Chuck Dolan

Chuck Dolan was a grouchy old man who murmured and complained about everyone and everything.  All day long he was too hot or too cold, too hungry or too full; nothing seemed to satisfy the stubborn mind-set of the cantankerous old man. The neighbors considered his behavior odd and wanted nothing to do with him, but he also wanted nothing to do with his neighbors, so one day the miserable old recluse decided to pack only his essentials and disappear into the wilderness.

On the first day of his seclusion he was convinced he had done the right thing; the stillness of the night brought peace to his self-centered mind and ease to his unsatisfied flesh.  He was finally alone and felt comfortable with the only person he cared about: Himself.

Early the next morning, Mr. Dolan woke up refreshed and eager to begin his aimless journey where human communications would not be required. With a knapsack on his back and a canteen on his side he marched off shouting, “Look at me, sky, and watch me roam, for I am a man in need of no home!”  Every day the routine was same: Up at dawn, hunt for food, have a good meal and march off shouting, “Look at me sky and watch me roam, for I am a man in need of no home!”

One afternoon while he was strolling along reciting his catchy little poem, he heard a voice other than his own reciting it with him. He immediately stopped to see where the voice was coming from and who had been following him, but when he looked around he saw no one. “You’re being silly,” he said and continued on his merry way.

Later that evening as the sun was about to set,  he started whistling his little verse,  but the moment he began to speak the words, the phantom voice began to speak with him.

“It was just an echo,” he thought.

As the days rolled by, Mr. Dolan completely forgot about the mysterious incident until one evening as the sun was about to set. He had stopped to take a drink of water, but before he lifted the canteen to his mouth he looked to the sky and boldly shouted, “Look at me, sky, and watch me roam, for I am a man in need of no home!”  Once again the mysterious voice joined in; unlike the previous times, it blended perfectly with his own voice, creating an eerie yet pleasant stereophonic sound. However, the voice seemed to only present itself when it was in unison; the moment Mr. Dolan’s voice stopped, the phantom’s voice stopped as well.

“Where are you? Show yourself!” Mr. Dolan demanded to no avail.

Feeling a bit frustrated, he unstrapped his knapsack and threw it to the ground. “I refuse to move another step until you show yourself.”  But again, he heard nothing.  After a few moments of feeling ridiculous, he concluded his imagination had gotten the better of him, so he continued on his way.

The next evening he decided to sit still so he could better appreciate the spectacular sunset.  As he sat on the ground embracing the intense orange and red colors of the sun, a sense of melancholy swept over him, and thoughts of the past began to invade his mind. One thought in particular rose to the surface more frequent than any other, and that was the one of his dearly departed wife, Bunny. It had been years since he had allowed himself to think about her, years before he was able to master the skill of suppressing any emotion regarding their thirty-five years together.                                                                                           “Let the dead bury the dead,” he said, shaking his head, trying to erase the images that were beginning to take shape. Finally, in an effort to shift his mind back to the present, he began focusing on the sky and the spectacular way the tapering edge of the sun’s disk disappeared below the horizon.

“All good things must come to an end,” he thought.

Every day was a new challenge for the wandering old man, but not the expected trials one would associate with the wilderness; on the contrary, the wilderness was kind and provided all of his daily needs. The weather was also gracious; it seemed to always be in his favor. No, it wasn’t the challenges of nature he had to deal with; it was his inner self. “What is it about people that I dislike so much?” was a question he battled with. “What did people ever do for me?” was the question that always seemed to follow, until one evening, just as the sun was about to set, his mind drifted back to a day when the kindness of one man should have never been forgotten.

It was in the middle of June during one of the worst droughts Oregon had ever witnessed, when a stranger appeared at the Dolan house looking for water to cool down his car radiator. Mr. Dolan, who was busy caring for his ailing wife, had very little tolerance for the intrusion.

“Don’t you know there’s a water ban in this town?” he asked. “I have a very sick wife inside, and I barely have enough water for her.” Suddenly he could hear his wife cry out in pain and without hesitation rushed off, leaving the stranger in front of an open door.  The stranger, being of a kind nature, took the liberty of entering the house to see if he could be of any help.

