THE VISITOR

There was a knock at the door, and at first Clara thought it was part of her dream. She had nodded off in one of the two identical wing-backed, chairs situated by the lamp table in front of the south window of her large kitchen.
As she stirred her aged, arthritic bones, she was flustered by what she perceived to be impatience on the part of her caller as the knocking increased in timing and sound.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called.
Hobbling toward the back door, she thought that it couldn’t be anyone from “Meals on Wheels” this early. They usually came around twelve-fifteen with the box of warm food. It was just after eleven by the large clock on the wall over her refrigerator.
As she neared the door, she could see through the glass that a man was standing right up against the door, actually leaning onto the door itself.
As she drew open the door, he fell into her kitchen and rolled over onto his back. He smelled awful and looked even worse. There were huge brown stains on his white shirt and pants. His wispy, pale hair was tousled and she saw he hadn’t shaved in quite a while.
Clara realized that this had to be someone kin to her since he’d come to her for help. She stayed frustrated with the fact that her memory was so unpredictable, but she wouldn’t allow that to stay her from anything she could do to help a kinsman.
Leaving him lying, she set about filling a shallow blue enameled wash basin with warm water and slipped in a well-used bar of soap. Grabbing a fresh dish towel from the sink drawer she sloshed it around in the foggy water, wrung it somewhat and began to wash his face.
He moaned and opened his eyes. Rolling them upward and around, he then locked into Clara’s eyes. He saw a kindred soul there and sat up. Clara straightened up and stepped back.
“Are you Mae’s boy?” she asked.
He smiled and nodded.
“You sure remind me of Mae. I’m your Aunt Clara. Remember me?” Clara returned the smile.
He got up and staggered to the table situated in the center of the kitchen and sat down heavily. He laid both arms out across the oil cloth and looked around expectantly.
“Lunch won’t come for another hour, but we can have a cup of tea. Do you want tea?” she asked.
He smiled, so she knew he did. She filled the little kettle with fresh water and set it on the eye. While it was beginning to heat she found the tin of tea bags and brought out two large china cups and set them on the table.
Maybe he’s hungry, she thought, and needs something before the meal gets here. Yes, they will only give me one box of food and that might not be enough.
Clara opened the bread box and brought out a half loaf of sourdough bread. Now who brought me this bread, she wondered. I know it wasn’t Joyce. She only brings a roll in the box. She checked it over for mold and saw that it was still good.
As she sliced off three or four pieces, the kettle began to emit a steady stream of vapor. She placed the bags into each cup and filled them with the bubbling water. He watched every move, never moving his body, just following everything with his eyes.
“How is Mae? I don’t think I’ve seen her in well over a year,” said Clara.
He smiled.
“No one ever comes to see me anymore. My daughter, Bessie... you remember Bessie don’t you... she’s the one who married... oh, you know what his name is, I can’t think of it right now. She has three children, I think. I wish she’d come more. I get so lonesome for company,” Clara said.
He smiled.
“Go ahead and fix your tea. The sugar is right there in the green dish. Just take the lid off and ... oh, I forgot the spoons. Let me get the spoons.”
She laid two spoons on the table and reached into the refrigerator for the squat dish of butter. Cutting off a hefty chunk she laid it in the middle of a thick slice of bread and handed it to him.
He grabbed the bread and before she could see what happened he’d stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed.
He smiled.
Not to be outdone, Clara repeated the process but before she could get the butter centered on another slice of bread, he took it from her hands and gulped it down.
“You can’t be Mae’s son. She raised you with better manners than that,” she said. Clara stood as staunchly as possible within the confines of her frail frame and clamped her hands on her hips.
He smiled.
“Well, I can overlook it since you must really be hungry, but you wait until I get this next piece laid down before you eat it, now you hear?”
As Clara was laying a chunk of butter onto the third slice of bread, she recognized that his hands were filthy. She remembered that she’d just gotten to wash his face and never did get the rest of him cleaned up.
Laying down the paring knife and bread, she slowly made her way from the table to the pan of water sitting in the floor near the door. She bent over and lifted it up to head to the sink with it when she saw he’d already eaten the last slice of bread and was smiling at her.
She wrung out the small towel and lifted his left hand and began to wash away the dirt. He suffered her ministrations in total silence all the while keeping his eyes on her face. It took several rounds of rinsing and wringing the towel before Clara was satisfied.
“My brother had hands like this; long fingers. They always said his hands were made for the piano. I can’t remember if I ever heard him play. I must have though. And now I can’t think of his name. You could be his son maybe, but I think he was killed in the war. I wish I knew,” she said.
As she sat down across the small square table from him, she saw that he’d never removed the tea bag, nor, in fact, had she. She reached over and removed the bag from his cup and then from hers. “Do you want sugar?”
He smiled.
“Okay, one or two spoonfuls?” she asked.
He smiled.
“Alright, I’ll put two. Whenever someone is too embarrassed to say they want more, they’ll not say anything. Isn’t that right?”
She stirred the sugar into his tea and then just a sprinkle into hers.
“Drink it before it gets cold, now.”
He didn’t move.
“Are you afraid you’ll spill it? Do you want me to help?”
