Chains
by Stanley McFarland
“We got another one, Reverend Strawberry.”
I didn’t have to ask Edith what she meant by another one.
Panhandlers regularly visited the churches looking for money, and St.
Stephen’s was no exception. In the past, their stories varied:
wounded veteran, laid off, cheated, bad divorce. Part of my job was
to sort through the truth and the fiction and find the best way to
minister to each. Most of them begged off when it became apparent
that I was more interested in helping them put their lives together
than giving out cash.
But things had changed in recent years. The stories were now
remarkably the same. I ran out of gas down the road. I’m about a
hundred miles from home, can you help me out? It was a pitch much
more likely to discourage those prone to help people change and also
more likely to produce cash. We got a couple of these a month now.
Had some Tony Robbins of panhandling done a seminar in our town?
Ever since a frightening incident at a neighbor church, I’d had a
camera installed on the front door and told Edith to keep the door
locked until she knew who it was. She had a buzzer at her desk, but
when panhandlers came, I went to the door myself.
As I opened the door, I wasn’t surprised to see a gas can next to
our guest. The guitar case was something new.
“May I help you,” I said.
One method of detecting a con artist – at least a small-time one,
is the speed of his delivery. A person who knows he’s doing wrong
tends to speak fast. He’ll give you a rehearsed story in quick
cadence so you’ll hear his whole pitch before you shut the door.
The tall, thin black man facing me smiled for a minute – then
started laughing.
“I’m in a fix,” he said.
“You out of gas?”
“No,” he said, picking up the gas can and swinging it so that I
could hear the gas swishing around inside. “I’m out of car.”
“Out of car?”
“I suppose,” he said, “you could say I’m like Miss Blanche
Dubois. I’m depending on the kindness of strangers.”
At worst it was a novel delivery – guitar, laugh, slow approach,
paraphrasing Tennessee Williams. I was intrigued.
“Why don’t you come in,” I said, opening the door wider. “I’m
Tom Strawberry. I’m the senior pastor here.”
“Oh, Wilson Santone,” said my guest putting down the guitar case
he was in the process of picking up, and offering his hand. “Some
people pronounce it Santone like Zamboni. I prefer Santone,
like ham bone. I don’t want people to think I’m Italian.” He
laughed again. It was a hearty, unaffected laugh, and I found myself
laughing with him as I shook his hand.
He already held the gas can, so I picked up his guitar case.
“There’s no tommy gun in here, is there, Mr. Santone?”
He laughed again. “See, that’s why I don’t want people to
think I’m Italian.”
Edith had a wary look as she released the electronic latch to the
office door. I couldn’t blame her after what happened at First
Baptist, and Wilson Santone showed no offence. I slid his guitar
back over to him as we sat in the outer office.
“Would you like some bad coffee?” I offered.
Wilson laughed. “I would. Thank you.”
Edith grabbed one of the guest mugs and buzzed herself out of the
office to rinse it out. “So what’s this about your car?” I
asked.
“I’m not sure what happened to it,” said Wilson. “You see I
ran out of gas sometime last night. A police man came by and told me
I had to move it in the next 24 hours or they’d tow it to the lot.”
I nodded my head. It was starting to sound more like the standard
line. Was Wilson just a better talker than the others?
“This morning,” he continued, “I got my gas can and my guitar
and walked down to that shopping center down the road. I played
until I had enough money for gas and some breakfast. I ate, filled
my can here, but when I came back, the car was gone.”
Edith was back and punched the code before I could get up to buzz her
in. She filled the mug and motioned to the sugar and powered cream.
“I just take it black, thank you,” said Wilson.
“So you think they towed your car early?” I asked.
Wilson laughed. “I hope so, or I’ll never get it back. Thing
is, I don’t know where it’s gone.”
“And you’ll need money to get it out,” said Edith in a flat
tone.
“Maybe not,” said Wilson. “That is, I might have some money at
the post office in Winston-Salem. Is that far?”
“Not far,” I said. “How will you know?”
“I gotta number I can call to find out,” he said.
“Edith,” I asked, “would you mind calling the police and see if
they have Mr. Santone’s car?”
“What kind of car?”
“It’s a ‘87 Corolla wagon,” said Wilson, “mostly white.
Here,” he stood and leaned over Edith’s desk to grab a pen.
Edith jerked back defensively. Wilson calmly wrote out his name and
tag number on a scrap of paper.
I knew Edith wasn’t trying to be rude; she was just scared. “Why
don’t we make your phone call in my office,” I volunteered.
“Say,” said Wilson as he stepped into my office and saw the
vintage Les Paul hanging on my wall, “you’re a git’ man too?”
