STONE ECHOES


On the surface, it seemed to be a simple trading of time for meals and housing. Bob allowed himself to be transported to some site around town where work needed to be done and in exchange, he got a flop and two hot meals and sometimes a cash tip that gave him walking around money. It was not a bad deal for a guy that would otherwise be homeless and alone.

The work was not that bad; picking up trash in parking lot or play ground, cutting weeds from around one of the local churches.

The food; well he’d had better and been thankful for a lot worse. The shelters menu contained loads of starch and beans, some damn good biscuits with gravy and from time to time a little mystery meat found its way onto his plate.

The large servings of hot food in the evening was always preceded by a drawn out “God bless this table and the men who eat from it” blessing but Bob didn’t care because while the newest guest preacher droned on Bob went to the tiny remaining calm sane place in his mind and got himself ready to eat. The nights were the worst of the whole deal, always too hot or cold and almost every night somebody would have a yell out loud nightmare about biting snakes, men with knives or other things that would have been dismissed as nonsense if seen in the cold light of day. The night yelling was bad because Bob found going back to sleep on the shelter’s hard fold up army cot next to impossible. Still Bob stayed on because the shelter filled his most basic needs also he was never alone yet no one knew anything about him.

By keeping each day that passed almost identical to the last Bob was able to avoid thinking about his past travels and how much life he was trading away for this meager handout of food, shelter, and anonymity. With only a few exceptions, every day just sort of ran together with the ones before. One day might separate itself from all the others because it was very cold, heavy jacket and gloves cold while another got recalled by being strip bare to the waist hot. Bitter cold, need ice water hot or I can hardly catch my breath humid were the last things that now reached Bob here on his carefully crafted emotionally numbed starch and hard cot island.


He was approaching a year as a regular at the homeless shelter, when a call came asking about a crew to help in resetting dozens of grave stones some vandals had knocked over in a church cemetery. This type of job had not come up before and all the people on the work crew were excited about getting to do something totally different and meaningful for a change.


When the church’s elders had reported the damage to the police and ask the city fathers for assistants in making repairs at the historic old cemetery they got a long rambling written reply. The letter inferred that the old churches parishioners were somehow at fault for failing to have proper security over their grounds so getting the stones tipped was not a problem of the city’s making. The letter went on to say the city budget was totally out of control and that the budget shortfall was largely because of the tax exempt status churches enjoyed.

The letter went on to say that, using city workers to right the knocked down grave stone would be a mixing of church and government business. The letter failed to mention the fear every politician harbors of being caught using precious city resources to help a church. Any elected official worth bribing knew helping any religious group could attract swarms of state and federal lawyers. Being caught hip deep in hostile lawyers was not a good thing in an election year.

After receiving the city’s final word on the matter, the church elders sought estimates from a few local companies, and then the pastor placed a call for help to the homeless shelter. It was agreed that if the shelter crew could help in the restoration their treasury would get half the amount most local contractors wanted to do the job. The shelter director was pleased to have a chance to improve shelter finances and at the same time repay the kindness the little church’s parishioners had shown with their yearly cash gift to the homeless center.

The responding shelter crew must have looked an unlikely answerer to the prayers of the old churches pastor and parishioners. All the men were poorly dressed, unshaven and either looked only at their feet or cast rapid anxious glances all about as if expecting to be set upon by evil doers at any moment. With the exception of Bob, every member of the crew had the characteristic red veined nose and sore eyed fallow complexions common to chronic alcohol and drug abusers. While several members of the life-worn crew appeared to be nearing, the limit of what flesh and blood could be expected to endure Bob was certain they were up to the task because he had worked with each of them before.


The middle-aged fit looking pastor introduced himself as Harry; he explained this latest bout of vandalism was only part of his ongoing battle to preserve the aging church and cemetery. He went on to explain acid rain was causing a slow but steady decay of the lime stone of the old church and its grave markers.


