Small as an Elephant - Jennifer Richard Jacobson [43]
And she’d smile and say something like, “Wait till I tell the animal-protection people,” but she’d be so glad . . . so relieved to know he’d gone ahead and grabbed a special moment, so happy to know that he was the same old Jack she’d left in Maine. He knew she would.
It would be their new day, their morning broken.
He’d see Lydia. He’d do it for both of them.
He closed his eyes and let the choir sing him to sleep.
Jack woke as the only person in an otherwise empty church. Despite his sunburn, despite his now-obvious thirst and the lack of a blanket the previous night, he had slept soundly. And he’d dreamed. Dreamed he was riding high on an African elephant. He and the tusked elephant ambled through a lush green forest and then emerged into a field where a large crowd was waiting. In the back of the crowd
was a blond woman — smiling, running along, waving her arms. It’s Mom, Jack had thought while dreaming. She’s come. And then she’d faded. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture the dream, but it was gone.
Never mind. Today he was headed for York. He stood, stretched, and went down the narrow stairway to find a bathroom — and maybe food. On the opposite side of the church entry was a small office that smelled both musty and of polished wood. There was a desk, a small bookcase with a couple of worn Bibles on one shelf, and two folding chairs. On the corner of the desk was a jam jar holding a few dead marigolds, probably put there last Sunday. In the corner of the little office, Jack found a restroom no bigger than a closet.
One look in the filmy mirror made him realize he was very lucky not to have been seen last night. Anyone could tell from his red, dirt-streaked face that things were not what they should be. He used a bar of soap and some soggy mounds of toilet paper to give himself another sponge bath.
If only finding food was that easy. Jack walked to the back of the church, behind the pulpit, and cautiously opened a door. A modern room had been added on — a meeting area where people probably came for refreshments after church — and it had a little kitchenette. But all the cupboards held were paper goods, serving trays, and stuff for serving coffee: creamer, sugar cubes, stirring sticks. Jack popped a sugar cube into his mouth, pocketed a handful, and checked out the miniature refrigerator. One box of baking soda — that was it. He’d have to find another way to get food.
As Jack was leaving the church, he noticed a lost-and-found box on a bench near the door. Maybe there’d be a jacket inside. No such luck, but he did find a baseball cap that said Searsport Vikings. It was a little big, but that was good — it covered more of his face that way. This, he figured, was as good a disguise as anything. He pulled the baseball cap lower and continued walking.
Acorns lined the road, and for a while Jack concentrated on crushing them beneath his feet. He noticed that along this patch of highway, some of the trees’ leaves had started to turn red. He remembered the fall when he and his mother had collected leaves and ironed them between wax paper. He’d hung them in his bedroom windows until the wax paper yellowed and began to curl. For some reason, this memory caused his heart to form a fist, but then he reminded himself that he was too old to do that now anyway, and besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t had that experience. He had.
And there were things other than leaves to look at on this road. There were a couple of places where flea markets were held; lots of antiques shops, with funky stuff like weather vanes and giant rocking horses out front; even a shop with mini lighthouses all over its lawn. As he popped sugar cubes into his mouth, he kept his eyes peeled for a vegetable garden, but so far, no luck.
Eventually, a sign welcomed him