“Hello,” he spoke softly as he followed the sound of agony to a dreary and antiseptic bedroom. “Is there anything I can do for you sir?”

Mr. Dolan did not answer, for he knew there was nothing he or anyone could do for his ailing wife.  “I’m here, my love; don’t worry, I won’t leave you again,” he tried to assure her.

The stranger felt awkward witnessing such an emotional moment. He felt like the intruder he undoubtedly was; but he also felt compelled to do something for the desperate couple. Putting aside his own dilemma he concentrated on being a help to the both of them; he especially wanted to do something for the husband who was falling apart right before his very eyes.

“There must be something I can do,” he thought as he walked over and knelt down beside the woman’s bed. “Dear Lord, give comfort to this loving couple.  Bless them with the gift of peace during their difficulties.”

Mr. Dolan was not disturbed by the stranger’s praying; on the contrary, his prayer felt like a natural course of action, appropriate for a Christian wife and her agnostic husband.
Before long, the room was in total darkness.  Mr. Dolan was forced to leave his wife long enough to turn the house lights on. As he left the room and walked into the kitchen he discovered the dirty dishes that were left in the sink had been washed and put away, the floor had been swept, and the table had been wiped clean. His first reaction to the kindness of the stranger was skeptical; he found it hard to believe that someone would do such a noble thing without a motive behind it.  He assumed the stranger was probably homeless and simply needed a place to stay. He totally rejected the possibility of sincerity and went in search of the man who, in his opinion, had the audacity to clean his kitchen without his permission.  He looked outside but there was no trace of the man or his car anywhere; in a panic he went from room to room checking to see what had been stolen.  Much to his surprise nothing was missing, his wallet and everything worth taking were still there. “What a weird guy,” he thought as he walked back into the kitchen and noticed the sheet of paper that was on his kitchen counter top. Written on the paper, apparently written by the stranger, were only these short sentences:

 “Dear Sir, I helped myself to some water, just enough to get my car started.  Thank you.  May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your heart and mind.”

About a week later Mr. Dolan’s wife passed away and his entire world caved in around him.

The Quarry

“Bunny would have loved this view,” he said aloud, absorbing the multitude of colors that were so brilliant in the split sky of the evening.  The scene was such a comfort he decided to sleep on the ground beneath it; however, all through the night recurring images of the stranger invaded his mind and interrupted his sleep. He reprimanded himself for his lack of empathy and for the way he had prejudged the man without a name. It bothered him so deeply not knowing the name of the stranger that he began to play a name game with himself. “John? No he looked more like a Matthew.”

The next morning he woke up to a dank and dismal day; his bedroll was damper than usual and his change of clothes were too wet for him to put on.   Due to a lack of sleep his body was so exhausted he could barely move, so he wrapped his arms around his body longing for the warmth of the sun to help rejuvenate it.  As he laid there beneath the cloudy sky he began feeling very small and insignificant; he felt as if the world had somehow gotten bigger and he would be lost and alone in the vastness of it forever.  Finally, as the clouds gave way for the sun, his spirit was lifted and he was back to his old self again.

“Look at me, sky, and watch me roam, for I am a man in need of no home!”  He shouted from the top of his lungs.  “Look at me, sky, and watch me roam, for I am a man in need of no home!”  He shouted again hoping his persistence would invoke the phantom’s voice. But he heard nothing.

Feeling somewhat disappointed he continued on his way, however this time he moved at a much slower pace; his peppy, confident movement was suddenly reduced to a sluggish, timid wander. He stopped several times along the way to feed himself, but his daily ration of fish and berries was tasteless.

Later that evening, as the sun was about to set, he made his camp inside of an old abandoned quarry, a place where his imagination could conjure up all kinds of amusement for himself. As he danced on top of gravel to the tune of his imaginary music, he stopped and bowed like a gentleman in front of a large pile of rocks.

“How do you do Ma’am? May I have this dance?” he asked one of the giant boulders. He waltzed around the quarry with his arms in the air embracing his invented figure, pretending to be Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers. After a while he became bored with his childish antics, so he found a suitable resting place and was soon fast asleep among his friends of stone.

