the visitor

He stayed with us one summer, in the spare bedroom overlooking the old oak tree. He walked with a bit of a limp and didn’t talk much. He had a dog named Old Joe and a worn, brown Bible that he left on his nightstand when he and Old Joe went for walks up the far side of the mountain. I didn’t talk much with him; I was too afraid. My mother said he was an outlaw, but I think she was joking. My father, who was an Episcopal preacher, would sit with him at night and discuss Deuteronomy. Once, at dinner, a Thursday night in July, I think, he asked me if I knew anything about the war. I told him we studied it in school and he said, “Then, you probably don’t.” He didn’t say it mean, he just said it matter of fact, but it came out kind of rough. My mother apologized for him, quietly, in a nice sort of way, like she did for others, sometimes. He left in the middle of the night, during a thunderstorm, was just gone, when everyone woke one morning. My mother didn’t make any excuses for him, that morning, she just cried, quietly, again. He never came back. I asked my mother, then, who he was, but she just shook her head, gently. All she would say was, “His name was Jim. Pray for him.” So, I did.