Hidden Places Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the many places Mr. Harper had been and the people he’d met, but I’d learned almost nothing about him.
    Feeling guilty, I glanced at the door to the room where he slept, embarrassed to think he might have caught me reading his private journals, if that’s what they were. I opened the spare room door a crack and looked in on him. When I was satisfied that he was still sound asleep, I quickly gathered up his things to rewrap in the waterproof slicker. The last notebook in the stack—the only one I hadn’t read—caught my eye. Unlike the others, this one had a title written on the cover: Prodigal Son .
    I recalled a sermon I’d heard in a Presbyterian church in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, about the prodigal son and how he’d run away and ended up eating with pigs. The story stuck in my mind because of all the P’s—Presbyterian and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and prodigal and pigs. That’s how my mind remembers things.
    Anyway, I couldn’t resist opening Mr. Harper’s story and seeing if it had any pigs or Presbyterians in it. I started to read:
    I hate him. I love him. My only brother.
    Simon and I shared the same room, the same childhood, the same father. And while my feelings toward my brother seem clear to me, contradictory as they are, my feelings toward my father aren’t nearly as clear. Do I care enough to hate the man? Is it possible to love someone who offers only disapproval and denunciation in return? Have I waited too long to make amends after parting from him in anger? I’ve decided to return home to find the answers.
    I stand beneath the chestnut tree that I climbed so often as a boy—usually to escape my father’s rebuke—and stare across the pasture at the farmhouse. It has changed little in the ten years I’ve been gone except for a fresh coat of whitewash. I’ve decided to wait until someone emerges from the house before approaching. Better to watch, to try to gauge my father’s mood, before announcing my return after all these years. I was once adept at judging his mood, knowing when it was safe to draw close and when it was wise to steer clear.
    But after watching the house for more than an hour, I’ve seen no sign of life aside from the lazy movements of the hound dog, sprawled in the shade on the back porch. One thing is certain: unlike the biblical tale of the prodigal son, my father isn’t watching eagerly for my return. Nor can I imagine him running to me with open arms or killing the fatted calf.
    Funny how all those Bible stories I once heard thundered from the church pulpit and proclaimed at the dinner table have stayed planted in my mind all these years. If I lean my head against the chestnut tree and close my eyes, I can clearly recall my disquieting childhood, living beneath my father’s iron rule:
    I am four years old again, seated at the kitchen table not daring to fidget or squirm, listening to my father’s voice as he reads the daily portion from the Holy Scriptures: ‘‘ ‘God is jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and is furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies...The LORD hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet....’ ’’
    ‘‘Mama...?’’
    My son’s voice startled me. I closed the notebook, guilt-stricken. ‘‘Jimmy! Oh, good, you’re up. It’s time for chores.’’ I lifted the lid on the cast-iron stove and poked the embers, adding kindling and coal.
    ‘‘Where did all this stuff come from?’’ Jimmy asked as he approached the table. ‘‘Is it the hobo’s?’’
    ‘‘Yes...Ithought I’d better try and find out who he is and where he comes from. It seems his name is Gabriel Harper.’’
    ‘‘Gabriel? Wow, he must really be an angel!’’ Jimmy picked up the notebook I had been reading, but I snatched it away from him before he could open it.
    ‘‘I don’t think angels are supposed to get sick, Jimmy, and Mr. Harper