"When You Can't Just Walk Away" XX
by Myra Love
  Article # 482 Article Type: Weekly Serial

The drive home was unreal. My mother and I sat in the back of Miss Carswell’s Pontiac while my father sat in the front seat twitching as if he wanted to grab the steering wheel every time Miss Carswell braked. When he was uncomfortable, my father tended to preach with special fervor. That trip home was no exception. He preached on a passage from Revelations full of plagues and tribulations. Every now and then one of Mom’s soft snores would punctuate his sentence. Her head fell sideways onto my shoulder, and her body rolled forward every time Miss Carswell made a turn.
Miss Carswell drove calmly, but I had a hard time not laughing or screaming.
“ What about the car?” my father suddenly asked, interrupting his sermon. “It’s in the hospital parking lot.” He inclined his head in the direction of my mother. She’ll need it to get to work tomorrow.”
Miss Carswell pulled up in front of our house. “Officer Searle has agreed to drive your car back here,” she said. “It’s the least he can do,” she added under her breath, as she put on the parking brake.
My father grunted and struggled to find the door handle.
“ If you can wait just a second, Clarence,” Miss Carswell said, “I’ll open the door for you.”
He grunted again. I shook my mother, who woke up with a start. “Where are we? What happened?” she mumbled, looking around at the unfamiliar interior of Miss Carswell’s car.
“ We’re home,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”
Mom pulled her house key out and was brandishing it. “I’ve got my key out, Clarence,” she announced waving it, “so you don’t have to try to find yours.”
I felt as if I were watching a film about aliens from outer space trying to pass themselves off as human. I glanced at Miss Carswell, who caught my eye and grinned.
Once Mom had gotten the door open, she turned to Miss Carswell and said, “Thanks very much for your help,” in a way that made it clear she expected Miss Carswell to leave.
Miss Carswell said, “You’re very welcome.” Then to my surprise she addressed my father. “Clarence,” she said, “Officer Searle will be here with your car in a little while. He’ll need a ride back to the hospital to get his own car. Do you mind if I wait here so I can drive him?”
My father chuckled, “Suit yourself,” he replied, causing my mom to sniff in disapproval. “Maybe you’d like to help me with my sermon for next Sunday.”
Miss Carswell laughed heartily. “Clarence, your sermon wouldn’t benefit from anything I could add to it.”
He took that as a compliment. “Thank you very much.”
“ When is that policeman going to get here?” my mother whined.
My father said in a pompous tone “Whenever he gets here, he’ll be welcome.”
“ I never said he wouldn’t be,” my mother grumbled, “but I was about to make some coffee, and I don’t know if I should make some for him too.”
“ Make a full pot!” my father ordered.
She wandered into the kitchen.
I waited for Miss Carswell to sit down, but she didn’t. My father did though. He could find his favorite chair even if he were blind, which he wasn’t. His eyes were just full of drops, and they blurred his vision.
After he’d seated himself, Miss Carswell walked slowly over to the wall with all the Haynes family pictures on it. The wall to the left of it held the Rutherford photographs. She stood with one hand behind her back and gazed for a few minutes. Then she turned and said, “I thought Buzz looked like your father, Clarence, and he does. Especially around the eyes.”
My father looked pleased. “My father was a very fine man,” he intoned. “I hope Buzz turns out as well.”
“ I think there’s a very good chance he will,” Miss Carswell replied. “Your father went to State, didn’t he?”
My father nodded. “Started a bachelor’s of science there, but he ended up going off to the war and came back too restless to go back to school. So he started the salvage business.” He grimaced. “I hated that business, but it fed and clothed us and kept a roof over our heads.” He sighed deeply. “If the good Lord in his infinite mercy hadn’t seen fit to call me to His service, I’d probably still be slaving away at it today.”
I knew my mouth was open, but I couldn’t help it. My father never spoke to anyone about his father or his own early life, and here he was talking to, of all people, Miss Carswell, whom he considered a heathen and a devil-worshipper. What was the world coming to?
“ That must have been a great relief to you,” she said softly.
“ Yes,” my father agreed, “I thank God every day.”
She nodded. “It’s good to find your calling.”
He smiled faintly. “I hope my son will follow in my footsteps. I’ve prayed over and over again for him to receive the call.”
Miss Carswell took a deep breath. “I’m sure he’ll find his calling, Clarence, though it may not be the same as yours.”
My father looked perplexed. “But what greater life’s work is there than to teach the message of the Lord?”
Miss Carswell smiled back at him. “Each person has his or her own life’s work. Not all are called to a religious vocation.”
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But at the very least I’ll do all I can to make sure Rutherford turns into a God-fearing Christian.”
“ I’m sure he’ll be a good man, Clarence. He’s already shown great strength of character.”
I was blushing, but before I could escape to the kitchen the doorbell rang. I hadn’t heard our car’s engine. Curious, I went over to the door and looked out before I opened it. I saw a tall, thin, middle-aged man I didn’t recognize. He seemed to be talking to someone, but I couldn’t tell who it was.
