Home Fires Page 12

  “Excuse me, can anyone tell me who’s in charge?”

  “That’d be me,” the older of the men said. “Hold on just a sec.” He jumped two black checkers with his red one. “King me,” he said to the other player. Then, to Cyndi, “How can I help you?”

  The man’s cheeks were round and brown, covered in constellations of freckles. Frizzy tufts of white hair poked out from under his Mariners baseball cap, and another tuft took up residence in his ear.

  “I’m Cyndi, this is Zach, and this”—Cyndi made a sweeping arm motion toward Clark—“is Clark. We’re from the Home Fires hot meal service. Clark is looking for a place to stay until she gets on her feet.”

  “Sweet,” said the other man, who still hadn’t kinged his opponent.

  Cyndi didn’t like the way he was looking Clark over.

  “Shut up, Raevon. These are our guests. At least pretend to be polite.” The older man waved at the three of them but didn’t stand or offer to shake hands. “I’m Tamal Wilson, and I travel with Tent City Two, kind of a go-between for hosts and residents, ya know? You’ll have to excuse Raevon. He hasn’t been here long enough to learn any manners yet. Raevon, apologize.”

  “Sorry,” the younger man muttered as he kinged Tamal’s game piece.

  “So, how does this work?” Cyndi asked. “Would Clark need to sign anything to move in?”

  “Well, you can probably tell we’re a little crowded. I don’t think another tent could possibly fit in here. Why don’t you take a look around and see if Clark—is that your real name, hon?—if she even wants to stay here. If she does . . . well, then. She and I will have a little talk and see what we can work out.”

  Cyndi wished she could bundle the kids back in the car and go back home. But she’d told Clark she’d take an honest look at Tent City Two. Even though she’d already formed a solid opinion about the place, she owed Clark the time. She looked to Clark for confirmation.

  Clark gave a nod.

  “All right, then. Anything we need to know?”

  “Jes’ watch your step and give people enough space. Most folks here are pretty nice, but a couple of ’em can be a bit skittish, if you know what I mean.”

  Cyndi wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Tamal meant.

  Clark took the lead on the tour, walking up and down the rows. She didn’t talk to anyone, just looked around. Zach made side comments about how cold and cramped and dirty everything was. Not so subtle in his approach, but at least Clark knew his opinion.

  Cyndi let her go at her own pace and didn’t push her own questions or a decision until they got back in the car.

  Clark didn’t give any clues as to what she was thinking.

  At a stoplight, Cyndi glanced over at Clark.

  Clark sat in the passenger’s seat, twisted backward so she could chat with Zach.

  Cyndi’s instinct was to tell Clark to turn around, but she didn’t. The fastest way to turn off this girl was to mother her. She’d been making her own decisions for a long time.

  “So?” Zach said, apparently just as eager as Cyndi to hear what Clark thought. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Wasn’t it great?” Clark said. “Did you see the space heaters?”

  “So, are you gonna to live there?”

  Cyndi hoped Clark would say no, but wouldn’t blame her if she said yes. After all, the tent city did offer most of the services Clark didn’t have access to.

  “The tutoring center was so great. Homeless kids going to school. It’s cool.”

  “Stink,” Zach said. “You’re going to move in there, aren’t you?”

  Cyndi braced herself for the answer.

  “No. I’m not.”

  If Cyndi wasn’t driving, she would have wrapped both arms around Clark. Zach did it for her, from behind.

  “Are you serious? You’re not? How come?”

  “I dunno. I guess I’d miss you guys.”

  “Good, ’cuz that place stank.”

  “Quit,” Clark shot at him. “I said I’m not staying there, so give it up or I might change my mind.”

  Cyndi kept her eyes on the road. She didn’t want to do anything to make Clark change her decision.

  “I dunno. It just felt too far away from home . . . Home Fires, I mean. And besides, I was thinking . . .” Cyndi waited for Clark to finish her thought, but she fell silent.

