Home Fires Page 14

  As she went back toward the office, she wondered how many other homeless people made themselves at home in the bushes. She was willing to bet those weren’t the only ones.

  She didn’t want to talk to Mike about it. Not yet. On a whim, she went to the craft store. She stopped outside the front door, hesitant to enter. Bins of silk flowers and discount fall items overflowed with sunflower yellow and tulip pink. The automatic door opened. She felt like a fool, standing here on the sidewalk.

  In or out.

  In, she decided, making her feet follow her resolve.

  A gum-chewing teen ran the front cash register. Cyndi pretended to browse down the scrapbooking aisle and through yarns to the fabric department, watching for Amanda on every aisle. She found the older woman in the sewing center at a pristine white sewing machine.

  “What are you working on?” Cyndi asked. She pulled a stool over to see the project.

  Amanda lifted her foot off the pedal long enough to say, “Hi, sweetie. I’m making a sampler quilt for a class I’ll be teaching in January.” The machine whirred quietly under her sure guidance. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “I was wondering if you have a few minutes. Can I treat you to a sandwich over at the sub shop? Or to leftovers at Home Fires?”

  Amanda stopped sewing again and turned her head toward Cyndi. “I think that’s a grand idea,” she said. “Let me go tell Chip so he can hold down the fort for a little while.”

  Chip was in models. “You girls have fun,” he said. “Take your time. I’ll be fine.”

  Cyndi pulled some leftover spaghetti from the industrial fridge in the Home Fires kitchen and heated it in the microwave on paper plates.

  “It’s not fancy, but it’s what we’ve got,” she said.

  “What you’ve got is fine.”

  Cyndi poured two cups of coffee from the pot and zapped them in the microwave. Sitting across the table from Amanda, she wrapped her hands around her mug.

  “What’s going on?” Amanda asked. “Did you get news on the case?”

  “Not yet. We’ve got a month before we have to go back to court. I’m nervous about it, but I don’t have the energy to worry all the time, not with everything else that’s happening.”

  “What everything?”

  “Keeping Home Fires going. Loving the people who come through the door. Taking care of Clark. And Mike. Did you know they’re conspiring to build a tent city on our vacant lot?”

  Amanda whistled. “That’s going to go over well, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not happening,” Cyndi said, although the scene in the bushes pushed into her consciousness. People were living in the greenbelt right behind them.

  “Mm-hmm. I believe you.” She didn’t even try hiding her smirk. “The place looks great. Real homey.”

  Cyndi grabbed at the change of subject. “It does. Thanks to you.”

  “But that’s not why you asked me to come over, is it?”

  No, it wasn’t. But she didn’t know how to broach the question. Or even what the question was. She took a swig of her coffee. Bleh—sludge.

  “This must be yesterday’s. Sorry.” She grabbed Amanda’s drink, too, and tossed it down the sink, watching it sploosh up against the stainless steel walls and then gurgle down through the drain.

  Amanda got up and turned on the teakettle. “It’s not about any of this, is it?”

  Cyndi wanted to tell her about the prayer, about Joe. Wanted to talk about how God hadn’t listened to her prayers since Madi died. Maybe even before that. Why would he listen now? Or was it just a coincidence? She didn’t know why she expected Amanda would have the answer, didn’t even know if she was a believer.

  “It’s not about anything, really. I guess I’m just tired.”

  Amanda didn’t press her. “So what happens next?” she asked.

  “We wait. Joe has a little less than a month to pull together some compelling arguments.”

  “That’s really something that Joe’s an attorney, isn’t it? Kind of hard to believe.”

  “Very hard,” Cyndi said.

  “Must be a God thing.”

  So she was a believer. “You think so?”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation myself.”

  “No, me neither, I guess.” Much as she wished she could.

  Chapter 32

  “No, no, no, no, and NO!” Joe ignored the law about being quiet in the library.

  Mike motioned for him to shush, but Joe had already taken about as much of Mike as he could stand.

