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The Visitor By School Belle What a day! It started out normally enough what with catching up on the laundry we'd skipped on Sunday and starting to get the food we'd bought on Saturday ready for the week. Then there was the homeschooling. I like to use Hannah and Elizabeth to drill Sarah and Mark, especially during the summer, so we don't lose everything we'd gained at the expense of so much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth during the school year. That sort of leaves me "free" to deal with Josiah the perpetual motion/perpetual question machine. Everything had gone more or less in the general direction of what I was hoping for. Hannah was too hard on Sarah, but she was learning the presidents. Elizabeth was not nearly hard enough on Mark who remained defiantly proud of his ignorance of long division. I had gotten Josiah to pretend to be doing a coloring book that purported to teach him logic by matching shapes. After lunch, the girls and I began hanging out laundry in the backyard. I say backyard. It's not like we live in a suburb with paved streets, stop signs, and privacy fences. We're in the Texas panhandle a good hour north of Amarillo on what used to be a sharecropper's place back when everyone tried to wrest their living from the earth. It was Nathan's ideal, and therefore mine, to be as independent and apart from the current goings on as we could, which freed us to walk as closely to the Lord as our conscience decreed. To that end he is a carpenter, hiring out at great distances to afford me the luxury of mothering, educating, doctoring, not to mention laundering, without benefit of the latest electronics, labor saving devices, and oh yes, a dryer. And the boys? They were supposed to be playing in the "front yard," the forest of undersized cottonwood, mesquite, and chokecherry trees that grew no taller than our Suburban and covered hundreds if not thousands of acres just beyond the flower beds. "Mama!" I heard Josiah's little shout. He must have been a hundred yards off at least. I paused, and so did the girls. Like a little herd of white-tails each cocked her head to a different angle to pick up his direction. "Mama!" He yelled again. There was no fear, but there was alarm. "Josiah!" I answered loudly. "We're round back," as he very well knew. I was just trying to let him know he had been heard. Sure enough, it wasn't a minute later, and he came tearing around the corner of the house knees high and dimpled elbows pumping. "Mama, there's a wooly headed boy face down in Old Muddy! Mark sent me to fetch you." And he reached out and grabbed my skirt as if to pull me along. "Wait," I said grabbing his wrist and freeing my skirt. "Old Muddy--you're saying there's a boy lying in the middle of the street," --for that was the name of the clay road that ran about a mile in front of our place. The name was apt because whenever it cut loose and really rained, the water turned the clay into a bog, and there was no traveling without a high axle four-wheel drive vehicle. Though how the driver of one of the rare vehicles that passed through these lonesome parts could miss seeing "a wooly-headed boy", or how a "wooly-headed boy" could miss hearing anything mechanical from at least a mile away was beyond comprehension. "No, mama, the creek, the creek not the road," he said in the exasperated tone he used when he found that I was unable to instantly interpret the world from his perspective. To him "Old Muddy" was the perfect name for a creek, so that's what he called it. "Come on; you got to bring water!" Of course I had to bring water. The "creek" was actually the Canadian River, drier than the west Texas wind. I'd often wondered if some Spaniard, lost on the llano had called the wadi "Canadian" to encourage his men with the thought that they were so far north of Mexico that it was bound to cool off soon. If so, he was probably the same guy that called our area Valle de Oro, when neither a valley nor gold were anywhere to be seen. "Hannah, come with us. You two keep working," I said. We went into the kitchen and got our cold water bottles out of the refrigerator. "How far?" I asked. "It's close, mama," Josiah said. That was no help. For a little guy that could run all day, everything was close. And of course, he immediately took off running. We followed along as quickly as we could, and sure enough, it wasn't that far--no more than a half-mile from the house--about as close as the Canadian gets to our place. We saw Mark first. He was sitting on the river bank, chin on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, staring with the cold detachment that is his way. "Where?" I asked when we got closer, and he pointed straight out ahead of him. "I thought if he was dead we probably shouldn't move him. You know, police and all," Mark said with an authority beyond his years. "Dead," I repeated and paused. That possibility had not occurred to me. "Okay, you all stay here. I'll go check." For once no one protested. Hannah turned her back and faced away from the river. I got down the bank and followed the boys' footprints in the sand. It wasn't 25 yards, and there he was. From the size of him, he looked older than Hannah. His hair was a matted, tangled auburn. There was so much of it, it really did look wooly as Josiah described it. One arm was under him and the other out to the side. The arm I could see was covered in scabbed over cuts. He was wearing a faded red, or maybe it was a pink, shirt and what I thought at first was a pair of blue jean cutoffs. His legs were as scabbed as his arm. One foot was bare, the other seemed to have some kind of sandal attached to it. There was a dirty cloth strap running diagonally from his shoulders to his hips. He wasn't moving, but was he dead? If you