Ramblin' Jack

The man with one leg stood at the back door and in a whispery, course voice, asked my grandmother if there was anything he could do around the house to earn a meal. Nana have him a long appraising look, sniffed the air for a telltale trace of whiskey, then gestured toward the Lincoln. Car could use a washin', she said tightly, You manage that? He nodded and leaned his crutches against the wood box to struggle out of his tattered backpack. Water's on and there's a hose in the garage, Nana told him, Put things back the way you find 'em.

For the next hour or so, the one legged man hobbled around the Lincoln. He soaped it down, scrubbed off the dirt and caked mud, rinsed it off and then repeated the whole process a second time. The car gleamed in the morning sun, it's windows and trim spotless. Nana watched silently from the kitchen window and as he finished, she began the makings of a meal - eggs and bacon, toast, homefries with onions and fresh coffee. At the last minute, she dug into the freezer and produced a small steak which she set to sizzling in a cast iron pan. The stranger was invited in and given a place at the dining room table where he sat quietly, eyes cast down, and hands still. Thank you, ma'am, were his only words as she placed food in front of him. He ate slowly, carefully, and when he was done he tucked a crutch under one arm and delivered all his dishes to the kitchen, setting them gently on the immaculate counter. Appreciate it, ma'am, he told her, Best meal I've had in a dog's age. Never comfortable with compliments, Nana waved this off and held the back door open for him just before tucking a five dollar bill into his shirt pocket. Got a name? she called after him. Elliott, ma'am, he told her, Jack Elliott. Folks call me Ramblin'' Jack, like the folksinger. He removed the five dollars and laid it in the woodbox with a shake of his head then hobbled around the corner and down the path. She picked up the paper money and put it back in her pocket, a thoughtful expression on her face, then walked to the sunporch and intercepted him at the side door. Reckon there's always some small thing to be done here, if you've a mind. Come back tomorrow. He smiled and tipped his cap, I'll do that, ma''am, thank you.

The next day passed as well as the day after that, and the day after that, and in short order the entire summer, but there was no sign of Ramblin' Jack. Neither of the ferry crews remembered seeing him come or go, and soon Nana discovered that no one on the island recollected seeing him. Passin' strange for a man with one leg, she mused aloud to Miss Hilda at the post office one clear evening. Hilda, nonsense free as always, gave her a stern look, Quite so, Alice, possibly the entire episode was the invention of an overtaxed imagination. Nana glared at her and ordered me to the car with a grim expression. Overtaxed imagination indeed, she muttered as she turned the key in the ignition, Why, that man was as real as homemade sin and a sight better lookin'!

Still, it remained that no one had seen the man and in time he turned into an island ghost. Even my grandmother began to doubt his existence although she shared this feeling with no one except me and as he had faded from my memory, even I was less sure he had been real. It was several years later as I helped Nana sort through and organize a dozen or boxes of correspondence that I discovered the letter - handwritten in Miss Hilda's signature green ink and attached to a yellowing death notice from the Yarmouth paper - it reported the death of Jack Lucas Elliott, 49, from a sudden illness. It detailed his brief life - promising young athlete to competitive swimmer to war veteran to dishwasher - he had lost a leg during his service and left no family. Across the top, again in green ink, was a short and to the point message, Alice, my apologies - Hilda.

The man with one leg had lived, fought, traveled, worked and died in relative solitude and anonymity but he had been real. Ramblin' Jack had mattered if only for one long ago summer morning and one hard earned meal. Had he managed to swim the passage and disappear, I wondered, an extraordinary feat it seemed for a man with one leg, but maybe - just maybe - not impossible. I thought of one of the preachers most oft repeated sayings, All wounds are mended in heaven, everyone is made whole. I still like to think that's true.