Home Fires Read online

  “Hello? Cyndi Finch.” Out of habit, she pulled the receiver away from her ear in expectation of an outraged onslaught. The man on the other end of the line had already worked himself up. “Donald Eldridge.”

  She searched her memory banks. Donald . . . he was on the finance committee at church. She couldn’t imagine what he could be angry about. “Don, good to hear from you. What can I help you with?”

  “It’s about the food pantry. I understand you’ve been taking supplies from the church to supplement your program.”

  “Yes, we have. It’s been a great help.”

  “Do you know how much that food costs?”

  Aha.

  She switched the phone to her other ear so she could doodle on a sticky note with her right hand. “No, I don’t have that figure. Not off the top of my head.”

  “It’s come to attention that you’ve siphoned off about $600 in supplies over the past few weeks.”

  Cyndi prickled at the use of the word siphoned. This was not a friendly call. “It’s been a tremendous help. The elders agreed that it was better for us to be distributing the food rather than hoarding it in a closet. Maybe you’d like to speak with one of them about their decision?”

  “We’ve worked hard to build up that supply in case we ever need it. If your bums keep up this rate, we won’t have anything left in a month or two.”

  “Mr. Eldridge. First of all, they’re not my bums. Their problems affect all of us. And secondly, if we didn’t want people to eat the food, why did we collect it?”

  Donald spluttered for a second. “For a rainy day.”

  Cyndi looked out the window at the water streaming down from the sky. It seemed that every day was a rainy day. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. “Maybe if you come down to help serve a meal or two, you’ll get a feel for what a difference we can make.”

  “I’ll be talking to the pastor about this,” he said.

  “You do that.” Cyndi punched the end button on the phone and dropped it back into its cradle. Before it even had time to settle, the phone rang again. Cyndi breathed a quick prayer for patience.

  “Oh, Mrs. Winston, how nice to hear from you.”

  The purple-haired old bat.

  “Yes, we’ve opened the hot meal service. We’ve served two meals . . . No, not every night. Just on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yes, poor people.”

  Cyndi listened to her neighbor’s concerns that a homeless man was going to jump out of the bushes and attack her if she came to volunteer.

  “Mrs. Winston,” Cyndi explained, “we have no reason to believe that any of our guests are hanging around except at mealtime. Most of them actually live in the city and are taking the light rail over here for meals. The ones who are in the neighborhood already have their favorite places to stay.”

  Mrs. Winston repeated her concerns in a higher-pitched voice. Cyndi tried to calm her fears, with no luck.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Winston,” Cyndi said, pinching the bridge of her nose and trying to rub away the headache that was forming there. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for any problems that come up, and if I feel like there’s any danger, I’ll be right on it. In the meantime, if you don’t feel comfortable helping out, then don’t. It’s not mandatory. Okay, bye now.”

  She should keep track of all the complaints that were coming in. Many of them centered on the fear that someone was going to get hurt. Some dealt with concerns that property would be damaged—litter in the grass, cigarette butts on the sidewalk, car radios stolen. They were silly concerns in Cyndi’s opinion, trivial matters in the scheme of things, but very real to the people calling.

  Her favorite, one she could laugh at, was an older volunteer who worked in the supply closet who was worried about toilet paper. How much would it take? How much would it cost? How could they keep people from stealing the excess? Should they ration it?

  “What exactly would a toilet paper rationing look like?” Cyndi had asked. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

  Cyndi opened her top desk drawer for some Advil. She lined up the little arrows on the cap and bottle and popped the top. Four pills skittered into her hand. She started to scoop two back into the jar, then reevaluated the severity of her headache and popped all four pills into her mouth. A swig of coffee washed them down. Cyndi leaned forward and rested her head on the desk.

  She closed her eyes. The vessels in her temples pulsed, pounded.

  The phone rang again.

  Chapter 19

  Zach faced Cyndi in the light rail car. He thrummed his fingers on the plastic seat next to him.

  Bored or nervous? Nervous, Cyndi thought.

  “So, what are we doing downtown?” he asked. A month ago, she never could have imagined inviting a skateboarding teen to the city with her. But he’d proved to be her most faithful volunteer. He worked most nights and came in Saturdays to help restock the pantry and clean.

  “Looking for someone,” Cyndi replied. A compulsion to find the old man who had planted the seeds of an idea to help hungry people drove her on what she knew would be a fool’s errand.

  “Someone you know?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do you have his address?”

  “No, I’m just hoping I run into him.” Cyndi changed the subject. “How’s school?”

  “It stinks.” What did she expect him to say? “It’s just like, you know, like the teachers are all out of touch with reality. I mean, who cares what the War of 1812 was about? Or the specific gravity of anything? What’s it all got to do with life?”

  “Good point. I never quite figured that out. It seems like busywork sometimes, but you really are learning.” It was the type of answer a mom would give. She changed the subject. “What do you think of Home Fires?”

  Zach’s whole demeanor changed as he answered her. “I love it. I mean, people can come in and get food and warm up. It’s cool how everyone seems to work together. It’s like we’re making a difference.”