As the pastor spoke, he did a poor job of concealing his doubts about the raggedy crew’s ability to be of any real help. Finally after falling silent for a few moments, the pastor made an odd unexplained jester with his hands by forming a bowl with his palms and fingers and then making a pouring motion at the feet of the crew. Bob later learned this pouring motion was something the Pastor’s had learned in his childhood, it had been his family’s way of saying thank you in a measure beyond what could be put into words.


Bob was not shy about sharing his ideas on how the crew could work together by first raising all the stones and then divide into teams of two. Each team of two could take a newly righted stone and put on finishing touches of stabilizing and leveling. He tried to sell the idea to the crew by telling everyone to keep a list of the names from the stones they had put back on the straight and level; this of course got a big laugh from all the members of the crew that attended AA or NA meetings.

The very first marker the crew tried to lift taught them a lot about moving headstones, the things were heavy as sin and very fragile. They broke a small corner off Ester May Boyd beloved wife of Thomas R. Boyd without even coming close to putting her back upright.

The dear one’s stone might have already been cracked by being knocked over but the final insult came when they tried to crowbar her back onto the vertical. After discovering how fragile these things were Bob called on the crew for ideas and someone came up with using wide flat boards salvaged from a shipping pallet to spread the weight.

They were using the carefully inserter boards and getting Ester May almost vertical when several older ladies appeared from the church’s side door carrying metal trays pilled high with cupcakes and banana nut bread. Close behind came two more gals with pots of hot coffee and plastic cups. As they served refreshments, the ladies repeatedly thanked the crew for coming to heal the injury to their beloved cemetery then apologized almost as frequently because the cake and coffee was all they could contribute to the tipped stones rescue effort.

After refueling with sweets, hot coffee and basking in the warm thanks, the crew resumed work for the remainder of the day. By days end only five of the stones sat upright and of these five, only one, Ester May with the wounded corner was leveled to everyone’s satisfaction.

Bob was pretty sure Ester May’s husband Thomas would be pleased with the quality of their work but to voice his approval or else lodge a complaint about the broken corner the old boy would need to be approaching two hundred years of age.

After working all day lifting tombstones Bob and the crew climbed back aboard the dilapidated shelter bus ready for some droned over beans and their army cots. Bob’s hope was that the little “heathens” that knocked the damn stones over enjoyed themselves because the crew was going to be many days undoing their nights work. While the beans and cornbread were getting prayed about this evening Bob’s plan was to break from his usual routine of numbing out and instead have his own private talk with the man upstairs about sending every one of the no good little stone flippers straight to the fires of hell for their hateful acts.

Early on day two of the stone righting job Bob left the crew happily working away on a large stone from the 1930s while he walked about the graveyard grounds counting tipped over markers. The little vandals had knocked over twenty six stones counting the five put back upright yesterday; some nights work!

Bob gradually worked his way down hill and as he neared the high loose stacked stone wall that defined the rear of the church grounds, he smelled a hint of “Blue Nuns” tobacco smoke. He was immediately overcome by a blinding upwelling of emotions so intense he went first to his knees and then fell face forward to the ground.

Then still blinded by waves of guilt, shame, and grief he lay facedown unable to rise or even roll over. After what seemed forever, he was able to force the feelings down and turn over onto his back. As his vision cleared, he saw Harry the church pastor, briar pipe in hand standing over him.

The pastor gave him a concerned quizzical look before putting out a hand to help Bob sit up. “Are you OK? That was some tumble you took, must have got you feet tangled.”

Pointing to the large briar pipe in his right hand the Pastor said, “This is the only real vice I still cling to. An old friend of mine in Spain sends me tobacco once or twice a year. I slip down here like a thief and smoke once a day. I’ve tried quite a few times to give it up but as you see without success. I guess God will step in when he is ready for me to put the pipe down. Its Bob isn’t it, yes that’s right I remember now. You know Bob you seem a little different from your brothers on the shelter crew, younger and different. Bob I want you to know I have a well earned reputation about being nosey I am also very good at keeping secrets. If you don’t mind my asking how long have you been at the shelter?”