When I opened the door, I saw that the tall man had been talking to Yusuf. Yusuf’s face lit up when he saw me, and he grabbed my hand and shook it warmly for a long time. “I am glad you are all right,” he said. Then he turned to the older man. “Uncle, this is Buzz, the young man who saved my life.”
I invited Yusuf and his uncle into the house and introduced my father and Miss Carswell to them. It turns out that Miss Carswell already knew them, of course, but she said so in a way that didn’t make me feel stupid for introducing them to her. Yusuf told us his uncle’s name was Ismail Habib. “He is my father’s second brother and my sponsor here in this country.”
“ What kind of name is that?” my father demanded.
“ We come from Lebanon,” Mr. Habib replied.
“ Lebanon?” my father repeated and then quoted something from the Bible about the cedars of Lebanon.
“ Yes,” Mr. Habib replied. “That is a reference to my country.”
I expected my father to go on quoting the Bible, since it was hard for him to stop once he got started. I also expected him to invite Yusuf and his uncle to sit down, but he didn’t. It took me a minute to realize he couldn’t see that they were standing. So since they’d really come to see me, I decided to play host and asked them to take a seat.
Just then my mother came in from the kitchen, carrying a tray of mugs with a plate of cookies balanced on top. Mr. Habib jumped up and took the tray from her. “Would you like it here?” he asked, indicating the coffee table. “That would be nice,” my mother said, smiling faintly. “Thank you very much.” She sat down on the sofa. “Coffee will be ready in about two minutes, but you can help yourself to the cookies anytime.”
No one moved. My father scratched his head, turned in the direction of my mother’s voice, and said, “This fellow comes from a land mentioned in the Bible.”
“ Umm-hmm,” she replied.
“ Lebanon,” my father instructed her. “As in ‘cedars of Lebanon’.”
My mother turned to Mr. Habib. “Is this young man your son?” she asked.
Mr. Habib smiled. “I wish!” he replied. “He is my nephew. My sons are older. They have all moved to the West Coast.”
Once again my mother said, “Umm-hmm.” Then she fell silent. Right then the coffeemaker stopped, and she rose, visibly relieved that it was time to get the coffee. “I’ll be right back,” she said and scurried into the kitchen.
“ So tell me, Mr. Ha…Ha…Habib,” my father struggled with the name, “what do you do for a living?”
I was glad he didn’t ask what church the man attended.
“ I am a building contractor,” Mr. Habib replied, standing up once again as my mother re-entered the room, coffee-pot in hand, and not sitting down until she’d poured coffee for everyone and seated herself.
“ A building contractor?” my father echoed. “Well then, maybe you know how I can find someone to fix the roof on my church.” He got very animated and stood up, peeling off his sunglasses. His eyes teared, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m the minister of a small church, and we don’t have much money. The roof started leaking last week, and I can’t find anyone to fix it who doesn’t want the sun and the moon in payment.”
“ Clarence!” my mother said severely, “don’t bother Mr. Habib with your roof. He’s most likely a…” she stopped to think of the word, “an Islamic, not a Christian. It’s not right to ask him to fix the church!”
My father waved his arm. “Nonsense!” he said briskly. “He doesn’t have to be a Christian to know of a good roofer who’s not greedy. Some of those immigrants will work for a lot cheaper than our folks. And they’re good workers too.”
I looked over at Miss Carswell. She’d hidden her mouth behind her hand, but she couldn’t hide the amusement in her eyes. I didn’t know whether to feel mortified or amused myself, but I didn’t have much time to think about it.
“ Mr. Haynes,” Mr. Habib said, “I am indeed a Muslim. And it would be my pleasure to fix your roof. I owe a great debt to your son.” He nodded in my direction. “Helping you would perhaps begin to repay some of it. Though of course, fixing a roof counts little compared to saving a life.”
“ Well,” my mother said brightly, “doesn’t that beat all? Here I thought you’d be offended, Mr. Habib. Because we don’t even have the same God.”
“ Unless you are a polytheist, you do indeed worship the same deity,” Miss Carswell interjected, “albeit in different ways.”
“ What would you know about it?” my father growled at her. “You don’t even go to church! He prays to someone named Allah, whose son is Mohammed. We worship the Lord, God of heaven and earth, whose only begotten son is Jesus Christ.”
Miss Carswell laughed. “Clarence,” she said gently, “Allah is the Arabic word for God, and Muslims don’t worship Mohammed or call him God’s son. He’s a prophet, the major prophet in their religion. Unless you believe in multiple gods, the deity he refers to as Allah and the one you call God is one and the same.”
My father shook his head. “Well, I think you’re wrong. Why don’t we ask Mr. Ha…, Mr. Habib?”
Mr. Habib looked pained. “Though I hate to disagree with my host,” he nodded at my father, “I must say Miss Carswell is correct.”
My father looked astonished. “You don’t say!” he mumbled. “Well, if you don’t worship a different god, you probably don’t mind fixing the roof on a church, do you?”