were to see someone motionless on a battlefield, or in a wrecked car, you would expect death to be a real possibility. But to encounter a body in a dry creek bed in the middle of nowhere is not something you usually think about, much less prepare for. I knelt down beside him and was immediately hit with the stench of body odor. As I started breathing through my mouth, it occurred to me that I was not smelling rotting flesh--anyone who has been around anything that's been dead for a while knows that smell--just a stinky boy who'd been out in the Texas heat too long. I felt his arm. It was warm, but of course it would be; it was only June, but it was already over 90 degrees. I tried to find a pulse, but his arm must have been at a wrong angle. That was when I noticed he wasn't face down like I had been told. The long hair had fooled my boys. I reached for his neck, found his obvious Adam's apple, and then positioned my fingers to one side of it. Yes! There was a pulse. It was faint, but steady. I pulled his hair away from his face and began pouring cold water from one of the bottles onto his head and neck. "Come on now," I said in my best get-the-kids-up-in-the morning voice. "Let's wake up!" I washed what I thought was gummy dirt off his forehead and cheeks and river sand off his neck. "Come on, open up those eyes!" "I brought more water." I jerked up to see Hannah standing beside me holding out a full bottle. I twisted around further and saw the boys still on the bank. "I told them to stand guard and be on the lookout for trouble." "Good job. I didn't even hear you come up." That's when the boy sputtered a choking cough and then a cry. "No! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!" Then tears and then sobs that convulsed his entire body. I leaned over and took his shoulders in my arms. "It's alright. We're here. You're safe. You're not alone." I noticed that Hannah had fallen to her knees and was holding his outstretched arm. His eyes opened, and his head twisted around to look at us. I never saw such fear in a young man's eyes before. I sat back up to give him space. "We've got water, cold water; would you like to sit up and drink some? You need it and right now." He nodded in a shaky, frightened way. "Okay, Hannah, help me get him rolled over. Then we can set him upright." It was when we got him on his back, and I began lifting and then pushing at his shoulders from behind to get him into a sitting position that I heard Hannah's frightened voice. "Mama!" Sometimes that word means "look at me." Sometimes it means "where are you?" It can mean any one of a thousand other things, but sometimes it means real, immediate danger. I had heard that "Mama!" from Hannah only once before, when she was six and had gotten into bed with a scorpion. In the providence of God, she had not been stung, but she had been traumatized. It was a week before she could be persuaded to sleep in her own bed, and then only after Nathan and I completely unmade it so that she could see there was nothing to fear. I looked at Hannah and then all around, but she was transfixed on our young man, her eyes bigger than I have ever seen them. Fearing anything from rattlesnakes to a spurting artery, I scooted on my knees through the sand until I got into a position to see what Hannah saw. The red shirt was a pink blouse. The cutoffs were not cutoffs but a very short denim skirt. The strap was attached to a purse. His face, where I had washed it with water, was streaked with makeup. He raised both hands as if to fend off a blow. Everybody slows down at the scene of an accident. You may be running late and angry at all the cars poking along impeding your progress, but when you get to the bottle neck--the twisted metal, ambulance, police cars, and fire truck--your head automatically swivels, and you too look to see what you can see. How bad was it? Was anyone hurt? Is there any blood? And then you floor it and move on. For several seconds I was as paralyzed as Hannah. All I could do was look. Of course I knew such people existed. How can you not know these days? I just never expected to meet such an individual in real life, certainly not in the wilderness of the Texas panhandle. "Drink this," I whispered, holding out a bottle. "You have to drink this now, and we have to get you into the shade." He took the bottle, but the weight of the water was more than his heat-exhausted arms could handle. Everything collapsed into his lap. "It's okay," I said, picking up the bottle. "Hannah, get behind him and make sure he doesn't fall back." I unscrewed the lid on the bottle and held it up to his lips. "Don't drink too fast, just sip it." He emptied the bottle and what was left of the one I'd used to wash his face and neck. I had one more, full bottle, but I wanted to save it for the walk to the house. "Do you think you can get up?" He nodded. "Okay, wait a second," I said and raised a hand to signal the boys. In an instant they were off the bank and with us in the sandy river bed. "Mama, why is he wearing a dress?" Josiah asked. Mark looked the young man up and down, studying him like some creature he'd come across in the woods and never seen before. "I don't know, but I'm sure we'll all find out soon enough. In the meantime, we've got to get him home and out of the sun. You understand?" They all nodded. "Okay, help me get him on his feet." I took one arm, and Hannah and the boys took the other. We got him up, but we didn't dare let go of him as he was swaying even as we held him. "Hannah, give him some more water." She had the last full bottle, but she hesitated. She was afraid to hold it up to his mouth. "Here, give it to me." I took the cap off. "Open," I commanded, and he opened his mouth. I squeezed the bottle and shot some cold liquid into his mouth. That's when Josiah looked up from