The next day his body felt rigid from lying on the rocks that supported his bedroll during the night.  He flexed and stretched his aching body, and he scolded himself for wandering off course.

“Why did I go into that quarry? What was I thinking? Anything that man gets involved with is bound to be a disaster.  I should have known better.  Look at me, sky, and watch me roam, for I am a man in need of no home!” he shouted, shaking his fist in the air. Suddenly, as he stood shouting up at the sky, he could hear his voice being echoed, but the sound came back in a much softer tone.

“You’re not fooling me. I know you’re around here somewhere,” he said like a child playing a game of Hide and Seek. This time he did not stress over the non-responsive phantom; in fact he concluded it was his imagination. After all, he had spent an evening talking and dancing with a giant boulder.

The invigorating coolness of the air and the companionship of an imaginary friend gave vitality back to the wandering Mr. Dolan. His direction, although not calculated, seemed to be certain and the knapsack on his back seemed to be lighter.  He stepped with vigor as he rambled on talking to his new found companion.

“So, tell me Mr. Phantom, where shall we make our bed tonight? Whether it’s high on the mountain or deep in the valley, I can sleep anywhere as long as I see sky above me.”

As the day became later and the sun was about to set, Mr. Dolan prepared his bed on a cliff petering out at the end of a ridge. The air was crisp and dry with a soothing breeze that spoke softly inviting him to rest. With his head tilted back and his face to the sky, he took a deep breath of fresh air and held it for a moment. As he exhaled and took in another deep breath, a familiar smell of brine alerted his senses and reminded him of his wife standing in the kitchen preparing her scrumptious pickles. When he closed his eyes he could almost taste her secret recipe of dill and restricted spices.  The more he thought about it the more vivid the memory became, and soon he was remembering the day when his neighbors turned their backs on him.

It was on a day during the drought, when his wife’s life was hanging in the balance. He was standing at the kitchen sink, looking out of the window when he noticed his next door neighbor was using his garden hose to fill a bucket with water. This was not the first time he saw someone from the house next door trespassing to siphon water; both times he chose to ignore it but he swore the next time he would confront the trespasser.

A few days later his wife’s condition took a turn for the worst; her temperature escalated to a deathly level of 106 degrees; she was completely dehydrated and starting to convulse. He spoke with his wife’s physician and immediately did as he was instructed. He rushed into bathroom, put a stopper in the bathtub and turned on the cold water. Without waiting for the water to flow he rushed back into the bedroom to undress his wife.  The disturbing sight of her skeletal frame was no longer a surprise to him, as cancer had claimed it with vengeance and chemotherapy rejected any notion of healing.  Fighting back tears he tried to assure his wife that everything was under control.

“Don’t worry my love; you’re going to be fine.  I spoke with Dr. Michaels and he’s sending us an ambulance, it should be here soon; but in the meantime he wants me to give you a nice cold bath.” Mr. Dolan ever so gently scooped his hands under his wife’s frail body and pulled her up into his arms.

“Don’t be nervous My Love, just wrap your arms around my neck and hold on.  We’re going to bring that nasty old temperature down.”

“I need a drink of water,” his wife whispered.

“Okay sweetheart, but first let me get you into the tub.”  Mr. Dolan understood perfectly how important it was to get his wife into a cold bath, her body felt like a blazing inferno and her skin had developed small, purplish red spots. As he approached the tub, he noticed it was practically empty, there wasn’t much more than a puddle of water in it. “Perhaps I didn’t turn it on all the way.” He thought as he carefully sat his wife down to tamper with the faucet.

“Water,” his wife pathetically pleaded in a barely audible voice.

Mr. Dolan ran into the kitchen to try the faucet, but there was no water there either.  His well was dry.

Without hesitation he ran next door to his neighbor’s house and started banging on the door. “Please open the door, this is an emergency! Help! Help!” he pleaded.  But no one answered, so he frantically ran from house to house begging for someone to help him, but there was no help to be found. Suddenly he heard the ambulance coming and when he turned around he saw it was heading towards his house; running alongside he got the attention of the driver and pointed. “My house is over there!”

