Ray Gorham - 77 Days in September

“Three,” corrected Jennifer, “and we’re doing pretty good. My oldest son, David, has been helping the crew at the Shipley farm, about three miles south of here, and has been bringing some food home. Between that and the Anderson’s garden next door, we’re doing okay. We miss the meat, but we’re not starving.”

“Let me know if you need anything else,” offered Doug. “There’s a group of us going hunting on Friday. And Jacob May, the guy with the truck that runs, he’s been hitting the semi trucks on the freeway. Sometimes he comes back with big loads of food. Found a beer truck not too long ago and was pretty pleased with himself.”

“We heard his truck the other day and walked over to his house to visit. It was exciting to see a working vehicle. What does he want for what he finds?” asked Jennifer. “I don’t need the beer, but if he has food, I could obviously use that.”

“Gas is the big thing. He says if a person helps with gas, he’ll give them part of his load. If you sent your oldest boy, was it David?” Jennifer nodded. “Anyway, if you sent him along to work, he might give you a bigger share.”

“Thanks, Doug. I appreciate the information. We’ll have to see what gas we can come up with.”

“If you want, I can help you drain the gas tank of your car. I’ve helped a couple of people with that, and I’m getting pretty good at it. Just let me know.”

“That would be nice. I’ll check to see how much gas I have and let you know.”

Doug was standing by the door, trying to find something else to say when the basement door swung open and Spencer came wandering down the hall, rubbing his eyes. He saw Doug and stopped, eyeing him suspiciously, then walked over to Jennifer and hid behind her.

Doug spoke after an awkward silence. “Well, I guess I’d better get going. It’s been nice visiting with you,” he said as he reached for the door and pulled it open. “Will you be at the meeting on Wednesday?”

Jennifer struggled to stifle a yawn. “I plan to be.”

“Good, I’ll see you there then.”

Lubbock, Texas

Kyle awoke to the sound of a pot clattering to the floor in an adjoining room. He slowly opened his swollen eyes, cracking them enough to allow some light in and bringing on sharp, dagger-like pains in the back of his head, causing him to moan. He shielded his face with his arm and lay motionless on the bed while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Gradually the pain eased until he was able to take a look at his surroundings. He lay on a single bed in the corner of a small room. A desk pushed against the opposite wall was adorned with a lamp, a jar of pencils, and a digital clock with a blank display. The window above the desk was draped with simple, pink curtains that waved in the breeze and gave the room a rippling, pink tint.

Kyle pushed a yellow flowered sheet to the side, carefully swung his legs out of the bed, and eased into a sitting position. The pounding in his head was intense, so the movements he made were slow and deliberate. Once able to sit up, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, letting his body adjust to being upright. His neck was stiff and sore, and his arms were scratched, bruised, and spotted with patches of dried blood. A quick inspection of his clothing showed that they were torn and dusty, and that the sheets of the bed were soiled with dirt and dried blood.

Using the wall beside the bed for support, Kyle stood up when he thought he was strong enough, but immediately felt the blood rush from his head, making him dizzy. He staggered across the room and grabbed the back of the chair by the desk to steady himself. When his balance returned, he stepped away from the desk, groaning as muscles he didn’t know existed called attention to the punishment they’d received.

Kyle slowly hobbled towards the bedroom door, holding the wall as he carefully stepped over blankets and a sleeping pad lying on the floor. He could hear voices on the other side of the door and was both curious and nervous to find out who they belonged to.

He twisted the handle and eased the door open, then held himself steady in the doorway. No more than a dozen feet away, at a simple kitchen table, three faces turned to watch him.

A burly, middle-aged, black man spoke up. “Good morning. How are you doin’?” he asked in a booming voice.

Kyle thought a second. “I guess that depends on how you look at it,” he said. “Thanks to someone, you I suppose, I’m doing a lot better than I might otherwise be, but I really feel like crap, if you’ll forgive the expression.” Kyle spoke slowly and with great effort.

The man got up from the table and went to Kyle. He put an arm around Kyle’s waist and helped guide him towards the table. “My name’s Elijah,” he said. “It’s nice to finally be able to visit with you.”

The two men shuffled slowly across the kitchen floor. “I’m Kyle Tait. It’s a pleasure to meet you, although I can’t say much for the circumstances.”

“These are my children,” said Elijah. “That’s my daughter, Diana, and my son, Stevie.” He motioned to the girl and boy sitting at the table. “Stevie, get out of your chair so our guest can sit. You go get one out of your bedroom.”

The boy jumped up obediently and dashed from the room. Elijah helped lower Kyle into the empty chair, and Stevie returned seconds later dragging a metal folding chair behind him. “Don’t drag that chair, Son. You’ll scratch the floor,” said Elijah with a look of exasperation. “You should know better than that.”

Stevie lifted the chair and carried it the remaining few feet before setting it down beside Kyle at the table. “Sorry, Dad,” he said with a slightly masked grin on his face. “Didn’t mean to mess up our lovely kitchen floor,” he continued, looking at the tired, worn linoleum. His sister laughed and smacked him on his arm.

Elijah looked at the two of them and frowned. “Don’t be mocking me in front of our guest,” he said. “You could at least pretend to have some respect for your father.”

Kyle smiled along with the children, who could barely contain their laughter. He estimated Stevie to be about fourteen years old. His sister was older, probably nineteen or twenty. Both kids were neatly dressed, and by the look in their eyes, Kyle got the strong impression that they were fond of their father.

“Are you the one who took care of me last night?” Kyle asked Diana.

She nodded, embarrassed. “Yes, sir, I am.”

“I guess I need to thank you then,” Kyle continued. “It looks like you gave up your bed for me too.”

“It was no problem, sir,” she replied. “I’m glad I could help.”

Kyle turned to Elijah. “Thank you for bringing me into your home. I probably owe you my life.”

Elijah waved his hand in front of his face in a kind of “it was nothing” dismissal. “I was just in the right place at the right time,” he said. “That’s all.”

“I think it was a little more than that. I was getting worked over pretty hard. Not sure at what point it was you found me.”

“Dad used to be in the marines,” blurted out Stevie, “before he became a preacher. So first he kicked those guys’ butts, and then he brought you home. It was kind of like Jesus in the temple and the good Samaritan, all in one.” Stevie’s eyes twinkled as he summed up the story, smiling broadly at his father and obviously proud of what had transpired.

“Stevie’s a little dramatic in his storytelling, but I guess that’s the gist of it,” said Elijah with some embarrassment. “You must be hungry Kyle. Diana, get Mr. Tait some food, would you?”

Diana got up from the table and went to a small camp stove set up next to the kitchen window. “Do you like oatmeal?” she asked from across the room.