where he was under the opposite shoulder from me. "What's your name anyway?" "Skyla," was the raspy reply. "Skyla?" Josiah repeated. "What kind of name's that?" "Hush, Josiah! We'll talk about names later. We've got to get him home and out of the sun." We half carried, and he half walked. We stopped from time to time to squirt water into Skyla's mouth or onto his face. By the time we got home, Elizabeth and Sarah had finished hanging out the laundry and were standing on the front porch watching for us. When they saw us, they came running out to help but stopped short and stared. "Mama?" Elizabeth questioned. "Girls, this is Skyla. He's had a bad accident and needs our help. Go soak some towels with cold water. Hurry!" And off they dashed. Once we got Skyla inside, we put him on the sofa, and I had Hannah go run a cold-water bath. I had him drink a couple more bottles of water and began sponging him off with the wet towels the girls brought. His breathing seemed to be okay, but he kept trying to fall asleep. I put a hand on his shoulder gave it a little shake. "Listen, you're still too hot. We've got to cool you down. And besides, you really do need a bath, badly." He nodded but said nothing, his eyes falling shut again. "Alright, let's get him into the bathroom." Once again Hannah and the boys took one side and I took the other. At that moment the strap on the purse Skyla was carrying decided to snap and it fell to the floor. Sarah immediately picked it up and started to look inside. "No!" I said rather sharply. "That's not your property. Leave it alone. You wouldn't want someone going through your stuff." "I just wanted to see what a boy would have in a purse," she answered. Elizabeth, eyes big and round, nodded in vigorous agreement. "If he wants us to know, he'll tell us. In the meantime, he's our guest." "Pretty stinky guest!" Josiah stated. "All the more reason to get him into the bathtub. Let's go." "Are we going to throw him in with his clothes on?" Mark asked. "Don't be silly, of course not," I said. "But Mama! No! I can't! I mean we can't..." And Hannah's voice trailed off. "Let's just get him into the bathroom, and I'll handle it," I said. We did that and sat him down. The kids left, and I proceeded to tell Skyla what to expect. "I'm going to lean you against the wall with your back to me. I'll get your clothes and then help you into the tub. I'll pull the shower curtain, but I'll stay here if you need help. Understand?" He looked down at the tiles in the floor and finally shook his head that he did. I got under his left shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. I was breathing through my mouth again. "You have to help me this time. It's just us. Ready?" "Yeah," he gasped. "Okay. Let's go." I lifted, and he tried to stand. Since all we had to do was turn him and lean against the wall, we managed, but I noticed him trembling all over. "I'll be quick," I tried to reassure him. "We'll have you down and in the tub in no time." The skirt was no problem. It had an elastic waist band, so all I had to do was pull down, lift his feet out, and toss it behind me. The panties were a shock on more than one level. For some reason--I guess because I knew he really was a boy--I expected to see a larger version of what my boys wore. Instead I saw what I had only passed by on my rare trips to a department store in my search for practical, durable underthings. And then there was the discoloration and smell that I did associate with my own boys' underwear. Skyla had apparently neither changed nor paid the least attention to personal hygiene in any way for some time. Off they came and over my shoulder they went. I quickly stood up and grasped his shirt tail. "Try to hold your arms up," I said and pulled the blouse over his head. "What do you need this for?" I blurted when I saw the bra. "Never mind. I'll take care of it," I said quickly. It turned out to be every bit as exotic as the panties. "Okay," I said. "One turn, a couple of steps, and I'm not looking at anything." "Thank you," he said quietly. I had gotten him into the tub, pulled the curtain, and sat down for a minute or so when Hannah approached the door. "Should I throw this stuff in the washer?" "I guess. Just make sure you put it on the heavy wash cycle." "Do I have to...?" And she made a scrubbing motion with a fist against a palm. "No!" I answered quickly. "Just spray and toss them in." She quickly gathered Skyla's things and went out to the screened in porch where our machine was hooked up. In no time at all she had the load going. "Thank you," I heard a weak voice say from the other side of the shower curtain. "Oh, no bother," I said. "We do laundry most every day anyway. Are you feeling any better?" "Some." "You don't feel like falling asleep anymore?" "No. Too cold for that." "That's good. We'll leave you in there a little while longer, and then you can drain the water and give yourself a good, hot scrubbing bath. How does that sound?" "Sounds good." "If you feel strong enough, I'll leave you to your privacy." "Okay," he answered. I was walking out of the bathroom when it struck me that he probably had not eaten in a while. "Hey, wait a minute; I'll bet you're hungry." "Yes. Very." "How long since you ate last?" "I, I don't know. What day is it?" "Monday." I heard him gasp. "I guess three days then." "Well, scrub yourself down, and I'll fix you a literal breakfast." I headed for the kitchen but stopped again. He needed clothes to wear. He was much too big to wear any of my boys' things, so I opened Nathan's drawer and pulled out a t-shirt and underwear and grabbed a robe he never wore out of the closet. I placed them over a towel rack in the bathroom and turned to making breakfast in the kitchen. "You fixing supper already," Josiah asked. He was always ready to eat. "No, fixing