“That one’s just for show,” I said. I pointed at my Gibson
case leaning against the wall. “I play that one when I get a
chance.”
“I knew there was somethin’ right about you,” he chuckled.
I handed Wilson the receiver and punched the button Edith wasn’t on
and hit 9.
“Hold on,” Wilson said, digging into his back pocket. “I have
one of those phone cards for this.” He pulled out a slim worn
wallet, extracted a card, and started punching in his numbers.
“You mind if I have a look?” I asked, motioning to his guitar
case.
“No, Man, go ahead,” he said, then straightened up like people do
when someone picks up on the other end. He wasn’t saying anything.
He must have gotten a machine. The guitar was a Martin, good
quality, but old and used hard. There were several unused strings
sitting in the well of the case, not in the neck box. I picked up
the instrument and strummed lightly. It held tune pretty well –
even after Wilson carried it half a mile from the shopping center.
“This is Wilson calling for Mr. Kline,” said Wilson in the
over-loud voice people use for answering machines and at
drive-throughs. “I’m in Winston-Salem at…” I scribbled the
outside number on a scrap of paper. “At 336 – 555 – 3700. Is
there money at the post office here? Don’t know how long I’ll be
at this phone.” It looked like he was going to say more, but he
just shrugged his shoulders and laughed, then hung up the phone. He
fiddled with his phone card, having trouble getting back into his
wallet. “Get in there, Little Chain,” he said. He gave me a
shrug. “I never know what to say to machines. Am I talking to the
people, or just a bunch of goo-gaws? Somebody oughta write a book.”
I didn’t have an answer for him so I just strummed a chord on his
Martin. Wilson laughed. “Or write a song,” he said. “You
mind if I take a look at your Gibson – that is a Gibson in there,
isn’t it?”
“It’s a Gibson,” I answered. “Go ahead and pull it out. I
have your Martin – it’s only fair.”
He took out the guitar and held it at arm’s length looking down the
neck. “This box’s been played some.”
“Youth group,” I answered, “and when the sermon won’t come
together.”
“Sometime’s the tune calls the lyrics,” he said, picking a
couple strings and tuning.
It took us a minute tuning the guitars to each other, and then Wilson
began picking out Tom Dooley. It was a song my father used to play
all the time when I was a kid. We played through the chorus twice
and he pointed to me. I shook my head, no and he started singing the
first verse. His voice was rich and weathered, a lot like I’d
hoped it would be. I joined in on the choruses, harmonizing as best
as I could. I thought of those old Andy Griffith shows when Andy
would throw someone in jail and end up playing guitar with them. I
don’t suppose that really happens in county lock-up, but there was
no reason it couldn’t at St. Stephens.
I never heard the phone ring. Suddenly Edith was standing in the
doorway. Reluctantly, I put down Wilson’s Martin.
“Call for Mr. Santone on one,” said Edith as she handed me a
note. I gave Wilson the receiver as I punched the lit button. I
pushed a pen and scrap paper in front of him.
“Yeah, Mr. Kline?” said Wilson. He was silent for a while.
Edith mouthed the words, “Tolands at eleven o’clock,” to me,
reminding me that I had a job to do. I nodded and she retreated back
to her desk.
“Kinda like I’ll fly away?” asked Wilson on the phone. “Yeah,
I’ll come up with somethin’.” Then he scribbled on the scrap I
left. “Yeah, well thank you, Mister Kline. I do appreciate it,”
and he hung up the phone and smiled at me.
“There’s a money order waiting for me at the post office on First
Street.”
“Your car is in impound on Fifteenth,” I replied.
“I guess I have some walkin’ to do. You mind if I leave my
guitar here?”
“It’s quite a ways downtown,” I told him. “Why don’t you
wait in the library while I have my eleven o’clock appointment? I
can take you there at lunch.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
It was the Tolands who first noticed the lingering smell that Wilson
left behind, or at least pointed it out to me – in retrospect, I’m
certain Edith did too. Among the many duties of a pastor’s wife,
my Abigail took on the test of smell inspector. Though I think I can
smell things like coffee or paint thinner, my capacity for detecting
body odor, (most particularly mine own,) is lacking.
It made sense. Wilson was living in his car. The 87 Corolla wagon
did not come with a shower and washing machine as standard equipment.
Wilson’s odor was confirmed in the line at the post office, where
people left plenty of space in line. Once he got to the desk, he
produced an ID and received a small package. I didn’t see what it
contained beyond the money order. Wilson signed the money order and
the clerk counted out eight hundred dollars in cash. Wilson stuffed
the money into the opened package like it was so much loose packing
material.
“That should be enough to get the big chain,” said Wilson,
laughing.
