Pew(4)

She pulled open a dresser drawer and left it open. I reached into my pockets and pulled out their contents—a nail clipper, dirty toothbrush, ballpoint pen, three coins, an oatmeal cookie wrapped in a napkin. I let all these things fall from my hands into the dresser.
The drawer was lined with old newspaper, the classified section, yellowed and falling apart in shards. One of the ads read—
SON—You are not being

hunted for anything but to

find you. Come Home.

—MOTHER

—and I wondered if this SON ever allowed himself to be found, if this particular SON had seen this paper and knew that he was the SON this MOTHER was trying to find, and I wondered if the MOTHER was really only hunting her SON for no reason other than to find him, if anyone could ever seek anyone for only one reason. It seemed she must have wanted something more than to just find him, and it seemed to me that a person might have many reasons, many many reasons, to not Come Home. But it only seemed that way to me and I am only one person, ruined by what I have and have not done.
Had there ever been a newspaper that would print the obituaries on the front page instead of the last?
The Reverend is going to come over for supper tonight, Hilda said. He’s concerned about you, of course, wants to make sure everything is OK. The whole congregation is concerned, but we know God sent you to us for a reason. He will take care of everything. It may sound silly in this day and age, but we still believe it. We can’t help but believe it.
Hilda looked out the window over my shoulder, looked to me again, away again. I felt this gentle urgency around her, a bruised kindness, as if something had been threatening to destroy her every day of her life and her only defense, somehow, was to remain so torn open. She kept shifting her weight from one leg to the other, looking at the floor. She told me she was someone that I could trust, that I could tell her what had happened and where I’d come from and whether I was a boy or a girl, and I could tell her how I’d gotten into the church and how it was I’d come to sleep there, and I could tell her everything—and even if I didn’t want to say a word to anyone else, it was safe, she insisted, to tell her where my family lived or what had happened to my family if I had no more family—even if they came here illegally, she said, even if they did something wrong, even if they did something not nice to you, or if someone else did something not nice to you—and she took a long time to say all this to me, speaking slowly, pausing to give me a chance to reply, to begin—it may not seem like it, but I really am someone you can talk to—and even then it seemed to me she was a woman hanging off the edge of a cliff, telling me not to worry about her, asking what she could do for me.
But in her eyes—and not even so deeply—I could see she would not sleep so easily with a stranger in her attic, above her children. It’s difficult to say exactly how I could see all this in Hilda’s face. Perhaps an honest feeling will always find a way to force itself through, an objector crying out in a crowd, hoping someone will hear.
Do you understand what I am saying? Will you at least let me know that you understand these words, that you can speak English? She paused for a moment, then spoke louder and slower—Do you speak English?
I nodded, to which she nodded and smiled and said, Dinner’s at six, then went quickly down the stairs.
All afternoon, alone in that attic, I listened to the noises that came through the floor—a rumbling of feet down a hall—a muffled conversation between Hilda and Steven—a door shut, a door slammed, a door opened and shut again. The caged parrot in their living room sometimes called out, Hello? Hello? Hello?—but no one ever answered. Silence for a while. Hello?
I sat on the floor, looking out a small window, staring down at the yard, feeling the sky slowly turn dim as Jack pushed a lawn mower in straight lines over the grass—across and turning and across again.



WHEN THE SUN STARTED GOING AWAY, I went down the attic stairs and stood in the hallway, hesitating in every direction. I could see Steven and Jack in the living room watching a television on mute, a football game. Steven explained each move to Jack, who nodded solemnly. The doorbell rang, casting a faint shadow over the room, though Steven and Jack sat comfortably in it.
Hilda ran past me carrying a wooden spoon and wearing an apron. The two smaller boys trailed behind her, pushing each other to try to take the lead. The doorbell rang again, then a knock, then the front door opened just before Hilda could reach it.
Hello, Reverend!
The boys latched on to the Reverend, one on his left leg and the other scaling his side.
Hello, Hilda! In the middle of cooking, I see?
And I’m probably burning something right now, so if you’ll excuse me—Steven, the Reverend’s here!
Hilda ran back toward the kitchen and Steven turned the television off, though Jack stayed still, stood only when his father punched his arm.
And our guest of honor, the Reverend said to me as he stretched out both arms, half-laughing. And how are we feeling now? Get some rest? Have a nice meal?
I remembered his voice from the church, but now that he lacked a whole sanctuary between his face and mine, his voice was simple and fragile, like anyone’s voice. I looked at the floor, at his feet in his shoes, thought of his toes in his shoes, here, standing in the living room like the rest of us. I looked up at his face, his neck. He stretched his arms out as if he wanted me to hug him or to allow myself to be hugged by him, to submit my body into his. I did not. He patted my shoulder, then left his hand there. He stared at me much longer and more carefully than anyone else had in a long time. I felt a kind of heat behind my eyes, a signal I couldn’t decipher.