something for Skyla. He hasn't eaten in three days." "Better fix him something big!" And then he wandered off in search of Mark and another adventure, or trouble, or a fight. I began making soup. Skyla was undoubtedly still terribly dehydrated, and his stomach probably couldn't handle anything too solid. Soup, scrambled eggs, and plenty of water ought to do the trick. I really would have to start working on supper before too long. By the time Nathan got home, the boy might be ready for something a little more substantial. With the thought of Nathan came the wonder of how I would explain Skyla to him. To him, to the children; how do I explain Skyla to me? It suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't thought at all about anything we had done. If Josiah had come running up with news about a hurt puppy in the creek, we'd all have done exactly the same thing. But Skyla wasn't a puppy. He was a boy, dressed as a girl, in my house, among my children. And just that quickly there was fear. And just that quickly that verse popped into my head, the one about not worrying about anything but praying about everything and God's peace protecting your heart and mind. I prayed and chopped and mixed and heated and stirred and added seasonings and scrambled the eggs all at the same time. What had happened was totally out of nowhere for us, but like everything that happens, it somehow fell within God's will. He could have died out there. He could have wandered in a different direction, and the boys would have never seen him. But now what? When Nathan got home, it would be his responsibility. He would decide. But what had happened and what would happen could not be undone. The children would have questions. Each in their own way, in their own time would eventually ask, and what would I say? What could I say? That's when another verse came to mind, the one about asking God for the wisdom you don't have. He promised to give it. So that's what I asked for and the grace to love my neighbor as myself and to speak the truth in love. "Where are my clothes?" I turned around to see Skyla wrapped in a bath towel from the chest down leaning against the entrance to the kitchen. He'd also found another towel and wrapped it around his hair much as I or the girls would have done. I quickly glanced around for any sight of the girls. "They're being laundered. Remember?" "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?" The meantime? He expects to put those clothes back on in my house in front of my children, I thought. "I left some things for you in the bathroom. They'll keep you covered at least." That was met with a look of disgust. "I can't wear those." "You're too big for my boys' things," I said, already knowing full well where we were heading. "I mean I don't want to wear those kinds of clothes. I won't!" "Well," I said, tilting my head in the direction of the washer, "your clothes are just beginning the first rinse cycle." "What's that mean?" He demanded. "If I know Hannah, she probably presoaked and did a heavy-duty wash. They'll rinse, spin, and probably rinse and spin again. Then she'll hang your things out to dry." "You don't have a dryer?" "Sorry, no." "Why not?" At this I smiled and did a slow curtsy. "Dreadfully sorry, majesty, but had we more notice of your arrival I am sure that my husband, who works sixty hours a week and commutes twenty more to feed, clothe, and shelter our five children and myself, would have sold or mortgaged one of us to buy a dryer to ameliorate your inconvenience." "Fine!" Skyla shouted, turned on his heel, and stormed back to the bathroom. Entitled much? I thought. When Skyla returned to the kitchen, he was at least decent, in a skinny, scarecrow kind of way. My girls reappeared and gathered around the table to watch him eat. "We have plenty of soup," I said as I ladled it into his mug, "and eggs too, but take it slowly. Your stomach may have a hard time at first." "Okay," he said, taking the cup of soup in his hands and holding it to his nose. He inhaled and smiled. "You're going to return thanks first, right?" Hannah asked. "Well, yeah, sure," he said, setting the cup down and bowing his head. "Heavenly Father, thank you for this food and for these people who found me. I pray that You would bless this food to my body and this family that rescued me. In Jesus name, amen." "You pray?" I asked. There was no way I could hide the surprise I felt. "Of course I pray. I'm a Christian." He said this with such certainty that I couldn't think of anything to say. Hannah was not so inhibited. "If you're a Christian, why were you wearing that skirt and blouse?" "You're a Christian and you're wearing a dress," Skyla said after sipping some soup. "I'm a girl," Hannah snapped. "And how do you know I'm not?" Skyla demanded. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, Hannah jumped up from the table and retrieved a tomato from the window sill. She placed it in front of Skyla and then took an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and set it beside the tomato. "The same way I know this apple is not a tomato. They are both fruit, both red, both round, but they are not the same. They look different. They taste different. And they're used for different purposes in recipes." It was as if she had slapped him. His face contorted into shock, then sadness, then anger, and then into total confusion. He looked around at each of us as though he were some kind of animal cornered by a pack of predators. He began to visibly tremble, so much so that when he set his soup cup down, some of it spilled out. He scooted his chair back from the table like he was preparing to get up and run away. Instead, he covered his face with his hands, bent over into his lap, and began sobbing. I am accustomed to seeing little boys cry. Mark and Josiah