Home Fires Read online

Cyndi felt Joe tense beside her.

  “Don’t worry, guys, I won’t make you stand. I just wanted everyone to know that we’re not just helping the people out there, we’re bringing the people in here, too. I think we’re off to a good start. But I don’t think we’re doing everything we can yet.

  “It has recently come to my attention that there are not enough shelters in the metro area to host all the homeless people that reside here. I’ve also come to realize that not every homeless person is a down-and-out bum. Clark? Would you come up here, please?”

  Clark shrank down beside Cyndi. Zach gave her a little push, and Cyndi leaned over to whisper, “You might as well go up. He’s relentless.”

  Clark whispered, “Jerk,” but she stood and made her way to the podium beside Mike. Poor thing. She didn’t want to be singled out.

  Cyndi writhed inside for her.

  “This is Clark. She’s been coming to Home Fires for months. She helps out every time we open our doors. Comes all the way from downtown. And she’s homeless.” He put a hand on Clark’s shoulder as if to comfort her in her pitiful state. “Clark’s not a bum. She really wants to do something with her life. What is it you want to be, Clark?” Mike thrust the microphone in Clark’s face. She jerked back from the sudden movement, then leaned a little too close to the microphone to say her two words.

  “Social work.” The words came out scratchy through the sound system. She could have said “Circus act.”

  “You want to be a social worker?” Mike asked. “That’s a very noble goal. Thank you, Clark. You can sit down.”

  The girl returned to her seat, her face red with embarrassment.

  “So, that’s Clark,” Mike said. “She has dreams. But her life consists of searching for a place to sleep and something to fill her empty stomach. She’s got to worry about things no young woman should need to worry about.”

  Cyndi bristled.

  “I’d like to suggest that we make a short-term commitment that could help people like Clark get the start they need. Cyndi and I would like to host a tent city on the vacant lot behind Riverton Plaza. But we’re going to need help—lots of help.”

  Cyndi could almost feel the wind in her hair as the congregation took a collective gasp. If she had more courage, she’d get up and walk out.

  “Tent City Three is looking for a temporary home. I’ve been to Tent City Two and seen how it’s run. I really think we could do this. It will take a lot of work for a short amount of time. The city usually moves on after six weeks. So, what that would mean for us is that we’d have to mow the field, arrange for some porta potties, form a committee to set some rules and guidelines. It would mean ramping up the food service at Home Fires to serve dinner every night for the six weeks. Usually tent cities don’t serve meals because of health department regulations, but we’re in a unique situation where we can offer both if we’ve got the manpower. The kicker is, it would mean making this commitment during Christmas season. They need a new spot to set up in less than two weeks.”

  “Question.”

  Cyndi turned to see who was talking. A man on the opposite side of the building, about halfway back, stood. Was his name Jim something?

  “Yeah?” Mike acknowledged him.

  “I thought you guys were already in hot water with the neighborhood over Home Fires. What makes you think they’ll let you—us— just bring in a whole city full of homeless people?”

  “Well, we’ve got a crackerjack new attorney here, Joe Talbot. Joe, would you stand?”

  Joe stayed seated, arms folded across his chest. Mike didn’t force it.

  “Joe is on track to get us off the hook in the Home Fires lawsuit. That should be wrapping up pretty soon. We shouldn’t run into any legal problems with the tent city, but if we do, it’s on my family, not on you. I’m willing to take the risk. What about you?”

  Now Joe stood, with some effort.

  “Excuse me; let me clarify something,” he said, speaking directly to Mike. “I’ll help with the trial, that’s fine. But that’s as far as my commitment goes. I don’t like tent cities, don’t even like the concept of tent cities, and I refuse to fight for one. I think they’re a bad solution to a problem that can be fixed other ways. Sure, the shelter system is flawed, but we should fix the system we’ve got instead of coming up with different ideas to mess things up. It spreads the limited resources too thin, and it steals our dignity. This battle’s all yours.”

