Homeless

Homeless

By Jane T. Pait

Anson awakened from a deep sleep. He was half frozen in the abandoned hotel in spite of the overcoat the young stranger had given him. But, he had slept, really slept, for the first time in a long time. This time, there were no dreams to remind him why he was alone in a broken down hotel. When he awakened, he walked in the new snow savoring its cleanness. Some children throwing snowballs attacked him as he passed them in the park. He surprised himself by laughing and returning fire, deliberately missing his targets. As he ran away, he dried his hands on the sides of the coat and pulled on his gloves, the only treasures in the dumpster.

The gloves were holey, but they had helped. Last night, when Anson climbed out of the dumpster, he had come face to face with the young man.

“Sir, can I help you?”

“No, I’m fine. I take care of myself.”

The man smiled in spite of Anson’s abrupt tone. He held out his hand. Anson ignored the friendly gesture and turned to leave. “Sir, please take this coat. I don’t need it. I have a taxi and I’m on my way home.” Anson paused and then took another step away from the stranger. “Sir, please.”

Anson turned, and held out his hand. The coat was thick and long. “Thank you, young man,” he said grudgingly as he walked away. The coat was still warm. 

As he sat on the park bench remembering, he pulled off the old gloves and stuffed his hands into the coat pockets. He felt something, a folder. Mercy! This is an airline ticket. The ticket was for an early afternoon flight to Phoenix. He sat for a few moments just studying the ticket. Of all places, Phoenix, Arizona, his own hometown. Weird.

He had not thought about home in many years. He had not allowed himself to think about anything for many years. Not Vietnam. Not the prison camp. Not the day he left his wife and his child. His daughter was born shortly after he arrived in Vietnam. He had only seen a few pictures before he finally made it home. The last one was when she was about six months old. My, she was pretty.  His wife was pretty, too. But, he squashed that thought. His PTSD (Post-traumatic Stress Disorder) resulted in a lot of problems in his marriage and he had even frightened his child. She was only seven and couldn’t understand why this stranger was even in the house. The military doctors said his five years as a POW had robbed him of the ability to relate to anyone with love or even acceptance.  The night he slapped his wife, he left home. He had not been back and he had not communicated with his family since then, not even his own mother. 

Now as he sat and held the plane ticket in his hands, he felt a great longing just to know if they were all okay. He could fly back to Phoenix and just find them and observe them. No one would ever know, but him. “No, it’s too big a risk. I can’t trust myself. I may give myself away. They would be hurt again. I can’t do that.” He didn’t realize he was not alone and that he had spoken aloud, until the old man who had sat next to him spoke. 

“What did you say, fella? You plannin’ a robbery or somethin’?”

“What? No! I was just thinking out loud. See ya. I gotta go.”

He noticed the old man rubbed his beard and shook his head as he leaned back against the bench and pulled his cap over his eyes.  Anson decided that he was a lot of things, but not a thief. He had to try to return the ticket to the generous young man. Maybe, he had a wife and children he was trying to get home to. But, how could he do it? He looked up as a 747 flew over the park and watched as the vapor trails created circles. It seemed to be preparing for a landing. Anson knew what to do. I will go to the airport and maybe the ticket salesman can help me with returning the ticket before the man’s plane takes off. 

The airport was not as close as it looked. It was 1:00 P.M. when he arrived at the ticket counter. The flight was scheduled for 2:30 P.M. The lady at the ticket counter was not much help. She told him that he could not use the ticket because he had no I.D. “I do not want to use the ticket, Lady. I want to get it back to the original owner. How can I do that?” 

“Well, the rule is that if you lose your ticket, you should come to the appropriate desk the day of the flight and ask to be given another ticket.”

“Will you give him one or does he need this one?”

“He will be required to buy another ticket unless he has the ticket or the appropriate information from the ticket, such as the flight number and seat number and proper I.D.”

“So, I will need to wait for him here to give him the ticket?”

“Well, Mister, you can wait for him outside on the sidewalk. You cannot loiter in here by the counter.”

“It was dark when he gave me his coat. I might not recognize him. Please, let me stand nearby or you keep the ticket.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot do that, but let me see that ticket again.  I am making a note of the necessary information. I will tell him you are outside waiting for him and I will identify you for him. That is all I can do.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” He pocketed the ticket again. The sun was shining on the front of the airport, so waiting was not so bad. The only problem was he could no longer block his memories. And they were painful. 

“Mama! He is mean. Why does he have to stay with us? I don’t want a daddy!”

It was all fresh. The stabbing pain in his heart as he heard his daughter’s words. The sting of his hand that had struck his wife. Her look of terror. He had simply walked out the door and never looked back. Now, he was worried. Had they gotten over him and the bad times? Had Ellen remarried? His daughter would be 57 now. Fifty-seven, Becca 57! The war took everything from me. My peace of mind, my freedom, my family, my ability to love. 

“Hi Sir, remember me?” 

Anson turned, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then realized it was the young man. He was holding out his hand, and this time, Anson took it and shook it heartily. Reaching into his pocket and handing him the ticket, “Young man, I am so glad to see you. Am I in time? Can you catch your flight?” 

“I can. We still have 40 minutes until flight time. May I buy you some lunch as a thank you for delivering my ticket?”

“I, I guess so. That is mighty nice of you.”

“Let’s sit down at the counter over here, Sir. By the way, my name is Robert.”

“I’m Anson.”

Anson followed the young man and asked him to give their orders. He had not been in a restaurant of any description for many years. 

“Mr. Anson, Where are you from? Do you have family somewhere? Will you tell me a little about how you came to be at the dumpster that night?”

An emotional dam that had been building all day broke and Anson couldn’t hold back anymore. He told Robert everything, including the day he left home. Robert didn’t interrupt. He just sat listening intently. Finally, Anson said, “I don’t know why I told you all that. I haven’t told anyone before. Maybe it's because you are a stranger and leaving in a few minutes.”

“Mr. Anson, will you tell me your last name?"

“Well, I haven’t shared that with anyone either, but it’s Billings. And your last name?”

“I’m Robert Andrews, Sir." He paused and cleared his throat. "And my mom’s maiden name is Rebecca Billings. Excuse me, Sir, I have to go.”

Anson was stunned. He was sure he saw tears in Robert's eyes. Could it possibly be? Robert, Becca’s son, could not stand being in my presence. Again… I have hurt someone deeply again. Will it never end? He got up to walk away, but his knees would not hold him. He sat down and for the first time in many years wept deep wrenching tears.

He felt a strong grip on his shoulder. Robert was standing there holding two plane tickets. “Will you go home now, Papa?” 

Home. Home to face his past. Home to forgiveness and love.