Home Fires Page 10

  The judge entered her courtroom.

  Judge Ferndale’s face was a road map to a hard life.

  Cyndi wiped her sweaty palms on her slacks.

  Judge Ferndale sat without any of the fanfare of swishing of robes Cyndi had come to expect from watching too many old courtroom dramas on TV and called the court to session.

  “I’ve read your depositions,” she said. “This is not a jury trial. All testimony and evidence will presented directly to me, so I expect both sides to refrain from using theatrics to sway the case. We’ll hear from the plaintiff first.”

  One of the attorneys on the other side stood up. This guy was decked out in a tailored suit and power tie.

  “Good afternoon, Judge Ferndale,” he said, approaching the bench. “I’m Anthony Brine from Brine and Taylor for the plaintiffs. Spencer and Allison Ridley are residents of the Riverton Heights neighborhood and business owners in Riverton Plaza, owned by the defendants. May I have permission to present a document?”

  The judge nodded.

  Brine bent over his table, picked up a stack of papers, and handed it to the bailiff. Once the papers were in front of the judge, Brine explained what they were.

  “This document shows month-by-month profits and losses for the businesses in Riverton Plaza before the defendant allowed the homeless to frequent a space in the mall. I’ve also included some property values for houses in the vicinity both before and after the hot meal service opened its doors. You will notice a sharp drop both in profits and in property values, which we assert is a direct result of the lower-class people the defendant has encouraged to frequent the area.”

  Cyndi thought they should object, but her lawyer sat still. They had profit and loss sheets from the other businesses, the ones what hadn’t lost revenue, along with signed statements from several stating that they were happy to see a small downturn in exchange for the good they were doing.

  The judge put on her glasses and looked at the documents. After a minute she set them aside.

  “Am I to understand this is a simple question of breach of contract, or are you planning to bring in anything about zoning?” She directed her question at Brine.

  “Both, Your Honor,” he replied. “We intend to prove that the proprietor of the mall has overstepped the bounds of what is allowable on her property. Her actions have had a direct adverse effect on both businesses and personal properties.”

  The judge shook her head. “Start with the zoning question.”

  Cyndi couldn’t follow the arguments presented by the Ridleys’ lawyer. So many details about zoning and regulations and city planning. Why couldn’t they all just speak English? She wished she could take her turn to say people were hungry. She wanted to feed them. Period.

  But court didn’t work that way. Apparently Mr. Brine had taken the “no theatrics” directives to heart. By midmorning, Cyndi could barely keep her eyes open. During the morning recess, she ran downstairs for a cup of vending machine coffee and supplemented it with a chocolate bar. The caffeine didn’t help make the lawyer’s speeches interesting, but it did give her something else to think about—how to keep her legs from jittering.

  Her own lawyer seemed even less interested in the trial than she was. If she elbowed Mike, would he elbow the attorney and wake him up?

  At the end of the eternal day, the Ridleys’ lawyers were still presenting their case.

  The evening air held a hint of winter. Tonight could bring the first frost.

  “Can we drop by Home Fires on the way?” Cyndi asked Mike. “I want to make sure the thermostat is set and check the pantry.”

  “I’m pretty tired, hon,” Mike said. “Can I drop you?”

  She let herself in the front door of the soup kitchen. It whispered shut behind her.

  A light was on in the back.

  Cyndi wrestled out of her blazer and tossed it at the coatrack. “Is someone there?” she called.

  Nance came out of the kitchen. “Bad day in court?”

  “The worst,” Cyndi said. She slumped down in a chair at one of the dining tables.

  Nance turned another chair around backward and took a seat. “Sorry I couldn’t be there. I had to work.”

  “It was horrible.” Cyndi held her head in her hands. “We should be winning this one. Isn’t our lawyer supposed to stand up for us? Or object? Or something? Why did we hire this guy again?”

  “Do the words pro bono ring a bell?”

  “A classic case of getting what you pay for. How do we find someone better, and fast?”

