Home Fires Page 9

  The woman definitely saw him now. Instead of turning away from him, she walked straight toward him. She fished in her green leather clutch for something, maybe some coins to toss his way? But she was getting too close, closer than pretty women ever dare to get. Joe’s eyes were at her knee level as she approached. She looked down at him.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Sir? When was the last time anyone had called him sir? He squinted from shadow into sun, tried to make out her face.

  She stepped down to his level and into the shadow.

  “Yes?” His voice came out like a frog’s, like he was nervous. Which, truth be told, he was. After all, when was the last time a young thing like this had approached him? Decades. A lifetime. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Can I help you?” That was a little better.

  She held out her hand. Between her index and middle fingers was a card, a business card. He looked at it up close, then held it at arm’s length. Darn these old eyes. He patted his chest where a shirt pocket should be and muttered, “I seem to have misplaced my glasses.” He finished the sentence in his head. About fifteen years ago. She took the card back and read it to him.

  “Rebecca Whitt, reporter, News Channel 7. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “What about?” What could a news reporter want with him?

  “There’s a hearing today about whether a mall owner has the right to run a soup kitchen out of one of her store spaces. Have you heard of it?”

  “No. Can’t say that I have.”

  The reporter, Rebecca, pulled a newspaper out of a satchel and pointed to a picture and article on the front page. He couldn’t read the article—the print was too small—but the headline read loud and clear.

  HOME FIRES SNUFFED OUT?

  “Hmph,” Joe said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rebecca pointed to a picture. There was a suburban mall in the background and a woman in the foreground. “This is the place,” she said. “Cyndi Finch started up a soup kitchen there in the winter, and the neighborhood is upset about it. They say the homeless are dragging down property values, killing businesses, and raising the crime rate. What do you have to say about that?”

  There was something vaguely familiar about the woman in the photo. Joe squinted to try to bring it into focus, but his old eyes just didn’t have that much focus left in them. “What do I have to say? Well, I reckon it depends on the neighborhood. And it depends on the homeless people. We’re not all cut from the same cloth, you know. Every one of us has a story of how we got the way we are.”

  “And what’s your story?” Rebecca asked.

  He should have seen that one coming.

  “My story’s my story, and I choose to keep it that way.”

  “Right, then,” she said. “I’ll stay away from personal questions, and you’ll let me interview you?” She flashed him a smile and waved to a man who was headed their direction at street level. The cameraman.

  “Wait . . . I didn’t—”

  Rebecca didn’t let Joe finish his thought.

  “This will be perfect. If you’ll just a turn a little, we can frame you with the statue of Justice behind you. Can we get him miked up? Super.”

  The cameraman moved in and started messing with Joe’s shirt.

  Joe could smell his aftershave, feel his breath. He hadn’t been this close to anyone in a long time. It felt scary but familiar, like lacing up roller skates for the first time in twenty years. Joe sat motionless, as if a wrong movement or twitch would send the man running for cover.

  Do I smell bad? My breath has got to reek. Are they disgusted by me?

  The cameraman backed away and picked up his equipment.

  “Ready?” Rebecca asked.

  Realizing she was talking to him, Joe nodded his head. “I think so.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Don’t be nervous. We won’t use everything you say. We’ll edit the good bits together later. So just relax and be yourself and don’t worry about making a mistake. All right?”

  “Um, do you have a comb I could use?” He felt silly asking. It wasn’t like a few seconds of grooming would do anything to cover up years of neglect.

  Was that horror on her face? Of course she wouldn’t want to share a comb with him. She’d have to burn it afterward. No telling what kinds of critters might be dwelling in his hair and beard. He suspected that the persistent itching was not just from dandruff.

  “Actually, sir, you look fine just the way you are.” Ah. She chose him because he looked scruffy. That’s the look she was going for.

  “And . . . action.”

  Rebecca stood on the landing above him, the camera pointed at her. Joe watched her in the monitor in front of him but heard her voice from behind.

  “Good morning. I’m Rebecca Whitt. This morning I’m standing on the steps of the county courthouse where, today, an important hearing will take place. It is the case of Ridley v. Riverton Plaza. In this groundbreaking lawsuit, the sitting justice, Judge Edith Ferndale, will be asked to decide whether a property owner has the right to feed the homeless if it affects the incomes of surrounding businesses.”

  Judge Ferndale. Interesting. It would be intriguing to see how she handled this case. She had the reputation of being pro individual rights. As an attorney, before she took the bench, she was known for prosecuting anyone who stepped on free enterprise.

  “This case may indeed test the limits of faith-based initiatives. But, on a more personal level, it directly affects the people who depend on soup kitchens to survive. Today, I’m talking to—” Rebecca lowered her microphone and leaned toward Joe. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Joe,” he said.

