THE OLD MAN WHO WORE THE SAME CLOTHES TO CHURCH EVERY SUNDAY

By John J. Klobnak

It was Christmas Eve and the old man steeled himself for the two solid days of loneliness he knew were coming. He was a widower and had been for almost ten years and he had decided to move back to his childhood hometown a few years earlier after it finally became clear his daughter was not coming back after going away to college and her subsequent marriage to a man she’d met at school. He felt like all the friends he’d accumulated over the years seemed to have disappeared one by one after he’d retired. Some died, others turned out to have been more of associates than friends and after his wife died there was the inevitable couple’s conundrum where all their old couple friends felt uncomfortable inviting him to things where he’d be the odd shoe. Most of those he always considered friends, he concluded, had never really been friends, but connections made through business. After he’d sold his successful company and retired, most of those relationships had faded away.

It seemed the only real lasting friends he’d ever had were those he’d made growing up in his small hometown. He thought his childhood friends, friends who’d always been around when he came back to visit, those friends always made it seem like he’d never left. They’d always been there and he figured they always would. He thought it would be fun to be with his true pals in his final years, so he sold the big house in the city, and he moved back to his small hometown about six years earlier. His friends were happy to have him back and they were fun to be with whenever he saw them which just wasn’t as often as he’d expected. Age was eating at them just as it was gnawing on him and they all had families and friends he didn’t know and he finally realized other than the occasional lunch with his old friends, he was just as alone in his old hometown as he’d been back in the big city.

The Old Man had bought a small house in his hometown, nothing like the grand home he had when he’d been working, but it was a nice house that was easy to manage. He had a woman come in three times a week to clean and do his laundry, otherwise he took care of himself. The new, much smaller place was what he called a walkable house. He could walk anywhere in it without having to climb any stairs, and the house was near enough to the small town’s quaint downtown district where he could shop, have lunch and just get out of the house every once in a while without having to drive. He’d started having vision problems in his fifties and the thing the doctor called macular degeneration kept getting worse each year to the point that driving at night had become just too risky, so he conducted his business during daylight hours, unless it was close and then he’d walk. He liked walking and tried to do a couple of miles every day weather permitting, and he was hoping to get home from church that night before the rain the radio was predicting began to fall.

He waited to leave until it was clear there would be no Christmas Eve call from his daughter who lived with her family eight-hundred miles and a time zone away and he knew he’d have to hurry if he was going to make the early Christmas Eve service at church. He changed into his church clothes, an aging pair of cuffed khaki slacks, a blue dress shirt and a blue sport coat he’d owned for some time. He wore the same fraying pants and sport coat every Sunday and it had never occurred to him that people noticed until the pastor called him a few months back and sheepishly said he’d received an unusual anonymous letter from a parishioner, (the pastor said he assumed it was a woman from the handwriting, but he didn’t know for sure), who asked if there wasn’t something the church could do for that “poor sad old man who limped into church every Sunday.” The man was obviously poor, she wrote, as he wore the same clothes every week and had for all the years he’d been attending. She said she didn’t want to talk but the blue coat he wore was so shiny you could almost see your reflection in it and she also wrote she’d never seen him speak to anyone before or after church as he came in right as the service was starting and always left out the side door after communion avoiding the chance to shake hands with the pastors and mingle with fellow parishioners after the service. She thought maybe one of the men might have an old suit that would fit the man, or perhaps one of the church’s many organizations could help him out with a few dollars and she included a five dollar bill she asked the pastor to give to the old man, saying she wished she could give more. She went on writing he always looked to be in pain and often had to struggle to his feet when the Gospel was read, and she figured he probably had a lot of medical bills, and it just broke her heart to see him so alone.

