Parable of the Talents

the world, played raucous music, and had wild sex with hundreds, maybe thousands, of eager young girls. Lies, I suppose.

We put in a vegetable garden and pruned some of the dead limbs from his fruit trees. I don't mean 'we,' of course. He said, 'Well, how about we do this?' Or, 'Do you think we can do that?' And he tried to help, and that was all right. He needed to feel useful, just as he needed someone to hear his outrageous stories. He told me he was 88 years old. His two sons are dead. His middle-aged granddaughter and his sev­eral young great-grandchildren live in Edmonton, Alberta, up in Canada. He was alone except for a neighbor lady who looked in now and then. And she was 74 herself.

He said I could stay as long as I wanted to if I would help him out in the house and outside. The house wasn't in good shape. It had been neglected for years. I couldn't have done all the repairs, of course, even if he could have afforded the needed materials. But I decided to stay for a few days to do what I could. I didn't dare stay long enough for him to begin to depend on me, but a few days.

I thought that would give me a base to work from while I got to know my brother again.

************************************

I'm trying to decide how to talk about my meeting with Marc. Tonight's walk back to the old man's house has helped me to relax a little, calm down a little. But not enough.

Marc was waiting near the long dinner line when I ar­rived. He looked so handsome and at ease in his clean, styl­ish, casual clothing. He had worn a dark blue suit when he preached the night before, and he had managed, even as he told a couple of hundred thieves and winos how awful I was, to look startlingly beautiful.

'Marc,' I said.

He jumped, then turned to stare at me. He had glanced in my direction, but it was obvious that he hadn't recognized me until I spoke to him. He had been encouraging a man in line ahead of me to accept Jesus Christ as his personal Sav­ior and let Jesus help with his drinking problem. It seemed mat the CA Center had a rigorous drying-out program, and Marc had been working hard to sell it.

'Let's take a walk around the corner and talk,' I said, and before he could recover or answer, I turned and walked away, certain that he would follow. He did. We were well away from the line and well away from any listening ears when he caught up.

'Lauren!' he said. 'My God, Lauren, is it you? What in hell are you—?'

I led him around the corner, out of sight of the line, and onto a dirty little side street that led to the bay. I went on sev­eral steps down that street, then stopped and turned and looked at him.

He stood frowning, staring at me, looking uncertain, sur­prised, almost angry. There was no shame or defensiveness about him. That was good. His reaction on seeing me would have been different, I'm sure, if he had known what his Camp Christian friends had been doing to me.

'I need your help,' I said. 'I need you to help me to find my daughter.'

This made nothing at all clear to him, but it did shift him away from anger, which was what I wanted. 'What?' he said.

'Your people have her. They took her. I don't... I don't believe that they've killed her. I don't know what they've done with her, but I suspect that one of them has adopted her. I need you to help me find her.'

'Lauren, what are you talking about? What are you doing here? Why are you trying to look like a man? How did you find me?'

'I heard you preach last night.'

And again he was reduced to saying, 'What?' This time he looked a little embarrassed, a little apprehensive.

'I've been coming here in the hope of finding out what CA does with the children it takes.'

'But these people don't take children! I mean, they rescue orphans from the streets, but they don't—'

'And they 'rescue' the children of heathens, don't they? Well, they 'rescued' my daughter Larkin and all the rest of the younger children of Acorn! They killed my Bankole! And Zahra! Zahra Moss Balter from Robledo! They killed her! They put a collar around my neck and around the necks of my people. CA did that! And then those holy Christians worked us like slaves every day and used us like whores at night! That's what they did. That's what kind of people they are. Now I need your help to find my daughter!' All that came out in a rush, in a harsh, ugly whisper, my face up close to his, my emotions almost out of control. I hadn't meant to spit it all out at him that way. I needed him. I meant to tell him everything, but not like that.

He stared at me as though I were speaking to him in Chi­nese. He put his hand on my shoulder. 'Lauren, come in.  Have some food, a bath, a clean bed. Come on in. We need to talk.'