  Cyndi had to supply the prompt. “Thinking what?” she asked, sensing as she spoke that she was taking the bait for a trap, but unsure of how to avoid being caught in it.

  “Just, um . . . your mall has a lot of empty land around it. Way more space than at the tent city . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Uh-uh,” Cyndi said, catching the gist of Clark’s remark. “No way. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re already in the middle of a huge fight over the soup kitchen.” She laughed, as if to say, You’ve completely lost your mind. “Ain’t gonna happen,” she added, as if that sealed the argument.

  Zach leaned forward in his seat again. “It’s perfect,” he said. “We should have thought of it earlier. Excellent!”

  Cyndi pulled the car to the side of the road, threw it into park, and turned so she could see both teens.

  “Listen,” she said. “You can’t push this. Stop now before you start. If we push any harder, we’ll lose Home Fires. I’m serious, guys. I think tent cities are great, but it’s impossible. We cannot host one. No.”

  It was ludicrous.

  End. Of. Discussion.

  Chapter 28

  At home that night, Cyndi and Mike stood doing dishes together like they had almost every night for twenty-seven years.

  “Did you find a suit for Joe?” she asked.

  “Yeah. A little short in the sleeves, but he’ll look fine. What about you? How was the tent city?”

  The thought of it balled her stomach up. “It was okay. Kind of disorganized.”

  “Is Clark going to move there?”

  She sighed. “Get this. She thinks we should open one on the empty lot by the mall.” The idea had been swimming in her head all day. It was crazy. It was impossible.

  “That could work,” Mike said.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “We’ve got the land. Why not?”

  “Are you serious?” Cyndi said. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “It’s complicated, sure,” Mike said. “I can just see it. A whole village of needy people right at our doorstep. The food is great, but if we could build a community, think of the services we could offer. I wonder . . .” He reached over Cyndi’s head to place a bowl in the cupboard.

  “We’re already in the middle of a lawsuit. We don’t need another one.”

  “Mm-mm,” he mumbled. He dried his hands and left the room.

  She followed him. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled out his laptop and booted it up. It took an impossibly long fifteen seconds for it to come out of hibernation and another five seconds to connect to the Internet. She stood behind him to see what he was looking for. He tapped in “tent city” and came up with a bunch of possible sources, then clicked on the words “Are Tent Cities Legal?”

  She leaned over his shoulder.

  “Look at this,” he said. “It says here that while not exactly legal, tent cities are also not illegal. Looks like some local governments are willing to bend the rules. Riverton is trying to help solve the homeless crisis. What better way than to give them places to live?”

  “Mike, I just don’t—”

  “Look here,” Mike said. “Here’s the tent city you went to today. Looks like it’s got a permanent location. But this one here . . .” He put his finger on the screen and scanned the paragraph for the information he needed. “Yup, here it is.” Mike kept his finger on the sentence while Cyndi read it.

  “This one says they move every six weeks or so. That time will be up in about two weeks. And they’re looking for a new place to go. Let’s do it! It’s just for six weeks. We could use the vacant land
behind the mall. It’s away from the main road and it’s plenty big.”

  “Mike, I don’t know.” Cyndi tucked some loose hairs behind her ear. “I don’t think we ought to push so hard. Besides, that lot is zoned commercial.”

  “And where would you ever find land zoned for the homeless? It could be perfect. Maybe God gave us that land just for this. If this is about helping people and obeying God, why would we stop at just a couple of meals a week? We’re already in this up to our eyeballs; I don’t see where a little deeper could hurt us more. Sure, it might make waves, especially with Spencer what’s his name—”

  “Ridley,” Cyndi supplied.

  “—yeah, Spencer Ridley.” Mike paused and scratched his head. “That’s funny,” he said. “I’ve heard that name somewhere.”

  “On the lawsuit?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not it. Anyway, it would give Clark a place to stay.”

  A place for Clark. For that reason alone, it was tempting.

