“Jacob,” he said.
“Mike,” I said, and moved forward to greet him. We shook hands, and he introduced me to his sons. Derek was broad and heavy, a big man like his father, and he mumbled as he greeted me. Tad was long and lean, and he smiled broadly but said nothing.
And then he introduced me to Shauna, who smiled tentatively and told me she was glad to finally meet me.
Mike put an arm around my shoulder, as he did whenever he was trying to talk me into something, and said, “Jacob, can we go talk?”
I told him sure, that of course we could, and told him that the boys and Shauna should go to the house and sit for a while.
So we walked toward the barn, and as we walked he talked to me about how things had been. He was always a persuasive talker, a good salesman, but now his sales pitch seemed frail. And he seemed frail, I thought, as I looked at him. Thinner than I’d seen him before.
“You walked all of this way?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Started out at, like, ten. About five hours. Man, I miss my truck.”
We were silent for a minute. It seemed pointless to speak in pleasantries. Then he broke the silence.
“I’m running out of food,” he said. “You know I was ready, you know how much I kept, all those supplies.”
I told him that I did, because he was always talking about how important it was to be prepared for emergencies. Usually that subject would come with him talking about how people were irresponsible and lazy, about how they just relied on the government for everything. He did not say that today, and I did not mention it.
“Since that storm, things are just getting worse, and I don’t know how much longer we can make it. There’s not enough food coming in on the trucks now, and we all know it, like everybody knows it, and there isn’t any way to get food, and I’m worried. Three of my neighbors had their homes busted into the last two days. Three. And one time, there was shooting. I mean, right there, three houses down, middle of the night. Bam bam bam. A couple of guys from the neighborhood, part of the new watch, they got shot. The thieves took off, I think they killed one of them.”
He seemed sheepish, a little off, not the usual Mike who was always filled with bluster and self-certainty. His eyes were tired, a little hollow. “And it isn’t just that it’s not safe. I can’t stay at my place anymore. There’s roof damage, and it’s leaking, and the whole lower level of the townhouse still has three feet of water in it. It smells like rot and mildew, and Tad started having trouble breathing. You know his asthma, how that’s always been hard for him. And we’re running out of asthma medication.”
I asked him how we could help, even though I already knew why he was there, and I knew the answer.
“I know it’s a ton to ask. I know it. But can we stay awhile with you? We don’t need much, really we don’t. And you have that place out back, you know, where you store stuff. We wouldn’t get in the way. The boys and I can help out around the place, we really can. And Shauna . . . well . . . shoot . . . yeah.”
I asked about that, because they really never could get along.
“But you know, Shauna, she’s the mother of my kids. She’s their mom. When I told the boys about the idea of maybe coming out here, they were, like, what about Mom? I mean, she’s their mom. And, she’s, like, got nobody. Yeah, some friends, but they were kind of a mess before this all started. I can’t just leave her in town all by herself. That’d be . . . well . . . I couldn’t do that.”
We went back and forth for a little bit after that, but I knew that I couldn’t send him away. I told him to wait on the porch. Then I went to talk with Hannah, who was working in the garden, replanting and trying to restore it after the damage from the storm.
She took it really very well. But what choice did we have? Here, on our doorstep, neighbors in need. Even if they had been strangers coming to our door, asking for help, what would we have done? It really was very simple, deciding that we would put them up.
She and Sadie went with Shauna and the boys to help get the daadi haus set up. It was two small rooms, a small bath to wash, and a storage area upstairs. A little woodburning stove for heat. And that was it. There was one bed, but there was also an old sofa, and we had a spare mattress that I kept in the storage area.
I asked him about his girlfriend, Jolie. Wasn’t she pregnant? Where was she?
“Yeah, well,” he said. “Now I don’t think it was mine. I did, but then she and this other guy took off, went down south with someone who had a truck, before all the roads got closed. I think it was his kid. I don’t know where she got off to. Can’t really care right now. I mean, it’s her life, right?”
I said that it was sad, and he agreed with me.
We talked a little more about what he could do, and how he and the boys and Shauna might be able to help out.
AFTER DINNER, AFTER READING and a time for family prayers, our guests went to the daadi haus to settle in for the night. Hannah and I curled up in bed, lying face to face as we talked.
It is an old habit, and it feels good. Warm and gentle and safe. It reminds me of when we bed dated. She did not want to sleep.
“Jay,” she said, “you know this will make everything harder.”
I said that I did.
“You know that feeding four more mouths will push what we can do here as a family. And I know they want to help, but I don’t know how ready they are to do what they will need to do to keep us afloat.”
I said that I knew it, and asked her if she thought we could do any different.
She sighed. “No. No we can’t. In the Bible, Abram and Sarah didn’t turn aside the angels who walked their way. And the widow, she didn’t turn out Elijah, even in her time of hardship. This is what the Lord has put on us, and we must receive it and let our lives bear witness.”
I told her that I was thinking the same things, and about what Jesus had said about walking the extra mile, and giving even more than what is asked. Then I said that this was what martyr really meant. “Witness.” I had learned that from someone, years ago. That the word just meant witness. Sometimes being a witness is easier, I said, quietly. You can be true to the Gospel, and live your life so that every word and deed is Gospel. The world will nod and smile, and say what a nice person you are, and all will be simple. But sometimes it’s really hard, and being a witness can mean terrible things.
This would be a hard time.
“Yes,” she said. “I know it. And for me, it is easy. I know what we must face. For you, it is easy. But I wish it did not have to be so for Sadie and Jacob. What a mother and father can endure, they would still not wish on their children. Oh, Jay.”
We held each other for a while.
Then she fell asleep. I did not, not for a while. But now I am tired. Writing does that.
October 17