You Don’t Know What You’ve Done
An old baker looks at his life and tries to find some value in it
Theophilus Jones leaned forward, peered into an oven in his bakery, and saw a loaf of bread.
“A minute more,” he said.
He closed the oven and straightened, then grimaced and grabbed his back. He turned to a counter, picked up a newspaper, and looked at it.
“Huh.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“‘Tom Harper was an extraordinary young man even before he gave his life to save a drowning girl last Friday night. A double amputee, a cancer survivor, and an inspirational speaker, he was delivering blankets to the homeless shelter when saw little Joanie Thompson floundering in the freezing water . . .’”
Theophilus put the paper on the counter, reached for a radio beside the cash register, and turned the radio on.
“Stella Jeffries would never call herself special,” an announcer said. “But those who know her at the emergency room in the county hospital certainly do. ‘I was bleeding,’ said one of the patients. ‘And Stella — ’”
Theophilus turned off the radio.
“Tom Harper,” he said. “Stella Jeffries. Mother Teresa. That guy in the war . . . what the hell’s his name? Schindler, yeah.” He sighed. “And then there’s me.”