Within minutes the paramedics were administering CPR to his wife as she laid motionless on the bathroom floor.  Mr. Dolan disappeared into the background paralyzed with fear; with so much commotion everything around him seemed surreal. The chilling sounds coming from the mechanized devices were almost unbearable; and then came the defibrillator, the agonizing counting sequence: “1- 2-3 4, 1-2-3-4… 1-2-3-4.. Again!  1-2-3 4, 1-2-3-4 …1-2-3-4,” and then, in the blink of an eye, there was silence.  “Time of death 3:17 pm.” he heard someone say.

The air suddenly turned cold, too cold for Mr. Dolan to spend the night on the cliff, so he moved his camp further inward away from the windy ridge.

“Don’t worry Mr. Phantom, once I get this fire going we’ll be warm as toast,” he boasted while illustrating his Boy Scout technique of starting a fire.  Suddenly, after only a few attempts he was warming himself before a heap of dancing flames. Although the fire added solace to his surroundings, the stillness he once enjoyed was no longer a comfort to him. His body had become restless and his mind was longing to dream. Finally, when he was able to relax for a moment, he began to visualize familiar faces from his past.  He couldn’t help but wonder if certain people were still alive and if so, what had become of them; such intimate thoughts caused him to smile about the things he used to enjoy. He cried about the idea of never enjoying them again.  He was homesick.

The next morning Mr. Dolan woke up with a different perspective.  Somehow, perhaps during the night, he managed to shed off his old attitude and put on a new one.

“It’s time for us to go home, Mr. Phantom” he happily admitted. “The first thing we should do is bring some wildflowers to Bunny and tell her all about our little escapade.”

Forgetting about breakfast, he quickly packed his gear and checked to made sure the camp fire had been extinguished.  When he bent down to pick up his knapsack he found it to be much lighter than it had been. “That’s odd,” he thought, looking around to make sure he had packed everything.

Suddenly the sun was out and shining brighter than it had ever shined before; the air smelled sweet and for the first time since he began his journey he could actually hear the birds singing.

With a new spring in his step and a new strut in his stride, he marched off singing, “Look at me, sky, and watch me roam; my name is Chuck Dolan and I’m going home.” As he repeated the slight revision of his verse, he heard the Phantom repeat his name, but only his first name. “Chuck.”

“That’s right Mr. Phantom, my name is Chuck, short for Charles. Charles Michael Dolan!  That’s me and I’m going home.”

After making his proclamation he felt like a different person. He no longer felt like the old, dull, unsociable Mr. Dolan; he felt more spirited, like a newly found person named Chuck who was anxious to get on with his life.  The idea of him going home and not only seeing his neighbors again, but actually conversing with them, gave him pleasure, and for the first time in years he felt liberated from the ghost of his past, and held no animosity against anyone.

Chuck Returns Home

The sky above the cemetery looked gray and dismal as if frozen in time by an evil villain who had decided to hold the sun captive. An ashy blanket of earth supplied a grim foundation for the tombstones that varied in both size and description.

Chuck entered the depressing scene of disrepair clenching the spray of wildflowers that only moments ago had brightened his day and added color to his reverse of direction. As he walked cautiously through the rows of unkempt graves looking for his beloved Bunny, he felt an uncomfortable sense of shame for not knowing exactly where she lay. As he stood amongst the cluster of bereavement, he vowed his wife would one day have the tallest headstone in the graveyard.

Finally, after stumbling upon her grave merely by accident, he was able to cast aside his bleak surroundings and bond with the kindred spirit of his dearly departed wife. The air around him suddenly became so cold it turned his breath into a stream of cloudy, white vapor, while the earth beneath him became considerably warm and inviting, as if it were beckoning him to rest and appreciate his long overdue visit. Like a magnet being drawn to metal he fell to his knees and began digging his fingers into the ground. “Bunny, Bunny,” he sobbed into his dirty hands.  “I should be the one buried here, not you. I’m a horrible person and the world would be better off without me.” After a moment of self-pity he removed his hands from his face and used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away his tears. “I went on a little nature tour a couple of weeks ago; I just needed to clear my head.” He paused. “No. that’s not true… I was falling apart. I needed to isolate myself from people. Bunny,” he started to cry. “I thought I wanted to be alone…but the truth is, I don’t, and it took a mysterious voice to make me realize it.” All of a sudden he realized he hadn’t spoken to the Phantom since he entered the cemetery. Apparently his need for an intimate conversation had been redirected to another specter, who at that particular moment was his wife. Or so he thought.