  “That’s what I was thinking too. I wish everyone felt that way. But we’re just getting started. It’s just going to get better.” Cyndi looked out the window. “Oops. This is our stop.”

  She jumped up and raced for the sliding door, Zach just behind her. They stepped down to the cobbled walk under the Humboldt Bridge. All that was left as evidence of the morning market was some litter and the lingering smell of Ethiopian chicken stew. A man in gray shirt and pants and an orange reflecting vest pushed a broom down the sidewalk. Two Rastafarians sitting against a retaining wall hummed softly in Jamaican harmony.

  Cyndi looked around but didn’t see him. “Let’s look up top.”

  Zach followed her up a staircase that took them on top of the bridge. The yellowing afternoon light cheered the bleak street scene. A dozen or so people sat or leaned against the ledge of a mission shelter across the street. Cyndi wished she had something to offer them, but she was empty handed.

  Zach walked close behind her, hands buried deep in his front pockets.

  Cyndi looked each person in the face as she walked by, but she didn’t stop.

  “Hey, kid. Got a cigarette?” The man who asked couldn’t have been older than forty, but the gaps in his mouth where teeth should be made him look much older.

  Zach moved closer to Cyndi. He might try to look tough, but he definitely had more swagger in the suburbs than in the city.

  She kept walking, ignoring the catcalls and stares of the men sitting on the sidewalk. Mingled scents of smoke and sweat, booze and body odor assaulted her. It took her a minute to realize Zach was no longer with her. She turned around to see him, eyes wild with panic, as a group of men gathered round, fingering his belt chain and his designer jacket. He pulled back, looking for a place he could step and get free.

  Cyndi strode back toward him.

  “Settle down, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you. Go ahead, run to Mommy,” a short man growled.

  Zach broke free and moved close behind Cyndi.r />
  “Creepy,” he said, looking back to see the man and his buddies staring after him.

  “You’re okay,” Cyndi said. “Come on.”

  She strode with purpose, like she really did know where she was headed, though she didn’t. She just wanted to get out of this part of the neighborhood. She crossed the street at a crosswalk, walked around the corner, and climbed the hill toward the Cathmore Building. Under the awning of the used bookstore, she looked for any evidence of the old man and his dog.

  “He’s not here,” she said. She didn’t know where else to look.

  “Does he hang out here?” Zach asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve only seen him here once.”

  “Recently?”

  “Early December.”

  “Four months ago? He’s had plenty of time to move since then. Why are you looking for this guy?”

  “He’s the one. The one that got me thinking about starting Home Fires. I wanted to tell him that he and his dog are welcome. I think they’d like it there.”

  “Hey, Cyndi!” The voice came from behind them, across the street. Cyndi turned to see a girl, about Zach’s age. Tough, streetwise, with her biker jacket and punked-out hair. It took a second for the name to register; then Cyndi lit up with the delight of recognition.

  “Clark!” She waved her arm in the air, returning the call of the teenage girl she’d only met once, that disastrous day in the rain. I can’t believe she recognizes me.

  Clark returned the wave, with an eagerness that surprised Cyndi. It didn’t last long. She lowered her arms and stuck her hands in her pockets.

  If Cyndi had learned anything in the short time she’d been working with the homeless, it was that they guarded themselves. Don’t get involved, don’t get attached—those were key rules of the streets.

  Don’t get involved.

  That was a rule Cyndi couldn’t keep. She stood at the curb and looked for a break in traffic. Clark stood directly across from her, separated only by a line of cars. And a million miles.

  The crosswalk’s red hand turned to a white man walking. Clark bounded off the curb and across the street before Cyndi had a chance to step off the sidewalk. It looked like Clark was going to run straight into her arms, but she stopped herself a few feet short of a hug and checked her face and body for excess emotion. She forced her hands deeper in her pockets when Cyndi offered a hand in greeting. Feet planted, she took on a tough-guy stance.

  “So, you’re back,” Clark said. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. What’s it been? Three months?”

  “Four,” Cyndi returned. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Sure.” Clark looked down at her toes and scuffed her foot along the sidewalk.

  “No, really. Last time I saw you, you really got me thinking. Those two pots of soup were pretty pathetic. You thought I was only down here to do my good deed for Christmas. And maybe I was. But now I’m doing more.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what? Easter brunch?”

  “Actually, no.” Cyndi laughed. She could see how she deserved that one. “We’ve started a hot meal service. Tuesday and Thursday nights you can come for a free meal and a safe place to hang out.”

  Zach nosed into the conversation. “I thought Clark was a boy’s name. I’m Zach, by the way.”

  Clark stared at him, then looked back down at her feet. “Where’s the meal at?”

  “Riverton Plaza. It’s a mall on the main drag through Riverton, not far from the light rail stop. We’d love to have you.”

  “Riverton? I’d have to ride the train half an hour to get there. Plus it costs two bucks each way. Four bucks for a free meal doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”

  She had a point.

  “We’re doing it for our community, but I’d love if you could join us. Just once?” Cyndi pulled out her wallet and found a five. “That’s enough to get you there and back. Come give us a try. Maybe we could work something out where you can exchange help with cleanup for train fare. If you want.”

