CHAPTER TEN: Monday, January 14, 2013, 12:22 p.m.
Joan came back to the homeless encampment with her arms full of canned goods and staples. She had hit pay dirt and had actually been able to score a small pre-cooked canned ham and some fresh fruits and vegetables. Usually this time of year, rations were slimmer, but the American people seemed to be more generous, more caring.
As she entered the tent, she saw John sitting up. His head was completely back. Her heart plummeted, causing her stomach to grip in pain. "John!" she screamed.
He slowly pulled his head forward to look at her. His expression showed his confusion at her reaction. "There's a noise up there in the top of the tent that sounds like a very large fly. Please tell me that I haven't completely lost my mind," he said.
"Oh, John! You scared me half to death!" she snorted.
He shot her another confused expression then smiled when he realized that she must have been thinking that he had died.
"Hey," she said, "I think your fever has broken." She pulled off her mittens and laid her hand across his forehead. She paused then put her hand on first the left side of his face and then the right.
He continued staring at her. His mind had been firing numerous memories and recollections all hitting like disjointed video clips. "I know who you are most vividly," he said softly.
Joan put down her groceries and sat beside him. "Yes, you seemed to remember me first," she responded.
"I now remember Jessie…was killed in a car wreck. It was you who took care of me when I was on the run, but I can't remember who I was running from," John said.
"Oh," Joan whispered.
"I can remember the four men and one woman…and vinegar…and breaking my three fingers with a hammer," John said holding his fingers forward and examining them.
"Yes, it appears that whatever you have recently been through, it was five of them…and they took no mercy," Joan answered.
"I don't know why or how I ended up there…except there was an old lady who lay in a bed that I was supposed to keep from getting killed. I don't even know if I accomplished that," John said, looking up to face Joan.
"I don't know," Joan answered.
"Will I ever get back to normal…whatever that was?" John asked, reaching up and rubbing the hair growth on his face.
"I do believe so, John. You're a survivor. You told me the other day that you had too much work to do to die now. So that's why I believe you fight and why you survive some of the worst treatment any man could ever endure. You got too much to do," Joan stated.
"Too much…to do…" John said, allowing his words to trail off.
"I tell you what," Joan announced.
John looked up.
"Since that awful fever has broken, I say let's go to the shelter and get some clean clothes and a warm shower for you. We might even be able to round up a razor to get that face of yours shaven and back to its beautiful self," she sniggered.
"Okay, that sounds great," John replied.
For the first time since he came to her in almost three days, John rose to his feet as he exited her tent. "Oh my God, my legs," he gasped, grabbing his legs with his one good hand and running it up and down to get the muscles to relax. He saw Joan looking at him and became self-conscious. He then stood up straight, trying to mask the pain.
"Why don't you take the arm of an old lady so she won't fall in the snow," Joan said, putting her arm around his back, aware not to touch the bruised places that were most likely still painful.
Together they walked slowly down the concrete steps and emerged into the street below.
John stopped suddenly. "A wagon…a Radio Flyer…but he didn't come this far," he said.
"Yeah, that would be Jimmy. He checked on me a little after you arrived, but you were snoozing hard," Joan said. "Oh yeah, he said to tell you that you own him."
John laughed. "Yeah, I do owe him. He pointed me in your direction."
They slowly walked toward Our Lady of Angels Parish where the homeless could come for a reprieve off the streets for hot food, a warm shower, clean clothes, and some spiritual uplifting. Joan could see John struggling against the deep snow they were navigating through. She held on to his back and intentionally kept her pace very slow. She saw him looking around the streets like he had never seen them before. Then she remembered that maybe they were new to him at that moment. "Are you remembering more things, John?" she asked.
"I know I've been here. I do know the streets. I know this parish," he answered. He then stopped and stared up at a flashing camera on a streetlamp.
"What is it?" Joan asked.
"Finch," John answered. He continued staring up at the camera. Its red light blinked. John remained fixed on it. His breathing got shallower.
"John, come on. Let's get you out of this snow and cold and to the church so you can feel like a new man," Joan said. She lightly nudged him by his shoulder, looking up at the red flashing light of the camera herself.
John began slowly walking forward, continuing to keep his eyes on the camera up above on the streetlight.
"Who is Finch?" Joan asked.
"I can see him in my head…can see him on a park bench and remember not trusting him. Then I see him at a computer with stacks of folders and books around. I just don't know exactly who he is and how he is connected to me," John responded.
"We'll get this figured out, okay?" Joan said, continuing to nudge him forward.
"The machine!" John said loudly.
"What machine?" Joan asked.
"That camera is connected to Finch. It's a machine, but I don't really understand it," John said.
"A camera in a streetlight is a machine connected to a man named Finch," Joan said shaking her head. "That makes sense."
"Are you making fun of me?" John asked, smiling broadly.
"Absolutely not!" Joan laughed as she continued walking slowly toward the church.
John started walking again, catching up to her side.
As they approached the side entrance of the church, John grabbed the door and opened it for Joan.
"Always the gentleman," she smiled.
Joan walked toward the large kitchen and showers where the homeless were welcome at any time to come in off the streets. She walked toward a cardboard box with a large handwritten sign across its front that indicated the items inside were for men. Joan reached in and grabbed a previously used plastic grocery bag filled with a hotel-sized bar of soap, razor, travel-size deodorant, tooth paste and tooth brush, a wash cloth, towel, and socks. She then looked John up and doen for a slit second to reassure his size and reached toward the other side of the box and grabbed a bag with handwritten marker across the front, undergarments size XL. "These will have to do for now," she said as she handed him the bags. "I'll go to the clothes closet for some clean clothes to get you out of that suit," she declared.
