Home Fires Page 16

  “Oh, hi,” she said when she saw Cyndi. She was looking for new people to interview, so Cyndi just nodded and let her talk to Zach.

  “I’m trying to find people willing to do interviews on camera or give me a quote or two about the tent city. Would you like to do that?”

  “Um, sure,” Zach said. “I guess so.”

  “I just need to go get my cameraman. He’s taking some footage over by the truck. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes, okay?”

  Clark gave Rebecca plenty of time to get out of earshot before clamoring out through the tent’s floppy door. Zach gave her a hand and pulled her up to his level.

  Clark pushed against his chest and tromped away.

  “Hey!” Zach called, running after her. “What happened? What did I do?” He reached her side and matched his pace to hers. Cyndi struggled to keep up. The damp corduroy around her calves chafed against her skin with each step.

  “Hey, guys, wait up!” she called. Zach tried catching up, but Clark kept moving away from him.

  “I gotta go,” she said.

  He grabbed at her elbow, but she pulled herself free and continued a beeline path toward the street. Zach picked up his pace to get directly in front of her.

  Clark tried to sidestep him, but he grabbed her shoulders. By the time Cyndi caught up, Clark’s eyes were clouded with tears. Her shoulders sagged, and she wore the weary look of the woman Cyndi had seen under the bridge so long ago, the look of one grown old before her time.

  “Hey, sweetie, what is it?” Cyndi asked in the gentlest voice she could muster. She wanted to reach up and brush the tear off Clark’s cheek, but didn’t want to spook her.

  “I just . . . I can’t . . .” Clark’s chin trembled.

  Cyndi felt tears welling. If only her tears could fix Clark’s trouble, she’d gladly let them fall. But she knew Clark needed her to be strong. She tightened her jaw against the impulse and swallowed down saliva so salty it made her tonsils ache.

  Clark clenched and unclenched her jaw. “I can’t be on camera. No one can know I’m here.”

  When she started to walk away, Zach reached out to stop her, but Cyndi motioned him to let her pass. Instead, he walked beside her, picking up her hand in his own.

  Cyndi fell into step behind them, proud of Zach for his sensitivity. He didn’t pry for her story.

  But Clark offered it anyway.

  “I’m not supposed to be on my own,” she said. “I’m only fifteen. But I can’t go back home. I won’t. Ever.”

  Zach still didn’t say anything, just squeezed her hand a little tighter and stayed with her. Cyndi laid a hand on her shoulder in what she hoped would be a gesture of comfort and support.

  At the street, the three of them turned right and headed toward the light rail station.

  “I saw my picture once on a mailer card. My picture, my name and birthday and description on one side and a carpet-cleaning coupon on the other.”

  “Was it really that bad at home?” Zach asked. “Worse than on the streets?”

  Cyndi couldn’t imagine a life so hard that it drove Clark to make the choices she had.

  “Mom was okay. I miss her sometimes. But her choices of husbands . . . She’s been married five—no, six times. My latest stepdad, he”—Clark sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her arm—“he was a jerk. Yelling, screaming, calling me names. He hit my mom a couple of times. That was in the daytime. At night, he’d come into my room to apologize. He’d act all sorry and then . . . I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought he was gonna kill me. If he didn’t, I thought I’d kill myself.”

  Holding back tears was useless. Cyndi released them and felt their warm sting as they sprang, one after another, from her heart. “Oh, honey,” she whispered, pulling Clark into an embrace. This girl, this child she held so dear, had seen the worst life had to offer. Cyndi prayed for wisdom. “Clark, you don’t have to go through this alone. We could call someone who can make sure he’d never hurt you again.”

  “No!” Her emphatic answer faded to a whimper. “No, I’ve got things figured out for now. No cameras. No interviews. No pictures. I’ve done it for a year. I can keep it up for a few more months until I’m old enough to file for emancipation.”

  Thoughts and wishes raced through Cyndi’s head. She searched for an answer among them but found nothing. When they reached the station, just a bench under a plexiglass shelter, Zach held Clark in a comforting hug, nothing asked, nothing demanded, until the train sighed to a stop. He gave her a soft kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Everything’ll be okay.”