The pastor was probably the only member of the church who knew the poor, sad old man was the congregation’s most generous donor. Even the pastor didn’t know the extent of the man’s wealth, only that he was very well-off, if not a little … thrifty. The pastor used the letter as an ice breaker to try to get the old man involved in more parish activities, but the old man said he was fine and they both had a good laugh about the letter and let it go at that. The old man thought perhaps he really ought to get some new clothes, it had been years since he’d even thought about it, but the men’s store in the small town had closed after the new Walmart opened a while back and he’d just never gotten around to it, and he promised himself he’d look into visiting his old tailor and buy a new suit the next time he was in the city, but he never had.

The old man found his black, cashmere topcoat, a relic of his working years and took it out of a garment bag that protected it from the moths and put it on. There’d been years when the coat had seemed a bit too small but the last few years it seemed to fit again, if not being even a tad too large. He grabbed a green plaid scarf and slung it around his neck, crossed the ends and tucked it inside the coat like the men used to do at the fancy luncheon club where he used to belong and took a cap off a hook on the back of the closet door. The cap was the kind he used to wear when he owned the British sports cars years ago, this one was a black tweed and matched the coat and covered his head that was noticeably lighter on hair these days. He reached into the umbrella stand by the door and took out a cane, thinking he might need it. There were days when he needed the cane and days he didn’t, but he’d noticed the days he needed the ebony stick topped by an ostentatious solid silver duck were coming more and more often.

He checked his cellphone once more hoping perhaps he’d missed the call from his daughter and her family, but there was nothing and he tucked the phone inside his coat pocket just in case she called while he was on the way. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold and as soon as he locked the door, he noticed his hands were cold and checked the topcoat pockets hoping he’d left the expensive calfskin gloves he’d bought also back many years earlier in the pockets and they were right where he’d left them the last time he’d worn the coat. He put the gloves on and grabbed the handrail that led down the two steps to his sidewalk and started on the seven block walk to church. The old man stopped after a few steps, looked at the ominous dark clouds forming off to the west and thought about going back inside for an umbrella, but the radio said the rain wouldn’t start for a few hours and he decided there wasn’t time to go back and he took off walking toward the church with a purpose.

He noticed it felt a little colder than they said on the radio but he chalked it up to just getting older. The road around his house was flat, another reason he’d chosen the location when he’d moved back to town and it was usually an easy walk to church. He walked to the top of his street, turned left, walked two more blocks and then another left for the five block hike to the church. Houses along the way were brightly decorated with wreaths and lights as far down the street as he could see, and the old man saw one poor man was still out stringing Christmas lights on his bushes while his wife stood on the porch glaring at him with her arms folded obviously upset he’d put it off so long. The old man wondered if he should have brought up decorations he had stored in the basement, ornaments his family had accumulated over many years. He hadn’t bought a tree and hadn’t for the past few years, but he had put a wreath he purchased at the grocery store on his front door and had brought up a few of the silk poinsettias from storage in the basement. He’d positioned them on a sideboard behind the dining room table where he’d sit for video calls should someone happen to call, and anyone who watched wouldn’t have known the whole place wasn’t decorated. At least so far, no one had called, but there was talk of some of the guys from high school setting one up and if they did, he’d be ready. Decorating the rest of the house wouldn’t have been worth the effort. Nobody would be coming by so he thought he’d just save himself the work of putting it all away a week later.

As he reached the long drive that led down to the church parking lot, cars were speeding past him full of kids who’d perform in the pageant, doting grandparents and other church members hoping to get there in time to get a seat inside the nave before it filled and they had to sit on folding chairs in the narthex. It was a big church and there was a time growing up when he’d known the names of every member. Now, he might know a dozen if you counted the two pastors and their wives. A smiling church greeter who obviously didn’t realize he was a member shook his hand warmly and told him she was so happy he could visit the church, handed him a visitor’s card and said she hoped he’d come again. Ah, well, he thought, she meant well. The man hung up his topcoat and found a seat in one of the few remaining pews near the rear. An older lady sat alone at the other end of the pew and he hadn’t been there for more than a few seconds when a large family stopped in the aisle and it was apparent the pew wouldn’t accommodate them all and the old man volunteered that he would just get a chair in the narthex. They protested, but he insisted and he walked to the back of the church and found all the seats already full. An usher told him the balcony was reserved for all the choirs that were performing so he found a place along the wall as the service began and figured he’d just stand. He thought to himself that it would have been unheard of at the church back in his younger days to allow an old man with a cane to stand, but, he thought, it was just another sign of the times.