He felt strange but in a good way. His body suddenly felt athletic and more invigorated, and his eyesight seemed to be that of his younger days.  A small ray of sun, hidden behind a mass of gray clouds, finally decided to reveal itself and add momentum to a new and improved situation. As he lay back, appreciating the feel of a new temperament, memories of an early childhood friend became very significant.

Chuck grew up the only child of a single mother who, due to an overly protective nature, decided to teach him at home and limit his activities to only those she could monitor and control.  Birthday parties, sporting events, and even Christmas celebrations were deemed off-limits because of her obsession to keep her son safe. Most of the parents in the neighborhood considered her behavior way beyond the realm of normalcy, and eventually they severed not only themselves but also their children from the woman they dubbed “the crazy lady.”

Chuck’s childhood, as strange as it may seem, was not completely weird or uneventful. On the contrary, it was exciting, at least for a little boy without a point of reference. He and his mother did everything together; they went to museums, movies, and flower shows, and occasionally dined at five-star restaurants. “You’re my little man,” his mother would smile as he pulled the chair away from the table for her to be seated. “You’re my best girl,” he would reply, pushing her and the chair properly back into place. Every day was a joyful adventure for him and his eccentric mother. The bond between the two of them created a solitary environment, conducive to a suspicious mother and satisfying to a naïve son.

When Chuck was around six years old, and confined to his bed because of measles, he began questioning the activities of the neighborhood kids; every day during his confinement, he watched as they traveled to and from school laughing, teasing one another, and enjoying every moment of it. He could not understand why they seemed so healthy when his mother had said “They are all filthy little germ carriers and if you want to stay healthy… Stay away from them!”

“But why I’m I the one sick, and not them?” he asked aloud.

“Because you’re mother lied to you,” he thought. However, as soon as the thought entered his head it reverberated back and became verbal to him; it echoed back with a warm feeling of communication, a coping mechanism to make him feel less lonely, especially as he sat alone staring  out of the window watching the other children play.

One Saturday afternoon, when a heavy downpour forced everyone to stay indoors, Chuck began talking to himself about running through the rain, and how much fun it would be splashing in the puddles. “I bet I could make a big splash in that one,” he said, referring to the pool of muddy water that sat beneath his bedroom window. “That water’s too dirty. Your mother would never stand for it,” he thought, but again his thought reverberated back to him, this time in another sounding voice, a more confident mature voice with an independent character which was quite removed from his own. For a lonely boy with a vivid imagination, the voice in his head gave birth to a compatible playmate who he appropriately named “Mr. Measles,” and like any child with an imaginary playmate, they were inseparable and quite secretive.

The reminiscing of a long forgotten friend put a smile on Chuck’s face; he found a delightful sense of humor in his juvenile innocence. “What was that catchy little tune we used to sing?” he strains to recall. “Oh yeah, I remember!…Look at the bird and watch it roam; a creature of God, the sky is its home.”

Suddenly the similarities between his wilderness verse and the one of his childhood came to him in an epiphany; the mysterious Phantom voice was a grown up version of Mr. Measles, a comforting companion he had used as a survival mechanism to cover loneliness, a soothing illusion of his mind, nothing more, nothing less.

“Bunny, you always said I acted like a big kid. Well, guess what? You were right.” Chuck started laughing so loud he caught the attention of a man who was standing at a distance.  In an effort to assure the man he was not insane, he smiled and tipped his cap. “Good day sir,” he spoke, realizing he probably couldn’t be heard, but he hoped the gesture would be sufficient enough. The man nodded his head cordially but just stood there with a stretched neck and squinting eyes. “Mr. Dolan, is that you?” he asked.