  He turned the page in one of the law books open on the table in front of him and tried to ignore Mike’s insistent whisper.

  “It won’t take long, I promise. It would really help to see it through your eyes.”

  “I need to get this research done on zoning ordinances, or did you forget?” Joe pretended to read, though he couldn’t concentrate.

  “I’m not saying we’re going to start a tent city,” Mike said. He leaned into Joe’s personal space, close enough that Joe could smell the designer coffee on his breath. “No commitment. I just want to visit. Have you ever been to a tent city?”

  “Have I been to one? Are you kidding? I’ve been to every shelter, tent city, soup kitchen, freeway rest stop, and campground in this state and a bunch of others. I’m busy here. Go away.” Joe fiddled with a stack of books at his elbow.

  “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  Now that wasn’t fair.

  “And I’ll teach you how to do research on the Internet so you don’t have to pore through these huge tomes.”

  He’d never give up, would he? “I’ll pass on the Internet lecture,” Joe said. “I like real books just fine. But if you buy lunch, and throw in a pair of reading glasses, and promise you’ll leave me alone after we eat, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Mike grinned. “They’re printing those words smaller than they used to, aren’t they? I’ve noticed that too.” He placed both palms on the table and stood up. He started stuffing scraps of paper to hold Joe’s place in the various books.

  Joe stashed the books on a cart. He pulled on his jacket and his fingerless gloves. He still felt strange in the new clothes Cyndi had picked out for him.

  On the sidewalk, Joe whistled for Wolf. “Come on. We’re going for a ride.”

  Mike pushed a button to unlock the doors on his car. He opened the back door first and spread a towel on the bench seat, then patted his knee until Wolf jumped onto the towel.

  Joe got in the passenger’s door. He ran his hands over the velvety seat. It felt like the Christmas dresses his daughters used to wear when they were little.

  “Buckle up,” Mike said. “It’s the law.”

  Joe had heard about that. Safety First campaigns were hard to miss, though it puzzled him why so much effort was put into getting people to take personal responsibility and not so much into getting them into affordable housing. Joe reached for the seat belt, but fumbled with buckling it.

  Mike reached over and snapped the belt into place. He turned the key and the vehicle hummed to life. “How long since you’ve been in a car?”

  “I don’t know—years.” The whole dashboard was computerized, flashing bluish-green lights to indicate speed, miles per gallon, even the outside temperature. Joe pointed to a slot above the radio. “Is that a CD player?” he asked.

  “Yep. And there’s a DVD player, too, if you want to watch a movie. Look under the seat—there are some discs, though I’m afraid they’re mostly chick flicks. Here—” Mike reached across and grabbed a rectangular screen from the glove compartment. “You’ll have to use the remote screen. The fixed screen is for backseat passengers.”

  He slid a disc into the player, and within seconds, Joe was watching a miniature version of Sleepless in Seattle on his lap. Incredible.

  Joe started getting into the story. The main character had lost his wife. His son had set him up to talk to a radio show host when the screen went black. Joe shook the screen.
>
  “We’re here,” Mike said.

  Joe pushed the big red button on his seat belt to release himself. He felt around the door for something that might be a handle. He was still searching when Mike came around to his side of the car and opened the door for him.

  “Thanks.” Joe had been to this tent city before. It was the permanent one on the vacant city lot. They kept talking about fixing it up to be more like Dignity Village in Portland, but nothing had been done to take it beyond the hodgepodge array of tents.

  Joe followed Mike around a brick building to the entrance of Tent City Two through the village, looking for people to talk to, but the city seemed to be deserted.

  “Where is everybody?” Mike wondered aloud. He poked his head inside a couple of tents. “Nobody home.”

  “Okay, good. Let’s go,” Joe said. He didn’t like this place. All the rules of suburban life without any of the amenities.

  A large black man approached.