The service included all the tradional parts of the service you’d hear on Sunday interwoven into the children’s pagent; they were all students at the adjacent parochial school where the old man had attended as a child. Sometimes, he would walk into the old school which was attached to the newer church building that had come well after his time, and marvel at how small it had actually been, not nearly as huge as he remembered it. Of course, over the years the school had quadrupled in size to meet the needs of the growing parish, but he never went past the first few rooms, the ones he’d known; rooms that had accommodated two grades in each classroom, both taught by the same teacher who taught every subject.

The old man’s knees began to ache, his arthritis did that when it was going to rain and he wondered if it had already started, but there were no windows in the narthex and he couldn’t see out the stained glass so he couldn’t tell. Then he started feeling pain it in his shoulders and back, the locations of several spinal and orthopedic operations over the years. He wished he’d brought along a pain pill, but he’d just have to tough it out. He looked around again for a chair, but an usher told him he was sorry, but they’d all been set up and taken and suggested arriving earlier in the future. A few minutes later he had to go to the restroom. The prostate cancer operation he’d had a few years earlier had been successful, but nature seemed to call much louder ever since. He thought he heard thunder off in the distance and again wished he’d brought an umbrella. He walked to an elevator and went down a level and found a restroom then returned to find someone had taken his spot against the wall. So, he just decided to stay in the hallway that connected the church to the school and listen to the rest of the service over a loudspeaker.

A few minutes later, several ladies arrived and began preparing a long table full of red nylon-mesh stockings stuffed with fruit, nuts and candy. It was a church tradition that every child received a stocking, a tradition that went back even before his childhood, back to the days of large families and few dollars for presents. He remembered his parents telling him that for some kids the stocking would be the only present they would receive. After hearing that, getting his one present hadn’t seemed so bad and he’d always felt sorry for the kids who had to settle for the stocking.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and quickly checked it hoping it might be his daughter but it was just another call from a recorded voice trying to sell him a hearing aid. It was then he noticed the low battery warning meaning he’d forgotten to charge the phone again and he told himself he needed to be more careful about remembering to do it. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t but he couldn’t help himself and called up his daughter’s Facebook page on his phone and saw the posts with pictures of her beautifully decorated home. Pictures of the family in the great room with the huge tree. His daughter, her husband, his two darling granddaughters and his son-in-law’s parents who were staying for a few days all beaming in front of the tree. His daughter had told him she would have liked to have had him down, but there was only one guest room. He knew exactly how many rooms the house had since he had bought the home where his daughter and her family lived rent-free. She’d told him her mother-in-law had been sick and had told her she didn’t know how many Christmases she’d have left, so she had invited them to stay for the Holidays even though they only lived an hour away and she hoped he’d understand. He understood all too well. The old man had noticed for years the woman seemed to come down with some life-threatening ailment every year just after Thanksgiving and after a month of top-rate doctoring, she’d make a miraculous recovery just in time to go on her annual two-week January cruise. He looked at the two young girls and wished he could have been with them knowing he’d never experience the lost memories not made that year. He doted on them. He’d sent them thousands of dollars’ worth of gifts. He paid for their private school tuition. Whatever they asked, grandpa made sure they received it. They say girls always married a man just like their fathers. But his daughter had married a man so unlike him — the man was a poet for Pete’s sake — a poet. He’d never met anyone who actually claimed to have made a living as a poet and in all honesty, his son-and-law barely made minimum wage as a part-time adjunct instructor at a local junior college and from the scant income he derived selling his poetry, who knew where. His daughter had left her teaching job after the second girl came along saying she wanted to be a stay at home mom and she sealed the deal by adding, like her mother had been, and she asked if her trust fund could possibly make up the lost income. As her trustee, the old man had agreed and the monthly stipend from the trust the old man had set up for her gave them a comfortable upper-middle class life. The bulk of the old man’s estate was in several trusts that would eventually pass to his daughter and his grandchildren, but he’d purposely omitted the poet. He realized she would never have to work, but he worried about the grandchildren not being exposed to the real world that he knew required ambition, and he didn’t like that the girls didn’t seem to have a role model in that department. He wondered if it was his fault, yes he’d spoiled his daughter, but why else had he worked himself to death all those years. He never really cared about the money; he’d done it for his family. He looked at the phone’s power meter and saw he was down to only three-percent remaining and he put the phone back in his pocket hoping his daughter would wait to call until he was back home.