  Mike blinked, clearly at a loss. He cleared his throat. “I still say we give it a shot. It’s only for six weeks, one time. And it could really make a difference to a lot of people. I can’t see any better way to help out at Christmastime. Who’s in with me?”

  Clark and Zach shot their arms up in the air right away. Cyndi turned again to take in the response from the rest of the crowd. A few hands went up, then a few more, and still more. Cyndi even saw some people who used to oppose Home Fires step up. She looked back to her husband. He beamed with excitement.

  Cyndi raised her right hand, slowly, and only as high as her ear.

  Mike made eye contact with her and grinned.

  Chapter 34

  Nance stuck her head into Cyndi’s little office at the back of Home Fires. “The reporter is here.”

  “Thanks.” Cyndi wiped her sweaty palms on her pant legs. It might be silly to be nervous at this point in the game, but this would be her first television interview. At least the first one on purpose. “How’s my hair?”

  “You look radiant.”

  “I know better than that. I mean, is my makeup all right? How’s my hair? I wish I had a mirror.”

  “She’s interviewing outside, isn’t she? Have you noticed it’s drizzling? I don’t think your hair or makeup is going to matter.”

  “I know. You’re right.”

  The shadow of a woman passed behind Nance.

  Rebecca Whitt stepped into the doorway as Nance stepped out of the way.

  Cyndi smiled and waved her in. “Come in, come in. I’m Cyndi. Come in, welcome. Have a seat.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather just get on with the interview. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, of course. I just . . . I’m a little nervous.”

  “No problem. Why don’t you give me a tour of the place, we’ll get some roaming shots, and then we can set up the camera for the interview. That way we can get to know each other a little before I put you on the spot.” Cyndi suspected Rebecca’s practiced smile was meant to put her at ease, but it wasn’t working.

  “Okay, um, would you like to look around Home Fires first?”

  “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go straight outside. The soup kitchen is good, but that’s yesterday’s story. Today’s news is the tent city.”

  “Tent City Three it is, then. I’ll just grab my coat.”

  “Great, I can’t wait to see it. Say, will Joe be here?”

  Cyndi reached for her jacket. “You know Joe?”

  “From the special I did on homelessness last summer. So, is he here? I’d love to talk to him.”

  “I haven’t seen him tonight. But my husband is outside. He’s kind of running things.”

  If Rebecca was disappointed, she didn’t say. She followed Cyndi outside.

  A crew worked at setting up tents in the adjacent field. The cold drizzle worked its way through the layers of Cyndi’s clothing. For now, the only way to get to the tents was to slog through the grass. They were planning to lay some paths, but it was down the list a ways. By the time she’d taken two steps off the pavement, cold water was already seeping into her tennis shoes. Her corduroy pants wicked up the wet until her cuffs hung heavy.

  Rebecca was two steps ahead of her in the field and in foresight. She’d been smart enough to wear waterproof hiking boots and a Gore-Tex shell. Even the cameraman had wrapped his device in a rain jacket of sorts.

  Cyndi trudged behind the reporter through the overgrown sedge. Tiny grain heads popped as she brushed past them, the seeds cl
inging to her pants like Velcro. She wiped wet bangs off her forehead.

  Before she reached the tents, she started scanning for Mike’s red jacket. At least a half-dozen workers wore red, but only one was bald. “There he is.”

  He started walking toward a truck parked on the gravel drive on the far side of the field.

  She adjusted her path to intercept him. “Mike,” she called. He didn’t hear her, so she called a little louder. “Hey, Mike!” she yelled, but he kept walking away. She jogged toward him.

  “Mr. Finch!” she yelled, waving an arm over her head.

  He stopped and looked around for whoever called his name.

  Rebecca stepped forward to greet him. “Rebecca Whitt. I’m here to get some footage and pick up a couple of interviews for the evening report.”

  “Help yourself. I’ve got to get some folks to unload this truck.”

  “What’s on the truck?”