Bob welcomed the change of subject as he was ashamed at having been felled by emotions he was unable to control and he could also see the pastor too was embarrassed as well having been caught committing even so minor a sin as pipe smoking. He was unsure just how to answer the Pastors question; it had been so long since anyone had shown a genuine interest in him but still he had his secrets to protect. He did not mind answering and in fact; it was very nice having a conversation that you knew would not end with the other party asking you to split the cost of a bottle of cheap wine. “No I don’t mind, I think about a year or so. Yes, that’s right a year. I ended calling here after being on the road a while.”

Bob had said a lot more than he had intended. Funny this pastor was so easy to talk with, just like an old and trusted friend

“Is it good being at the shelter, does it fill your current needs? Are you happy being there?” Sorry I know I sometimes move to fast. I guess I am trying to rush Gods Work.”

“Oh that’s OK Bob said I know you must be pretty busy and I don’t want to take up your time. I’m just fine staying at the shelter the people that run the place are real nice and don’t ask a lot of questions.”

Bob wished he could call back his last words. He did not want to hurt this good man’s feelings and immediately started apologizing for his thoughtless remark about questions.

Seemingly unfazed the Pastor ask “Why did you say I ended up calling here instead of I ended up coming here when I ask about how long you had been at the shelter?”

“I didn’t say calling? Did I say calling? Why would I say calling? Are you sure I said calling?”


Without answering, Harry began poking at the remaining tobacco in his pipe bowl with a large kitchen match and then turned the match end for end and struck it on the nearest grave marker. This entire tamping and lighting ritual had been preformed without his ever taking his eyes off Bob. After taking a couple short drags on the pipes mouthpiece, he sent a small fragrant puff of blue smoke in Bob’s general direction then asks, “What do you think it means when someone misspeaks like that”?

“Oh I think it’s just that misspeak that’s all nothing to it. I know that famous nerve doctor guy said doing that means something is inside trying to get out, trying to be heard. I don’t want to talk about this any more, anyway why would I say calling when I mean coming here, here to Little Rock”.

“I think that was the question I ask of you,” Harry said while looking into Bobs eyes with a soft sympathetic smile on his face.

“I’ve got to get back up the hill Lord only knows what the crew will be doing” a now sweating and agitated Bob said.

Along came another puff of fragrant Blue Nuns tobacco smoke that Bob walked through as he made his way back up the slope to where the whole crew had succeed in putting two more markers upright.

Bob carefully avoided any further contact with the Pastor for the remainder of day two.

That evening Bob had more than his usual trouble sleeping because he kept repeatedly running the days events around in his mind. It had been two years since he had allowed himself to feel the full burden of his past and now the memories were back and based on the way he had passed out and fallen to the ground after smelling the pipe smoke they were stronger than ever.

Well now it has come down to this Bob thought. I can travel again and try to make a new start or talk to this stranger about my drinking, and a little about the other thing. I’m so tired of moving around Bob thought maybe I should just talk; maybe it would help if I just told him a little about all of it.

Bob awoke to face day three of stone setting with a splitting headache after having the worst night he could ever remember.

He washed down the offered breakfast of lukewarm gravy and biscuits with two cups of scalding black coffee and then made his reluctant way to the bus.


Bob directed the bus driver to detour along a couple of back alley ways in a warehouse district to pick up some additional discarded shipping pallets. A seemly good idea until a fist fight almost developed when a sleeping wino awoke to the crew taking apart what had been his shelter for the night. The bus driver quieted things down by giving the alley dweller a flyer that described the shelter along with the promise of a hot meal and safe place to bed down in exchange for his pallet and cardboard sleeping quarters. The driver’s quick thinking not only calmed the wino down but also got the crew several excellent pallet boards so they could now work on more than one stone at a time.


The chance encounter with the alley wino added additional gravity to Bob’s worries by forcing him to remember the many nights he had spent on the run from his previous life. He did not want to travel; he did not ever want to sleep on cardboard in an alley again. Bob spent the morning trying to decide if he could find the strength to run again or get some relief from his shame by talking to Pastor Harry.