are always doing something to each other. Before Nathan and I married, I taught first grade for three years. Little boys may not be as fragile as little girls physically, but when they break emotionally, they can be every bit as pitiful. So I had seen this kind of outburst before--in little boys--in young men not so much; in fact, never. Hannah sat back in her chair and covered her mouth with her hands. She gave me the horrified look of someone who had just stepped on a puppy and began shaking her head no. "Why don't you three leave us alone for a while?" I suggested. They immediately scooted away from the table whispering and gesturing. What did I do? I don't know. Did you ever see? No! When they were gone, I reached over and touched his back. "Come on now, Skyla, you need to eat." "No," he pouted. "Everybody hates me." "No one in this house actually hates you. You haven't eaten in three days. Your blood sugar is low, and you aren't in control of your emotions." "So now you're calling me hysterical?" "I'm calling you to eat. You know you need to." He took a deep breath and nodded. He sipped one mug of soup and then drank another. When I sat the scrambled eggs before him, he dug in with real enthusiasm. "Can I have some bread?" He asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand." "I know it would taste good, but I'm afraid it might be just a little too substantial for your tummy to handle. It could come right back up and you would lose all the fluid we've put into you. In fact, let's have you lie down on the sofa and see if you can hold onto what you've just eaten. If you can, then come supper time and we'll try something solid. How's that?" "Okay," he said and began pushing himself away from the table. I took one of his arms to steady him as he stood up. "Can we make it?" I asked. He nodded, and we slowly made our way into the living room. After I got him down, I brought him some water and a trash can. "If your tummy gives you problems, don't feel like you have to struggle to the bathroom." "Thank you," he said. "Really, I mean it. Thank you. And, and I'm sorry for being trouble." "No trouble. It's the Lord's blessing that we can help. Now just rest. I'll start working on supper. When my husband gets home, he'll get everything sorted out." The nice thing about summer as far as our family is concerned is that unlike fall, winter, and early spring, Nathan gets home before dark. We are never for sure when he will arrive--no cell phone and no cell phone service where we happen to be--so after 6 pm everyone has their ears open for the sound of his truck. Every now and then we are fooled, but most of the time any vehicle we hear in the early evening will be the one bringing him home to us. The moment someone hears the truck on Old Muddy, supper is ready and school work is done. The children are excited. Since he gets up before the sun on weekdays and leaves for Amarillo or beyond before the children are up, it may be 20 hours or more that they've seen him. I know it won't always be this way. As they get older and begin growing into independence, Nathan's arrival will cease to be an event. But that's not yet, and it is an event even for me. I should say especially for me. I look forward to handing back the responsibility he places in my hands every morning. After an early, early breakfast, and a brief time of devotion, we go out onto the front porch where he gives me a long good-bye hug and a kiss. "The blessing of the LORD be upon you." He always says. "We bless you in the name of the LORD," I always reply. When he's gone, the weight of our little world descends upon me and I can't wait to see him again. "I hear daddy!" Someone will shout, and we all scramble into the front yard and watch for him. When his truck pulls up into our driveway, the girls rush forward as a group to mob him. There are screams and giggles, hugs and kisses all around. And then the boys run and tackle each leg. He picks them up and stands them on their heads and then they wrestle him to the ground. The girls pile on and he laughs and laughs. "Hey, you guys, I'm hungry!" He shouts. That's the signal for everyone to back off, let him up, and let him come to me. I know he is bone tired, hungry, and in the summertime hot and sweaty, but he always does the same thing. He takes both my hands in his and says; "Let us give thanks unto the LORD, for He is good." I always answer the same way; "For His mercy endureth forever." And then we hug. It's a long hug, one in which I feel all the love and tenderness and patience I have given the children all day--and just seen being poured onto him by them--being given back to me, and more. "Kiss her, daddy!" One of the girls always says. "Yeah, kiss her so we can eat!" One of the boys always adds. But today it was different. They all clustered around him in a bunch shouting out their versions of what happened. "We found a boy in a dress!" "I saw him first in the creek, and I thought he was dead!" "Mama rescued him!" "He smelled terrible!" "His clothes were really dirty!" "He says he's a Christian!" "Yeah but Hannah made him cry!" "I didn't mean too; he just didn't make any sense!" Nathan did not stop smiling, but he did turn to me and cock his head sideways in the quizzical way dogs do when trying to piece together something altogether strange to them. I walked over to the truck where everyone was standing. "Yes," I said. "We did find a boy dressed as a girl collapsed in the Canadian. We brought him back and bathed and fed him. He's recovering on our sofa in the living room." "Where did he come from?" Nathan asked. "And how did he get here? How old is he? Is he still wearing...you know?" "No, his stuff his drying on the line out back. I gave him some of your things to wear, but I fear he's going to want his clothes really bad." "Let's do