  He walked her, hand in hand, to the open train door. At the edge, Clark stepped away, still holding Zach’s hand as she passed through the sliding doors. Their fingers were the last things touching. And then, nothing. Just a palpable space and longing between. The doors hissed shut. Clark’s face and palms, pressed against the window, grew smaller as the train rushed away.

  Zach burrowed his hands in his deep pockets and walked away, shoulders sagging, back to the tent city.

  Cyndi, still on the platform, could fight the tears no longer. She slumped to the bench and gave in to heaving sobs.

  Chapter 35

  Mike insisted Cyndi go out for a nice dinner with him. It had been so long. Months, maybe. And after tomorrow they would be tied down with the tent city for six solid weeks. It was their last chance to spend time alone together until the six weeks of hosting Tent City Three were over.

  “It’s an illusion, you know,” Mike said.

  “What is?”

  “The idea that you have everything under control.”

  “Are you reading my mind?”

  He smiled at her, the lines around his eyes accentuated in the shadows cast by candlelight. “I don’t have to read your mind. I know you too well. You’re worried that things will fall apart without you. We’re only gone for a couple of hours, and the crew is going to be fine. You deserve a night off, and I’ve got to admit, I need one too.”

  “You’re right. But I just can’t help it—it must be the mother in me.” She chose a piece of French bread from the basket between them and slathered it with butter. She let her mind drift as she observed the scene outside the restaurant’s plate-glass window.

  Well-dressed couples strolled by, their eyes twinkling in the warmth of street lamps and Christmas lights, and entered the symphony hall across the street.

  Cyndi pushed her water glass away from to make room for the scorching bowl of soup a waiter slid in front of her. Its Gruyère crust glowed golden yellow. The robust scent of country French cuisine drifted into her sinuses.

  “Lovely. I haven’t had soup like this in ages. Do you think we could make it at Home Fires?”

  Mike rolled his eyes.

  “I know, we’re supposed to be taking a break, but I can’t help myself. I’ve got Home Fires on the brain. I was just thinking the onions and bread and broth are cheap, but the cheese might be too much. I’m sure the food bank wouldn’t supply us with Swiss cheese.”

  “Why don’t you just enjoy your soup?”

  While she was waiting for it to cool, she looked out the window again. A middle-aged man walked alone. His pants hems hung below the bottom of an oversize trench coat but only reached to midcalf, revealing mismatched socks. She let her gaze drift up to his face. Six-day shadow and wrinkles so deep they could be called crevasses told his story. He passed, oblivious to his observer on the other side of the glass. A year ago she wouldn’t have seen him. Now she wanted to run out and invite him to Home Fires.

  The broiled Gruyère crackled when she pushed her spoon through its crust. Strings of melted cheese hung like cables between spoon and bowl. She bit through the strings with her front teeth, slurping to suck the loose ends in. She lifted a second spoonful to her mouth, leaning over to avoid dripping on her silk camisole and wool jacket. As she did, she saw another homeless man, this one with a dog, out the window. The dog looked just like—it couldn’t be—

 
“That’s Joe!” she exclaimed, pointing out the window. Why was he dressed like a bum again? Where was the well-dressed lawyer she’d made over?

  Mike looked out at Joe. He waved to try to grab their new friend’s attention, but Joe either didn’t see him or didn’t care to acknowledge him.

  “Excuse me.” Mike pushed back from the table and left the restaurant. Cyndi followed him out to the street. Mike approached Joe, but Cyndi held back.

  “What’s going on?” Mike demanded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said you’re with us.”

  Joe pulled on his beard. “I’m not trying to pull you down. I just think you’re going about things the wrong way. Getting the neighbors riled up against us doesn’t help the homeless at all!”

  “What do you know about what helps and what doesn’t?”

  “I’m living it!”

  “You look for quick fixes, but you don’t want to really get out of your situation. If you did, you’d do something about it!”

