Reparations, Part III

Read Part I

Read Part II

And so for three weeks he worked, living on the one meal a day he got at the shelter and praying morning and night on the floor beside his hard little cot. He spent no money, because he knew that the money he earned didn’t belong to him, not until that $800 had been paid. On the third Friday he had $800 and he set out to see the man he’d stolen it from. He found the man ten years in his grave, and so searched until he found his son. The son was a mean-spirited mechanic, operating the same small shop his father had run years before, making a lean living and taking out his anger on the young detailer who worked for him. He was the image of his father, in his face and in his manner.

He listened to Tom’s story with disbelief and then asked harshly what Tom wanted from him.

“Only to make amends,” Tom said, though humility did not come easily to him in this place where he’d been so badly treated, where he could see that nothing had changed. He extended the $800 to the man and heard a derisive chuckle.

“Eight hundred dollars.” The mechanic’s son shook his head. Thirty-three years bears a lot of interest, Mister. $800 today isn’t worth what it was back then.”

Tom felt anger and frustration rising, but he forced himself to respond evenly.

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” he said. “What do you think would be fair?”

The mechanic’s eyes glinted and he thought for a minute. He scratched on a piece of paper.

“I’ll be fair with you,” he said. “Low interest rate. And I won’t compound the interest. Let’s say 5% for thirty three years…that’s another $1320 that you owe me.”

Tom felt the same kick in the stomach that he’d experienced in church that first day. He struggled to catch his breath before saying simply, “Yes, sir. It will take me some time to get it up, but I’ll be back.”

He walked slowly back to the shelter, calculating as he went. It would take another four weeks of living on charity, eating one meal a day and walking back and forth to work to pay that $1320. Only then could he begin to think about giving something back to the shelter and then scraping to find a place of his own to live. Only then could be begin to think about eating when he was hungry instead of only when the food was free. The three weeks he’d just lived through had seemed an eternity, and the next four stretched before him like hell.

Back in the shelter he went straight to his knees and gave thanks to God.

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