this," Nathan said immediately. "You and the kids eat in the kitchen, and I'll sit with.... What's his name?" "Skyla." "Skyla? Who'd name their boy Skyla?" "I rather imagine he calls himself that." "Yeah, well okay. I'll sit with him by the sofa and eat and try to find out where he belongs." We all piled into the house and found Skyla in a sound sleep on the sofa. Nathan and the kids gathered around the table while I sat our supper out. Then Nathan seated me and then the girls in descending order by age. When he said "boys" they struggled into their chairs. We joined hands and Nathan gave thanks for our food. We all sang the Doxology and began eating. Rather than sit down, Nathan went and placed a TV tray by the sofa and fetched food for himself and Skyla. Normally suppertime is a mad house of conversation. Everyone tries to tell Nathan what they learned (or didn't), what they saw outside, what they did, or how they were wounded. Sometimes the girls bring up special grievances they have hidden from me hoping to win their father's heart over to their point of view. He always smiles when they do this and then looks to me for perspective. It normally goes on like that for close to an hour. The girls and I clean up while Nathan talks to the boys in the living room about what his work day was like. When the dishes are done, and everything is put away, we join the guys and have our family devotions. This evening, however, none of us in the kitchen did much if any talking. We each strained to hear what Nathan and Skyla were saying. From my seat at the table, I had a clear view of everything. When Nathan had set the food by the sofa, he looked down and saw Skyla looking up at him. "So, did you catch anything?" Nathan asked. "What? Catch what?" Skyla replied. "My wife tells me the boys found you noodling for catfish in the creek." "Noodling?" Skyla managed to shift himself into a sitting position. He appeared to be torn between surprise bordering on fear of Nathan and a visible longing for the meat and vegetables on the plates before him. "Well, maybe they call it something different where you come from. What do you call it when someone goes wading in a creek or river searching for the underwater holes where the really big flatheads hang out? When he finds one, he goes under water and sticks his arm in. This scares the catfish, and it tries to escape by swimming out of the hole. When it does that, its open mouth swallows the guy's arm. Well now the noodler has a 40-pound creature clamped onto him under water, and he has to fight like the very Devil himself to bring that beast to the surface before he drowns. And once he gets it to the surface, if he does, then he has to wrestle it to shore and somehow get it up on dry land and keep it there until it gives up the ghost. What do you call that?" "I call it crazy!" Skyla stated. "Yeah, well maybe they don't exactly get up to 40 pounds around here," Nathan said, "but in other parts of the country they can get even bigger. What part of the country are you from?" "Can I eat something first?" "Sure thing, pard, dig right in." "My name is Skyla," he said with a look of almost but not quite defiance. "Nathan, Nathan Henson," he said and stuck out his hand. Skyla had just bitten off a piece of bread. He put the bread down and took Nathan's hand rather diffidently. Nathan grabbed it and shook it heartily. "Nice to meet you, and welcome!" They both turned to eating for a few minutes, and then Nathan repeated his question. "Where are you from?" "Austin." "That's a mighty far piece to walk for catfish," Nathan said, staring into the boy's eyes. "I didn't come from there. That's where my family is." "How old are you, son?" Skyla immediately bristled. "I'm fifteen, and I'm not," he began defiantly, but the air went out of him just as quickly, "your son." "No offense," Nathan answered quickly. "Just curious. You say you weren't noodling. Were you following the wheat harvest, or maybe roughnecking in the oil patch? You got to understand, we don't come across all that many kids on their bellies in the Canadian." "I...we came from the boys' ranch." Skyla lay back, closed his eyes, and looked down. "You ran away from Flanagan's?" Nathan asked. I don't know much about Father Flanagan's Boys' Ranch other than that it is a Roman Catholic charity. I think it started out back east as an orphanage during the Depression and has since opened branches in other locations across the country. From what I understand they aren't limited to orphans anymore either but are one of those last-resort places for troubled youth. "Yeah, me and Garrett." "Garrett?" Nathan asked. He turned around to look at me. I shook my head that I didn't know. I looked at the boys. "I only saw one set of tracks anywhere," Mark replied. "Who's Garrett?" Nathan repeated to Skyla. "I thought he was my b..., my friend," Skyla answered bitterly." "What happened?" Nathan asked. Skyla exhaled heavily. "They don't like me there. Nobody does; not the teachers, not old man Carter, not the other guys, nobody." He paused as if waiting for Nathan to ask him why, but Nathan just nodded. "Well anyway when Garrett came he seemed different. He didn't mix with the other guys either, and he was always twisting the teachers in knots. He was a real fast talker, you know, really smart." "Okay," Nathan said. "Well the other guys, they told him about me; how they kept me in a separate place from everyone else, how there was always a teacher or a staff to walk me to classes and stand near my table in the lunchroom." "You must be one tough hombre," Nathan observed. "No, they were supposed to be keeping those redneck knuckle-draggers off me," Skyla blazed. "But they never did. Any time one of them tripped me, or kicked me, or jumped me in the bathroom, the teacher would just stand there and