Home Fires Read online

  Zach rolled his eyes, but Clark agreed. “She’s right. All the other hot meal programs used plastic spoons and paper plates. Home Fires is cool.”

  “Besides,” Cyndi said, trying to think of a line that would sway Zach’s thinking, “it’s saving trees.”

  “Oooh, face,” said Clark, grinning at Zach.

  “Whatever,” he said and gave her a shove on the shoulder. She stumbled sideways a little, her feet tripping over each other.

  Zach grabbed her elbow and pulled her upright. Cyndi expected an awkward pause, but he went straight back to sorting. Fork, knife, spoon, napkin. Clark worked beside him again. Her fumbling fingers told Cyndi more than Clark would want her to know.

  Cyndi pretended to be absorbed in straightening a tablecloth.

  Zach cleared his throat. “You okay?”

  “I’m eighteen. I can take care of myself.” She moved to shove her hands in her pockets, but the new pants had no pockets.

  Cyndi made a mental note to get pants with pockets next time, to give Clark a place to hide her hands.

  Clark crossed her arms across her baggy black T-shirt.

  “There’s no way you’re eighteen,” Zach said. “I bet you’re younger than me. What are you? Fourteen?”

  “No!” she protested. “I’m almost sixteen!”

  “You’re only fifteen?”

  Just a baby. The same age as Madi after all. Cyndi swallowed a quick sob and covered her emotion by busying her hands.

  “Wow. I thought you were at least sixteen, maybe seventeen,” Zach said.

  “Wh—? Bu—! Why did you say I was fourteen, then?”

  “So you’d get mad and tell me the truth.”

  “I hate you,” Clark said and turned her back on him. When he couldn’t see her face anymore, she allowed a grin to spread across her face. She winked at Cyndi, making her a coconspirator and allowing her into the conversation. But she still kept her arms crossed and her back hunched toward Zach.

  Only fifteen. Cyndi should look into the laws about how to get her off the street.

  Across the room, the door opened and a grizzled old man stepped into the hall. He had the hungry look of someone who hadn’t eaten all day. Cyndi recognized the same look on so many of their diners.

  She started toward him to tell him the kitchen wasn’t open yet and to invite him to come back in an hour. About halfway across the room, she realized who he was.

  She had never seen him without his dog.

  Joe felt alone without Wolf. He hated leaving the dog behind, but in order to sneak on the light rail, he had to be inconspicuous. And Wolf was anything but. So the dog had stayed behind to fend for himself.

  Finding the soup kitchen was easy. It wasn’t far from the light rail stop. Clean, crisply lettered sandwich boards pointed the way.

  Standing in the doorway, Joe wished he hadn’t come.

  The room was bright and welcoming. Yellow curtains on the windows and a friendly fire in the fireplace reminded him of home. When was the last time he’d been in a room with curtains? He shuffled from foot to foot. Maybe he should just go. But that smell—was it curry?—beckoned him in.

  Apparently he was early. There were a few people standing around, most of them working, most with their backs to him. One girl stood, arms crossed like she was angry, but with a smile on her face. He thought he’d seen her on the streets, but he didn’t recognize anyone else.

  Except for the woman who was hurtling toward him.

  “Hi, I’m Cyndi. This is my place.” Cyndi grabbed his hand and shook it with gusto. On second thought, she stepped in for a quick hug. Then she put a hand on Joe’s elbow and led him into the room. She was awfully eager to meet him, a little too eager. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “It might be.” Joe knew her face, but they’d never been introduced. Not really.

  “Aren’t you the guy with the dog?” Cyndi’s eyes pleaded, Please say yes.

  “Uh, yes.” Joe shifted his gaze from side to side and squirmed a little to escape her grasp, but she was not letting him go.

  “I can’t believe it’s you. Mike! Come here! There’s someone you’ve got to meet.”

  A balding man walked over from the serving area, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

  “Mike, honey, this is the guy. The one who got me thinking about what we could do to help the homeless. This is him!” Cyndi patted Joe on the arm again, as if they were best buddies.

