A bag of fish II

I went to the reverend first, this time. We sat on the porch. While I interviewed the 17-year-old girl who’d lost her mother two years ago to cancer and wanted to be a doctor, he stared off in the distance pretending not to listen.

“He’s ready for you,” the reverend said when I got up to leave.

After my unsuccessful attempt last week to pin down the man on the other side of the road, the reverend had thrown his reverential weight around. He asked me to call before I left town.

I made my way down the dirt road again and pulled in front of the house. A frail man with speckled skin gestured from the back porch.

“Park over there,” he rasped, gesturing vaguely. “I’m tryna grow the grass.”

Inside, I pulled a wooden chair close to the blue recliner so he could hear me. The house smelled like age and sickness. He pulled a blue blanket up over blue pjs and tried to listen.

We were both tired in less than an hour. His memory wasn’t what it used to be; my energy wasn’t the same from that morning. He hoped he’d helped; I promised to call. I’m not sure if either of us meant it.

I called the reverend like I promised.

“When you gon’ cook for me?” he asked.

“Soon,” I said. “Soon.”

Photo courtesy Corbis