  Cyndi expected her to pull out a little notepad or something, but she just asked.

  “We’ve got to cover the whole ground with waterproof tarps before the tents can go down. That group over there is pitching tents. And we’ve got tables and chairs and stuff to unload. Cyndi, why don’t you and the news crew take a look around?”

  “Well, if you’re sure you’re fine—I’ll just wander around and give Rebecca a chance to talk to some people.”

  Finding someone to interview wasn’t hard. Lots of people had plenty to say about the new tent city. Thankfully, most of it was good. No one complained about the weather or about the fact that they were about to have a couple hundred squatters living in their neighborhood. Some of the new residents pitched in to help, too, though Rebecca wasn’t too good at picking out who was an affluent volunteer and who was a tent dweller.

  “Let’s go talk to him,” she said, pointing out an older man who seemed to be struggling with putting tent stakes in the ground. Cyndi stood back a few feet while Rebecca approached him.

  “I’m with News Channel 7. Do you mind taking a break for a minute and answering a few questions?”

  The elderly man pushed himself up to a standing position.

  “You must be an angel of mercy,” he said. “I just can’t work on the ground like I used to. Who did you say you were?” He wiped his right hand on some faded Carhartt jeans before extending it.

  Rebecca put her business card in the grimy hand.

  “Rebecca Whitt, News Channel 7. I’d like to talk with you about the tent city, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. But let’s find a place to sit, if you don’t mind. Looks like they’re pulling folding chairs off the truck now. Maybe we can snag a couple.”

  Cyndi hurried over to ask for three chairs from the teens who were unloading the truck. She set them on a bare spot in the grass and indicated that the man and reporter should take a seat. She felt like a hostess of a tea party or something, only without the tea, the fancy clothes, and the roof.

  She sat down on her own chair, but as her weight settled into the curve of the seat, she pitched forward. The chair’s right leg had sunk into the saturated ground.

  “Guess I could stand to lose a few pounds,” she quipped, trying to extricate herself from the embarrassing position.

  A quick hand and easy rescue were offered by the elderly man. “Let’s move up onto the gravel, shall we?”

  They moved their chairs about ten feet to the shoulder next to the truck. The cameraman stood behind them and circled as they talked.

  “Now,” Rebecca said. “Let’s start over. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Don’t believe I threw it. My name’s Stern. Chip Stern.”

  “And what is your affiliation with Tent City Three?”

  “I don’t know as I’d say that I’m affiliated, not in any official way, that is. I’m just helping out.”

  “So, do you live in the neighborhood?”

  “You might say that. I work over there.” He pointed toward the end of the mall where Home Fires had made its home.

  “You work at the craft store?”

  “Not if I can help it. I’m the owner.”

  Reporter or not, Rebecca couldn’t hide the shock on her face.

  “You’re the owner? But I thought the owners were protesting.”

  “Some of them, sure enough. And I’ve got to tell you, when Cyndi here first started talking about a soup kitchen, I was dead set against it. I thought it would ruin our business and bring in a bunch of riffraff, bring down the town, you know.”

  “But now you’re helping out. What changed your mind?”

  “Honestly?” Chip rubbed his chin. “My wife. Amanda and I came into Home Fires before it even opened to complain about all the damage that would happen, and Cyndi roped us into helping with the decorating. Put our skills to work. We hadn’t felt so useful in a long time. I mean, work’s work, but this was something else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, how can I say this?” He rubbed his chin again. “One of the things about getting older is that the youngsters think you don’t know how to do anything. Now, I was a carpenter for years and years. A good one, too. I won’t climb ladders anymore, but I still know how to swing a hammer. Home Fires and now this tent city have given me the chance to get my hands dirty again. Makes me feel young . . . well, except when I have to stand up off the ground. That’s getting hard to do.”

  Rebecca leaned toward him. “I know you’ve had some antagonism from the neighborhood over the soup kitchen. What about the tent city? Any problems over it?”