  Clark took the crisp bill between her fingers. Cyndi could almost see the hunger behind her eyes, hunger for something more than a hot meal. The choice was Clark’s. She could take the money and use it for whatever she wanted. Or she could invest it in a train ride and a possible way out.

  Cyndi promised herself not to demand anything of the girl. She’d let her come on her own terms or not at all. Same deal as she had with Zach.

  Clark crammed the bill into her pocket. She said, “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Six o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Or earlier if you want to help set up. Or take a shower. Anyway, I’m always there by three or so. I’ll be watching for you.”

  “Me, too.” Zach spoke up. Cyndi looked from him to Clark. He was dressed in all the latest names. His sneakers must have cost a couple hundred bucks. But he looked more lost than the girl.

  “I’m Clark.” She offered him the hand that she had refused Cyndi.

  “Zach.”

  “All righty, Zach. See ya.” She turned with a bounce and jogged across the street just as the flashing red hand turned solid.

  That Thursday, Mike, Cyndi, and Nance stood side by side on the kitchen side of the serving line. Mike placed a roll and pat of butter on each plate, then passed it to Cyndi, who dished up the main course and salad. Nance then took the plate and added dessert—brownies tonight. The thirty or so they used to serve had spread the word, and after only a month, they were now serving almost a hundred meals every Tuesday and Thursday.

  Nance handed a plate to the last person in line. Cyndi leaned through the opening to see if anyone else was coming.

  “Looks like we’re done,” she said, peeling off her one-size-fits-no-one latex gloves and dropping them in the trash can. She went to the hand-washing sink to rinse the powder residue from her otherwise clean hands. Mike and Nance followed her.

  “Things are going so great,” Nance said. “Way better and smoother than I thought they’d be.”

  Cyndi agreed, but not completely. “You know what’s getting me about all this? I thought we’d be digging into people’s lives by now, but we’re not connecting.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Mike said. “You’re doing a great thing. Change takes time. We’re not going to break into these people’s lives the first time we meet them. We have to give them time to know they can trust us.”

  “I think Cyndi’s right,” Nance said. “We’ve served some of them twice a week for a month, and we haven’t really gotten to know anyone. They sit at their tables; we sit at ours. Are we meeting their needs? Are they really being served?”

  “Well, I’m sure not.”

  Cyndi turned to see who had said that. Clark, the girl from the streets, stood at the window, dripping wet.

  “What happened? How are you? I mean, welcome!” Why was she so flustered talking to this girl? Maybe because she seemed more human than many of the others.

  “Nance, this is Clark, the one I’ve told you about. Mike, you remember Clark?”

  Nance waved a hello to Clark. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  Mike was more outspoken. “I saw you that day under the bridge. You’re the one who laughed at us, aren’t you?”

  Clark seemed to shrink a little at his words.

  But he continued. “Thank you so much! Without you and your reality check, we never would have thought to start something this big.”

  Clark nodded. Her arms were folded across her chest. With her hair plastered against her forehead like that, she looked younger, more vulnerable. For the first time, Cyndi realized that she was probably too young to be on her own. What was her story? What made her so tough? Why wasn’t she at home watching American Idol or hanging out at the mall right now?

  Cyndi couldn’t ask her any of those questions. Not yet. She needed to meet the physical needs first and be careful not to push too hard. If the girl was comfortable, she’d come back. It would take time.

  �
�Hungry?” Cyndi asked.

  “Starved,” said Clark. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Lasagna, garlic bread, salad, and homemade brownies. Want some?”

  “Yeah, a little of everything.” She took her full plate and looked for a place to sit. As soon as her back was turned, Cyndi spotted Zach across the room, bussing tables. She waved her arms around to get his attention. When the boy looked up, she pointed to Clark. A smile stole onto Zach’s face, and he made his way over to offer Clark a drink and a chair.

  Cyndi turned back to Mike and Nance and gave them a nod and a grin.

  “Now that’s more like it.”

  Chapter 20

  Over a month in and the protesters were still at it. Cyndi usually tried to get to Home Fires well ahead of opening time to avoid the picket line. Tonight, though, she’d had a meeting that made her late.

  A handful of protesters were already marching with their signs.

  “Safe Streets! Clean Streets!”

  Cyndi scoffed. No rise in crime, no rise in garbage on the streets that she had noticed.

  “Go Away!” read another. That was subtle.

  A few more would show up before the guests arrived, but the number of protesters had shrunk while the number of diners had increased.

  There was another protester now. Spencer Ridley walked right out of his office—in her own building—carrying a sign that said, “Not in My Backyard!”

  Oooh, she wished there was a clause in their contract that would let her kick Mr. Ridley out of her building. He was the only one of the tenants who was publicly fighting her and he was the one who stood out of the opposition crowd. He’d written some pretty nasty letters to the editor (which Mike talked her out of replying to). He’d been active on Facebook, too, she’d heard, but Mike refused to show her the ugly fight still being waged against the kitchen in cyberspace.