4

 

Jake’s apartment was only slightly improved from his dorm room back in the day. Not where he expected to be at age thirty. He plucked picture hangers from the hardware store hooks. The storefront faced Main Street, and Scott Emerson was marching four children into the squat library building. He needed to pay quickly and go, then say hello—another plus for small town life. Jake stuffed the change into a jar on the counter for the high school basketball team.

“Thanks, Pastor. Kids appreciate it.”

Jake sauntered after the Emersons for his next greeting. He could learn to like it here.

Across the town square, by the Cherokee statue, a very pregnant Emma pointed in the face of a down-on-his luck type. By her finger in the man’s startled face and his back-peddling, she was reading him the riot act. She marched into the library.

The ragged, white-haired man knelt amid a shattered fifth of whiskey.

“Hey, pal,” Jake said. He squatted and began to help. “Saw the whole thing. Sorry Mammoth gave you less than a warm welcome.”

“I’m used to it.” The homeless-looking man rolled his stooped shoulders. “Can’t say I blame her, after all. Young’uns are priceless beyond measure.”

“True.” Jake glanced to the library where more trekked in for weekly story time.

The drifter swept the last of the glass splinters into a flyer.

“I’m Jake Gibb. Pastor at the church.”

“Folks call me Guthrie.” Eyes downcast, he tossed the mess into the sack. With a bitter laugh, the man stood to his full height. “Getting harder to kneel down every year that passes.”

“Depends on who—or what—you’re kneeling to.”

“Amen, Preacher.” Guthrie shot a wistful look at the dissipating puddle.

Jake clapped him on the shoulder. “Have a better day, friend, and God bless.”