He smiled.
Clara stood and moved to his side. She lifted his cup and held it to his lips. He accommodated her movements and she was satisfied immensely as he downed the warm liquid.
“I’m so proud of you. Just look at how you enjoyed that tea. Can you use another cup? Now, I don’t want to make you stay too long, though. Mae could be out looking for you by now. Although, I really don’t want you to have to leave so soon; it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you or Mae.”
He smiled and she turned the eye on under the kettle.
“Do you like television? I don’t care much for it myself, but sometimes when Joyce stays a little while when she brings my meal, she’ll turn it on to see “the Price is Right”. I can’t ever understand how they guess the prizes and get all that money, but I suppose Joyce does. Would you like me to turn it on?” she asked.
He smiled again so Clara moved over to the low cabinet nestled in the back corner of the room. She switched on the set and in a few seconds the two of them watched as a news alert was being broadcast.
“Come, sit over here in this chair where you’ll be more comfortable and be relaxed,” she said.
Clara knew he wouldn’t move until she took him by his hand and led him to where she told him to sit.
“I’ll fix your tea and bring it to you right away,” she said.
Clara removed the butter back to the refrigerator and wiped the crumbs from the oilcloth. She laid the paring knife in the sink and then poured the steaming water into the two cups. Once the bags had steeped enough, she removed them and stirred in the sugar; two for his cup and just a sprinkle for her.
Treading gingerly she carried the two cups and placed them on the lamp table between the chairs. She seated herself and picked up her cup. She noticed that he was sitting with his eyes closed and nodding gently to the drone of the voices on television.
Clara turned to look at the news and saw a group of people outside what looked like a hospital. There were police and doctors and nurses all discussing things. One nurse was crying and shaking her head. There was a very nicely dressed gentleman who was consoling her and soon the picture changed and one man was telling everyone to be on the lookout for an escaped inmate.
“My goodness, it appears someone has gone missing today. Folks will be all out looking for them. I hope everything will be okay and they’ll find the one that’s lost. It’s terrible to be lost, isn’t it?” she said
He smiled, even with his eyes closed and nodding.
She remembered, so she got up and lifted his cup as she touched his shoulder. He drank down every soothing drop and smiled again.
“You do love your tea, don’t you... now what’s your name again? I’m so forgetful. I know Mae told me what name she gave you. I think I remember when you were born. It was in July, wasn’t it?”
He smiled.
“I thought so,” she said. “July is a hot month. Your mother was born in May, of course. Mama didn’t have much of an imagination when it came to naming her children. She called me Clara because she said I was bright looking; or at least that’s what they told me. Mama died right after baby Arthur was born. Arthur. That’s my brother’s name. Are you Arthur’s boy?”
He smiled.
“Arthur was a good baby, but after Mama died, Papa hired a black lady whose child had died and she tried to feed Arthur but her milk had dried and it wouldn’t come back. I remember Papa buying a goat, but that didn’t work either. The cow had gone dry too and poor little Arthur died.
“I remember standing next to Mae and Papa at the cemetery. It was Christmas time and the ground was hard as a rock. The men had to dig nearly two days before they had it big enough for the box.”
Clara gazed out the window at the leafless trees. “It must be Christmas time about now, because it looked just like this when we buried baby Arthur.”
“Do y’all still put up a Christmas tree? I haven’t had a tree in a long time. I don’t know what I did with all the ornaments and decorations. I had a whole big box full. We used to pull it out of the attic and go through everything. John would always be the one to check the string of lights to make sure they were all burning.
“John and I married right out of high school. I wonder where he is? You’ll love him. He was always such fun with our daughter. After church every Sunday we’d go for a ride and end up at Meltons Ice Cream Parlor. Mr. Melton always opened on Sunday for three hours during the hot months. Now in cold weather he didn’t do that. But we’d get double chocolate malted shakes. I can almost taste them now.”
Clara wasn’t surprised when she heard the soft, deep ruffled breathing of the sleeping man. His head was laid sideways into the crevice of the winged chair and his mouth was slightly open. She watched as his lips pursed in and out with the rhythm of his chest.
She was content having the company of this young man and she felt sure Mae would call her soon to check on his whereabouts. She’d call Mae herself, if she could remember what her last name was.
Nodding off to sleep, she dreamed once more of knocking sounds and muffled voices. Pulling herself with great effort out of the nap, she was surprised to see Joyce with her box of hot food standing with her kitchen full of other people.
“Buster!!” cried Mae’s boy, as he moved toward another man. It was the same nicely dressed gentleman Clara had seen on her television set just a little while ago.
The gentleman reached out to hug Mae’s boy and said, “Man, we’ve been looking everywhere for you; I’ve been so worried for you, brother.”
A nice policeman stepped up to Clara and took her hand, looked into her eyes and asked, “Ma’am, I’m Officer Malone. Have you been harmed in any way? Are you alright?”
“Why, of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be? I can take care of myself, and entertain my nephew and anyone else who comes for a visit.”
Turning toward the stove and reaching for her kettle, Clara asked, “Do you want me to make you a cup of tea, Officer? I can, you know. They just bring me the one meal a day and I cook for myself the rest of the time.”