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More Than a Mile
by S. Gregg
My wife sits beside me on the bed and gazes silently with me at the old pair of sneakers in the cardboard box on my lap.
"Another year gone by already; it hardly seems possible," Rita smiles contentedly at me and kisses my cheek.
November is the month for giving thanks, and I can't help but reflect on the most critical turning point in my life. Looking back twelve years, I do not recognize the man I used to be. It's as though I'm looking back at a stranger's existence, not my own past. I finger the old crumpled paper napkin I keep stored with the worn-out sneakers. The blue ink is faded, but the man's name scrawled on the napkin is still legible.
Rita seems to sense the unexplained heaviness I feel along with my thankfulness this year. "Why don't you try to contact him, Jim? Right now, while you're thinking of it," she prods gently. "You want to thank him, right? I bet he'd be happy to know how your life turned around because of his help."
Rita is wise beyond her years. It's no wonder I love her so much. I kiss her tenderly; then we sit touching forehead to forehead, nose to nose. "You're absolutely right, Rita. But a simple phone call won't do; it would be harder to reintroduce myself that way. Tomorrow afternoon I'll drive over to Lakewood, look him up, and thank him in person."
It's about a half-hour drive, and I ask myself repeatedly why I hadn't made this trip sooner. The answer that comes to me is that during the course of life, things happen for a reason and in their own time. The time is right for this trip.
Having jotted down his street address from the local telephone book at the shopping plaza, I located his home and pulled into the driveway. A lovely woman, most likely his wife, answered the door when I rang. Palms a little sweaty, I ask, "Mrs. Pierce?"
"Yes," she confirms reservedly, probably thinking I am going to try to sell her something.
"Is Don home? I won't take but a few minutes of his time," I begin, sounding more like a salesman with every word.
Mrs. Pierce looks at me with uncertainty. "Can I help you with something?" she asks.
"Well you see, Mrs. Pierce, I only met your husband once, many years ago, and I wanted to come by to thank him for all he did for me that night," I gushed, unprepared for this detailed of an introduction. "My name is Jim Harnick. I'd like to give him a little something as a token of my appreciation," I summed up.
Her expression softened. "I see," she smiled. "Please come inside where we can talk about this more comfortably."
Mrs. Pierce led the way to their living room and gestured for me to have a seat.
"Thank you," I said as I eased onto the couch, setting my shopping bag down at my feet.
Mrs. Pierce sat in the overstuffed chair adjacent to me. "Please tell me how you and Don met."
"Well, I'm a little ashamed that I waited so long, but it was twelve years ago on a cold, rainy night in November that Don stopped to give me a lift in his stationwagon." I happened to glance at the mantel above the fireplace and saw a row of framed family portraits. Aside from his hair being a lot whiter, I would've recognized Don anywhere.
Mrs. Pierce smiled, and I thought I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. "As dangerous as it is, Don could never just drive past a person in need of a ride. It's very nice of you to stop by to show your appreciation."
She didn't even know half of the story yet. "But he did so much more than just give me a ride," I said, an urgency filling my chest. "He turned my life around. No, he did more than that -- he SAVED my life!" I blurted. "I was fresh out of college, out of money, out of luck," I went on to explain. "Don saw all of that in me without asking a single question,... without judgment. He took me to the town diner and ordered platefuls of food for me. He asked the waitress to wrap up what I couldn't eat so I could take it with me. After that, he took me to the bus station -- where I had asked him to take me in the first place -- and gave me money for bus fare. And then," my voice began to waver, "just as I was getting out of the car, Don said, 'Wait a minute. Take these.' He must have noticed the torn shoes I had on because he handed me the sneakers he had been wearing and sat there in his socks. And let me tell you, I walked more than a mile in those sneakers." Tears stung my eyes. Mrs. Pierce was crying as well.
"Because of your husband, Mrs. Pierce, my life took direction. He took a chance on me -- without even knowing me -- and I want him to know how grateful I am to him." I extracted photographs from my wallet and showed them to Mrs. Pierce. "My wife, Rita, and our daughter, Emily," I offered somewhat cryptically. "I would not have them today if Don had passed me by."
Mrs. Pierce's teenage son stepped into the room, drawn, no doubt, by the sound of his mother's weeping. "Is everything all right, Mom?"
"Yes, Kevin," Mrs. Pierce replied trying to smile, wiping her tears. "Mr. Harnick was just telling me how he met your dad many years ago."
I did my best to put my emotions in check. After all, I still had pride, and I was not accustomed to crying in front of anyone, especially strangers. Yet somehow they did not feel like strangers to me.
"Pardon me," I said as I cleared my throat. "I really need to be going," I went on. "I wanted to give these to Don," I said, pulling a cardboard box out of my shopping bag and opening the lid, exposing a brand-new pair of white sneakers. "I know it's not much, but I didn't know what else I could bring," I explained sheepishly.
Mrs. Pierce began to sob. Her son knelt down and hugged her, providing comfort.
Confused, I stood to apologize. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"
The son turned to me. "It's not your fault, Mr. Harnick. My father died a year ago yesterday. It was very unexpected. We still miss him a lot."
I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. I had waited too long.
I drove into our driveway. Smiling, Rita stood at the window, awaiting my return. Our five-year-old daughter ran and jumped into my arms as I came through the front door. I hugged her to me fiercely, then wrapped an arm around Rita and firmly pulled her into the embrace as well. Both of my ladies felt my body trembling. Both looked at me with concern, caring, and love.
My voice choked with a mixture of joy and grief, I whispered to them, "I'm the luckiest man alive."
Later, after Emily was tucked in bed and fast asleep, Rita came to me in our bedroom where I was once again staring at an open cardboard box on my lap.
"NEW sneakers?" she asked softly, surprise in her question.
I nodded. "I was too late, Rita. Don died a year ago. I know it's trivial, but I wanted to give him these new sneakers. I was too late. He'll never know how much he did for me and how grateful I am." I hung my head in remorse.
Rita leaned up against me and put her arms around me, her words quiet and gentle. "He walks with God now, Jim. He knows."
©1999 S. Gregg
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