watch. As long as there was no second punch or kick or whatever, nothing would be done. They could walk up and spit on me, and the teachers let them." "And of course, you turned the other cheek every time," Nathan said. "Yeah, well I tried to at first, but you can only take so much. And that's another thing. When I tried fighting back, old man Carter had me isolated." "As in solitary confinement?" Nathan asked. "I wish," Skyla said. "No, they cleaned out an old camper trailer they were using for storage and stuck me in there, locked me in every night. Said it was for my protection. They all just hated me for being, you know, different." "All except Garrett?" Nathan asked. "I thought," Skyla said and took a long drink of water. "At least he talked to me. Not in front of the other guys of course, but a few minutes here and there when no one was around to see us. He was real friendly, you know, sympathetic. Later on, he would sneak out of his dorm and come visit me at my trailer. He couldn't get in, but we would talk through a window. Then he started doing stuff for me, like, you know, favors." "Favors?" "Once a month some of the staff would take whoever was not in trouble to Amarillo. They'd get to eat some fast food, see a movie, and even go shopping for stuff if they had money. Garrett always went. I never got to, but I had money and he didn't." "You paid for his good time?" Nathan asked. "It wasn't like that. He bought me stuff?" "Stuff?" "Clothes and makeup, you know. It was only right that I gave him something for his trouble. He had to sneak around to buy my stuff and then he had to sneak it past inspection when they got back to the ranch." "Inspection?" "They're always worried about us getting ahold of liquor, drugs, and porn, so they'd examine all our packages and pockets after we were back inside the gate. And once he'd got past that, he still had to sneak my stuff out to the trailer." "Whose idea was it to run away?" Nathan asked. "I'm not sure exactly." "What do you mean?" "Once I had a really bad day at school. Some guy shoved me at the water fountain, and I turned around and slapped him. He knocked me down, and the staff dragged me off to my trailer and left me there all day. No lunch no supper no nothing. When Garrett snuck out to my trailer, he found me...well, not in a good way. He'd brought me some food, but that didn't help. I started screaming and throwing things. I remember saying something like this was no way to live and I might as well be dead." "What did he do about that?" At this point I could see Skyla look toward us in the kitchen. He looked down at the plate before him and lowered his voice. "He said something about being glad I was isolated like I was because he didn't have to share me with the other guys and could have me all to himself. That's when I thought, well, you know, he really was, you know, like my...friend." "Is that when he suggested you run away?" "Not in so many words. He just said he understood how my, my well, you know, beauty couldn't blossom in a cage and I really needed to be free to be the, you know, the person I was meant to be." I noticed that Skyla couldn't even look at Nathan at this point. "What was the plan?" Nathan asked. "Garrett would sneak food and water to me, and I'd store it up in the trailer. It was mostly crackers and candy bars. Nothing else would keep. Once we got out, we would head east to highway 87 and south to Amarillo." "And if candy bars and crackers had gotten you all alive to Amarillo, then what?" "Well," Skyla started and then paused, looking very embarrassed. "Well, we'd take the money I'd saved from what my parents sent and get a little place. Then he talked about, well, you know, getting a job and sort of, you know, taking care of me and stuff." At this Nathan burst out into what I can only describe as an honest belly laugh, the kind that takes you by complete surprise. He covered his face with one hand and reached out with the other to pat Skyla on the shoulder. "No offense, Sky, honest, but I've got to ask: where was your head?" "It was locked up in that little trailer like a criminal! It was black and blue and bruised from all the slaps, kicks, and punches it had taken from everybody for over a year. It was lonely and miserable and, and..." At this point Skyla broke again, sobbing and weeping even harder than he had before me. The children all looked up at me as I immediately rose from the table. I don't know if Nathan heard me get up, or just knew me from our years together, but almost at the same instant he raised the palm of his hand back at me to stop and let him handle it. "Okay," Nathan said, patting Skyla's shoulder. "I understand. Desperate times, desperate measures. You were at the end of your rope. Two out, bottom of the ninth, now or never. I got it." Skyla stopped sobbing. His breath slowly returned to normal. Finally, he sat up again, obviously embarrassed. "What happened to Garrett?" "He left me!" Skyla shouted. "Why do you think he did that?" "Cause he was just like everybody else. He was worse than everybody else. He just used me to get what he wanted. He just pretended." "Pretended?" "Pretended to like me for me, the person I really am." "What happened?" "Well, the plan was to get me out of the trailer by removing the water cooler." "Wait," Nathan said, "the water cooler?" He nodded toward the window where our big water-cooled fan was doing its best to keep the house below 85 degrees. "I'd have thought he'd just bust the padlock on your door." "No, Garrett said it would take too long to cut through it and be too noisy to bust it with a hammer. Instead I would remove the window bracings from each side of the cooler, and he would pull the platform holding the big box fan from behind. We didn't even have to unplug it or turn off the water hose feeding