Angels
House
© 2007 by Tony Hearn
Chapter Ten
By the middle of January, I was becoming
apprehensive about the future of Angels House. It was coming time to exercise
the option to purchase the building in which the soup kitchen operated.
Something had to happen. "Would I be out on the street again?" I
asked the Lord. I began to scheme! "What can I do?" Maybe go back to
newspapering. A worse fate could befall me!
One afternoon the pay phone on the wall inside
Angels House rang. I answered it, "This is Brother Tony!" I said.
"What can I do for you?" I tried to answer pleasantly. I was, of
course, exhausted from cooking, serving the day's noon meal, and from the
cleanup.
"I hear you need some money!" the voice on
the other end of the line said. "Yeah!" I said.
"How much do you need?" the voice of a man
asked.
I could tell the man was speaking to me with
seriousness. I changed my tone to one of seriousness, too.
"Or you sitting down?" I asked.
"Yes! How much do you need?"
"A lot! I need $80,000!" I cleared my
throat. I had never in my life ever asked anyone for real money.
"Where should I bring it?" the man said.
"I'll bring you a check this evening!" the man said, as if he was
speaking about pocket change. I almost fainted. I lost my voice.
"Are you there?" the man said.
I fought back tears. I was right on the threshold of
becoming jobless again. My voice, though, returned.
"With whom am I speaking?" I managed to
croak. "I don't believe I know you," I said.
"Dabney Cauley!" the man said. "I'm a
friend of a man who helps you cook the food. He tells me you need money."
I recognized the name. I had written it on a
three-by-five index card months earlier when I was assembling a list of
potential donors. I had never contacted him, though. I never had the time, and
I had told the Lord I would wait till he contacted me. And here was a man on
the phone who had a star by his name.
"Mr. Cauley, thank you for calling," I
said. "I appreciate your interest in helping Angels House. May I be quite
frank with you?"
"Sure!"
"I don't want the money! I want only the use of
this building. Would it be possible for you to buy the property and just let me
use it day to day?" I asked.
"That can be arranged," he said.
"I'll see that my attorney gets in touch with you tomorrow. His name is
John Lock. Tell him what he needs to know to buy the place!"
Mr. Cauley said good-bye and hung up the phone. I
sat at the pay phone for several minutes. I said a quiet prayer, and then I
uttered, "Alleluia. Alleluia to the Lord!" A tremendous weight had
been lifted from my shoulders.
Before January was spent Angels House had been
purchased by Dabney Cauley, with
services provided by his attorney, John Lock. Also, John Lock drew up the
papers for the incorporation of Angels House as a non-profit organization. I
was turning over "the business" to a newly-appointed board of
trustees of my own choosing, of course. I might have been crazy, but I was not
stupid. I picked three persons, two wisely and one not so. I would become an
"employee" so I could draw a salary. John Lock also drew up a contract
of employment. I would be paid my usual modest salary of around $500 a month. My
most trusted friend, Martha, I selected to become the president of the board.
Bob Conklin, my other friend, was chosen to be a trustee, and I asked the Rev.
Jim Bethell to be the third. I was trying to be nice. He immediately tried to
maneuver himself to become head of the board.
"Martha hasn't the experience to be head of a
non-profit corporation," Jim told us when we held the organizational
meeting.
"Martha has the holiness!" I said.
"We don't need experience!" Besides I considered myself the founder
of Angels House. The board was an inconvenient necessity. I was in charge. The
Rev. Bethell caught on rapidly. Within several weeks, he resigned. He was not
interested in anything but a leadership position. His slot was assumed by
Pastor Wuensche. He was a very modest person who knew how to be a team player.
I think I upset the Rev. Bethell when I did not install his candidate from
Saint David's Church, Jill Nokes. Jill was, with her husband, Jack, a generous
donor. I realized, of course, Jill would do Reverend Bethell's bidding as his
representative on the board. Saint David's wanted to control Angels House; they
just didn't want the smell and the mess on their property.
The previous Fall an awful tragedy had occurred in
my life. I had been numbed by what
happened. My son, Christopher Michael Hearn, had been killed in a one-vehicle
accident on Ranch Road 12 as he had been driving alone in his Chevy Luv truck,
returning to Wimberley from studying one night late in San Marcos. He was a
junior at Southwest Texas State University, majoring in business agriculture. He
wanted to become a schoolteacher. He died instantly when he went to sleep at
the wheel. The truck drifted across the highway and collided with a culvert.
His neck was broken. His best friend was driving alone, also, in another truck
behind him. "I honked my horn as I saw Chris' head slip sideways. The
truck ran right into the concrete!" he said.
"Chris has just been killed!" my former
wife told me on the phone. She was crying!
I felt like I had been kicked in my stomach by an elephant. There is no
negotiating that kind of statement.
"Oh!" I groaned. I had been asleep. I was
shocked beyond description. "I'll come immediately!" I said.
"No! I don't want to see you!" my former
wife said. She was bitter about the divorce and now she blamed me for our son's
death. "You can see him at Pennington Funeral Home," she said. It was
the beginning of a very mournful time in my life. I recall the sequence of
events. I called a friend and asked her to have a sign placed on the front door
of Angels House that the meal would not be served while I was away tending to
the burial of my son. I then drove to San Marcos to the funeral home. My older sister,
Lisa, met me and we sat down with the funeral home's director. We selected a
casket. Dreadful chore!
When Chris' casket was rolled into the viewing area,
I tried to offer comfort to my former wife. She was trying to adjust one of his
eyelashes. She turned to me. "You have no right to grieve!" she spoke
to me with complete bitterness. I shrunk away. I was deeply wounded. The rest
of Chris' funeral was a blur. I rode in the funeral hearse to Wimberley to
Saint Mary's Church where he was placed in the sanctuary. His mother did not
want him to spend the night in the funeral home. A Rosary was held and then
within hours, I don't know how long, the funeral was held. I, of course, forgave
my former wife, and she once told me she has forgiven me.
Saint Mary's was filled with Chris' friends and
those who knew his mother and me. I was numb throughout those days. Perhaps I
will be able to include some other moments as time goes on. I do recall that
before the funeral, I visited the graveyard behind the church. Chris' grave had
been opened. I jumped down into the broken soil. I wanted to enter the grave
before Chris' body was lowered into it. I begged the Lord to treat him gently!
"Please, dear Lord, be very kind to him." He was my dearest son, my
only son. Many times I had failed him, but I had always called Chris,
"Dear Boy!" He had told me more than once I should adopt the moniker,
"Lord lover!" I committed Chris to the Lord and I returned to Austin
to take up running Angels House. Unbeknown to anyone, I named the soup kitchen
anew: "Chris' Angels House."