He walked about in a half daze most of the day until a cursing scream erupted from one of the crew. The man’s hand had been cut to the bone when one of the boards supporting a stone had broken. Bob was sure stitches would be needed to close the wound and suggested that the Pastor drive him and the injured workman to a nearby minor medical clinic.

The Pastor and Bob waited outside while the injured crewman alternately complained of the pain of his injury in hope of getting a pain shot and chatted up the young mothers to be in the waiting room of the clinic all the while keeping pressure on the temporary dressing of the cut hand.

Bob and Harry made small talk about the weather and the progress of the job repairing the cemetery. After a while, Bob’s speech became softly hesitant and words from his heart began to spill out “Several years ago I worked in Pittsburg, I was a single guy I think people would call me a “player” I had a good paying job and spent everything I made partying. Like a lot of young guy’s I lived for the weekends. I didn’t have a care in the world until the day I called in sick with a hangover. It was a Monday and I was supposed to go Washington for a meeting”. Bob stopped speaking, his eyes filled with tears then overflowing they ran down his cheeks.

“Sounds like you were doing what young people do Bob, having a good life, having fun, and working hard,” Harry said in an effort to comfort the now openly weeping younger man.


Bob took a shuddering breath and began anew, his voice trembling, “No, no you don’t understand I should have been ready to go to Washington, I should have stopped drinking, gone home, got some rest, and taken care of business. It was my responsibility to be on the plane.”

Bob hesitated as if waiting for Harry to coax more from him. Harry instead saying nothing pulled out the old briar pipe, he played with the pipe for a time, allowing Bob an interval of peace to gather himself and find the strength needed to finish reopening the painful wound that had driven him here to this city and the old cemetery filled with decaying stones.

“I was sick and Randy had to fill in for me at the Washington meeting. Randy was my friend, we got aquatinted in college and had some fun times together. After Randy and Mo, uh Monica married Randy and I still got together for drinks after work a few times but it was not like in the old days. Randy was the happiest married man I ever knew he would almost chug down his drink because he was in such a hurry to get home to his wife Monaca and the new baby.”

“Tell me about Washington Bob. What happened in Washington?”

Bob turned his face skyward as if wishing for a giant hand to come down and crush him for his sins “The meeting went just as planned. Randy could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. He got away from the meeting and to the airport in plenty of time, probably even had time to stand outside and fire up his pipe’s “Blue Nun” tobacco before boarding the flight back to Pittsburg”.

Bob took a deep breath held it for a moment then exhaled took another deep breath and in a voice filed with more anguish than anyone should have to endure said “Randy’s plane crashed and he was killed before he made it half way home to Mo and the baby. It’s my fault. I killed my friend because I was selfish and weak because I was too good at getting drunk and not good enough at being a friend I killed the baby’s father and Monaca’s husband. I killed my friend. I killed my friend and I am so sorry.”

Harry’s briar pipe relighting ritual again gave Bob a chance to gather himself then Harry ask, “Why did you not stay in Pittsburg and help out your friends wife Bob? What was so wrong that you had to run half way across the country?”

“She would not let me help Bob answered. After the plane went down, she would have nothing to do with me. She even stood and left the room when I showed up at the closed casket visitation services they held for Randy.”

They both sat without speaking for several minutes then Harry broke the silence.

“You know Bob you are very close to telling me the whole story and I know it is almost more than you can stand to think about but trust me when I tell you things will be better if you let me hear all of it. Tell me all of it Bob let it all out.”

“You already know the rest don’t you Harry/”

“Yes Bob I’m sure I do know but you have to say it. You know you must say it out loud don’t you”.

Harry walked near to Bob stepped behind him, placed his hands on the weeping mans shoulders and began to gently shake him to dislodge the last critical bone of black truth that was slowly killing him and destroying any hope he had for a normal life. Harry felt the tension leave Bob’s shoulders before he spoke.

“Monaca was all alone when they came to her door with news of the crash and she will never forgive me.

Harry she was in their bed with me when Randy called saying he would be home on time. I was making love with Monaca when the plane went down just outside Washington and she will never forgive me.”

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 25.11.2009

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