Mr. Dolan, a little curious by the recognition, walked over to where the man was standing. “Yes it’s me, Chuck. Chuck Dolan.” He smiled at the sight of his next-door neighbor.

“My goodness man, where have you been?  Me and the Mrs. we’re very concerned about you.”

Chuck was very surprised by the comment; he was totally baffled by the idea of being missed. “You were actually concerned about me?” he asked in a sort of naïve way.

“Of course we were; we were very concerned.” The neighbor reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to blow his nose with. “Excuse me; I’m just getting over a cold,” he explained. Chuck was oblivious; he was too busy trying to remember his neighbor’s name.  Finally from out of nowhere it came to him. “Bob Callahan!… And his wife’s name is Annie.” He was relieved by the knowledge.

Bob’s voice escalated to an anxious level as he continued his explanation. “I noticed you weren’t coming out to get your morning newspaper…because you always come out for your paper.” He paused to blow his nose a second time. “Sorry,“ he apologized again. “Like I was saying, we were all concerned about you. Annie said I should knock on your door to make sure you were OK.  I knocked a few times, and even tried to listen through the door, but there wasn’t a sound; since your car was parked outside I figured you had to be in there.” Bob knew the chances of anyone coming by to take him out were slim, he knew the Dolan house had not had any visitors lately. “Annie and I were not the only ones concerned; the entire neighborhood was worried about you, especially after your wife died. “ Bob’s voice deepened with sadness. “Yeah, I know, Chuck, we’ve been blessed with some remarkable neighbors; everyone was so kind and considerate when the baby died.”

Chuck was confused. “What baby, what is he talking about?”

Bob broke eye-contact and looked down at the ground. “On the day of the funeral someone said they saw an ambulance in front of your house but Annie and I were so grief-stricken we didn’t, or I should say, we couldn’t give it any thought. It was weeks before we found out about Bunny,” Bob struggled to find the right words of condolence. He finally looked up. “I am truly sorry for your loss; she was an incredible lady.”

Chuck had no immediate response; he was dumbfounded by confusion.  He wanted to tell Bob about that disappointing day when he desperately needed water for his dying wife. He wanted to describe his emotions and the hatred he felt toward him and the neighbors on that Infamous day; however he also wanted to ask questions regarding the baby he never knew existed.  He wanted to know if it was because of the baby he had to siphon water during the drought, but above all he wanted to know if everyone was attending his child’s funeral on the day he cursed them and dammed them all to hell.

Chuck knew his questions weren’t necessary because he already knew the answers.  He knew his assumptions had been wrong and he realized how cruelly judgmental he had been. A part of him tried to justify his past behavior by claiming ignorance, but truth be told, his way of thinking gave him a good reason to be aloof and antisocial.

Bob came to the end of his conversation but Chuck’s mind had wandered away from it. “So, what do you think; are you up for it?”  Bob asked.

“Up for what?”

“Dinner… haven’t you been listening?”

“I’m sorry my mind was… well, it was somewhere else.”

Bob suddenly felt uncomfortable by his invitation; perhaps he was being too pushy. “I can understand it if you’re not ready to be around people. I just thought….”

“No, no it’s not that,” Chuck interrupted. “I’m just amazed by seeing you here.” Chuck knew that was only part of the reason. The truth was, he was finding it hard to digest the horrible news about Bob’s child’s death. “I wish I had known,” he thought to himself, realizing a dinner invitation was the last thing he wanted to accept.

“As you can see, I haven’t been home yet. I’m filthy…” Chuck looked down at his filthy clothes and wondered why they hadn’t bothered him until now. He looked at his dirt-stained hands and quickly shoved them into his pockets.  “I truly appreciate your invitation, but unfortunately I have some business to take care of.”

“OK, maybe we can get together at another time.”

Chuck ignored the rain check offer; the idea of socializing was a bit daunting, especially with someone as talkative as Bob seemed to be. Finally the awkwardness urged him to ease away from the situation and return to his wife’s grave. “I’m sorry for giving you reason for concern, but as you can see I’m fine.”

