Изменить стиль страницы

A small army of good-hearted folks donated enough hours here at the shelter to qualify as part-time employees.  Most of them were women with working husbands and empty nests who’d transferred the nurturing drive from their now grown and independent children to the habitués of Loaves and Fishes.  Dan realized that the kitchen filled a void in their lives and that they probably got as much as they gave, but that didn’t make him any less appreciative.  Loaves and Fishes would never have got off the ground without them.

“Could youse hand me wunna dose, Fadda?”

Dan looked up.  A thin, bearded man in his forties with red-rimmed eyes and a withered right arm held a bowl of soup in his good hand.  His breath stank of cheap wine.

“Sure thing, Lefty.”

Dan perched a good thick slice on the edge of the bowl.

“Tanks a lot, Fadda.  Yer a prince.”

Looked as if Lefty had got into the Mad Dog early today.  Dan watched him weave toward one of the tables, praying he wouldn’t drop the bowl.  He didn’t.

“Hey, Pilot,” said the next man in line.

Rider, in his suede jacket.  At least it had been suede in the sixties; now the small sections visible through the decades of accumulated grime were as smooth and shiny as dressed leather.  Probably an expensive jacket in its day, with short fringes on the pockets and a long fringe on each sleeve; only a couple of sleeve fringes left now, gone with the lining and the original buttons.  But no way would Rider give up that coat.  He’d tell anyone who’d listen about the days he’d worn it back and forth cross country on his Harley, tripping on acid the whole way.  But Rider had taken a few too many trips.  His Harley was long gone and most of his mind along with it.

“How’s it going, Rider?”

Dan dropped a heavy slice on his tray.  Rider always called him Pilot.  Because Rider slurred his words as much as anyone else, Dan had asked him once if that was Pilot with an “o” or an “a-t-e.”  Rider hadn’t the vaguest idea what Dan was talking about.

“Good, Pilot.  Got a new lead on my Harley.  Should have it back by the end of the week.”

“Great.”

“Yep.  Then it’s so long.”

Rider’s quest for his last bike, stolen sometime during the late eighties, lent a trace of structure to his otherwise aimless day-to-day existence.  Rider was the shelter’s Galahad.

The rest of the regulars filed by with a few newer faces sprinkled in; a couple of those might become regulars, the rest would drift on.  The locals, the never-miss-a-meal regulars were all here, some in their twenties, some in their sixties, most of indeterminate age somewhere between.  Some called themselves John and Jim and Marta and Thelma, but many had street names: Stony, Indian, Preacher, Pilgrim, Lefty, Dandy, Poppy, Bigfoot, One-Thumb George, and the inimitable Dirty Harry.

They all got one bowl of soup and one thick slice of Sister Carrie’s famous bread.  After they finished they could have seconds if anything was left over after everyone had firsts.  Off to his left, Dan heard scuffling and a shout as the seconds line formed.

“Oh, Father,” Hilda said, leaning over the counter to look.  “I think it’s Dandy and Indian again.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Dan ducked under the table and got to the trouble spot just as Dandy was picking himself off the floor and crouching to charge Indian.  Dan grabbed him by the back of his jacket collar.

“Whoa, Dandy!  Hang on a sec.”

Dandy whirled, snarling.  The fire in his eyes cooled immediately when he saw who he faced.  He shrugged to settle his jacket back on his shoulders and straightened his tie.  Dandy had earned his name from his taste in fourth-hand attire.  He always managed to pick the brightest colors from the donated clothing.  His latest getup consisted of an orange shirt, a green-and-white striped tie, a plaid sports jacket, and lime green golf pants.  All frayed, all dirty, but worn with the air of someone who considered his life a fashion statement.

“Lucky for Indian you came along.”

“What happened?”

“He pushed me out of my place in line.”

Dan glanced at Indian who faced straight ahead, ignoring the two of them.  Dan knew he’d get nothing out of Indian, who wasn’t Indian at all—unless that kinky hair and ebony skin were West Indian.  Indian never spoke, never smiled, never frowned.  Apparently someone had called him a cigar-store Indian years ago and the name had stuck.

“You were cutting into the line, weren’t you, Dandy.”

“No way.”

“Dandy.”  Dan knew Dandy didn’t like to wait on line, especially with those he considered his sartorial inferiors.  “This wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I didn’t cut.  I axed.  I axed him if he minded if I got ahead of him.  He didn’t say no so I—”

Dan jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  “End of the line, Dandy.”

“Hey, Father—”

“We’ve got plenty today.  You won’t miss out.”

“But I got places to go.”

Dan said nothing further.  He stared Dandy down until he shrugged and headed for the end of the line.

Like dealing with eight-year olds, he thought as he headed back to the serving area.

But juvenile behavior was only one side of them, and that was the least of their problems.  A fair number of them were mentally ill—paranoids, borderline personalities, and outright schizophrenics—and many had drug and alcohol problems.  Multiple substance abuse was common.  Some combined the problems: chronic brain syndromes from long-term drug and/or alcohol abuse, or mental illness compounded by substance abuse.

For most of them it was a no-win situation.  And Senator Crenshaw’s concentration camps would do nothing for them.

Dan had finished slicing the bread and the ones who wanted seconds had passed through when he heard a chorus of voices saying, “Hello, Sister Carrie,” and “Good afternoon, Sister Carrie,” and “Thanks for the great meal, Sister Carrie.”

He glanced up and there she was, wiping her hands as she surveyed the diners.

“Did everyone have enough?” she said.

They answered almost as a group: “Oh, yes, Sister Carrie.”

Dan watched her walk out through the Big Room and slip among her guests, an almost ethereal presence, speaking to them, touching them: a hand on a shoulder here, a pat on a head there, a whispered word for old friends, a handshake and a smile for the new faces.  He envied her ability to make everyone of them feel special, to know they mattered.

“Was it good?” she said when she reached the far end of the Big Room.

They cheered and applauded, and that made her smile.  And the light she shed on the room made the applause double in volume.

Hilda was tsking and shaking her head.  “Look at them!  They’re ga-ga over her.”  But there was wonder rather than disapproval in her voice.  “What a politician she’d have made.”

Dan could only nod, eternally amazed at Carrie’s talent for making people love her.

Still smiling, she curtsied and returned to the kitchen.  As the room’s illumination seemed to dim by half, the guests began to clear their places and shuffle out to the street or line up for the bathroom.

Dan was wiping away the bread crumbs when he heard cries of, “Word up, Doc” and “How’s it go, Doctor Joe?”  He looked up and saw a short, white-coated Hispanic strolling toward him.

“Things slow at the clinic?” Dan said.

“I wish.”

Dr. José Martinez’s dark eyes twinkled as he picked up a leftover piece of bread, tore it, and shoved half into his mouth.  He had mocha skin, dark curly hair, and a body-builder’s frame.

“Want some soup?”

“Carrie make it?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s my answer.”

“What?”

“Of course.”

“Right.”

Dan got him a bowl and a spoon and slid them across the table.

Joe stared down at the steaming green but didn’t reach for the spoon.

“Something wrong?”