Home Fires Page 8

  They were in the Northwest, for crying out loud. Go downtown any day and you’d meet a bunch of people protesting something—furs, taxes, social injustice. Just, most of those people weren’t protesting her. It was a new experience, and one she didn’t like. At all.

  She walked past the line. The protesters didn’t stop her, but she heard one of them, probably Spencer, mutter, “She’s the problem.”

  Oh, that man! She turned around to scream at him but stopped herself. Directly behind him, camera trained on Cyndi, was the news crew. She hadn’t seen them. How had she missed them before? She turned back around and hurried inside.

  “I am so sick of those stupid protesters.” She stomped into the dining room and went straight for the window. Peering out through the blinds, she got a good view of the protesters. The news van was parked on the main street, not in the parking lot. That’s how she’d missed it. “Why can’t they just give up and go away? Can’t they see that we’re not going to give up feeding people just because they’re marching around out there? Looks like they’re going to be on the news again tonight.”

  “How many are there this time?” Mike stood beside her and peeked through a higher slat.

  “Just the diehards. I’m surprised they keep coming.” Cyndi let her blind slats flap together.

  Mike took one last peek at the protesters. “Hello, what’s this?”

  “What?” Cyndi turned back to the window. She peeked through the blinds again. “Oh, that. Yeah, the news is back.”

  A couple of others headed to the window.

  “Look,” he said and pulled the blinds open so everyone could get a view.

  “Sweet,” said Zach. “We’re gonna be on TV?”

  “Not us,” Cyndi said. “Them. I can just hear it. They’ll tell all about the poor families that live in their perfect McMansions in their perfect little neighborhood. They’ll slant it to sound like we’re totally dragging down property values, trashing business revenues, like we love crime and want all the bad guys to camp out in our parking lot.”

  “Don’t you?” Zach asked.

  “Don’t we what? Love crime?”

  “No, criminals. And you do let bad guys hang out in your parking lot. You let me.”

  Cyndi resisted the urge to ruffle Zach’s hair. He got it. Of all people, this punk kid skater actually got it.

  Someone said, “Turn on the TV. Let’s see what they’re saying.”

  Chip turned on the set above the electric fireplace.

  There was that reporter, Rebecca Whitt, with the accountant. “I’m speaking with Spencer Ridley of Riverton. Mr. Ridley has been protesting in front of Riverton Plaza twice a week since the Home Fires soup kitchen opened in February. Mr. Ridley, why is this cause so important to you?”

  “Rebecca,” he said. “I have worked my whole life to be able to afford a nice home in a safe neighborhood. I’ve built a business and a lifestyle. I moved my family here to give my son better school opportunities. I should have the right to enjoy it.” He smiled at the camera.

  He was a charmer. Cyndi hated charmers.

  “What about this soup kitchen threatens you?”

  “On a personal note, our business is right next door to the soup kitchen. Just as business was starting to get off the ground, the, shall I say, undesirables started hanging out. But this isn’t just about us. On a broader scale, Riverton is an affluent community. We simply don’t have to deal with many of the crimes that happen in the city. Why invite them in?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as drug trafficking on the streets, random acts of violence, auto theft, to name a few.”

  “And in the time since Home Fires has been open, have you seen an increase in these crimes?”

  The picketers continued to chant in the background, but Spencer focused on the reporter and her camera. “I don’t have the statistics on that, but there are other crimes, too—litter, loitering—”

  “And those? Have they worsened? Have you actually seen a decrease in revenue at your business, or is it just a perceived drop?”

  Cyndi cheered the reporter. Those were the kinds of questions to ask.

  Someone tapped on the front door. She started to tell whoever just came in to wait a few more minutes. Guests were supposed to wait outside along the sidewalk that ran down the end of the building so they wouldn’t be in front of any of the other doors in the mall.

  But it wasn’t a guest—it was Clark. Last time she’d come with a smile and an eager attitude, but tonight she wore a scowl. Cyndi didn’t miss the fact Zach practically skipped over to say hi.

