly able to compute the sum there. Five thousand dollars.

Mom started in. “What on earth is he referrin’ to? What fundraisin’?”

I explained everything. She didn’t interrupt. Was quiet, even.

“What do you think? I guess it’s a little nutty, isn’t it?”

“I think I have a daughter with a big heart,” she said, her voice catching. “I am concerned it’s a lot to take on. Let me help you, if you get overwhelmed. And you have to promise to contact this woman.”

“I will, believe me.” I got up and hugged her. “Thanks. For not thinkin’ this is stupid.”

She laughed. “That’s one thing I’ll never think about you, my dear.” She pointed to the check. “May I ask the amount?”

I told her and she smiled a smile that knew something.

“That’s a lot of money, Mom. Why? What possessed him?”

She fiddled with her coffee napkin. “You don’t remember this, but he and Joy basically raised Rosie. Their daughter Amy was an army vet, too. She came back from Iraq with major PTSD. So awful to see this bright young woman decline—” Her eyes studied the napkin, lost in memory. “Anyway. Amy became very ill. In and out of the house, the streets, then got pregnant and had Rosie.”

“What happened to her? Amy?”

A brief, sad hesitation in which I guessed the answer. “Suicide.”

Mom nodded. “It nearly killed them both.”

“Wow.” I tucked the check and letter into a folder I’d labeled “PAUL,” then gathered my things and stood. “Wow. I need to think.”

I went upstairs slowly, still unable to process the turn of events. I stopped at the picture on the wall that’s been there as long as I can remember, of Jesus welcoming, gathering the children around his feet, and I knew this much.

Mel wasn’t the only one whose faith had been restored. Not just in the Man Above, but in houses whose hidden stories couldn’t be told on a one-or-two-line yard sign.

In that exact moment another revelation erupted over me with blissful certainty, dissolving the shock of the last hour. This is it. The college dilemma zapped into oblivion. I was meant to work with people suffering from psychological issues. One way or another, it was my calling, the path obvious as the one leading to Joe’s campsite.

I gripped the folder tightly, remembering the last conversation with Mel.

“Okay, neighbor,” I said to Jesus. “Guess it’s time to see about servin’ the common man, just tryin’ to get by.”

Tryin’ to find a foot in this world.