  “Does him have a name?” Mike asked, reaching out to shake Joe’s hand.

  “Um . . .” Cyndi croaked.

  “Joe,” Joe said, planting his palm in Mike’s. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Mike,” he said. “Cyndi’s better half.”

  “I gathered.” Joe smiled back, like they shared a private joke. He took a step into the room, then another. Such a warm place. Such an inviting welcome. He could see why people felt at home here. Though the enthusiasm was a bit much.

  “So, this is fantastic!” Cyndi said, following beside him. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. I’ve probably been downtown a dozen times looking for you. I thought you must have left town. I just can’t believe you’re actually here.” She was over the top, this gal. Not really Joe’s style, but he could see how people were stirred up by her enthusiasm.

  Cyndi introduced Joe to each server down the line. “Nance, this is Joe. He’s the one. Jeri, meet Joe. Joe, Jeri.”

  And so on.

  Joe nodded to each. They all grinned back and gushed over him. He wasn’t used to this much attention. At first it felt a little strange, but by the time he’d met all the workers, he was starting to feel the swelling of confidence in his chest that he used to crave. Kind of a rush.

  “Oh, you have to meet Zach and Clark,” Cyndi said, leading Joe to a long table where a boy handed him a napkin. Spiked hair, nice clothes.

  The girl, the one who stood with arms crossed, leered at him. “Where’s your dog?” she asked. So, she was the one he’d seen at other meals. Funny, she looked different—softer, cleaner, younger.

  “He stayed home.” The corner of Joe’s mouth twitched up. She knew what he meant.

  “Let’s sit down,” Cyndi said. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” As if they already knew each other. She pulled out a chair at a nearby table, but Joe walked past her to sit in one of the chairs closer to the windows.

  Cyndi jumped up and scurried behind like Wolf used to do as a puppy.

  Even though the meal service obviously wasn’t open yet, the bald man—Mike, was it?—brought over a heaping plate of food and set it down under Joe’s nose. No one else had food, but he didn’t care.

  Joe shoved his fork—a real metal fork—into the pile of food and crammed it in his mouth. The warmth hit first, filling his mouth and sliding down to his stomach. Nothing like a warm meal to thaw you from the inside out. So many turned to alcohol for the same reason, but Joe was more interested in food.

  Sometime between the second bite and the third, the taste of the meal—rice and curry, basil and coconut—hit his brain. Heavenly. He’d never smelled ambrosia, but it must smell something like this.

  Between bites, Joe listened to Cyndi prattle on about how her life had changed, what an impact Joe had made on her at their first meeting, how her life hung in the balance because of a lawsuit.

  His plate was nearly empty when she pushed back from the table. “I’d better get to work,” Cyndi said. “It’s time to throw open the doors to the public. “You sit and have a comfortable meal. Get more if you want. And don’t leave afterward. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Joe said he’d stick around, but he didn’t plan to. He went back to the serving line and asked for seconds. The server, Jeri, offered him a double helping.

  “And take an extra brownie,” she said, sliding two onto his plate. “Cyndi makes them every week.” She scooped some rice and chicken onto a clean plate. She looked behind him to make sure he was last in
line. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Be my guest,” Joe returned. He and Jeri made their way back across the room to the table he’d claimed. The room was full now, crammed with noise and food and the great unwashed. Body odor combined with the smells of booze and curry, brownies, and scented candles.

  When they got to Joe’s seat, it was occupied by a young guy with a knit hat, the kind with little braids flopping down past either ear. He could have a home if he wanted, Joe thought. Then again, this guy probably had his own story, his own set of circumstances that landed him here.

  “Let’s sit in the softer chairs away from the noise,” Jeri suggested. She plopped down in one of several easy chairs and balanced her plate on her knees.

  Joe took a seat facing her.

  “Chess?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “You want to play chess?” she repeated. Before Joe had a chance to agree, Jeri was already setting pieces up on a round end table inlaid with a chessboard.

  Joe didn’t need to concentrate to keep control of the game. He ate, more slowly this time, while his opponent agonized over every move. He took early command of the board and kept it, stringing out the game to give his opponent hope, then moving in for the kill.