  “What’s wrong?” Zach stopped short of the hug he was probably hoping for.

  Even though Cyndi could see Clark was upset, she hung back. She would let Zach try to handle whatever the problem was. Too many people in Clark’s face would shut her down.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Come on. It’s not nothing. What’s going on?”

  Clark shuffled her feet. “That group out there is pretty pushy. They were trying to keep me from getting to the door.”

  “Yeah, we’re watching them on TV. Did you tell Mike?”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m hungry. Can I eat?”

  Zach shook his head. “Just talk to him for a sec, and then we’ll get our food.” He reached for Clark’s hand, but she jerked it away. “He’s watching the news,” Zach said.

  Clark stepped out in front of him and started toward Mike. After a couple of steps, she turned around and talked to Zach. “You coming?”

  He bounded after her like a puppy just learning to stay.

  Cyndi followed them.

  The lady on the news was showing some chart about crime rates in Riverton.

  “Hey, Mike,” Zach said. “Those jerks outside gave Clark a bad time tonight.”

  Mike looked at her. “Did they hurt you?”

  If they did, so help her—

  “I’m okay,” Clark said. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re bleeding,” Zach said.

  Cyndi hadn’t noticed before, but Clark’s jeans were torn. Blood seeped in at the edges of the tear. Cyndi’s mothering skills, long dormant, kicked in. “Zach, go get the first aid kit. Clark, sit down here. Mike, you call the police.”

  “No!” Clark practically screamed it. “Please don’t. Please. Just let it go. It’s no big deal.”

  “They hurt you. It’s a big deal. They crossed the line.”

  “Just don’t call the cops. Please?”

  Cyndi hadn’t seen this side of Clark. Her tough exterior was torn away, leaving her small and afraid. Maybe she was wanted for something. Cyndi didn’t want to believe it, but the girl lived on the streets, for goodness’ sake.

  “Please?” Clark’s eyes shone with unmasked fear.

  She looked from Clark to Mike and back to Clark. The girl was desperate. Much as she wanted to call for help, Cyndi didn’t have the heart to do the one thing Clark was begging her not to do. “All right. No police. But I can’t just let this go. I’ve got to stop them before anyone else gets hurt. Mike, are you coming with me, or are you staying to patch up that cut?”

  “I’ll stay.”

  Cyndi turned to Clark. “I’m gonna go talk to them. Did they get you on camera?”

  Clark shook her head. “No.”

  Cyndi stormed across the room and pushed through the door. “Well, they’ll get an eyeful of me.”

  Chapter 21

  Cyndi ran full speed out the door and toward the TV camera. She pulled to a stop between the reporter and Spencer Ridley. She knew she looked like a madwoman, but she didn’t care. “What do you think you’re doing?” she practically screamed at Spencer.

  The reporter opened and closed her mouth a couple of times like a gaping fish, but no sound came out.

  “You have no right! How dare you!”

  “We have every right to be here,” Spencer returned, careful to keep his voice steady. Calm for the cameras, but pushing down kids the rest
of the time? “It’s a free country, and I’m exercising my right to freedom of speech and expression.”

  “I don’t care what you think and what you say!” Cyndi knew her face was red, her temples bulging. “You have no right to push innocent people around! I’ve got a young lady in there who’s bleeding. If you’re all just exercising your right to free speech, how did she get hurt?”

  Rebecca had regained her composure. She thrust her microphone toward Spencer.

  “How did she get hurt?” Her voice had lost any softness. She spoke with the edge of a hardened newsman.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t touch her, and I’m sure none of my group did either. We’re about stopping crime, not encouraging it.”

  Cyndi shrieked, “Well, you’ve done a fine job of it! Stay away from my guests!”

  Rebecca said, “This is Cyndi Finch, who owns this strip mall and is in charge of the soup kitchen.”