  “Can I help you?” He addressed his question to Joe. Joe looked down at his clothes, amazed that this guy would assume he was in charge.

  “I’m just tagging along,” he said, inwardly disappointed that his quick escape had been interrupted. “My friend’s the one with the questions.”

  “Can I help you?” the huge man asked. This time he directed his inquiry at Mike.

  “Yeah, I’m Mike Finch. My wife and I run Home Fires. It’s a hot meal service out in Riverton. I’m just doing a little research on tent cities, wondering what it takes to run one.”

  “Tamal Wilson’s the name. You might say I’m in charge around here.” Tamal held out a hand in greeting.

  “My wife told me about you,” Mike said. “Cyndi? She was down here the other day with a couple of teens. They’re all gung ho about starting a tent city on our property. I’d like to know what that would involve.”

  “I remember her. She was with Clark? I’ll be happy to give you any pointers I can. Anything to get people off the streets, give them a chance at a better life. Know what I mean?”

  Joe knew exactly what he meant. But putting them up in tents was like putting a Band-Aid on an amputated leg.

  “Come on over to my place. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  Once they were seated under Tamal’s awning, the tent city director started to talk. “The most important thing is to lay down the rules and enforce them,” he said.

  Joe cringed at the us-versus-them vocabulary.

  Mike pulled out a notebook and some paper, ready to take detailed notes. “What kind of rules?”

  “No drugs, no alcohol, no violence, things like that. Treat each other with respect. Pick up your own garbage. No noise after ten p.m. And everyone looks for a job. In the daytime, I expect all my residents to be either out working or looking for work. No loitering around here all day. If you want to live on the streets, that’s your choice. But if you want to make something of yourself, you’ve got to put in the effort.”

  Joe wasn’t surprised. Most of the shelters had the same type of policy.

  “Of course, if you host a tent city on your site, it would be different. Temporary tent cities only stay in one place for six weeks or so. That comes with a whole other set of rules. But one of the most important goals is to keep the neighbors happy.”

  “Too late for that,” Mike said.

  That was an understatement.

  “We were just curious,” Joe said. “We’re not hosting a tent city. Come on, Mike. Let’s go. We’ve got hungry people to feed tonight.” He tried to speak with authority. He stood up and, without saying good-bye, stalked to the car.

  It was locked.

  Joe crossed his arms and leaned against the back door. Wolf whimpered inside.

  When Mike came out a few minutes later, he didn’t hide his disgust. “That was rude,” he said as he unlocked the car.

  “I’m not in the mood.” Joe buckled his seat belt without help.

  Mike started to say something, but didn’t. He pursed his lips, gripped the steering wheel, and drove. After a few minutes of tense silence, he spoke. “I wasn’t—”

  Joe held his hands up in surrender. “Do I look stupid to you? It’s written all over your face. Count me out.” Joe pulled the seat belt away from his neck. “Just get me a drive-through lunch and drop me and Wolf off at the library.”

  “What about the glasses?” Mike asked.

  “Bring them later.”

  Mike sulked all the way to the library, which was fine with Joe. He didn’t need Mike’s approval or his friendship. And he sure didn’t need to get sucked into his ideas.

  When Joe got out of the car, Mike asked, “Will I see you at Home Fires tonight?”

  He knew he’d be there, but Mike needed to sweat a little. After all, Joe didn’t belong to him. Didn’t belong to anyone.

  “Don’t count on it,” he said.

  Chapter 33

  Tuesday night after the crowds left, Cyndi, Mike, Nance, and some others stayed behind to set Home Fires up for the Thanksgiving meal. Mike unloaded the industrial dishwasher and put away the dishes. Just like home, except here they were dealing with dishes for dozens, not just for the two of them.

  “Why couldn’t we host the tent city?” he asked the room.

  Cyndi cringed.

  He kept asking the same question, in different ways and to different people. “We’ve got the property, the county is turning the other cheek, so I don’t think we’d have legal issues . . .”

