Mother hesitated, apparently eyeing up the stranger in an effort to assess the truth. Suddenly, her countenance changed. I saw it in her eyes. A wave of pity and empathy enveloped her.
“Sure. My dinner’s not cooked yet but, I can make a sandwich for you if that’s OK.”
He bowed his head slightly, almost embarrassed by his condition. He replied in a low voice, “I’d really appreciate that maam.”
She started toward the kitchen and then stopped abruptly.
“Please, come in from the cold. Have a seat but, please be quiet. My husband’s asleep.”
The stranger nodded. He entered the house tentatively as if he were entering forbidden territory.
“Billy, keep the man company.”
I sat on the floor. The television was on but my eyes were on our guest. He was poor and I felt sorry for him. He didn’t say a word. He only stared at the floor with his miserable eyes. He loosened his shoulders somewhat as the warmth of the room quickly embraced him.
Within minutes mom returned with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, an apple and a small container of milk.
“If you like,” she said, “you can eat in here.”
He rose to his feet and took the offering.
“No thank you maam. You’ve been kind enough and I’ll just move along. Thank you so much and may God bless you.”
He opened the door and slipped back into the cold air. I stood behind the eight-foot windows that stretched from the living room floor to just two feet from the ceiling. Through the condensation that covered the thin pane of glass I watched the stranger. He descended the porch stairs, opened the gate and walked north on Green Street. Within moments, he was out of view.
I was saddened by this event. We were of modest means. Some might even have considered us poor, but we always had food to eat and a roof over our heads. I had never known poverty nor witnessed it before. Yet, here it had been, right in my living room. I didn’t know quite how to respond.
I prayed. I asked God to help that poor stranger. I promised God that if he would make that man a millionaire then I would become a priest. All he had to do, I thought, would be to send Michael Anthony, the Millionaire’s executive secretary to the stranger. The Millionaire was a weekly television series during the fifties. Each week, John Beresford Tipton, a wealthy philanthropist would select a person in need, usually one who was down in their luck. He would dispatch Anthony who would present the recipient with a cashier’s check for one million dollars. The millionaire changed lives in a moment. That happened every week on television. Why couldn’t it happen to the stranger who had entered my life so briefly? Like most seven or eight year olds at the time, I didn’t know that the popular television show was simply fiction.