  Cyndi clammed up. She drew away from Spencer and lowered her voice.

  Someone laid a calming hand on her shoulder.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m asking you to let us help these people,” Cyndi said. She enunciated each syllable, holding the things she really wanted to say just behind her bared teeth. “I’m asking you to let us do some good. One of our homeless teens was hurt by one of your protesters.”

  “Says you,” Spencer shot back. “I’m a business owner and a citizen of this town. I have rights and you are stepping on them.” Spencer leveled his gaze at her.

  “What part of ‘She’s hurt’ are you not understanding?”

  “What part of ‘We didn’t do it’ do you not understand?”

  “You need to back down!” She could hear the shrillness of her request, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  Spencer started directly at her. “We don’t need to do anything except stand up for ourselves. I didn’t want it to get this far, but you leave me no choice. We will see you in court.”

  Cyndi didn’t know what to say. She glared back at Spencer, trying to think of a brilliant comeback, but she was blank.

  Spencer’s words hung in the air. He’d thrown down the gauntlet.

  Well, fine. If they wanted a real fight, they were going to get one.

  The reporter drew the microphone close to her own mouth. “And that, folks, is the news on the street. Live from Riverton, this is Rebecca Whitt. News Channel 7.”

  Mike escorted Cyndi back to Home Fires while the news crew was still packing up their gear. He didn’t say anything, but she could hear his thoughts—What have you done? What did you think you could accomplish? How is getting us dragged into court going to help anyone?

  When Cyndi finally talked, she asked, “How’s Clark?”

  “Shaken, but fine.”

  “The reporter is going to want to talk to her, take her picture. Maybe we should let them. It would show our side.”

  He pulled open the front door. “Maybe that should be her choice.”

  “Maybe.”

  If she thought Clark overreacted to their suggestion they call the police, it was nothing compared to the suggestion she might want to talk to a reporter.

  Nope. No way. No how. Not going to happen.

  So, that was that.

  “Wow,” Zach said once everything had settled down. “I didn’t know you could run that fast.”

  “Me neither . . . but that man. He and his wife are doing everything they can to run us out. I can’t let that happen.”

  “Right on,” Zach said, but with less than his normal enthusiasm.

  That night, the late edition of the local news showed the story again, edited this time to show Cyndi running at the camera over and over.

  “What were you thinking?” Mike asked.

  Cyndi shook her head. “For once, I wasn’t. I was just acting on what I thought. They hurt Clark; I hurt them.”

  Cyndi watched herself on TV, larger than life, screaming in the face of that horrible man. Only on TV, it looked like he was sane and she was wacko.

  As soon as the story ended, Mike clicked the TV off. “You can’t do that again.”

  Cyndi took a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He pressed his mouth closed. “I don’t think sorry is enough. I think he was serious about taking us to court.”

  Cyndi stared at the black screen. If they did sue, she’d fight as hard as she had to to keep Home Fires open.

  She was on pins and needles the next day, waiting for someone to drop by with a subpoena. Was that even the right word to say when you were being sued? Or was that just for when you were being called to testify in court?

  “Do you think they’ll really do it?” she asked Mike.

  “I don’t know, babe. Do you want to go talk to them and see if we can preempt a lawsuit?”

  She’d watched the recording of the news over and over. She’d played the scene in her head a hundred times. There was nothing she could do to stop those people from doing whatever they very well chose. “If we go talk to them, all that will happen is I’ll start screaming my head off again. I can’t stop myself. They make me crazy.”

  “Me, too, hon.” He kissed the top of her head and went back to rolling silverware in napkins.

  “What do you think?” she asked Amanda Stern.

  The older lady said, “I bet they’re all bluff. Protesting is one thing, but to hire a lawyer? They’d have to have proof their business has decreased. We’ve looked at our books, and at least for our store, there hasn’t been any change in revenue. You’ve done a good job of making sure everything stays clean and the parking lot is still for customer use.”