  “How fast? How cheap?”

  “Free would be good. And before Monday.”

  “We could . . .” Nance seemed hesitant to offer her suggestion.

  “What? If you have an idea, blurt it out. I’m desperate here!”

  “Well, I was just thinking . . . maybe we should pray?”

  Pray? When was the last time she’d really prayed? Not a let-the-light-turn-green kind of prayer, but an honest I-need-God’s-help prayer? At Madi’s bedside? Or was it her graveside? No amount of praying had healed her, and nothing could bring her back. God didn’t answer the prayers that meant the most, so Cyndi quit expecting he’d answer any others.

  Her friend’s head was already bowed.

  “Holy Father God,” she prayed, “you are maker of the universe, designer of all. Entire galaxies flowed from your fingertips as you spoke the word. You set the planets in motion, you hung the sun in the sky—”

  Cyndi’s thoughts fixed on immediate needs as Nance wandered through the introduction. This was uncomfortable.

  “—you not only know the number of hairs on our heads, you made them all. You designed all the flowers, showed the bees where to collect nectar, taught the birds to fly. You made the mountains push up out of the ground and filled the low places with water—”

  Cyndi’s foot tapped. She put a hand on her own knee to still it.

  “—you made all these things. And then, instead of leaving us on our own, you came near to us. You loved us. You cared. Just like you care for the homeless people we’re trying to serve, like you care for your church, like you care for the people in this neighborhood. And since you care more than we ever could, we place all of this in your hands and ask that you work it all out to your perfect glory. Do whatever you need to do to draw the most people to you. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Why hadn’t Nance told God what to do?

  Your will be done? God’s will couldn’t be trusted. If he had a plan, it was a vague cosmic one that didn’t take people’s feelings into account. If he wouldn’t save Madi, how could he be expected to save the kitchen? Or the house they’d put up as collateral? Or her dream?

  If Cyndi had prayed, she would have given him an earful. He was lucky to hear from Nance.

  Nance pushed her chair back from the table. “I need to pick up some supplies,” she said. “You can lock up?”

  “Sure.”

  Nance grabbed her purse and coat and breezed out the door, leaving Cyndi alone in the dining hall.

  Cyndi put her head in her hands. Despite Nance’s apparent belief that her prayer had been heard and answered, Cyndi felt like they’d left things in midsentence. She pressed her palms into her eyes and groaned.

  Praying might make Nance feel better, but Cyndi needed to do something. She picked up her cell phone and called Mike’s number.

  Chapter 26

  Joe stood on the sidewalk outside the mission. It was the third shelter he’d visited today. The third one that was completely full.

  “Sorry, Joe. You know how it is when the cold hits. You’ve got to be here early to get a bed.” The attendant at the front window said he was sorry, but he wasn’t sorry enough to push the magic button that would open the door and let Joe in off the street.

  “Yeah, sure,” Joe said. “What about a meal?”

  “You know the rules. We only have enough for the people staying here. Have you tried the overflow?”

  That was his las
t resort. He hated that place, especially the way everyone jostled and pushed to make sure everything was fair.

  What day was it? Friday? Joe stopped at a newspaper box. He had to scrape a thin layer of frost off the window to see the front page. The headline blared, “Wintry Blast!” but he couldn’t read the date. He knew it was early November. Must be Friday. Yesterday was hot sandwiches down by the river, and they usually came on Thursdays. Tonight he should be able to get a meal under the bridge.

  Joe shuffled through his dilapidated cart for a pair of gloves. He found one black one and one woolen one. He tossed the black one back and overturned a few more things before he found the matching gray wool glove. They were the kind that had the fingertips missing—his favorite pair. Growing up, Joe had seen pictures of hoboes with bandanas tied to sticks slung across their shoulders and—always—fingerless gloves on their hands. Joe liked the idea of wearing a cliché. He had some nice Gore-Tex gloves that a local clothing manufacturer had given out to everyone on the street last year, but that meant everybody had a pair. He was the only one with fingerless gloves.

