The Patience of Vegetables and Saints, II

There he was, Travis, driving a beat up old pickup truck across campus on a late spring morning. He had never driven a truck before and was a bit taken aback when Father Jonah asked him if he wanted to take the wheel. Taken aback and, of course, thrilled. As the truck rumbled and clanked up dust over the dirt access road in the shadow of Reisendorf Hill, he bounced a bit more than strictly necessary on the straw bench seat. This was university property he was driving; his senses were alert, and he could smell the freshly cut grasses drying in the fields they passed, waiting to be bailed for the barn.

They reached the edge of campus and Travis turned left onto Red Mill Road and headed up and out of the valley. Damn, he thought but of course did not say out loud. Hot damn.

Jonah was telling him where they were going, and why, but it was hard to pay attention, what with the sun and all the pale spring green and the yellow flowers in the fields and the traffic . . . well, there wasn’t that much traffic . . . hard to pay attention until he caught Jonah saying, “. . . and then, out of the blue, she died.”

“Huh?” He turned to Jonah. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

Jonah paused and stared at the road ahead as it wound up the hill, and Travis could see the hint of a smile that indicated that the priest knew he hadn’t been paying attention, and that it was okay.

“I was saying,” Jonah said as he turned to him, “we’re going up to Sand Lake to the Martin farm to pick up some canned goods for the house.”

Travis nodded. “But who died?”

“Charles Martin—the farmer? His wife,” Jonah said. “About a year ago, she was in perfect health, but suddenly she started canning like she had never canned before. Fruit, tomatoes, anything she could get her hands on, she put up. It got to the point where he was stacking canned food in the barn.”

“Is that safe?”

“Hell if I know,” Jonah said. “I doubt he’d do it if it wasn’t.”

They drove a way in silence before Jonah picked up the story.

“Then, when she had finished canning every foodstuff she could find, she went to bed one night and died in her sleep.”

“Whoa,” Travis said. “What happened to her?”

“Doctor said her heart just stopped.”

“How . . . ?” Travis wondered. “She knew she was gonna die and so she put up all that food for her husband before she left?”

“Her husband and their four sons,” Jonah said.

“Wow,” Travis said. And then, “But if he has a family, why is he giving all this food to the house?”

“It hurts too much to have it around,” Jonah smiled wanly. “He said every time one of the kids went into the pantry—or the barn—for some tomatoes and brought it to the kitchen, the sight of the jar near broke his heart all over again.”

Travis felt the heaviness of the man’s sorrow, but it was at war within him with the bright sunshine and crisp morning air.

“It’s been over six months now,” Jonah said, “and I guess he thinks this is what he has to do to move on.”

Travis thought about the man, a widower with four kids. At the Troy Road, Jonah gave further directions, and they sat in silence as they drove along the ridge on the other side of Reisendorf that offered them an unobstructed view of the city and the river below.

“Tell me more about Fourth Street,” Travis said, hoping to lighten their mood to match the glory of the day.

“What do you want to know?”

“Well,” he said. “How did Love in Action get started? And who is Carla? I heard people talking about her as though she was pretty much in charge, but she hasn’t been there the two times I’ve volunteered.”

Jonah paused before speaking, almost as though he were hesitating.

“Am I asking something I shouldn’t?”

“No, not at all,” Jonah said. “I was just thinking that you would be a great reader for the manuscript Jason is working on. It’s about Carla and the others and how they first met.”

“Far out,” Travis said. “Jason’s writing it all down?”

“Well, he’s trying to.” Jonah shook his head. “It’s hard for Jay to sit still long enough to do the writing.”

“Jason’s an odd guy,” Travis said. “He’s, well, he’s . . . “

“He’s your first homosexual, right?”

Travis thought he would blush, but he didn’t. “He’s so quiet,” he said. “I haven’t heard two words out of him in two visits.”

Jonah’s laugh—more like a sudden bark than a laugh—surprised Travis. “Jason quiet?” He laughed again.

“I get the impression he’s kind of shy,” Travis said.

“Just the opposite,” Jonah said.

“Now I’m confused,” Travis said. “Are we talking about the same guy, Jason Santini?”

“We are indeed,” Jonah said. “You’re just catching him at a bad time.” He directed Travis to take a right at the light. “Jay will come around when he gets out of the funk he’s in.”

Before Travis could pursue this, Jonah cut him off.

“There’s the turn to Martin’s farm,” he said.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


They found Chaz Martin in what Travis would come to know as an uncharacteristic position—not at work, but sipping a glass of what looked like iced tea on his front porch. He was a short, compact man, well built, maybe a little younger than Travis’s father, but not by much. His hair was receding and flecked with gray, but Travis could feel a vitality he didn’t sense in his father, who had a desk job in Portland. This was a man at home outdoors, tanned and strong from hard labor.

“Padre,” the man said, standing and beckoning to them. “Come on up.”

