Patchwork Promisehttp://www.neepeople.com/patchwork-promise/story "in progress"en-US2008-07-26T23:40:24ZSquarespace Site Server v5.0.0 (http://www.squarespace.com/)Chunk # 3, Coffe, Tea or Trains?http://www.neepeople.com/patchwork-promise/chunk-3-coffe-tea-or-trains.htmlLaura N.2007-08-08T01:22:05Z“Gabe, would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked from the kitchen.

Gabe turned around, almost startled.  He had been sitting on the couch, the low murmur of Mom and Dad’s voices stopped.  “I…sure,” he said.

“Do you take anything in it?  Cream?  Sugar?”

“No, just black.  Thank you.”  He turned back around to face the large front window.  

I walked back into the kitchen, “This is an interesting character you’ve brought home, Zach.”

“Yeah.  I mean usually they talk a mile a minute because they’re a little out of it from being on the street.  This guy doesn’t seem to know what to say.”

“I prefer the quiet ones,” Kat said.

“You would,” Zach replied as he loaded the last dish into the dishwasher.

I took Gabe his coffee and settled myself on the couch with a book.  Zach and Kat finished up in the kitchen and Kat returned to our room.  Zach joined Gabe and I on the couch.  Mom and Dad continued their quiet conversation at the dining room table.

Zach sat without talking, but not quietly.  Not talking was an unusual state of being for Zach, who, like our mother pretty much had something to say almost all the time.  As if to compensate for his lack of verbal output, he began tapping his foot as he glanced about the room.  Gabe and I both watched him, which made him more nervous.

Zach was trying to heed Kat’s advice to give the forced conversation with Gabe a rest and it took every ounce of his concentration.  Finally, he gave up.

“What are you reading, Bree?”

“Pride and Prejudice,” I answered.

“Haven’t you memorized it by now?”

“Not quite.   I get something new every time I read it.  That’s why classics are classics.”

“I feel the same way about Dostoevsky,” Gabe had spoken, quietly, but he had spoken.  It was the first time he had initiated any part of the conversation.

“Wow…you’ve read Dostoevsky,” Zach said.

“Yeah, I came across a copy of Crime and Punishment.  I you know, I read it.  It took me a long time, but I yeah.  I read it.  A couple of times.”

“A couple of times.  Sheesh.”

“Zach can’t sit still long enough to get through it once, Gabe,” I smiled at him.

“Aww, c’mon Bree.  Not everyone wants to sit around and think about books.”

“I don’t just think about them.  It’s more than that.  I’ve tried to explain it to you before.”

“The story becomes part of you,”  Gabe added, again, very quietly.

“Yeah,” I said, eyeing Gabe curiously.

Dad stood up.  “I think I’m going to go and tinker with my trains.”

“Have fun honey,” Mom said as she rose from the table.

“What kind of trains, sir?” Gabe had spoken again.

“I have model trains in the basement.”

“Ahhh” Gabe said almost dream like.

“Would you like to see them?”

“I would, if it’s OK.”

“Sure.”

Gabe and Dad left the room.  I went back to my book.  Zach, not sure what to do with himself….

Later in the evening, Mom called us all for evening prayers.  Dad and Gabe had spent several hours in the basement.  Gabe lingered downstairs after Dad as we began our prayers.  I found it hard sometimes to concentrate on the words of the prayers being spoken, unless it was my turn to read them.  Often, I simply said in my head, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner” over and over.  Normally this quieted me so that I felt removed from my normal surroundings.

Tonight, as I said this prayer while Mom recited the chain of evening prayers, I heard soft footfalls, something large being lifted from the floor and the front door open and close behind me.  

]]>Chunk # 2, A Family Dinner...http://www.neepeople.com/patchwork-promise/2007/7/19/chunk-2-a-family-dinner.htmlLaura N.2007-07-19T11:44:04ZAfter standing to pray for the evening meal, we all sat down to dinner.  Kat was quiet, with a sad forcefield about her that didn’t let anyone in.

Gabe sat down, awkward.  Mom had managed to get him into a shower.  The iron colored hair was now slicked back from his forehead, still wet and a little water trickled from it into his beard.  It was now possible to tell the difference between the dirt on Gabe’s  face and the beard.  Mom had found him some clothes that didn’t quite hang on him like raggedy old curtains.  Gabe now looked less like he should be living on the street and more like an old uncle, invited over to dinner because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Zach sat next to him, with an eager look on his face.  Gabe’s guitar case was behind him and I think Zach was hoping for a song.  Mom was chattering away, passing plates and offering food.  Dad was late for dinner.  I sat, wondering.

Everyone’s plate was loaded up with pasta, including Gabe’s who sat staring down at his meal with a confused look on his face.  He case a sideways glance at Zach who said, “everything OK, Gabe?”

“Yeah, I just uh, yeah it’s OK.”  Gabe picked up his fork and dug into the pasta, looking around again, he watched Zach twirl his fork to attach a good sized bite.  Gabe imitated the movements and looked relieved as he managed to get a large bite of pasta into his mouth.

