Seeking The Good Samaritan

Frank's spirit left Charlotte Street this morning.  I shed a tear.  Then stopped mid-stream and thought: 'If Frank knew, that would touch his heart.' His life was a hard one.  He wouldn't expect anyone to weep at his death. Although I strongly suspect Joanne would as well. And so, when I hear, I dig out our old most-unused phone book and try to reach her.  Working what what few facts I know.

Fact #1.  Joanne and Brian were Frank's Good Samaritans. He spoke of them often with a warmth in his voice that wasn't there for the rest of the world.  They cared for him - and took care of him in a way that the rest of the world didn't.  She did his laundry. And - when she could get away with it - cleaned his 4'x8' kitchen that usually spilled over with leftover food and unwashed dishes.  Frank tried to slip them a gift card at Christmas.  But, he said, the money always appeared back in his rather empty cupboard as extra groceries.

Fact #2.  They probably work at the local grocery.  And now I find myself wishing that I had listened more closely to Frank's stories. Those stories began the moment you climbed the pocketful of steps up on to the back stoop that led into a cramped two-room cubicle he called home.  Like one of those big rigs he drove in healthier days, those stories were still rolling under a full head of steam when you headed back down the steps a full hour later.  Now I wished I had asked more questions. Packed away the fine details for such a day as today.

I met Joanne just once. She dropped by mostly,  I suspect,  to make sure he was still breathing and to tidy up the place. I listened to Frank reminisce.  A great lover of country music, it seems he once drove a tour bus for Johnny Cash. A long way from Charlotte Street. And the hard cards life had dealt him.  I listened to Frank.  Joanne,  God bless her, still wearing her bike helmet, washed the sinkful of dishes.

I never did meet Brian.  And, try as I might,  never found either of them. A few days from now a handful of us will come together at Bishop's Funeral Home. Gordie, the gentle but wise soul who, unlike me, was able to keep Frank on the straight and narrow.  Four more of us who were his parish church neighbors.  A rooming house neighbor who quite honestly couldn't stand Frank - but after all had found his body.  A senior lady, friend it seems of his former wife. No family. A minister who fills in on occasions such as these.

No Joanne. No Brian. They watched out for him in life.  He's gone now. And their seats are empty.  Yet it warms my heart. Knowing. Just knowing.  That out there somewhere there are still Good Samaritans.