John smiled at her. He was ready to shed his war-weary suit.
"Then, we'll see if there's someone here who can wrap your fingers," she said turning to look into the dining room to see which church personnel or parishioners were on duty. "Don't worry, we'll find someone who can take care of 'em for you."
Joan had found a pair of Levis and a long-sleeve black thermal tee shirt that were the perfect size for him. She went and placed the clean, barely-used clothing outside the shower and returned to the dining room to wait for John to come back.
A little later he walked around the corner a new man. He was a beautiful man, she had always thought. She knew that he had endured a lot in his life, but he had always been a gentle soul with her—even though she knew he believed he was a bad person. She didn't understand that but also didn't pry into his personal business to try and figure it out.
He sat down across from her at the table and began glancing around the room. Then he saw the plastic tray Joan was pushing forward in front of him. His stomach clinched with the thought of eating the turkey potpie casserole, salad, chocolate cake, and iced tea.
"Go on, it's really good and fresh," she said.
He paused for a few minutes then picked up the fork and fished out a hunk of turkey from the crusty overcoat of the casserole.
"Good, eh?" she asked.
John wanted to gag but swallowed instead. He weakly smiled at her.
"It's okay. We have all the time in this world," she said.
John continued poking around the food and taking pieces clumsily onto the fork and placing them into his mouth. The taste was growing on him, and he soon picked up his pace a little.
As they continued to sit and eat, John saw the pastor come into the dining room and take off his white canvas apron and hang it on a hook on the wall. He began greeting each person one by one.
John studied the pastor. He touched the dirty and disheveled people, never hesitating once, no matter how raunchy the person looked. He called each one brother or sister and touched their hands and blessed them and prayed with them before moving on to the next person.
He then made his way to Joan and John. "Hello sister Joan," he serenely said. "Brought a brother with you today?" he asked.
"Father Patrick, this is my friend John. He's lost and is trying to find his way home again," Joan said.
"Father," John said, nodding at him.
"May I?" Father Patrick asked, pointing to John's three battered fingers.
John hesitated then held his hand forward to the pastor.
"I do have some medicine I can give you for these burns," he said, pointing to the rope burns around John's wrists. "But your fingers are in pretty rough shape and need to be set right or you'll have permanent damage," the pastor said.
John had recently considered that but wasn't sure what to do at that moment to fix them. "Yes, father," John responded.
"Wait right here…I'll be right back," Father Patrick said as he got up from the table and left the dining room.
"He must be getting something that can help you in the time being," Joan said.
"I know if I go to a hospital that I'd be taking the first step into a whole slew of problems," John said.
"Probably so," Joan agreed.
Father Patrick came back holding a tube of burn gel. He brought with him another man who was holding some splints and bandages. They both sat across the table from John beside Joan.
Without being prompted, John held out his hands. Father Patrick applied the burn gel along the rope burns on both of John's wrists. Then the man with Father Patrick took the splints and enclosed each of his fingers in a splint and wrapped them tightly with bandages. The pain was severe, but John never uttered a sound.
"That's about all I can do for you right now," the man said to John.
"I appreciate that," John answered.
"You really should go to the hospital and have a cast put on them so they will heal properly," he warned.
"Okay," John responded even though he felt pretty certain he wouldn't actually follow through.
As the man got up from the table, he said, "Father, I need to get back to the kitchen. Nice meeting you two." He bowed his head slightly at them as he turned to leave.
"Sister, are you braving this dreadful weather we're having?"
"Why yes, Father, I've been staying warm," Joan stated.
"How about you…John…right?" Father Patrick said, remembering John's name.
John had taken another bite of turkey from the potpie. He swallowed then said, "I haven't been too well lately, so I actually haven't been out in it until now."
Father Patrick was looking John over. "It looks like you've been having a rough time," he said.
Joan stayed quiet. She was hopeful that Father Patrick's questions might trigger some more memories for John.
"To tell you the truth, Father, I can hardly remember anything. I've gotten lost from my life, but Joan is helping me remember and eventually get back there.
Father Patrick looked over at Joan. She was taking the nuts off the top of her chocolate cake with her fingers then licking her fingers to get the chocolate off them.
"You can't remember what has happened to you?" he asked John.
"Just a few bits and pieces," John answered.
"They really did a number on him, father," Joan eagerly stated.
Father Patrick reached his hand up to place it on John's arm. "I hope the pain will lessen soon for you," he said.
John closed his eyes.
"I pray that God will help you find your way back home as soon as possible," the father said in a prayerful tone.
John opened his eyes and said, "Thank you Father."
Father Patrick then turned to Joan. "God sent you to help him find that road home, didn't He sister?"
"Yes, Father, I guess He did," Joan answered.
The father reached forward and took John's right hand. "The patron St. Christopher will look out for you on your travels," Father Patrick said as he put into John's hand a small silver St. Christopher token.
John opened his hand to expose the token that Father Patrick had slipped him. He looked down at the form of the man carrying the Christ child on his shoulder. His eyes revealed that he remembered the story of St. Christopher. "I appreciate this, father," John whispered.
Father Patrick placed his hand on top of John's head for several moments while uttering some inaudible words. Then he turned toward to the older gentleman sitting at the table behind them.
Before he started talking to the old man, Father Patrick turned back to Joan and said, "Sister, you will know the answers. You will know how to get him home. You will know."
Joan looked from the pastor to John. She wasn't sure what to say.
"We'll figure this out, Joan," John said as he clenched the St. Christopher in his hand then inserted it into his jeans pocket.
"Okay, John, we'll figure this out," she answered.