  Cyndi couldn’t believe Mike had just said that. If there was a line to cross, it was somewhere behind them.

  “Like what? Go live in your tent city? You honestly think it would make a difference?” Joe was right up in Mike’s face now. He was making Cyndi nervous.

  Mike leaned closer to Joe’s face. “It’s getting people off the streets.”

  “Being on the street doesn’t make you a bad person, you know.”

  Cyndi couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “We know,” she said. “We’ve come to appreciate you all so much.”

  “Us all? What are we, a breed? You think you’re so different, so much better, than everyone else? Well, you’re just the same. Just wait and see. When things go wrong for you, you’ll show everyone who you really are.” Joe stepped closer to her, and Mike stepped in between them.

  “That’s not—” She was thinking of specific people, people who had changed her life this year.

  “Go inside, Cyndi,” Mike said.

  Joe waved his hands above his head. “What, are you afraid of me? The scary homeless man?”

  Mike held a hand out to stop Joe from getting any closer. “Cyndi, go inside.”

  She didn’t want to leave the two alone, afraid of what Joe would do to Mike. Or what Mike would do to Joe. But when Mike took on that tone of voice, she knew better than to cross him.

  “I’m just going to get our coats,” she said.

  Before she walked away, though, she had one more thing to say. “Joe, I just want you to know that I love you no matter what.”

  Joe stared back at her. He said, “We’ll see about that.”

  His words and his tone rang in Cyndi’s ears all the way home. She lay awake that night. What did he mean? Was he going to do something to test her love for him? Was it a threat? Or just his way of talking? If he knew her, he’d know her commitment to him was real.

  “Hey, everyone! Let’s gather up for a prayer.” No one in the soup kitchen paid any attention to Mike, so he resorted to clapping his hands. Eventually the others quieted down to listen.

  “If everyone could make a circle, we’ll have a prayer before the guests arrive.” He glanced out the narrow windows that framed the front doors. The “guests” stood with faces pressed against the glass, waiting for the doors to the banquet table to swing open. Running a tent city and a soup kitchen at the same time was nuts. The workload had at least quadrupled.

  It’s only for six weeks. Cyndi repeated the mantra over and over.

  The Home Fires workers held hands and bowed their heads for Mike’s prayer. They wore weary expressions.

  “Holy God,” he prayed. “We ask you to fill this room with love and renewed energy. Give us what we need to get through the next few weeks. And, Lord, please help us treat our guests with dignity and respect.”

  Everyone scattered to the workstations, and Mike went to open the door. He greeted each guest with the instruction to eat quickly to make room for the extra diners.

  Cyndi stood by him. “How’s it going?”

  “Crazy busy,” he said. “You know. It’s worth it, though.”

  “I sure hope so,” she said. “I’m proud of you. I think we’re fighting for a good thing. I’m just tired.” She gave him a side hug. He turned his head and bent down to kiss her. With a quick squeeze, he gave her a word of encouragement.

  “I’m sorry about last night. I was being stupid,” he said. “You’re my rock. What would I do without you?”

  “I love you, too,” she replied, patting his cheek with one hand before letting go. “I’ll see you after dinner.”

  She started to walk away, relieved to have the latest fight behind them, but Mike grasped her hand and held her at his side. Together, they greeted people as they came in. Some they knew by name, some by face, others not at all. So many people coming through the doors. So many lives to touch and change. Some made eye contact, most did not, but Cyndi made an effort to look each individual in the face and acknowledge each soul as important, even the ones she knew were just there to use her. And she kept a special eye out for Joe.

  A scuffle at the back of the crowd pressing at the door drew her attention. She rose up on tiptoe to try to look over the tumult of bodies to see who was causing those in the middle to complain, “Stop pushing. Hey! Wait your turn!”

  Clark squeezed out from between two obese women into the front of the mob, her recently styled hair now in disarray. Her eyes shone with anger; her cheeks flushed with rage. “Who did it?” Clark screamed.