  “Ya know, not so much as I’d expected. I haven’t heard a whisper of protest over this project, which kind of makes me nervous.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, people were so outspoken about the soup kitchen, but now it’s just silence. Makes me wonder if they’re planning a different attack. Now, don’t quote me on that. It’s just a feeling, probably just the jitters.”

  Rebecca rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stern,” she said. “I’ll let you go back to your tent stakes now.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I’ll not be groveling on the ground again today. Maybe I can go help serve hot cocoa. It’s about time for that, I think. I’ll take your chairs, though, if you like.” Chip folded the chairs and carried them toward Home Fires.

  Cyndi was pleased with what Chip had said. Of all the people for Rebecca to interview, he gave the situation a nice spin. “Why don’t you show yourself around a little more and meet me back inside when you’re ready?” Cyndi suggested.

  She took Rebecca’s silence as permission. Instead of walking back across the field, she opted to minimize the damage to wardrobe and pride by skirting around to the street and walking back on dry ground. The gravel drive wasn’t bad to walk on. She just had to watch for puddles.

  As tarps went down, tents were going up in organized rows. Unlike Tent City Two, here they had room to spread out with space left for walking and gathering. Near the road, Cyndi noticed Clark and Zach working together to set up a tent.

  Clark was pulling on one edge of a rain fly while Zach staked down the cords on the opposite side. When he finished, he brought the mallet around.

  Cyndi walked over to them and was going to greet them, but was stopped short by the intimacy of their conversation.

  Clark handed Zach the cord. He took it, along with her hand. He leaned down and spoke in a low voice. “I like your hair like that.”

  She reached up and felt her hair. The drizzling rain wasn’t enough to soak it, just enough to mat it down. Her latest color was pink, but she hadn’t dyed her hair in weeks, which meant almost an inch of black roots gave her a backward skunk stripe.

  He grinned his silly grin at her, and she pushed him away.

  “Be nice.”

  “You want nice? I’ll show you something nice.” He closed his eyes and moved his face toward hers.

  Cyndi wasn’t sure whether to interrupt or back away. They were standing out in an open field in the ra
in. What did they expect? Privacy? She cleared her throat.

  The teens jerked away from each other. Zach ran his hand around his mouth to wipe away either the moistness of Clark’s kiss or his embarrassment at being caught.

  “Hey, Cyndi. What’s up?” Clark acted all cool, like nothing had happened.

  “Nothing, I was just headed back to the kitchen. We’re trying to gear up for dinners every night, and there’s still so much to do. I saw you two over here and thought I’d say hi before I go back in. How’s the tent?”

  “It’s like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Look, come over here.” Clark led her around to where the front door still drooped near the ground. “The zipper’s open. Stick your head inside.”

  Cyndi had to lean down to get her head in the door. Wet nylon brushed her cheek. Once she had her head in, she looked around. “It’s empty in here.”

  “No, no, it’s not,” Clark said from outside. “Take a deep breath.”

  She inhaled the acrid plastic-y smell of a sporting goods store. “I don’t know what I’m smelling for here.” She pulled her head back out.

  “It’s new. Like, brand new. I bet this is what heaven smells like.”

  Between the mud and the tarps, this place was far from heaven. But the fact that Clark and others like her saw it that way confirmed to Cyndi that they were doing the right thing. The risk was worth it.

  Though so far, there had been no reaction from the Ridleys and their crew about the tents.

  Strange. And unsettling.

  A woman’s voice interrupted, the reporter calling from the other side of the tent. “Hello? Is anyone back here?”

  “Yo!” Zach answered. “Who’s there?” He waved a hand in the air.

  “Rebecca Whitt, from the TV station,” she called. “Where are you?”

  Cyndi was ready to answer her, but Clark put a finger to her lips to silence her. The girl turned her head, looking for something, then reached for the tent flap. She dove into the small blue room and zipped the flap behind her. From outside, you couldn’t tell she was in there.

  Rebecca walked around to meet Cyndi and Zach on their side of the tent.