it. Everything would sound like it did every night. I would jump out of the window and off we would go." "Sounds like a plan," Nathan said. "Yeah, well it went wrong from the beginning." "How so?" Here Skyla paused for several deep breaths, as if nerving himself for something. He reached down and squeezed the sofa cushion under him with both hands. "I thought I was about to start my new life and be, you know, like the real me." Skyla paused and looked up at Nathan. Nathan just nodded. "I got dressed in the clothes that Garrett had smuggled in for me." "And he didn't like it," Nathan stated. "No! He got all nervous and mean. He said if I was going to dress like that he'd have to carry everything. He put all the food and money in his pack and told me I'd better keep up cause he was moving fast and wouldn't wait for nothing or nobody." "Why 87; why not 365 to 40?" "Garrett said everyone would be expecting us to head south on 365 to I- 40 and then to Amarillo, but we would head northeast to a connecting road to 87 and then south to fool everyone." "Northeast? You do realize you are just about due south of the ranch?" "I guess we got turned around." "When did he abandon you?" "I don't remember for sure. We walked all night, and I was tired, but he wanted to keep going all day. He got farther and farther ahead of me. I lost sight of him, but I could still sort of follow what I thought were his tracks. I got real hot and hungry and thirsty, and he had all the food and water. I cried for him to come back, but he never did. I slept up against a tree that evening. The next morning, I got up and started wandering around. I don't know where I went or which direction. It just got hotter and hotter. I must have collapsed. I didn't wake up till your wife poured water on me." "Well, Skyla, speaking for my family, we're all glad you made it and didn't die in the wilderness." "Thank you," Skyla said. "I appreciate you taking me in." "That's just it though," Nathan said softly. "We can't just take you in." "Why not?" There was fear in Skyla's voice. "How did you come to be at Flanagan's?" "My parents sent me. They..." "Okay," Nathan jumped in when it looked like Skyla was about to go on. "I don't need to know why, but you need to understand that by running away from where your parents placed you, you broke the commandment to honor your father and mother that your days may be long upon the earth. In fact, you very nearly shortened your days upon the earth by disobeying them." Skyla crossed his arms and slumped. "So, you're going to send me back," he said sullenly. "I'm going to call the sheriff's office." Skyla's head jerked up, and I saw the fear again. "Why?" "They have undoubtedly reported you missing to the sheriff already. Deputies and search parties are probably out looking for you right now. Contacting them is the right thing to do. If I don't I'll be guilty of harboring a runaway. That's a crime." "But don't you understand, they'll hurt me!" Skyla shouted. "They'll lock me up and hurt me and no one will care!" "Skyla!" Nathan said. He was using what I call the voice, that tone that fathers have that says playtime is over; straighten up or your world ends now. Skyla immediately got quiet. "I'm calling the sheriff. When the deputy gets here, I will explain how we found you, and you can explain just exactly what you've been going through. I am certain they will not send you back without an investigation into your allegations. You can ask them to inform your parents. I'm sure they will want to look into the matter as well." Tears were running down Skyla's face. "No, you don't know. Guys run away all the time. When they're caught, they just bring them right back. There's no investigation. There's nothing." Nathan looked at Skyla for a few seconds and then turned around and looked at me, then at the kids, and finally back at Skyla. "Give me your parents' number. I'll call them and explain what you've been through. At the very least, I'm sure they'll have you transferred to another facility." Skyla nodded in agreement, but he did not look the least bit hopeful. Nathan called Skyla's parents and told them everything from our perspective. He then put Skyla on the phone, and we heard him plead and cry not to be sent back to Flanagan's. Nathan called the sheriff, and his office diverted a car to us immediately. "Can I have my clothes back?" Skyla asked while we were waiting. Hannah had already taken them off the line, folded them, and put them in a grocery sack. When she handed the sack to him, he looked at me and started to ask something. "I've got some old jeans you can put on," Nathan said. "But..." "But nothing. If you end up spending the night with the sheriff, that means jail, and the last thing you want is for some of your fellow inmates to think you are not the meanest hombre in the valley of the shadow of death. Do I have to draw you a picture?" "Okay." When the deputy arrived, he interviewed each of us, including the kids, about our part in Skyla's little adventure. He too called Skyla's parents and heard their version of Skyla's life story. He then called the sheriff's office and recapitulated everything. "Well folks," the deputy said, "it looks like Timothy is going to be spending at least one night with us in Amarillo." "Timothy?" I asked. "Yes, ma'am," the deputy answered. "His real name is Timothy Harp, and it looks like his parents and my boss want to get as many juvenile protective services involved in this thing as they can. Who knows where it will all end up, but certainly not at Flanagan's." With that the deputy handcuffed Timothy and put him in the back of his unit. He put Timothy's Skyla clothes in the trunk and drove off. In our shortened family devotions, each of us in our own way prayed for Timothy. Then we all got in bed. Like I said before, what a day!