  At least she had the Sterns on her side.

  She wandered over to Zach, who was hanging out on the couch, thumbing through stuff on his phone. “Hey, buddy.”

  He tipped his head toward her.

  She plopped down next to him. “Do you think they’ll sue?”

  He sat upright. “Huh?”

  “Those people, the Ridleys. They said they’re going to sue. Do you think they really will?”

  Zach looked down at his phone screen. It was off. “I don’t—I’ve—um—What time is it?”

  “Maybe about five. Why?”

  “I-I gotta go.” Before she could react, he was gone. That was weird.

  She paced some more and worried some more and bugged everyone for their opinions. She didn’t have to wait or speculate too long, though. By the end of the night, she had the papers in hand.

  She had been served—served was the word she was looking for.

  “It’s in our court now,” Mike said while they were lying in bed together. “Do we settle or do we go to court?”

  Cyndi snuggled in next to him. “Oh, we’re not settling. If they want a fight, I’m giving them a fight.”

  Chapter 22

  Joe pushed his shopping cart full of ragged coats across the red cobbled bricks of the public park. Much as he hated the cold winters on the streets, he hated the summer even more. After all, in the winter, he could keep bundling on more coats and clothes or snuggle up with his personal heating pad, Wolf. But during the rare Northwest heat wave, like today, there was only so much you could take off.

  Wolf trotted behind him, his tongue drooping out the side of his mouth. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, and the poor dog was already roasting. Joe leaned into the shopping cart and forced it to turn uphill. He had planned to spend the day at the city library. Its air conditioning beckoned him. But if he was inside all day, Wolf would have to be tied up in the sun, so he headed for the courthouse instead. The fountain there would give Wolf plenty of water.

  The gray stones of the government building’s facade glowed white in the hot morning sun. A set of stairs as wide as the face of the formidable building poured out to the sidewalk. Twenty-seven steps, three flights of nine. Joe had climbed them a million times. But that was a lifetime ago. He found a spot near the bottom where the railing cast a shadow. It was close enough to the fountain that Wolf
could get up and take a drink whenever he needed to. In lean times, Joe had waded in this very fountain, and many others, to collect coins off the bottom. The twinge of guilt he felt when scooping up wish pennies melted away with the ice in the bottom of the slushie cup he purchased with discarded coins. He didn’t understand how people could have so little regard for money that they’d throw it away on a wish, but he was thankful they helped fund his special projects.

  Hard to believe he had done the same thing before. A very, very long time ago.

  Tidy people in crisp white business shirts and dry-cleaned suits made their way up the courthouse steps. Joe watched the men climb two stairs at a time and the women in heels clip past him like eager horses. You could tell the ones who worked here. Self-important, deluded egotists. Lawyers and judges, clerks and stenographers all fooled into thinking they could change the world. Or get rich trying.

  Others walked with less confidence. They were the defendants, the witnesses, the litigants. Joe could spot one a mile away. They were the ones who actually looked up at the building before climbing the steps. Sometimes, he could see one of them draw a deep breath. Also in suits and dresses, these strangers to the world of law looked uncomfortable, as if their clothing wore them.

  One woman climbed the first set of steps and stopped on the landing. She didn’t belong with the others. She oozed confidence, but she didn’t have the steely glare of a young lawyer. There was something striking about her. Beautiful, even. She was made up to perfection. Her blonde hair didn’t give away any secrets, though her tweezed black eyebrows suggested the blonde was purchased. But it wasn’t just her beauty. There was something about her . . .

  She looked up at the courthouse, then down at the street. She paced across to the other end of the landing, looked around, and walked back toward Joe without seeing him.

  Joe squirmed inside. One of the most uncomfortable things about being homeless was how people looked at him . . . or didn’t look at him. Most people averted their eyes and pretended not to see him. He didn’t blame them. If you’re trying to live in Utopia, the sight of a street bum is a shocking reminder that the whole world has not arrived.