“Gabe, we’d love to hear a little more about you if you’d like to tell us,” Mom said.

“Yeah, and maybe you can play us something?” Zach asked, his eyes turning to the guitar  case.

“Um, OK…would you mind if I uh, finished off a little more of this?”

“Of course not, Gabe.  Help yourself to as much as you need?  By the way, were you by any chanced named for the Angel Gabriel?” Mom asked.

“Angel Gabriel?”

“Yes, you know, the one who told the Virgin Mary she was going to have Jesus. Gabe is often a nickname for Gabriel.”

“I really don’t know, ma’am.”

“Well, I was just curious.  Gabe is a good strong name, no matter who you were named for.”

Gabe just stared at Mom.  It was kind of hard to tell how he was feeling from the expression on his face.  Mom could be pretty overwhelming.  Gabe looked easily overwhelmed.  This didn’t stop Mom.

“Well, what have you done with yourself these past few years.  Surely you’ve got some kind of story to share with us?”

Gabe stared at Mom for two more heart beats, “Um, excuse me for a moment.”  He got up and quickly shuffled his way towards the bathroom.

“Mom, I think you’re overwhelming him,” Kat said.

“How could I be overwhelming him.  I’m just asking some questions.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like to talk much and your blasting questions at him left and right.”

“I’m not blasting questions left and right.  I just want to know a little more about him.”

“Maybe he just needs to sit quietly for a while and absorb us.  If he’s not used to sharing with people, it could be really difficult.”

“You know, Kat.  I’m going to take your advice because it’s the most compassionate thing I’ve heard you say in a while.”

“I’m not all whizz and vinegar.  Besides , the poor man is completely, err…well, you know.”  Gabe was heard shuffling back towards the dining room.”

“Ok, everyone.  Just pretend we’re having a normal family dinner,” Mom hissed under her breath.

“Welcome back, Gabe,” Mom said.

“Err…thank you.”

The next few minutes were awkward.  Being told to “pretend to be normal” almost always has the opposite effect.”  A few of us forgot how to get spaghetti our mouths.  Until, of course, Dad walked in from work.”

“Hello, everyone,” Dad said as he wearily took his place at the table.

“Hello, Walter,” Mom said.  “Tough day?  Clients being difficult again.”

“Well, everyone just wants everything yesterday as usual.”  Dad sighed.

Dad was an artist of sorts, an architect.  Dad spent a lot of time fighting for what he thought were good designs.  Unfortunately, when one works for a firm, good design may not always win out over what the customer wants and what happens to be trendy at the moment.  Most of Dad’s creative energy was spent in the basement, working on his model trains.  The villages his train wound through contained the buildings of Dad’s dreams;  simple, elegant and useful, I think he might have died without that world in basement.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed we have a new guest.  His name is Gabe.”

“Oh yes, I noticed.  Welcome, Gabe.”  Dad never really got to know our guests.  He was much more introverted than the rest of the family.  Dad wasn’t an unfriendly person, just very reserved.  More than one conversation went on between their children as to just how Mom and Dad had managed to come together.

“Can you pass the salad, Gabe?” Dad asked.

Gabe quietly passed the salad in Dad’s direction.  Then he scooted back from his place at the table and said in a voice that was barely audible and with a slightly southern lilt, “Well, y’all have been real nice.  The food was good and I was glad to share it with you.  I guess I best be getting on my way again.”  He turned to pick up his guitar case.

“Gabe, we’re glad you could come and share with us.  We have an extra place to sleep for you tonight if you’d like it.  At any rate…please don’t hurry off.  Unless you do have some place else to go.  Even if you don’t want to spend the night, please do stay and rest a while longer.  I promise not to ask you any more questions.”  Mom had finished her speech with what, for her, was a shy smile.  Dad looked up, met her eyes, and smiled softly.

“I, er I suppose I could stay a little while longer.”

“Only if you really want to, Gabe,” Zach said.  “Or I can drop you off somewhere if you’d like.”

Gabe moved over to the couch behind the dining room table.  Zach, Bree and I began to clear the table.  Mom moved closer to Dad, “Bree, get some coffee started, will you.”  She and Dad began to talk in whispered tones.  Things felt almost, normal. ]]>Chapter 1http://www.neepeople.com/patchwork-promise/2007/6/28/chapter-1.htmlLaura N.2007-06-28T12:58:48ZI wish I could tell you Mom was full of wisdom and offered metaphorical advice at every turn.  On the contrary, Mom’s advice was the treasure you’d find in the bottom of an old sock pile at the local thrift store; unexpected, bizarre and stunningly appropriate for the occasion.  Speaking of, the decor in our home could be described as early thrift store.  This wasn’t so much because Mom loved thrift stores (she did) but because she could never throw anything out.  Mom had a pack-rat’s soul and a gypsy’s heart.

As the middle child, I was the translator of Mom’s crazy schemes.  My older sister was too orderly and logical to get on well enough with Mom.  My younger brother enjoyed Mom’s constant activity but was no better at deciphering her, no better than, well, no better than anyone else, even our father.

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