The impound yard presented him with his keys and a ticket to appear
in exchange for two hundred and forty-eight dollars. I found myself
wondering how much more that towing fee was because the owner had no
choice. If I had called from the side of the road for a tow truck,
would it be even half as much?
“I sure do thank you,” said Wilson.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“Well, I guess I’ll head down to City Hall and pay this ticket,”
he said.
“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner at my house,” I
said. “Maybe you could catch a shower and do a load of laundry.”
“That OK with the missus?”
“You’re right,” I said. “I better check.”
Abby’s always been a trooper. I knew she’d say yes, but since
the cancer came back, she’d been tired a lot more often. Today
seemed to be one of her better days.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “I was already making a post
roast.”
“You like pot roast?” I asked Wilson.
He smiled and said, “You know anybody who don’t like pot roast?”
Abby took everything in stride, a strange man coming into our home –
using the washing machine and shower, then sitting down to dinner in
a pair of my old gym shorts and a t-shirt I got in the Bahamas for
two dollars. I had a vision of Bob Marley sitting at my table,
though Wilson lacked the dredds.
“You look a little tired, Ms. Strawberry,” said Wilson.
Abby, who looked to be fading shrugged. “Actually, this is a good
day.”
“Abby’s sick,” I told him.
“You got the C?” asked Wilson.
Abby nodded.
Wilson shook his head.
“It was in remission,” I told him. “We thought she was through
with it.”
“But it’s back,” said Abby.
“Let me ask you a question,” said Wilson. “Might sound kinda
strange.”
“Go ahead,” said Abby.
Wilson looked her in the eye. “You wanna get rid of the C?”
“Of course,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Of course she does,” I said. “We both want it gone.”
“Ya know,” said Wilson, “and I don’t mean disrespect, but I
don’t know you well. There’s a lot of folk feel more comfortable
bein’ sick than bein’ well.”
“Oh,” I said. Then I shut up. I’d seen what Wilson was
talking about a lot in the ministry. Some people weren’t happy
unless they were suffering – getting attention for their problems,
but Abby? Abby wasn’t like that.
“I’m not offended, Mr. Santone,” said Abby. “I also don’t
take your question lightly. I want to be well.”
Wilson stood up from the table. “You mind?”
I looked at Abby who raise an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m jus gonna put my hands on your shoulders,” he said.
“Alright,” said Abby.
I didn’t know what to expect – maybe I was looking for Wilson to
turn into Reverend Ike and start yelling and stomping. Instead he
just stood behind Abby with his hands on her shoulders. If he said a
word, I didn’t hear it.
Wilson’s clothes were in the dryer as we sat on the front porch.
He had his Martin and I had my Gibson. We played The Wreck of the
Old 97, and Amazing Grace, then Wilson started fingering some chords
around the tune of I’ll Fly Away. I joined in, and soon our
improvisation left the song completely.
“Hold on to that,” said Wilson, and he opened the neck
compartment in his guitar case. He took out something that looked
like a thumb drive.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a recording doo-dad I get from the fella in New York that
sent me the money.” He flicked a small switch on the side. “Let’s
go back where we were,” he said.
I felt self conscious for a while, but as we played, I forgot the
device. Wilson brought out the best in me. Wilson started shaking
his head up and down. “Fine, fine,” he said in a low voice.
The jam wove down to a natural end like the best ones do. Wilson
reached over and clicked the device. He smiled wide. “Mister
Kline’ll find something there he’ll like, I bet.”
“What does he do with it?”
“I don’t know,” said Wilson. “He just keeps sending me money
and more of the doo-dads.” Wilson started picking out a tune that
sounded vaguely familiar. It reminded me of a salad dressing
commercial I liked.
The dryer buzzed and we both got up. Abby was in bed, so Wilson and
I were quiet as we folded his clothes. The dish washer buzzed, so I
went to empty that as Wilson finished his laundry.
Wilson declined my invitation to stay overnight. I can’t imagine
an ’87 Toyota was the most comfortable place to sleep, but I didn’t
press.
Over the next few weeks I kept hoping I’d see him again, or maybe
get a letter. I saw a commercial for a travel website that had a
musical background a lot like what we’d played on my porch, but no
word from Wilson Santone.
When we got word that Abby was back in remission, I wondered if it
had anything to do with what Wilson did that night after dinner.
“Cancer’s like a chain,” he said to me that night. “We own
it, and it tries to own us – just like a car, or a house, or fear
or what’s comin’.”
It didn’t make much sense to me at the time, and I don’t think I
could explain it now. It just felt true, like a song means more than
just the lyrics.
And those with hard-luck stories are a little more welcome at St.
Stephen’s these days.
