Saving Josh

Josh looked across the table at Noah, and waited for an answer. Noah was uncomfortable in the room. That was obvious. It was the one room kids didn't go into. There was a scattering of tables and chairs, mismatched, but not in a shabby chic kind of way, more like a garage sale kind of way. A tired coffee maker on the counter next to a pale yellow refrigerator.  The type of décor that graces most public school teachers’ lounges.  Josh asked again, “How was your day?” Noah stared at the faded linoleum floor tile in silence. “Do you remember me?” Josh asked. Noah nodded without lifting his eyes.  “Do you know who I am?” Noah shook his head. “My name is Josh, and I’m your grandma’s pastor. Do you know what that means?” Noah shook his head again.

He was driving his teachers crazy. Every question brought a shrug. He took any paper a teacher gave him, and folded it into his pant pocket, a black hole for assignments. His homework grade was a string of zeros. Tests weren't much better.  Home phone disconnected. Every day he wore the same jeans with a different t-shirt. Concert t-shirts he’d never been to from bands he’d never heard of. College t-shirts no one in his family ever attended – UT, A&M, Stanford, Holy Cross. And t-shirts from places he’d never been, sunny Florida, and Aspen, and Hawaii.  Fantasy vacations borrowed for 25 cents at the bottom of a cardboard garage sale box.  Oh, and then there was the smell.

“I’m here to be your mentor,” Josh said. “Do ya know what that is?” Noah shook his head. “Well, it means I’m gonna’ meet with you here in this room once a week. And we can talk about anything you wanna’ talk about or we can do homework or we can play cards or checkers. Whatever you want. Is that okay?”  He shrugged. “Okay, well, that’s what we’ll do then. It’s just for one hour … so …”

Noah looked up for the first time. “Why,” he asked. It surprised Josh a little. Not the question, but the eye contact and the matter-of-fact voice. He had dark eyes, brown, but almost black, to match his hair. “Do you remember where you know me from?” Josh asked.  He looked at the floor again and nodded. 

It was three weeks from last Sunday when a woman came up to Josh after the evening service. Josh was relieved when she introduced herself because, although he had seen her around, he couldn't remember her name. He had been pastor of this parish for less than a year. It was his first assignment, right out of seminary. The church was surrounded by government housing, and it was difficult to learn all the names because people came and went. It was the kind of neighborhood everybody was trying to get out of. 

The woman, white hair, maybe in her 70’s, shook his hand. “Pastor, can you please talk to my granddaughter? She’s in trouble.” “Sure.” Josh said, “Can we make an appointment? I have time this week.”  “Um,” she hesitated, “Can you come now? I live across the street. I hate to bother you. She’s in real trouble.” “Okay. What kind of trouble?” “It’s her husband. He just got out of jail, and he’s hitting her again.” “Oh my,” Josh said. “They had a fight today. It’s real bad, pastor. Please talk to her. She’ll listen to you. She doesn't listen to me.”

Josh spotted Aaron headed for the parking lot. “Hold on,” he said to the woman. He caught Aaron just before he got to his car. Asked him if he would go with him to this lady’s apartment. Aaron, who drove in from a much nicer neighborhood, was a young deacon at the church. Eager to help. Together they followed the woman across the street and into her apartment. 

The woman lived in an efficiency in a government housing project where even the largest unit would be considered efficient. Three rooms. A bathroom that Josh assumed was inside the tiny bedroom. And a living, slash, dining, slash, kitchenette room. A card table with two folding chairs served as the dining area décor. The back of a love seat pushed up against the card table marked the border between dining and living. A boy sat at the card table. Looked to be maybe seven. Unless he was little for his age. “That’s Noah,” the woman said. “He’s my great grandson.” Josh nodded at him. “Hi Noah.” The lumpy love seat was complimented by two green lawn chairs.  Josh sat in one of the lawn chairs. Deacon Aaron in the other.  The woman’s granddaughter, Sylvia was her name, sat in the love seat with a crying 6 month old in her lap.

