Excerpt



Eighty-five year old Miss Lettie Greene adopted a crippled, black, homeless man at a soup kitchen and hired him as her gardener. She always offered him a shower in her basement after a day of gardening. This is her story about Mr. Wimberly to the Reverend and Mrs. Donald Mayfield who have bought her home where Mr. Wimberly will continue as gardener, and Miss Lettie will stay on as extended family tenant for life.


First, she explained, Mr. Wimberly wouldnt tell her his first name. He never liked it and years ago had tucked it safely away. And he wouldnt call her Miss Lettie, as she suggested, so resorted simply to Maam. Still they were close friends. She continued to drive her car and invited him to join her in the front seat, but he insisted on sitting in the rear behind the passenger seat. He also refused to use his seat belt, saying he trusted her driving more than the seat belt designer. One day last spring, they started for the hardware store to buy garden supplies. On the way, Miss Lettie swerved to avoid a squirrel, jumped the curbing and slammed into a large tree. Miss Lettie wasnt hurt but Mr. Wimberly was thrown against the front seat with such force it left him with facial lacerations and a broken right arm. Miss Letties car suffered a flat tire and a smashed fender, which rendered it temporarily out of order, so, over Mr. Wimberlys protests, neighbors called an ambulance. He ended up in the emergency room with a cast on his arm and two large patches on his dark face that gave him the appearance of a Halloween character. Although a little groggy from anesthesia, he insisted he would be fine and after a glass of orange juice, they called a taxi to take them home.

After that, my driving days were over...insurance is too costly for one thing. My car was towed away; I think I got $700 for it and considered myself lucky. I put a good portion of that away for taxi fares.

This is the funny part, at least a portion of it, Miss Lettie snickered with glee. I had a folding bed with a comfortable mattress stored in the basement. I knew Mr. Wimberly would never agree to sleeping upstairs, so I insisted he use the bed downstairs for a few days while he recovered and not go back to the rag-tag boxes he called home. He finally agreed, and together we neatened up the small room, unfolded the bed, and I put on fresh sheets; he doing all this with one good arm. Since he had gardened and sweated before we started out on the fateful trip, I knew he would like a bath in his basement shower. I wasnt sure how to approach him, knowing he couldnt do it by himself. Mr. Wimberly, I finally said, would you like me to help you with a bath?

Maam! he shot back, I would not like that one bit, then added, Im surprised at you! All I could do was laugh.

Mr, Wimberly, how old are you?

Seventy-two.

Well, Im eighty-five, and I have no inappropriate intentions. I did not have in mind stripping to your birthday suit. You can leave your shorts on.

I dont wear shorts.

Well, I have a bathing suit of my former husbands somewhere upstairs. I can get that. Finally, he allowed me to fetch the ancient bathing trunks, which he managed to get on by himself after I had helped him remove his upper clothes. We placed a chair under the shower, and Mr. Wimberly had a bath. I put a plastic bag over his cast, and we were able to keep it dry.

Mr. Wimberly sat under the shower with his legs crossed, his left one over the right as I washed his upper body. When I asked him to uncross his legs, he said he could wash them. Why are you doing this? I was rather annoyed. He didnt look at me but slowly uncrossed his legs. I stared at a grossly deformed right knee and shin, emphasized by the shine from water. Oh, Mr. Wimberly, I am sorry. It must be terribly painful. How did you do this? He crossed his legs again quickly, said he was ten when it happened but didnt want to talk about it. We were both embarrassed over the situation, so I decided to take another tack.

Here, you wash your legs, I told him. Ill do your feet.

Maam, he bellowed out, you cant wash my feet.

Why not? I countered.

Because it wouldnt be proper.

Mr. Wimberly, it would not only be proper but scriptural. We are supposed to wash each others feet.

Says who? came his retort.

Says Jesus. We have a service in our church on Maundy Thursday...the day before Good Friday...its about foot washing. Then I told him to wait there, and Id return shortly. I went upstairs and fetched a metal basin, a pitcher with some warm water, and my Bible, tucked under one arm. Upstairs, I had checked the Prayer Book for the MaundyThursday Gospel and found it was John l3:1-15. I read that to Mr. Wimberly and told him it was an act of selfless love on Jesus part, showing humility, and that He recommended we follow His lead. It took a lot of persuading, but he finally agreed...if he could wash my feet, too. We washed each others feet that day...he did it one-handed with one arm in a cast. There was a great bonding, and there still is.

Mary Jane and Donald were so touched by Miss Letties story that they said nothing at first, just reached over and took her hand. Finally, Donald spoke. Mr. Wimberly sounds like someone I would like to know.

Mary Jane added, I hope hell tell us what happened when he was ten.