Bob held his response, he bent down to rearrange the flowers he was being so meticulous about, and in doing so he drew attention to the headstone.  It was a beautiful pink marbled headstone with the face of a smiling cherub carved above a name Chuck could not quite make out.

“Thank God you’re okay.” Bob finally said as he positioned each flower like a photographer prepping for a photo shoot. Chuck stood there wondering how any father could tolerate kneeling at the foot of his own child’s grave, especially an infant’s. “What was your child’s name?” he had to ask.

“Roberta. She was named after my mother.” Bob began tracing the chiseled letters that spelled out the name. “God has two Robertas from the same family,” he said in a soft voice.

Chuck understood the casual tone of his statement; he could identify with the need to maintain some similarity of a healthy level of sanity.

The neighborhood looked but did not feel the same to the resuming wanderer. The atmosphere, although noticeably grim, seemed lively and encouraging to the once-upon-a-time despairing man. The short walk from the corner to his house was unrushed but calculated, only because he desperately wanted to make things right between him and his neighbors. He also wanted to be seen, hoping their reactions would confirm whether or not they really cared about his disappearance. He casually scanned both sides of the street expecting to see at least one of them; however as fate would have it, the street was devoid of anyone over the age of ten. Chuck couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. “How ironic,” he thought.

Entering his home after being away for so long was not that disturbing for Chuck; apart from the musty smell, the house was cleaner than he remembered leaving it. The only peculiar thing he noticed was that the door leading to the basement had been pried open. Chuck was hesitant at first, but finally after equipping himself with a baseball bat, he descended the stairs with caution. “Oh no, someone broke through the window!” he cried, before remembering the conversation he had with Bob at the cemetery.  Suddenly he heard someone knocking on his front door, and for the first time in years he was happy about it. “Hold on I’m coming!” he shouted as he rushed up the stairs to greet the awaiting visitor.

“Hi! Welcome, ladies,” he said to the three women now standing in front of him.

Annie Callahan, Bob’s wife, was the first one to find her tongue after the shock of the unanticipated greeting. “Hello, Mr. Dolan. My husband said you were coming home today so I’ve been watching for you.” Chuck smiled at the notion. “I wanted to speak with you before you discovered the broken window in your basement.”

“I’m sorry it’s too late,” Chuck teased. “Are you here to confess to breaking and entering? I was just getting ready to call the police. Now I can tell them who to arrest.”

Annie’s eyes widened with fear as the other two ladies started to retreat. “No, please don’t go. I was only teasing you. Your husband explained everything.”

The ladies looked at each other and started laughing. “You had us going there for a second,” one of them said.

Chuck invited the three ladies inside and offered them tea, the only thing he was sure he had. Annie appreciated the hospitality but she knew he was not in a position to entertain so she declined. “But we can sit and visit for a spell,” she said.

One of the ladies picked up a throw pillow from the sofa and fluffed it before she sat down. “I hope you’re not upset with the cleaning we did around here,” she said as she surveyed the room, admiring her efforts.  Annie felt uncomfortable with her friend’s smug remark; she felt the need to say something. “We weren’t trying to imply …”

“… That my house needed cleaning?” Chuck interrupted. “Well it did. This place hasn’t been cleaned properly since Bunny died.” Chuck closed his eyes to absorb the tears that were starting to accumulate.  “You have no idea how grateful I am.”

The room suddenly became quiet with an uncomfortable sense of silence. Chuck wanted to elaborate on his gratitude but he knew it would lead to a more delicate conversation. He fought hard to contain his emotions but the second he opened his eyes, the tears he could no longer control poured down his sober face.

The ladies looked at each other, not knowing what to do; they all sat there wondering who should be the one to console the troubled man. Annie was the first one to react. She got up and walked over to him. “Would you feel better talking about it?” she asked as she knelt directly in front of him and took his hands into hers. However, the tenderness of such a kind gesture only evoked more tears. “How can you be so kind to a hateful man like me?” Chuck managed to ask in spite of his sobbing. One of the ladies suddenly appeared and offered him her handkerchief while the other lady stood behind him and gently rubbed his shoulders. “We don’t think you’re a hateful person,” she whispered.