After the offering was collected, there was a final hymn and after the benediction, the pastor thanked everyone for coming and said that during the service snow had begun falling and he said it was coming down very heavily and it appeared there would indeed be a very white Christmas and the church exploded into thunderous applause. Even before the pastor urged everyone to be careful going home throngs of kids noisily streamed past the old man lining up for the annual Christmas stocking. The old man worked his way through the gaggle of kids to the coat rack, found his coat, bundled up and made his way out into the cold. Just as he opened the door he heard it thunder again. It was close. The thunder was a signal of a meteorological phenomenon called thunder snow. Simply put, it was a heavy thunderstorm that accidentally ran into a cold front with a powerful updraft that threw the moisture a couple of miles high turning the droplets into snow and it had the potential to pile up a half a foot in as little as an hour. Over an inch had already fallen and it was coming down with flakes the size of potato chips. The old man slogged up the church driveway. It was slightly up hill back to the street and he caught himself a couple of times but managed to stay on his feet as drivers hurried out of the lot hoping get home and beat the storm. The old man waited until a car made a left turn and crossed over to the snow covered sidewalk. It was slick, there must have been rain before the snow started and it had frozen under the snow and he was very glad he had his cane to help with balance. Car after car sped past him coming out of the parking lot with serious Christmas Eve intentions. He had seven blocks to go and thought about calling a taxi, but there was only one company in the small town and it always took forever to get a cab, so he kept walking, step after step with a slide every so often. He made it almost two blocks and the cars from the church parking lot were still flying by. The old man had never been one to ask for help. His opinion was he was the guy people called when they needed help. He’d never asked anyone for help that he could recall. It just wasn’t in his DNA and it wasn’t going to start that night.

Another half-block and he’d become a little more bent at the waist against the blowing snow. He’d plant the cane, take a step, then another, then plant the cane again. He’d received the cane from the widow of one of his late friends who he’d frequently driven to chemo during a long battle with cancer. He’d always joked with his friend about the extravagance of the fancy cane and the friend’s wife told the old man her husband had asked her to give it to him after he died. She told him she hoped he’d never need it, but apparently, he did and he was very glad he had it that night. Three blocks down, four to go and traffic had thinned when an old clunker limped past, the engine was misfiring and the tailpipe was dragging, striking the pavement every few feet sending sparks out of the snow covered road. There was red tape where a taillight used to be, a large patch of primer covered the passenger door and the rear fender wore a large dent in the shape of an inverted smile. The car stopped about a half a block ahead of the old man and he wondered if the car was having mechanical trouble and he didn’t envy them. As he inched his way nearer, the driver got out and called to the old man over the roof of the car. “Excuse me, sir, we were wondering if you could use a lift home?”

“Oh, thank you very much, that’s very kind of you to offer, but I’m fine. I don’t live too far,” the old man told him then the driver walked around to the rear of the car coming a little closer and called out through the blowing snow.

“You just came from church, didn’t you? I think I’ve seen you there before.” The old man confirmed he had. “Sir, it’s really getting bad out here, I really think you should let us take you home.”

