It was in July 1963 that Walt met Allen. And November when he’d lost him. Five months.
Walt had just started as pastor of St. Anthony’s Anglican. He and Esther had spent nearly 13 years at St. Stephen’s. Their first home. Their first church. Where they’d left little Faith.
It had been hard to leave, especially knowing the tiny grave would be an hour’s drive away now. They promised each other they’d come and visit, but he wondered. Esther would be teaching all week, and Walt worked Sundays, and he knew from experience that Saturdays had a way of filling up. He worried that the little plaque on the ground would get lost in the grass and stepped on and cracked or something. He’d lie awake worrying about that.
One of the things he’d inherited from his predecessor at St. Anthony’s was a soup kitchen. St. Stephen’s hadn’t had one. It was in a small town and it didn’t seem to be necessary, but this was an actual city, and here, it was needed.
So once a week, the basement doors were open for a couple of hours. Cement floor, walls that used to be white, probably, fluorescent lights. Stacking tables and chairs that made that scrunching noise when anybody got up or sat down. A hint of bleach and floor wax.
And at one end a pass-through where the ladies of the kitchen cabal ladeled out bowls of something steamy and wonderful, alongside a homebaked biscuit and a small styro plate of whatever salad they’d made this week. Coleslaw, Ceasar, something waldorf–ish.
Soup was served Tuesdays at 12:00 sharp, but the doors were open an hour before. In the summer, it was cooler than the sidewalk and in the winter it was warmer and the men would be waiting either way, so it might as well be inside.
The ladies of the kitchen cabal exercised a fierce brand of grace - that peculiar kind of love that would rap your knuckles before it would give you a hug, but it was for your own good and only because they love you. If they didn’t care, they’d let you act any old how, but you were capable of better than that and you were going to live up to your potential, even if it killed you first.
So the line formed neatly to the right and moved tidily past the window. No teasing, no swearing, no sass. A nod and a thank you very much, ma’am.
Walt’s job in all this was to show up wearing his collar and say the prayer.
He noticed Allan on his first visit. A man in his 60s, clean and rumpled. He had the same scruffy uniqueness that marked so many in the neighbourhood.
But he didn’t arrive early like everybody else, and stand in line. He arrived at 11:59:59 and walked straight to the counter, head down, eyes down.
The captain of the kitchen cabal gave him an efficient “Good morning, Allan.”
“Good morning, ma’am.”
She handed him a paper bag over the counter. He said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome, Allan. We’ll see you next week.”
And he left.
The same thing happened the next week. And the next. So Walt asked Mrs. Abernethy what it was all about. She said, she didn’t know, for sure, but about 6 months ago, Allan had come in and asked for a bowl of soup and a biscuit to go.
Which threw the cabal for a loop, but they found a container with a lid and a bag and away he went.
He’d never sat down, never stayed, never made eye contact, never talked to anyone but Mrs. Abernethy.
The next week, Walt stationed himself by the door. As Allen was leaving with his paper bag, Walt said, “Hi.”
Allen stopped. “Uh, Hi. Reverend.”
"Call me Walt.”
Eyes down. "Uh, Allen.”
"Good to meet you Allen.”
"Uh–huh.”
"See you next week.”
"Sure, Reverend.”
For the next few weeks, Walt did the same thing. Just saying hi. Allen would say hi back, head down, nodding and then leave.
Things went on like that until one week, Walt worked up the nerve to ask Allen if he’d stay for lunch. They could sit together.
“Uh, no. No. No.”
Allen took a step toward the door, stopped and said, "I eat at home.”
"Oh.”
“Uh, ya got soup, Reverend?”
Walt realized this was an invitation.
“I’ll get some. Wait for me right here.”
"Uh-huh.”
Walt asked Mrs. Abernethy for another take-out and followed Allen out the door.
The two men walked a couple of blocks without talking, climbed an iron staircase at the end of an alley and Walt waited a few steps down while Allan set down his bag, pulled out a key and unlocked the door at the top. Walt ducked through after his host, wondering what on earth he’d been thinking.