  “Um, earth to Mike,” Nance said. “If you haven’t noticed, we’ve got legal issues.”

  Cyndi cheered inwardly.

  “Yeah, but those are going to work out. I’m talking about a temporary thing that could really change people’s futures. I mean, Home Fires is good and it’s building community, but it’s more of a crutch than anything. This would be something for people who are really trying to better themselves.”

  Cyndi bit her tongue. She scrubbed the pots and pans with more vigor than usual, grinding the aluminum surfaces to a shine. Every time Mike opened his mouth, she wanted to scream. The very idea—inviting homeless people to live on their property. It was incomprehensible.

  “So, I was thinking,” Mike was saying. “We put the tent city on the extra five acres. It’s off the main road. I think all we’d need is some porta potties. And I’d need to make a phone call to the police to increase their rounds. If the police are on board, the neighbors couldn’t cause more trouble than they already are. Right?”

  A choked-back guffaw burst from Cyndi’s mouth. “Excuse me,” she said and left the kitchen. Was he kidding? Did he really think the neighbors would just lie down and take it?

  She’d put her foot down. They were already doing more than enough.

  On Sunday, at church, Cyndi took her regular seat at the front of the auditorium. She didn’t sit alone now, even though Mike was ushering. A lot had changed this year. New friends sandwiched her, Clark and Zach on one side, Joe—who hadn’t darkened a church’s door in forty years—on the other. Clark and Zach probably came to have a warm, dry place to hang out together. Still, her heart warmed to have them by her. She was starting to love them for who they were, not for how they reminded her of what should have been.

  Mike looked jittery this morning.

  Cyndi feared he would use his assigned time to pray from the pulpit to pitch his idea for the tent city.

  Cyndi tried concentrating on the songs, but she was distracted by Zach and Clark, and especially by Mike.

  His turn was after this song.

  He didn’t wait for the song to end before taking his place behind the podium.

  “‘Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus,’” Mike began. “When Paul wrote those words to the Thessalonians, he wasn’t just offering a suggestion. And he wasn’t talking about being thankful one Thursday in November between the turkey and the football game, either. Give thanks in all circumstances.”

  Cyndi relaxed a li
ttle at the traditional opening to the time of prayer.

  “What do we have to be thankful for?” Mike asked the congregation. Most people didn’t answer, but he encouraged their participation and a few tossed out answers.

  “Family.” This from off to the right.

  “Jobs.”

  “Our health.”

  “Sure, yeah. Good answers. Easy ones for us,” Mike said. “Anything else?”

  “Limitless wealth?” a voice from the back offered. A light chuckle rippled from back to front.

  “Nice try, Scott,” Mike returned.

  More people threw out suggestions.

  “Shelter.”

  “Cars.”

  “Food.”

  “Freedom.”

  Apparently Mike had enough examples to run with now. He cut off the sharing by shifting from a conversational tone to his lecture voice.

  “You mention all those things—family, house, car, freedom—as if those are givens. We think of people in other parts of the world who are starving or who can’t afford to see a doctor. But we often fail to see those who are right in front of our faces. We’ve got hungry, lonely people all around us.”

  Cyndi bit her lip and steeled herself for what she knew was coming.

  “Would everyone who has helped out at Home Fires in the past year, either with setup or legal work or food prep or anything else, please stand up?” Mike lifted both arms to encourage the workers to stand. Cyndi heard rustling behind her. Zach and Clark stood beside her. Clark tugged at her sleeve to get her to join them. She turned her head to see if anyone else was standing, then turned all the way around. Astounding—more than half the audience was on its feet. She hadn’t realized how many different people had volunteered.

  And those left seated squirmed in their seats.

  “Great!” Mike said. “I think all these workers deserve a hand, don’t you?” The audience obediently clapped for the workers, for themselves. Clark let out a whoop, and Zach actually wolf whistled right in church.

  “Besides the workers, we’ve also got some Home Fires guests here today.”