The old man saw the car was full. The man’s wife sat in front tightly holding a bundled infant. Three kids were jammed in the narrow back seat, two girls around six and eight, the same ages as his granddaughters and a boy about ten or eleven slumped down in the seat perhaps hoping nobody from school would see him in the dilapidated family car. The old man remembered how cruel kids could be and he remembered his family had a car something like this one when he was about the boy’s age and he remembered one particular time when his teacher asked if anyone’s parents could drive some of the class members to an event in a nearby town. The old man, then a young boy had raised his hand and said his parents were going and could probably take a couple of kids. But the teacher had said in front of the whole class, perhaps a car that was a little more dependable would be preferable. You didn’t forget humiliating things like that, even seventy-years later.

“Thank you so much for your concern, I really do appreciate it, but I’ll be fine and anyway, I wouldn’t want to hold you up on Christmas Eve. I’m not far now. Merry Christmas to you all and thanks again.”

“It’s no problem, Sir, we’d be happy to do it.”

“No, I’ll be okay. You go on. I really appreciate your kindness and again, Merry Christmas, I hope you and your family have a good one.”

The man wished him a Merry Christmas in return, waved, got back in and the old car sputtered down the street, skidded, then fishtailed on the bald tires as the snow started to fall even harder.

The old man stopped and watched the car disappear around the next corner and he continued his trek, finding it easier to walk on the grass instead of the icy sidewalk. He planted his cane, took a step then another and planted the cane again continuing the process until the walking stick hit a slick spot under the snow and the cane skidded and he lost his balance and tumbled hard to the frozen ground. He estimated the snow was getting close to two, maybe three inches deep. The old man struggled to get up and fell again. The parade of cars from the church had stopped. The residential street was quiet again and there were no pedestrians out in the storm. He got to his knees and tried to pull himself up using the cane, but he fell again. He tried another time then tried to crawl to a bush thinking he could use it to pull himself up but the spindly branches offered no support. He sat in the wet snow. His shoes were soaked as were his gloves and he felt the temperature dropping. He thought he’d better call 911 for help but when he took out his phone he saw the battery was dead. When he heard a car coming his way he thought he might have to swallow his pride and ask for help. Then he heard the scraping of the muffler banging off the snowy road and the engine cutting in and out. The same car stopped and the same man rushed out and helped the old man up and this time insisted they take him home. The father said his daughter had started crying that the old man was left out in the snow all alone so they had circled back to try one more time. The old man, even in his current predicament declined a ride but said he sure had appreciated the hand getting back to his feet, but then the back door opened and the youngest daughter with tears in her eyes said, “please mister, let us give you a ride. It’s Christmas.” “Okay honey,” he said, “I will.” The young girl sat on her sister’s lap, he got in and they drove him the few blocks home and the father helped the old man up the walk and the two front stairs and waited until the old man unlocked the front door and stood safely in the doorway before going back to the car. The old man again thanked the father profusely and the family drove off. The old man stomped his snow-caked shoes on the doormat, took off his topcoat leaving it out to dry off hoping it wasn’t ruined, then undressed and got into some dry clothes and came into the kitchen and took out a TV dinner. He’d bought two the day before. He’d have ham that night for Christmas Eve and a turkey dinner for Christmas Day thinking if someone asked about what he’d had for Christmas dinner, he could say turkey and not be lying. He popped the container into the microwave and turned on the radio for news on the storm and found it seemed Christmas music was on every channel and he started to think about the family that had given him the ride and may even have saved his life.

The old man found his cellphone, plugged it into the charger and after a few minutes, checked the missed messages to see if his daughter had called. Nothing. Then his thoughts returned to the family and he looked up the pastor’s cell number and called him knowing the man would still be at church getting ready for the midnight service and he didn’t think the call would be an intrusion. The pastor answered and the old man asked about the family who’d rescued him and the pastor said they been through some rough times recently. The father had been laid off and then one of the children had required emergency surgery and all about the same time their new baby arrived. He said the kids all attended the church’s school, but there was some concern they may not be able to continue to pay the tuition that was about a thousand a year per student. The old man thought about the private school his granddaughters attended. The tuition was more than ten times that much. He told the pastor the story of all the cars that had passed him by and how the man who was probably having the worst Christmas of any of the hundreds in the crowd that night was the only one who’d bothered to stop. Everyone had been in too much of a hurry, or perhaps they didn’t want to get their new shoes wet, whatever the reason, only one family had stopped. Not once, but twice.