  “Who’s winning?” Mike twisted a folding chair around so it was facing the game board.

  “Joe is. Big-time. Here, you take over. I’ve got to get back to work.” Jeri stood and Mike took her place. He gave the board a once-over. It looked pretty hopeless.

  “Tell you what,” Joe said. He placed a hand on each side of the table and turned it around. “Your turn.”

  Mike moved a pawn forward one space. “I saw you on TV,” he said.

  “Oh yeah?” Joe slid his bishop in line with Mike’s rook. He tried to sound disinterested, but he wanted to know what Mike thought of the interview.

  “You surprised me,” Mike said. “Well, I was surprised to see you, first off. And what you said was kind of shocking, too. Of course, I didn’t know it was you at the time, the one who drove my wife to start this crazy business. Not the kind of words I expected to hear . . .”

  “From a bum?” Joe finished his sentence. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

  Mike moved his rook behind a row of pawns. “Do you want to go to the trial?” he asked. “I could fix you up with a suit and you could sit in with us.”

  “What, and put a homeless face on your cause? Don’t you think it would be better to keep me all grungy?” To think of wearing a suit again. And sitting in a courtroom. As an observer, though, not a participant.

  “Not a homeless face. Your face. You’re the one who got all this rolling. You’re the one who changed Cyndi’s outlook on life, who gave her something to believe in. You should be there.”

  So, this was personal.

  Joe liked that. Not enough things were personal these days, at least not in a good way.

  “So, what do you say?”

  Joe didn’t think he was quite as important as this guy thought. But it felt good to be wanted. And not just as a poster child for homelessness.

  “Okay, but I’m gonna need that suit.”

  Sunday afternoon, Zach slouched in the passenger’s seat of Cyndi’s car and nibbled on a hangnail.

  Cyndi leaned into the steering wheel and squinted at road signs. A year ago, she never would have ventured downtown on her own. Not in a car. These one-way streets were impossible.

  “Help me look for Franklin Street,” she said. “I think that’s where we’re supposed to turn.” She watched the green signs approach and then pass behind her. Elder. Jackson. Aspen. Franklin.

  “It’s right there,” Zach said without pointing. She made the turn and scanned the sidewalk for Clark. So many people bustling about on a Sunday, especially for a cold afternoon like this one.

  “There she is!” Zach waved through the window. Clark saw the car and lifted an arm over her head like she was hailing a taxi. Cyndi pulled the car to the curb, and Clark climbed into the backseat.

  “Where to, ma’am?” Cyndi asked, playing the chauffeur.

  Clark played along.

  “Drive south, James, and make it snappy. I have people to go, places to see.” She spoke with a snotty British accent.

  Zach swallowed a giggle and it came out as a snort. Bless his heart. He tried to be so cool and most of the time he succeeded, but around Clark he couldn’t quite hold himself together.

  “Thanks for taking me,” Clark said from behind. “I think they’ll take me more seriously with a grown-up along.”

  “No problem,” Cyndi replied. “I’ve been curious about tent cities ever since they’ve been in the news.” Curious? Yes. Eager to research them? Not so much. But today was a great day for a distraction.

  “Well, anyway, I know you’re really busy this week with the trial and all, and I appreciate you thinking of me.”

  “Let’s not talk about the trial today,” said Cyndi. “There’s nothing I can do to change the outcome by worrying about it. Maybe today will help take my mind off it.” Fat chance.

  “So, what is a tent city?” Zach asked. He turned slightly backward to address the question to Clark.

  “It’s a city made of tents.”

  Cyndi laughed. “You asked for that one.”

  “Ha. Ha. No, really. What is it, and why are you so interested in visiting?”

  Clark leaned forward and stuck her head between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, her arms draped around their headrests. “I think it’s like a temporary place for people to live while they try to get back on their feet. I’ve heard it’s safer than living on the streets and more stable than looking for a different shelter every night.”