  Mike reached his arm in front of her to keep her from lunging after someone. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down.” He struggled to stop her. She had enough momentum that his arm alone couldn’t hold her back. He blocked her with his body.

  She kept screaming. “Who did it? I’ll kill him!” She wrestled to get out of Mike’s grip, to swing out at something, at someone.

  Mike closed his arms around her in a wrestling hold.

  Cyndi closed in behind Clark and laid a calming hand on her shoulder. Both Mike and Cyndi spoke in soothing tones, which Clark couldn’t hear above her tirade.

  “Shh, honey, shh,” Cyndi said over and over as she rubbed Clark’s back. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Mike took a more direct approach. He held Clark’s struggling body against his chest and tried to reason with her.

  “Clark, dear, you’ve got to calm down. Clark, stop screaming. Clark, if you don’t settle down, we’ll never know what’s wrong. What’s the matter?”

  When she finally stopped yelling, the anger and tension in her muscles melted away so suddenly that she might have sunk to the ground if not for Mike catching her by the armpits. She leaned into him and began to sob. That didn’t make communication any better, since she was still unable to form an intelligible sentence.

  The crowd streamed around the three of them, as if in fast-forward while Mike, Clark, and Cyndi were on pause. After the tail end of the line passed by, Clark stood on her own feet. She wiped at her red, puffy, tear-stained face with her overlong sleeves.

  “Clark,” Mike said, “you’ve got to tell us what happened.”

  She sniffed and swallowed. “They slashed the tents.”

  Cyndi’s didn’t even think to put on a jacket or ask any questions. She sprinted toward the tent city across the empty field. Who slashed the tents?

  Frosted blades of grass cracked and snapped under each pounding step. She sucked in icy air. The cold shot through her lungs and into her sides. Not even halfway there, she slowed to a loping jog and, finally, to a complete stop. She stood, bent over with hands on knees, and waited for the oxygen she gulped in to reach her muscles.

  Two sets of footsteps crunched through the grass behind her. Clark and Mike caught up to her, each took one of her hands, and together they made their way across the dark field to the temporary lights of Tent City Three.

  The damage was worse than she feared. A dozen tents lay slashed open and upended, their contents spille
d out onto the makeshift walkways. Electric cords had been severed, draping the northern corner of the campsite in complete darkness. Large orange insulated jugs of water and coffee had been shoved off their tables. Their contents spilled out over the upended tents, and already fingers of frost laced the newly formed puddles.

  Mike pulled out his cell phone and punched in 9-1-1. “Yes, I have some vandalism to report,” he said. He raked across his head as if he still had hair and answered the dispatcher’s questions with short responses.

  Mike Finch.

  Riverton Plaza.

  Vandalism.

  “Okay. Thank you.” He punched the end button on the phone and looked at Clark and Cyndi, who both stared at him as if waiting for him to set things right.

  “The police are on their way,” Mike said. “I’ll stay here to meet them. You two go secure the doors at Home Fires and make sure any potential witnesses stay put.”

  Numbness blanketed Cyndi, not just her fingers and toes but her mind as well, as she trudged back across the field. By the time she got the soup kitchen secured and trusted workers posted at the exits, the edges of Cyndi’s numbness had frayed away. Hot anger rose to the surface, but she pushed it down. She’d need to be calm to speak with police and to face all the work to be done tonight.

  Tromping back toward the tent city and the flashing lights of three police cars, Cyndi started ticking through her list of who had a grudge against her and Tent City Three.

  Tent City residents? She quickly discounted this possibility. Why would anyone who benefited from the temporary housing want to destroy it?

  Spencer Ridley? It wouldn’t surprise her. He’d been so hostile toward the soup kitchen yet strangely silent about the tent city.

  Zach? He had confessed to some acts of vandalism. Wasn’t it arson? But he loved the kitchen and the tent project. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt it.

  Joe? The name came unbidden to her mind. Joe was a friend. Or was he? How much did they really know about each other, anyway? One thing for sure, Joe was not happy with the tent city. His hostility ran deep. And last night—maybe that really was a threat.