The old man told the pastor he wanted to do something for the family. The pastor said that would be a very kind thing to do and asked if he could help. The old man said he wanted to buy them a new car. That perked up the pastor’s ears. The old man said maybe a minivan that would comfortably hold the whole family — one the son wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in — a new car, that was what he wanted to do for them. The old man told the pastor he obviously couldn’t get a new car to them before Christmas the next day, but the day after, he’d make sure they got it. He told the pastor he’d call him the next day and give him the particulars and asked him to call the family to give them the good news. But, the old man said, the only condition was he could never tell them who it was from. The pastor was delighted to be part of the scheme and said he’d wait for the call.

The old man checked his phone directory and found the number of the man from whom he’d bought his last car a year earlier. He caught the man at home, apologized for calling on Christmas Eve and told him the story. The salesman said it sounded like a wonderful thing to do and said he’d check the inventory and call him back. By the time the old man had finished the apple cobbler in the TV dinner, the salesman called back and said he thought he had a perfect minivan and he read him the options and gave the old man the final price and said it would be ready after lunch on the twenty-sixth. The old man cautioned the salesman that he didn’t want anyone to know about the gift and that he was to handle all the details with the pastor at the church who would reach out to the family. He said he’d be by on the morning of the twenty-sixth with a check for the full amount. The old man texted the details to the pastor and asked him to call the family the next day and deliver the good news and again swore him to secrecy.

On Christmas Day, the old man again waited for the call from his daughter. He got up early thinking maybe they’d call in the morning after the girls got up and opened their gifts. Then, after that opportunity passed he thought maybe it would be after lunch. About one o’clock his time, he checked his daughter’s Facebook account again and saw the family had just finished a fancy Christmas luncheon at a restaurant he knew to be very expensive. They liked to eat there a lot he knew because they always charged it to his credit card his daughter carried for extras. He didn’t really mind, but … The last picture his daughter shared was of his youngest granddaughter sound asleep in the car the old man had bought for them and a caption that read I think we’re all ready for a long nap!

The old man made himself a sandwich and ate it in front of the television and eventually fell asleep during a movie he’d first seen with his wife forty years earlier. When his phone rang he roused himself from his nap and all the self-pity that had iced over his heart melted as he thought, better late then never. He fumbled with the phone, answered it, then his heart sank, when he realized it wasn’t his daughter, but the pastor from church, the old man was so focused on hearing from his daughter he had almost forgotten about the car. The pastor said he was sorry it had taken so long to get back to him, but the family had gone to a relative’s house and he’d just been able to reach them. The pastor said they couldn’t believe the offer, but the father was adamant he couldn’t accept it. The pastor told the old man the father was a very proud fellow who’d always been a hard worker and he was not the kind of man to accept charity just because he was down on his luck. When he heard the father’s response, the old man knew he wanted the family to have the car even more and told the pastor to call back and tell the man that the giver was paying something forward. That someone had done something life-changing for him once and he always promised he’d do it for someone else someday and it would break his heart if they refused. The pastor said he’d give it another try and when he called back an hour later he said the family had tearfully agreed and said it was truly the answer to their prayers since their old car had limited the father’s ability to look for a job in nearby towns as there wasn’t much work available locally. The old man knew in his heart their prayers had been genuine and he realized maybe that unexpected snowstorm that brought them together was not so random after all.