  “So, is it really tents?” Zach asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  When Madi was in third grade, Cyndi had acted as chaperone on a field trip to a Civil War reenactment. Rows of white canvas army tents covered the hillsides. Actors and war enthusiasts stayed in the tents for the weekend event. The kids had loved it, but Cyndi couldn’t imagine anyone living like that these days. Not on purpose.

  “From what I’ve heard,” Clark said, “the tents are pretty nice. There’s lots of rules, but that’s what makes it work. But we’ll just have to see.”

  Cyndi glanced in her mirrors, took a quick look behind her, and merged into traffic on the southbound freeway.

  “How far is this place?” Zach asked.

  “About twenty miles,” Cyndi said.

  Twenty miles. She had thought about the distance a lot. Twenty miles was forever away as far as Clark’s situation was concerned. The light rail didn’t go that far, so if Clark ended up at the tent city, she wouldn’t be making it to Home Fires anymore.

  I hope she hates it. Cyndi tried to erase the thought as soon as it formed, but it was etched in her brain.

  “Next exit,” Cyndi muttered. “Is anyone coming up behind me?” She reached up to adjust her rearview mirror. Zach looked backward out his window.

  “All clear,” he said. Cyndi put on her turn indicator and let it click twice, then eased into the right lane. Clark passed forward a crumpled piece of paper with directions scrawled on it.

  “Classy,” Zach said, smoothing the wrinkles out on his knee. “Turn left here!”

  Cyndi jerked the car into the turn lane and ground to a stop at a red light.

  “I see it!” Clark clapped her hands like a child on Christmas morning.

  Cyndi craned her neck to see where she was looking. Behind a peeling billboard, she caught a glimpse of blue nylon. When the light changed to a green arrow, Cyndi took the corner and parked along the curb. Zach and Clark tumbled out onto the sidewalk and waited for Cyndi to join them.

  Old plastic bags tangled among the grassy weeds at the base of a chain-link fence near the sidewalk. Behind the fence, the billboard towered over a vacant lot. Cigarette boxes, scraps of newspaper, and a few beer cans surrounded a couple of rusted-out car bodies whose tires and doors w
ere long since stolen. Their windows lay in slivers on the ground, sacrificed in the name of batting practice. Or, from the look of things, in the name of a gang marking its territory. Red graffiti on the bottom of the plywood sign panel marked the lot.

  “Check your clothes for red,” Clark advised. “The gangs don’t like people wearing red around here.”

  Cyndi checked her clothes for anything that might make it seem like she was from a rival gang. No red, no blue, no comb sticking out of her pocket—she should be safe. Not like anyone would ever mistake her for a gang member.

  “I got busted for tagging once,” Zach said. “But not gang stuff. I was protesting.”

  Protesting with graffiti? Cyndi was glad he hadn’t joined the protesters outside Home Fires. At least they hadn’t destroyed any property.

  “In fact,” Zach said, “that’s how I got kicked out of my old school. If I hadn’t tagged that oil company office, I never would have met either of you.”

  “Tagging’s lame,” Clark said.

  “Yeah,” Zach said, as if he’d just reversed his stance on the virtues of graffiti.

  Clark started up the sidewalk toward the next lot. Her step was so light, she was practically skipping. Zach doubled his steps to catch up.

  Cyndi followed at her own pace. They reached a brick building, an old storefront church. Unintelligible words blotted its facade—the paint remained. A metal bar blocked the way through wooden double doors. A hand-scrawled sign posted on the door pointed to the other end of the building.

  “This way, guys,” Cyndi called, pointing to a gate in the chain-link fence. “It looks like we go through here.”

  The three made their way past the back corner of the dilapidated church building. Behind it, the rest of the block was a sea of blue, with scattered spots of red, orange, and green. Tent after tent after tent stood in rows and groups and clusters.

  “Whoa,” Clark said under her breath. Cyndi agreed. So many tents in such a small space. So many people crammed onto a lot where no one should have to live.

  Cyndi took control. “Let’s look for someone who knows what’s going on around here. That one looks promising, don’t you think?” She made her way to the corner of the lot, where a dark green tent stood taller than the rest. Two men played checkers under its nylon overhang.