Allen’s place was one room, cracked plaster and water stains. No two things that matched – except for the poppies. He set down his soup beside the toaster and cleared some socks off the couch so Walt could sit there. Allan took the kitchen chair. He reached behind himself and took a couple of spoons from the window ledge. He looked carefully at them both, breathed on one, polished it on his knee, checked it in the sunlight and handed it to Walt.
"There ya go, Reverend.”
Walt decided what the heck, said thanks and dug in.
He looked around the room for something, anything, to talk about. No books, no newspapers, no magazines. A small TV. A radio.
On the wall above the toaster was a picture of a young girl with blonde pigtails and a gappy smile. It looked at least 20 years old.
"Hey, Allen, who’s the little girl in the picture?”
Allen turned and looked. “My daughter.”
"Really?” Allen nodded.
"What’s her name?”
“Lorna. For my mom. She’s 34 now. Lives out west. Nice house. Gonna go see her one day. She said. She’s gonna send for me.”
"That’ll be nice.”
“Yeah. She’s gonna send for me. She said.”
"When did you see her last?”
“1952.” And he went back to eating his soup.
Eleven years. Walt looked at the picture. He couldn’t imagine it. Imagine having a daughter and not seeing her for 11 years and hoping that maybe she’d send for him.
He realized Allen had said something.
"Pardon?”
"You got kids, Reverend?”
“Uh, no. Not… We had a little girl.”
“Sorry, Reverend. Not my business.”
“No, no. It’s just… Nobody ever asks, so I never talk about it. About her. Faith. Her name was Faith.”
"I am sorry, Reverend.”
"Thanks.”
Silence. Walt had nothing left to ask about except for the poppies. The little ones they hand out for Remembrance Day. Allen had a piece of cardboard, 6’ by 4’, tacked to the wall, covered in poppies. Hundreds of them.
"That’s quite a collection.”
Allen glanced up at it and back down, “Uh-huh.”
"How many are there?”
"527.”
"Where did you get them all?”
“Found ‘em. People just drop ‘em on the ground. They shouldn’t do that. It just means they don’t get it. If you don’t get it you shouldn’t wear them in the first place. They mean something. They’re sad and hopeful.”
"Are you a veteran, Allan?”
“ WW1. Amiens. I was there.”
Walt said, “WW2. Rimini. I was there.”
Allen looked up and for the first time Walt saw that his eyes were blue.
"Yeah?”
"Yeah.”
For the next half hour, they talked about battles and commanders and places. Learning about each others’ wars.
The next week they did it again. And the next week.
Allen would come to get his soup and they’d walk out together, silent until Allen was home. Then they’d talk and talk and talk about being a soldier and being a father.
Walt started looking forward to it.
They ate their soup together, understanding each other.
When November rolled around, Walt found himself picking up poppies off the ground and putting them in his pocket. Because they were sad and hopeful.
He and Esther took a week off and went back to St. Stephens’ to install a proper gravestone for Faith. One with a poppy carved on it. Because it was sad and hopeful.
The next week he waited at the soup kitchen for Allen, but he didn’t show. So Walt walked to the staircase at the end of the alley and knocked on the door.
A woman answered.
She was the manager, getting the place ready for the next tenant. Allen was gone. No, not to the hospital. No, no forwarding address. He didn’t owe her any money, so she didn’t care. Didn’t leave any messages or notes. He couldn’t write.
Walt turned to go.
“Wait a minute, though.” She went inside and came back.
“He left this stuck to the wall. I don’t know, maybe it’s for you.”
She handed him a folded paper bag.
At the bottom of the stairs, Walt opened it. Inside was a poppy.
Walt stood looking at it, twirling the pin between his fingers.
The only thing Walt could hope was that Allen’s daughter had sent for him after all. Which made him sad. That it had taken so long. And hopeful. That it would work out alright.
He smiled, stuck the poppy on the front of his jacket, thanked God for Allen and for sadness and hope, and walked back to the church.
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