“Ladies!  I feel the need for prayer!” shouted the woman with the handkerchief.

Annie stood up, and as if on cue reached for her friend’s hand, and her friend instinctively reached for the other friend’s hand. All three ladies, now linked together, were standing in front of Chuck, inviting him to join their little circle, but Chuck could not bring himself to move. He clinched the sides of the chair and leaned forward, but rather than standing up, he fell back into his seat.

“God doesn’t want anything to do with an old sinner like me. I’m just a lost soul,” he said with his head hung low.

“On the contrary, it’s sinners like us that Jesus died on the cross for,” Annie explained. “Why don’t you tell us what’s bothering you so deeply?”

Chuck dried his eyes, cleared his throat, and began to tell his story, the raw version of truth about himself. He talked continuously about the hostility he once felt towards his neighbors and what led him to despise everyone so much. He struggled through the telling of his wife’s history and the challenges they both faced during her bout with cancer. He reminisced about the particulars of his wilderness journey and smiled through the telling of it, however his story took on a different demeanor when it involved his visit to the cemetery, because his self-centered emotions were no longer relevant to his confession.  Suddenly, as if someone had stolen his train of thought, he paused to consider his audience, Annie. “God forgive me for being so insensitive.” He prayed to himself.

The ladies sat in silence, impressed by the honesty of the man they had so terribly misjudged. They were equally impressed with his willingness to share the intimacies of his life. Their hearts ached for the young boy with the domineering mother and for the man who could not quench the thirst of his dying wife. They cried a little and prayed a lot. Finally, after a considerable number of “Amen”s, two of the ladies decided to leave. Annie, on the other hand, chose to stay. She didn’t understand why; she only knew it was significant.

After Chuck said a sincere goodbye to the ladies, he closed the door behind them and slowly turned around to face Annie. “I’m glad you decided not to leave with the others,” he said rather timidly.

Annie felt his meekness and immediately noticed the absence of pride; it was apparent that the grouchy old man who murmured and complained about everything was now thirsting for a new beginning. She firmly placed her hands on his shoulders, closed her eyes, and whispered. “It was the Holy Spirit who encouraged me to stay.”

Chuck instinctively bowed his head as if expecting to be ordained or at least to be prayed over, but Annie said nothing. Her mouth was steadily moving but no words were coming out of it.  Her body began to react in a series of little jerks until suddenly she began speaking in a strange tongue.  Finally, when she opened her eyes, she smiled and asked. “Are you ready to accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior?”

“Yes.”

Chuck did as he was instructed; he repeated each word after Annie as she prayed the sinner’s prayer of repentance. The prayer was short, precise and very powerful, so powerful it brought Chuck to his knees. “Yes, I’m a sinner, but I didn’t understand. God, I didn’t understand! My wife kept trying to explain it but I wouldn’t let her… Dear God, forgive me. Forgive my wretched life and forgive my selfish ways.”

Annie continued in prayer. “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” And then, all at once Chuck recited another one of the beatitudes. “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.” Annie smiled; realizing the seed of the Holy Spirit had been planted, probably by his wife, and had now taken root.

Chuck admitted he felt no physical change but he suddenly had a strong desire for knowledge. He bombarded Annie with so many questions she had to write them down so she could pray for answers later.

“Did you know about the relationship I had with you wife?

Chuck’s mind questioned the question. “What relationship? Surely Bunny would have told me if there was a relationship.”

Annie could tell by his expression that the answer was no.  Apparently he was not aware of the bible study sessions or about the numerous times his wife had called her to pray for his salvation; in hindsight it seemed ironic that the subject of cancer was never mentioned.

Annie quickly exchanged her negative thinking for something constructive. “Today is a day to rejoice!” she shouted. “Bunny always knew this day would come. She was definitely a woman of faith.”

All of a sudden, Chuck shifted his attention to a scenic view through the window, the red-orange afterglow of an amazing sunset. “Yes, there is a God,” he said.

“And I will always be with you,” a Voice replied.