“Your grandma tells me you’re having problems in your marriage” Josh said over the screaming baby. “We’re not married,” she corrected him.  “Oh, okay, with your boyfriend then?”  “He’s my baby’s daddy.” “Right. And he lives here with y’all?” Josh asked.  She nodded. “He just got out of the joint. Everybody needs a place to land.”  “Sure. Of course,” Josh said. Grandma took the screaming baby from Sylvia and standing, rocked her back and forth. The screaming moved to a quiet whimper. Sylvia, her hands now free, reached for a pack of cigarettes from the box crate that served as a side table. “I’m trying to quit,” she said as she pulled a cigarette out and stuck it in her mouth. “Do you mind?” “No. Not at all. I hear it’s really hard to quit.”  She blew out a long, sighful, first drag. “Yeah,” she said. She looked tired.

“Well,” Josh said, “We just wanted to see if there’s anything we can do to help.” She shrugged. It suddenly hit him how ridiculous it was for two strangers, men, to sit in a woman’s living room asking if they can help her with man trouble.  But it was too late to do anything about that.  “What I mean is. Your grandma tells me that your boyfriend is hitting you. And it’s not the first time. That he beat you pretty bad before he went to prison.” She shot a hard look in the direction of her grandma, who was already moving with the baby into the bedroom.  “Meemaw,” she said. “Baby needs a diaper change,” grandma yelled from the other room.  Sylvia rolled her eyes and took another puff.  “Yeah,” she said. “He has a temper when he drinks.”  “I understand,” Josh said, “but listen, we can find help for you. There are agencies – professionals who deal with this all the time, who can …”

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Someone was banging on the front door.  Grandma rushed out of the bedroom, no baby in her hands. “Let me in,” a man’s voice screamed from the other side of the door.  BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. “Open this door right now, dammit.”  Josh looked over at Deacon Aaron. Their eyes locked.  He mouthed the words, what do we do. What Josh wanted to say was, “How the hell should I know? They don’t teach us this stuff in Seminary.”  But he just shook his head real slow and shrugged with his eyebrows, so that Aaron was the only one in the room to see it.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.  “I know you’re in there. Let me in. Now.” The baby let out a cry from the other room. Grandma scurried off to get her.  Josh turned to Sylvia. “Do you want me to go out there and talk to him?”  “Nah. He’s drunk,” she said as she reached for the phone sitting on the box crate next to the cigarettes. “I’m callin’ the cops.” Josh thought, “Thank you Jesus.” He didn't really want to go out there and talk to him.  It just seemed the right thing to ask. You know. The manly thing to say.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. “I’m gonna’ beat the shit out of you if you don’t open this door right now.” The voice grew stronger with every volley. The tiny apartment’s paper thin walls shook with every assault on the door. Josh wondered if the door could take much more. It looked as thin as the walls.  “Um … is your boyfriend a big guy?” Josh asked. Grandma was back in the room now, baby in hands. “Nah,” grandma said, “He’s a scrawny little prick.” She yelled it at the door.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. “I know you’re in there. I can hear you. Who’s in there with you?” Great, Josh  thought. He could see the headlines now.  Pastor beat up by irate husband in woman’s apartment. Hey, on a slow news day in Del Rio they’ll print that story. Might even make the front page.  Should do wonders for his ministry. Truth was Josh had plans for his career. Five years here in the ghetto would get him a promotion to a bigger church. If he paid his dues, played his cards right, kept his nose clean, who knows, maybe someday a large parish in the big city.  But something like this could kill those plans in a heartbeat.  Oh God, what am I doing here? He thought. 

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.  The window at the back of the apartment rattled. Josh wondered if it was locked. He looked back at it and saw Noah, frozen to his chair at the card table. He’d been so quiet, Josh had forgotten he was there. His chair was pushed up against the back wall now. He gripped a G.I. Joe in his hands so tight that his little knuckles were white.  His dark eyes were wide and shiny. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.  He blinked and scrunched up his face with each bang on the door. Josh recognized that face. Like an old relative he hadn't seen in a long time. He coulda’ closed his eyes and seen it in his sleep. He had that face memorized. Not the look of it, but the feel of it.

“Why?” “What?” Josh said. “Why?” Noah blinked as he repeated himself, sitting across from Josh. “Oh. Oh. Why am I here? Um. I don’t know. I guess … I just want to help you do better in school. Is that okay?” Noah shrugged. But this time his shrug seemed different. Lighter. Happier maybe. Almost hopeful. Or maybe it was just Josh’s imagination.