Winnipeg continued IV

Wait!, if you haven't read the beginning, you should

Winnipeg, the City
part1:
part2:
part3:


We stopped in front of his house. The walks had been cleared of snow, leaving a thick milky sunken path up to his door. We knocked, and waited, watching our breath leave us and vanish into the blackening blue of the evening. A woman opened the door. She stood holding the knob and smiled at us. She opened the outer door and motioned us to come in. From inside we heard loud conversation, laughing and dishes clanking. I thought we’d come to the wrong house, but the look on the woman’s face was welcoming though tired. She was short, I could see over her head as she led us down the narrow hall with the pictures and wood-burned poetry. I could see into the living room, the sagging couch along the opposite wall. The room was full of people milling and talking and eating. The small woman invited us to sit, and asked what she could get for us from the kitchen. Ham? Potatoes, were we allergic to anything?
“No, it all sounds great.”
It was warm, and I tugged my gloves off and began unzipping my coat. Jones unloosed his bag. He pulled the hat off his head, leaving his hair staticy. He looked at me and shrugged. People looked at us out of the corner of their eyes, but nobody spoke to us. Where was Randy? For the first time I saw the room with the lights on. It had an orange warmth inside. Much of the tobacco smell had been masked by scented candles which bounced their light along the yellow papered walls. The magazines had been removed from the coffee table. It had been dusted, and the floors cleaned. The couch shrugged off its shabbiness for a homely feel. The tobacco and cigarette papers were gone.
The woman returned with plates of food for us. She set them down and then sat next to me on the couch.
“There, it’s sort of last minute, but it’s cold out tonight and you both look like you won’t mind if it’s a Safeway ham and instant potatoes.”
“It looks great.” I said. Where was Randy? “Randy didn’t tell us you were having a Super Bowl party,” I said as I scooted forward onto the edge of the couch, and stabbed a tiny bit of potato onto my fork’s tips.
“Well, he didn’t know. Actually, this is all sort of a last minute deal. He told me you were coming over. That he invited you for dinner, and I don’t know where he has hidden your phone number, honestly I can’t find anything out from him anymore. Then thinking of you two walking down here, all the way down here from you apartment and finding an empty house and a long walk home…”
She shook her head and closed her eyes, breathing out of her nose.
“Anyway, let me get you some drinks.”
She stood and walked quickly away, back into the kitchen. I looked at Jones. He looked at me and stuffed a thick pink triangle of ham into his mouth.
“I guess we eat.” He said. And watch the game, I thought. Television is on the list of don’t for missionaries; along with reading secular books, popular music and movies. Jones bounced on his seat like a child, stuffing his mouth with potatoes and nodding. I shook my head, and ate. Where was Randy? I could smell alcohol, but saw none. Some people left, some others came. Most hung around the small dinning area between the kitchen and the living room giving us sidelong glances. The woman was gone a long time.
“Jones, we should probably go as soon as we’re done.”
“It’s cold outside, and it’s the Super Bowl. The Super Bowl.” He dragged out the end of bowl. “No more tracting tonight, no one’s letting us in. And what if Randy shows up? Where is he anyway?”
“Jones…”
The woman came back with two clear plastic cups full of dark bubbly drink. She set them down on the coffee table.
“Sorry to leave you so long.” She said.
“No worries. Is Randy here? He seemed a little out of sorts last night and…”
She held up her hand, cutting me off. She sat with one leg pulled up so she could face me. I sat, twisting at the waist to see her. She pondered. Her hair was thin and cut short to her jaw, a squash yellow. She had a round face, with blue eyes set in thin webbed slits. Wrinkles spread from the corners, and ran along her forehead. Her nose poked out like a tiny soft hook. She must have been in her mid to late fifties. She smiled with thin pink lips.
“Randy’s not going to be around too much for a while. He—I don’t know what to do with him anymore.” He eyes became moist. She jutted her bottom jaw forward. Then closed her eyes and breathed in. When she exhaled she opened her yes and smiled at us. “Thank you.” She reached out for my hand, and I let her take it. Her dry hands rubbed along the skin of my palms. Knobby, early arthritic, fingers wrapped around my hand. “He liked to talk to you. Thank you for listening to him. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know what to do with that boy anymore. When he hurts others or when he hurts himself.” Her eyes closed again, allowing just one streaking tear to escape. Her thin nostrils became red-rimmed as they flared with her breathing.
For a while we sat and I let Jones watch the football game. Gradually the people crowded in closer to us until they were in our midst. We were surrounded, ensconced among this thatch of family and friends who all stared at the television in the corner. Some bounced up and down and yelled and laughed and whistled. Some sat and chatted. Jones melted in.
We walked to Kimberly Avenue where we hopped a bus and slipped into our apartment just before nine.
Elder Jones was transferred the following Wednesday. I saw Randy once more after that, with my new companion Elder Crane. We went to his house, which had turned gray inside, and sat at his ashy table where he talked quietly of Mohammed’s sword and how his mother was torturing him.