  Tempting, but impossible.

  “It’s too crazy, Mike. We’ve got enough to do as it is. I can’t do this, too. I’ll have to come up with another plan for Clark.”

  “Maybe we should invite her to live with us again.”

  “She won’t do it. I don’t know why not, but she won’t even talk about it. Home Fires has been great and we’ve helped a lot of people. But all I really want to do is give that girl a chance at life.”

  “Maybe the way to do that is with the tent city.”

  Cyndi shook her head. “I can’t do that. It will have to be something else.”

  Chapter 29

  Joe hesitated at the base of the courthouse steps. He’d sworn he’d never go through those doors again. Time, he hoped, had healed his wounds.

  “Wish me luck, boy,” he said to Wolf.

  The shaggy beast cocked its head.

  “Now go lie down.” Joe shooed him away.

  Wolf ambled off to find shelter in some bushes along the solid stone walls.

  Joe fumbled with his borrowed tie. He smoothed his hair with his palms, but the disobedient clumps sprang back up in the wake of his hands’ movement. He felt naked without the beard he’d worn for twenty years. He’d shaved it off in honor of his return to court, but after seeing himself in the mirror, he regretted it.

  “You look fine,” Mike said, laying a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. No reason to be nervous. You’re not on trial here; we are.” Mike let out a little chuckle, but neither his words nor his lighthearted charade quieted the thudding nervousness in Joe’s chest.

  Joe had missed the first day of the trial, the prosecution’s arguments, but was eager to hear how the defense would argue. Would he go into free speech? Property rights?

  “Cyndi should already be here. We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  Joe mounted the steps behind Mike, taking them one by one. He concentrated on each creak and pop in his knees to take his mind off the looming mouth of the courthouse.

  Mike held the door for him.

  Joe stepped into his former life. His eyes automatically drifted to the ceiling, to the words of famous lawmakers throughout the centuries. He could have quoted them all with his eyes closed—Moses, Aristotle, Thomas Jefferson. The next thing he noticed was a new addition since his last visit, a security screening area.

  The security officer said, “Empty your pockets into a plastic bin, and remove all cell phones, pagers, and other electronic devices. Then step through the metal detector one at a time.”

  Joe stepped through the archway, then waited as Mike dug coins, keys, and wallet out of his pocket. His new acquaintance unclipped his cell phone from his waist and tossed it in the bin. His briefcase and laptop computer went on the conveyor belt. It took a few minutes for Mike to make it to Joe’s side of the metal detector, and a few more to put everything back in his pockets, on his belt, and in his hands. While he waited, Joe looked around. The lobby hadn’t changed in the twenty years or so since he’d been in here last. The smell of cold marble and decades-old dust was the same. One thing was different, though: the way people looked at him. No one stared. No one avoided eye contact. It was as if he was a real person again.

  “This way.” Mike, now fully assembled, started toward the staircase on the opposite end of the lobby.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Joe said. “I’ll take the elevator. I’ve done all the stairs I plan to do today.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you at courtroom G. Go to the third floor and—”

  “I’ll find my way,” Joe said.

  Mike bounded up the steps.

  Joe breathed easier now that he didn’t feel like a sidekick. In the elevator, everyone found a place and faced the door. No one shied away from him like they often did in the new library elevators. Joe felt the old Otis cables strain as the small room pulled itself up to the third floor.

  When the doors opened, Mike was waiting. He wiped his chin with his sleeve. He must have had time to get a drink of water before the elevator arrived.

  Mike pushed on courtroom G’s swinging door.

  Joe stepped inside. Last time he was here, the blue-and-black linoleum squares were cracking at the corners. The tables along the front had been standard-issue World War II gray, the walls the color of Crest toothpaste. Now, the room gleamed with mahogany. The rich red-brown of walls, bench, table, and chairs proclaimed that this was a place where justice would be taken seriously. “Wow,” he whispered under his breath. “Nice.”