Jonah introduced Travis as a volunteer from GBU and Chaz asked them if they wanted something to drink.

“I’ve got tea here,” he said. “I don’t drink hot beverages. But I can make coffee for you if you like.”

They both declined and then sat on two of the Adirondack chairs that lined the broad front porch.

“A good school, GBU,” Chaz said. “I’m hoping my oldest will go there next year.”

“You have four boys, right?” Travis asked.

“Hey, you’ve been doing your homework,” Chaz said to him. “Yeah, four of them. And four is a trial, I’ll tell you that.”

“Not as bad as four girls, I bet,” Travis said. “Talk to my folks. They had me and then three daughters. Talk about your trials.”

Chaz turned to Jonah. “I can see why you recruited this one,” he said. “You talk to him and he’s right there with you.” And when Travis looked surprised, he added, “I do my homework, too, kid.”

“Father J told you he recruited me?” Travis asked.

“Sure he did,” Chaz said.

“And no,” Jonah said, “I didn’t tell him about the mermaid.”

“What mermaid?” Chaz asked.

“Another time,” Jonah said. “Hey, I have class in a little over an hour. We’d better get that truck loaded.”

Chaz got up and called for his son Jack, who came from inside the house. He was a slightly smaller version of his father, skin brown as a nut and sporting a full head of chestnut curls, just like mine, Travis noticed; hell, we could be brothers. Except Jack was apparently shy, for he blanched white as the proverbial ghost when he was introduced to Jonah. Because he was meeting a priest, maybe?

“Why aren’t you in school?” Jonah asked him.

The boy was obviously uncomfortable, but said nothing.

“Jack has a bit of a temper,” Chaz said. “Got into a fight with another kid a year ahead of him, and got himself a nice one-week suspension so he could help his dad on the farm full time, instead of just doing his usual chores.”

The two boys went off to the truck to take it down to the barn and fill it while Jonah and Chaz resumed their seats on the porch.

“You don’t sound very mad about Jack.”

“Nah,” Chaz said. “He’s a good kid.”

“But violent?”

“Actually, no, not particularly violent.” Chaz looked out at the flower garden that spread out from either side of the path to the front of the house, in lieu of a lawn. “A lot like his mother, though.”

“How do you mean?” Jonah asked.

Chaz smiled and sighed. “You remember Janie, her temper when she got it into her head that someone was a victim of injustice.”

“I do remember,” Jonah said. “She was the one who originally found Carla the house on Fourth Street.”

“You know why Jack got in trouble?” Chaz looked at him. “He beat up a kid who is, apparently, a notorious bully. A real thug. Would have beat the shit out of him, actually.”

“Let me guess,” Jonah said. “The kid wasn’t bullying Jack, was he?”

“Course not. No one bullies my guys.”

Two swallows swooped down from a cherry tree by the road and caught the men’s attention for a moment.

“Why haven’t I met Jack before? He’s old enough to come down to the house to help out, and if he’s like Janie . . . .”

“Baseball’s his love and probably gonna be his life, at least for a while,” Chaz said. “If he gets into GBU or anywhere else, it’ll be on a baseball scholarship.”

“Where’s he play?”

“Where doesn’t he play?” Chaz said. “He and his buddies find games everywhere. Though lately . . . .”

A door slammed and the two men watched the boys close up the barn and secure the truck, talking all the while.

“Lately there’s this girl down in Rensselaer that Jack met, and so I think he and his buds have been spending more time down there.”

“Jack’s in love?”

“Anything but,” Chaz said. “He says she’s one of the best ball players he’s ever met. Almost as good as he is.”

“Now that is rare praise for a teenager,” Jonah said as the truck trailed dust up the hill to the house.

“He ever play down near the church?” Jonah asked. “In that big lot that Monsignor commandeered for parking?”

“Not that I know of, but it wouldn’t surprise me,” Chaz said as they got up to meet the truck.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++


“Thanks for not blowing my cover,” Travis said. “About the mermaid.”

“You are welcome,” Jonah said. “Seal of the confessional.”

“Say, did you see how Jack turned all white when his dad introduced him to us?”

“I did.”

“I found out why,” Travis said, with a bit of triumph in his voice.

Jonah stared ahead and said nothing for a time.

“Did it have anything to do with baseball by any chance?” he asked.

“Now how did you know that?” Travis was way too often amazed at what adults seemed to be able to know with no preparation whatsoever. "He wants to talk to you."

"I figured he would."

And that was how it came to be that Jack, Son of Chaz, eventually nicknamed "Jackson," came to make regular visits—after school hours and baseball practice—to the Love in Action House of Hospitality.


[“The patience of vegetables and saints” is a line taken from the poem, “The Lily,” by Mary Oliver, found in her book, Why I Wake Early (Boston: Beacon Press, 2004) 25]

[Next: Notes from The Devil’s Daybook]