Christmas that year was on Sunday. The car was delivered on Monday and by Tuesday the story of the family who got a new car from a mysterious benefactor was all over town. The car salesman had to tell his wife who had called him on Christmas Eve. She, of course, had to tell her sister who was helping her make green bean salad and that was only the story’s first stop that night. The pastor told the assistant pastor who let it slip to the school principal whose wife’s cousin was a reporter at the town’s small newspaper who began aggressively tracking it down and had quickly found the family who told the reporter they had no idea who’d given them the car. The car dealer wasn’t talking to the press other than to say they had been happy to have played a part to make it happen and the story ran in the newspaper’s Wednesday edition and was picked up by the national wires and by the end of the week it was the feel good story of the holiday season. All the networks ran it. The family was interviewed by media outlets from all over the country. The father was offered a new job paying more than he had been making before and with great benefits and companies and individuals from practically everywhere began showering the family with cash and gifts.

On Thursday, the old man’s phone rang and it was his daughter. She said she was sorry she’d forgotten to call on Christmas, but her mother-in-law had finally left and she’d just remembered it. He said it didn’t matter and he just hoped the girls had enjoyed themselves. Then she said she’d seen the story about the car on television and had done a little research on the internet and she asked him point-blank if he’d been the mystery man? She said it seemed way too coincidental that it happened in his small town, to someone at his church and there was little doubt he was probably the richest man in the small town and even though she had no idea how rich he really was, she’d seen him do similar things growing up. He babbled about having heard something about it, but not knowing all the details and he said he’d ask about it at church on Sunday. She said she was going to keep a close eye on him to make sure people didn’t take advantage of him saying a new car cost a lot of money, not knowing her father could have easily afforded to buy the family a new car every month and never miss it. His daughter said she and her husband had discussed it and they wouldn’t hesitate to step in if it appeared he was being irresponsible or if people were manipulating him into giving away his money. He told her everything was fine that there was nothing to worry about and then said he had to be somewhere and had to go and was the one who ended a phone call with her for the first time in his life. He didn’t really have anywhere to go, except back to his recliner where he sat down and wondered if his son-in-law would be concerned enough to write a poem about irresponsible senior citizens spending money that should rightly go toward his wife’s inheritance?

On Sunday, the streets were still snow-packed but the sidewalks had been cleared as the old man walked to the ten-thirty Sunday service. He wore the same khaki slacks that still had salt stains on the fraying cuffs from his Christmas Eve adventure and hadn’t been to the cleaners yet, a fresh blue dress shirt and the shiny blue sport coat, and this time he was able to get a seat in an empty pew. He saw the family on the other side of the church a few rows back. The father and mother waved to him and he waved back, but that was it.

As he left the church right after communion and walked up the church driveway he crossed the street and turned left toward home, he heard a car crunching through the unplowed snow in the gutter next to him. The new minivan pulled alongside him and the electric passenger side window eased down and the new car smell wafted out. The smiling father asked if he wanted a ride. The old man said he was fine and said he hadn’t recognized them in their new car. The father was smiling and said it was a long story that he’d tell him sometime when it wasn’t so cold, but, yes, it was new and they loved it and he told the old man any time he needed a ride to just give them a call. The old man promised he would and waved as the car pulled away, went about ten feet and stopped again. As the old man reached the car once more, at about the same place they’d found him a few nights earlier, the window went down and the father leaned over and said, “Say, you wouldn’t, by chance, know anything about this car, would you, sir?”

The old man paused and thought for a beat. “Cars,” the old man said, “Why I’d barely know how to change the oil in a car these days, especially a fancy one like this. Sorry.”

“Well, it was a long-shot, but I just had to ask. Have a good day, sir.”

The old man feigned confusion and said goodbye again and the minivan pulled away.

As the minivan stopped at the next corner the man’s wife asked her husband why in the world he thought the old man could have been the generous person who’d given them a brand new car? The sticker was still taped to the side window and she pointed to the price and said the old man was obviously living alone on a fixed income and counting his pennies each month hoping they’d stretch until his monthly Social Security check hit the bank. She was quite sure he wasn’t the one and she told him she’d actually written a letter to the pastor a while back asking if the church couldn’t do a little something for the poor, sad old man, the man who wore the same clothes to church every Sunday.

©2022 John J. Klobnak

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