  “Yeah, it’s really something, isn’t it?” Mike said. “We’re defendants, which means we get to sit up front over there.” Mike pointed to the left. “You can sit in the front row, but you can’t come past the partition. I’ll be right in front of you. I just talked to Cyndi. She should be here any minute. She got hung up at the county clerk’s.”

  Joe took his place thankfully behind the bar. He didn’t plan to be on the other side again in this lifetime.

  Mike sat in front of him in a more comfortable chair. He turned around and whispered to Joe, “It’ll fill up soon.”

  In fact, no one was there except that reporter lady, Rebecca Whitt. She sat by the aisle near the back, jotting something in her notebook.

  “You don’t really have to entertain me,” Joe said. “How’d it go yesterday?”

  Mike grimaced. “It felt brutal, but our attorney said that’s normal since their side got to do all the presenting.”

  It could be normal or it could be incompetence. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well”—Mike leaned against the rail—“our attorney didn’t object as much as I was hoping. And the judge didn’t side with him much when he did. But today is our turn to tell the other side. That’ll even things out.”

  He was probably hoping his attorney would produce a surprise witness or a clever twist of the law like you always saw on court TV. Real life didn’t work that way. This was going to be a tricky one to win.

  “Sure,” Joe said.

  The doors at the back of the room swung open and shut, and the seats started filling with observers. Joe didn’t turn to see them, but he could guess what kind of people they were by the sound of their footfalls. High heels tapped, men’s shoes clicked and squeaked, sneakers barely whispered. The plaintiffs, Spencer and Allie Ridley, entered with their lawyer. They took their places at the table opposite Mike and immediately leaned in to consult with each other.

  Joe didn’t hear Cyndi’s rubber-soled footsteps approaching, so he was startled when she leaned over to greet him.

  “I’m glad you made it,” she whispered. “You look good. Do you feel okay?”

  “Like this tie might just choke me to death.”

  “You can take it off if you want. There’s a bathroom down the hall. I have to go sit up by Mike, okay?”

  Joe watched her settle into her place next to Mike. They leaned together and whispered something to each other. Cyndi looked over at the plaintiffs with a glare Joe never imagined from s
uch a sweet lady.

  Every time the door opened, Mike turned back to look for his lawyer. He glanced at his watch every ten seconds or so. As the start time for the trial approached, he turned sideways in his chair and gave himself a clear view of the aisle and door. His face registered a mounting panic. He dialed a number on his cell phone, then, apparently remembering the no-cell-phones-in-the-courtroom rule, strode down the aisle and out the back door.

  Joe felt sorry for him.

  A few minutes later Mike returned and whispered to Cyndi, but loud enough for Joe to hear, “No sign of him in the hall, and he’s not answering his phone. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you have time to wait for him out front?” Cyndi asked.

  “I don’t think so. And it wouldn’t get him here any faster anyhow.”

  “I think you’d better take your seat,” Joe said. “Looks like things are about to start.”

  The bailiff announced Judge Ferndale’s arrival.

  Mike winced. He took his place next to his wife at the defense table, facing the bench.

  The seat to his right remained empty. Unless his attorney showed up in the next second and a half, this was going to be a short and ugly morning.

  Joe’s stomach knotted as the judge entered the room and called the court to order. He hated to see a judge start the day with reason to hate your side. Not that he was taking sides.

  Judge Ferndale took the bench and recapped where they had left off on Friday. “Does the prosecution have anything to add?”

  The plaintiff’s lawyer half rose and stated, “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.” He sat again and smirked in Mike and Cyndi’s direction.

  “Then we’ll get going on the defense today. Does the defense plan to call any witnesses?” She looked directly at Mike. “Are we missing someone today, Mr. Finch?”

  “Um, yes, Your Honor—” Mike stumbled to push back his chair and stand. “Yes, Your Honor. Um, my lawyer . . . I mean, our attorney isn’t here yet. Uh . . . can we start in a few minutes?”