  Joe pointed his cart downhill.

  Wolf loped off ahead of him, following a predictable route to the waterfront. Rain fell and instantly froze when it hit the sidewalk. Branches sparkled like early Christmas trees when headlights shone through the ice building in their branches.

  Joe gripped the shopping basket handle and measured each step. “If you slip and fall on this hill, Wolfie,” he said, “you’ll slide all the way down into the river.” As if to prove his point, he lost his footing and went down hard on his butt. It took him three tries to stand up again with the help of his cart. By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, Joe’s hip was aching from the fall. He slowly pushed his cart up the river walk to the Humboldt Bridge.

  A group of street people had already gathered. It could be a scene from a movie—low-life bums sitting under a bridge. Only, instead of standing around barrels of burning garbage, they stood in circles around portable space heaters provided by whatever group was feeding the masses tonight. The heaters were a nice touch.

  Joe walked over to the row of chafing dishes set up along a concrete wall. Hungry men and women stood in line to get some food. Servers on the other side of the rectangular metal dishes were bundled in coats and scarves, gloves, and hats. But so were the homeless people. The only difference between them was which side of the food line they stood on.

  Joe accepted a paper bowl of spaghetti and a warm roll, butter glistening on its golden top. He took a seat on a curb. The icy chill cut through his old bones. Every year the cold was a surprise. He pushed himself to his feet, found a thick blanket in his cart, and sat down on it. Not much better, but a little.

  “Old Arthur getting you down?” asked his nearest neighbor, chuckling at the worn-out arthritis joke. “You’re looking a little stiff.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. He didn’t really want to talk to this guy. Just a glance told him all he needed to know. A youngster. Let himself go. Bad teeth—probably meth.

  “Yeah, winter’s always hard,” the man said. “It’s gonna be a long one.”

  Joe eyed the intruder and turned slightly away from him.

  The guy, unschooled in the finer points of body language, kept talking.

  “Good food, huh? I love spaghetti. Always have. Sticks to your ribs. I like that.”

  Joe turned away a little more. This guy talked about food too much. It was none of Joe’s business. He was just here to fill his belly before hunting for a bed for the night.

  The guy still kept talking. “This is nothing on that place out the line—Home Fires? Oh, man, is that good food.”

  Joe’s ears perked despite himself. He could picture this guy rubbing his stomach and rolling his eyes in pleasure, though he wasn’t looking at him. Home Fires? That was the name of that place the trial was about.

  “Yeah, it’s out the light rail line, all the way in Riverton,” Meth Man said, “but it’s totally worth the trip. Good food and a nice comfortable place to hang out. I’m there every time they open, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. They just added Saturdays.”

  Tomorrow was Saturday. A light rail ticket cost money, but there were ways around that. He was curious. He’d go check it out.

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, Clark came early. In fact, she was sitting on the sidewalk by Home Fires’ front door when Cyndi arrived just after noon.

  The girl’s face had filled out. Her color-of-the-week hair was growing out.

  “Hey,” Clark said.

  “Hey, yourself. What are doing here so early?”

  “I thought you might need some help or something.”

  It was a little early to start food prep. “You know, I could use some help, but not here. Back at my house. Are you free?” Cyndi held her breath, afraid she’d overstepped the line of what their relationship allowed.

  Clark cocked her head. “I guess.” She stood up and brushed off the back of her grimy jeans. “Walking or driving?”

  “Driving.” Cyndi knew she had to come up with a legitimate task for Clark before they got to the house. She drove the long way around.

  “Nice neighborhood,” Clark said as they drove past rows of identical houses.

  “Thanks. It’s not fancy, but it’ll do.” Cyndi regretted her observation as soon as she’d said it. Of course any neighborhood was better than where Clark had been staying lately, wherever that was. She tried correcting her gaffe. “We’re happy here. That’s our house up on the right.” She was thankful for the time it took to get out of the car and unlock the house door.