Mr. Habib smiled. “I already said it would be my pleasure to do so.”
“ And you’ll do the work without charging me an arm and a leg?” my father persisted.
“ Clarence! Really!” Mom exclaimed.
“ Well, I need to know,” he replied stubbornly.
Mr. Habib laughed out loud. “Mr. Haynes, unless we need to buy expensive materials to repair your roof, it won’t cost you a cent.”
“ You don’t say!” my father said again. He smiled broadly and repeated the words once more.
“ He does say, Clarence,” Miss Carswell remarked, sounding on the edge of exasperation. Then she changed the subject. “I wonder what’s taking Andy so long.”
No sooner had she made that comment than we heard a car drive up. From the sound of the motor it was our car, and I went over to look out the window. Sure enough, Andy emerged from our car and came up the walk.
I opened the door for him before he had a chance to ring the doorbell.
“ Hi, Buzz,” he said. “You’re looking a lot healthier than the last time I saw you.”
I was tempted to say something rude, but I didn’t. I just stepped aside and let him into the house.
“ There you are,” Miss Carswell greeted him. “Took you long enough to get here.”
“ We went to pick up Mark, Sean, Jeremy, and Mike. All of them except Sean were at home. His father said he was visiting a relative in Oregon and wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks.” Andy shook his head. “Lieutenant Crewes put through a call to the Oregon State Police. We hope they can locate him and send him back.”
Miss Carswell nodded. “And that other matter we spoke of?” she asked.
Andy smiled. “Yes, I took care of that. The chief talked to the head of the selectmen and he agreed that the town would pick up any co-payment that Mrs. Haynes” health insurance doesn’t cover.”
Miss Carswell nodded again. “Good! Then I don’t need to point out to anyone the potential legal ramifications of using an underage informant.”
I had no idea what she was going on about, but Andy pretended to wipe sweat off his forehead, and said, “Whew!” Miss Carswell didn’t laugh. “Let it be a lesson to you,” was all she said, and Andy nodded, then replied, “Yes, Ma’am!”
Miss Carswell turned to the rest of us. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Habib, Yusuf” she said first. Then she addressed my father, “Clarence, I’m going to take this officer back to the hospital so he can get his car. I hope you don’t intend to drive yours until you can see a little better.”
My father grunted at her, then turned to Mr. Habib and said, “I hate bossy women.”
Mr. Habib looked appalled, but Miss Carswell laughed out loud. “Let Mrs. Haynes drive or take a taxi for a while.”
My mother snorted, a sound so unlikely that the room fell silent. “He hates the way I drive, but that’s okay. I hate the way he drives too.”
I felt my face flush and looked up at the ceiling, hoping that I’d wake up and find out that these embarrassing people were not my parents, but merely figments of my imagination. When my face cooled, I lowered my gaze from the ceiling and looked around. Mr. Habib sat acting as if nothing untoward had happened. Yusuf had folded his hands in his lap and was gazing at them with great interest. Andy just looked mildly amused.
Miss Carswell stood up. “Let’s go, Andy,” she said, “before these people tell me how much they hated riding with me.”
I knew she was kidding, but my father didn’t. “You weren’t too bad,” he said, then added, “for a woman driver.” My mother just sighed, but Miss Carswell smiled at him and said, “Thank you, Clarence.”
Then she turned to me. “Buzz, Jill. Ellis wants to know when you’ll be able to take up your tutoring again. Give her a call later on.” She started towards the door, then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. Susie sent this.” She handed me an envelope.
I opened it and found the well-chewed stub of a pencil. The note read: “Dear Buzz, Here is your pencil. You forgot it. I hope you are all right. I miss doing math with you. Your friend, Susie.” I laughed. “This pencil is ready for the trash can.”

After Miss Carswell and Andy left, my father and Mr. Habib settled down to make plans for the repair of the church’s roof. Yusuf pulled up a chair near them, extracted a small notebook from his pocket, and pulled out a fountain pen. “Shall I take notes, Uncle?” he asked dutifully.
Mr. Habib smiled at him. “Thank you, Yusuf, but that won’t be necessary.”
Yusuf put his pen and notebook away and stood up. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggested, smiling at me.
I didn’t really want to, but I agreed anyway. I wanted to know where he’d gotten his pen. I felt almost positive that Miss Carswell gave it to him, but I couldn’t wait to find out for sure. We’d walked about half a block toward the elementary school playground down the street when I asked him.
“ Oh no!” he replied, looking amazed that I should have thought so. “The pen was my father’s gift to me when I graduated from high school. His father had given it to him.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pen once again. It was silver and very sleek. “Parker 51 Flighter,” he said. “A very good pen.”
I felt relieved that Miss Carswell hadn’t given him the pen.
“ So do people use pens like this in Lebanon?” I asked.
He grinned at me. “Europeans use fountain pens, and Lebanon was for many years very much influenced by the French…” he began, his stride growing longer and more regular as he spoke of his homeland. Listening with real interest, I fell into step with my friend.

FINIS


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