  She let Clark in ahead of her.

  The girl walked into the living room and went straight to the fireplace and looked at the pictures on the mantel. “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing to a picture of Madi playing in the sand.

  “That’s my daughter when she was about four.”

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter. How old is she now?”

  This was the part about meeting new people Cyndi always hated. The explaining. “She would be fifteen. But she died about five years ago.”

  Five years. Two months and six days. But who’s counting?

  Clark looked back at the picture. “She’s cute.”

  “Yes, she was.” Cyndi was done with this conversation.

  Clark turned around. “So what’s the job?”

  “Actually . . .” Clark spoke slowly at first, then dove into her suggestion. “You need to take a shower, and then I want to buy you a couple of outfits.” She bit her lip. She hoped Clark wouldn’t be offended.

  “That’s the job?”

  “Yeah.” Cyndi avoided eye contact by gathering towel, washcloth, and soap. “Is that all right?”

  Clark shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

  Cyndi showed her how to work the shower and the bathroom fan as if she were a refugee from a third-world country, not an American teen. Even as she explained, she knew she was prattling on too much, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Okay, I guess you’ll be fine. If you need anything, give a yell. Oh, and—”

  “Go.” Clark used the bathroom door to shove Cyndi out into the hall.

  Cyndi paced in front of the bathroom door until she heard the shower turn on. “Stop hovering,” she muttered to herself. She went into the kitchen and started organizing the silverware drawer. The spoons already nestled in a perfect stack, so she straightened the knife handles and lined up all the fork tines. With a green scrubbie, she set to work on the spotless white grout around the faucet base. An idea that had been tickling inside her head for a while was screaming to get out. When Clark finally walked into the room, Cyndi blurted out, “I need to ask you something.”

  “Shoot,” Clark said.

  “Do you need a drink?” Cyndi went to the cupboard for a cup before Clark had a chance to answer her. She got ice and water from the door of the fridge and set it on the table in front of Clark.

  Clark laughed. “That�
��s what you wanted to ask me?”

  “Yeah . . . no. I was thinking, do you want to live here? We have a spare bedroom. It’s a little juvenile for you, but we could change the décor. We could fix things up. That way, you’d have your own room and you could enroll in school and be settled and we could be like a family and . . .” She let her voice trail off when she saw Clark look away. “I was just thinking.”

  Clark’s gaze fixed on her fingernails. She bit her lip.

  “If you don’t want to . . .” Cyndi tried to keep her voice bright, despite her disappointment in Clark’s reaction.

  “I can’t,” Clark said. “It sounds great, but I can’t. Thanks, though.”

  Cyndi had hoped she’d say yes. Or, in the case of a no, had expected an explanation. “But, why—?”

  Clark stood. “I like you, Cyndi. And I get it, but I can’t. Just drop it, okay?”

  Cyndi didn’t understand, but she knew not to push. “Okay. Um, we should probably get back.” She grabbed her coat and fumbled at putting it on. She floated the idea one more time. “If you ever need a place—”

  The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

  At least she wasn’t angry. After a long pause Cyndi said, “Let’s get on back now. I still want to get you those outfits, if you don’t mind.”

  Clark agreed to the shopping trip, which yielded a couple of clean, modest outfits. Now she had something to wear when she was washing her other clothes.

  That afternoon, Zach and Clark worked together wrapping silverware in napkins. Fork, knife, spoon, napkin. Fork, knife, spoon, napkin. The pile grew taller. One hundred and fifty sets of silverware made quite a stack. Those two warmed parts of her heart she’d thought long dead. Clark might not want to live with her, but Cyndi could still love her.

  “Why can’t we just use plastic?” Zach asked while sliding pieces of stainless into each napkin. “It’d be so much easier.”

  “It’s worth the extra effort,” Cyndi said. She picked up one of the napkins and smoothed its crumpled corner. “It makes people feel more special to eat off real plates with real silverware.”