  “Joe . . . ?” She waited for his last name.

  “Just Joe.”

  She stood up straight again, smiled into the camera, and picked up where she left off. “Today, I’m talking with Joe.” She took three steps down toward the camera and Joe and sat down beside him. He wasn’t sure where to look. At her or the camera? He caught a glimpse of himself in the monitor and decided looking at her was a better idea.

  “Joe,” Rebecca started, “where do you eat most of your meals?”

  “Here and there.”

  “Do you eat at soup kitchens?”

  “From time to time.”

  “How does this case affect you?”

  “Don’t know that it does.”

  “Cut.” Rebecca flicked her hair back and looked at Joe.

  “Joe,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. An electric shock swept through him.

  “Joe,” she repeated, leaning slightly toward him as if she cared. “I need you to give me more information when I ask you a question. If you could even repeat my question within your answer, I’d appreciate it. You seem like a bright guy. Give me something I can use. Give yourself a voice.”

  Joe felt pulled. First-year law school taught you to make sure your witness didn’t divulge more information than the question asked for. He had drilled so many people in keeping their secrets. And he had lived with his own secrets for so many years. Yet he did have so much to say on the subject. And could probably articulate it better than any of the other guys out here. He smoothed his beard with his left hand and gave Rebecca a nod.

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  She removed her hand from his shoulder and said, “Let’s roll.”

  “Joe,” she said, still sitting beside him and leaning toward him as if they were old friends, as if she wanted to hear what he had to say. “What is it like being homeless?”

  Joe grunted. “Now there’s a word that’s lost its meaning. To people sitting in their fancy houses, it means being poor and down on your luck. They see pictures of people like me and feel whatever they feel—pity, disgust, helplessness. But to those of us who are out here, being homeless means we don’t have homes. No place to relax. No place to call our own. And especially, no one to welcome us in. Most of us have
lost wives or husbands, children, parents, brothers and sisters. Most of our families don’t want us anymore. That’s the hardest part of being homeless. It’s remembering the home that used to be.”

  “Where do soup kitchens fit into your life?” Rebecca asked.

  “Soup kitchens, hot meal services, NGOs that offer free food and clothing are our mainstay. Dumpster diving, I’m afraid, is not what it used to be. Panhandling is seasonal. Civic groups and church groups come and go out here. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas it’s pretty easy to find meals on the street, but when Christmas is over and the long winter comes, it gets hard to find those home-cooked meals.”

  “What about the social aspect of soup kitchens? Do you make any friends?”

  “If you hit the same place on a regular basis, sure, you get to know some folks. Some people get tighter than others, form kind of new family groups. But for the most part, folks are pretty careful about who they trust.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? I’m a loner. I’ve lost one family, don’t plan to ever lose another. It’s just me and Wolf here.” He scratched the dog’s back. “We take care of ourselves.”

  “How do you feel about the hearing that’s going on today?”

  “I never heard of it until today. From what you’ve said, it rings of a faith-based initiative taken personal. It’s an interesting idea. I can’t say how it’s going to pan out. I like the idea of putting social programs in the hands of the people who care about them. But it will take some time and several court cases for lines to be drawn and precedents to be set.”

  Rebecca gave the “cut” signal to the cameraman again. “Joe,” she said. “I’ve got to say, you don’t sound anything like what I expected. You’re too educated. I’m not sure I can use what you’ve given me. I’m not sure the public will accept that voice coming out of your face.”

  “You’re the one who wanted me to talk. If you really want to hear what I have to say, turn the camera back on. If you’re just looking for a sound bite, check the guys in front of the mission down the street. There are plenty there who will sound like your stereotypical bum.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take more footage, but I’m not promising I’ll use it, especially not with tonight’s story. Your ideas are bigger than a sound bite. I think you might just be a story in and of yourself.”

  Chapter 23

  That night, Cyndi removed her makeup in front of the bathroom mirror. She squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush.

  “He’s an idiot, a complete imbecile.” Mike’s voice reached her from the bedroom.

  She padded to the doorway in her ratty slippers, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. “U ee-ee o ar.”

  Mike sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his socks off. “I mean, I don’t think we could have come off sounding stupider if we’d hired a third grader to defend us.”

  Cyndi ducked back into the bathroom to spit, then went to sit on her side of the bed.

  “I think you’re being too hard on him,” she said, pulling the covers up under her chin. She rolled over with her back to Mike, but he didn’t take the hint. He kept on talking.

  “Today’s hearing was supposed to end in a settlement. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘We’ll walk away off the hook,’ he said. ‘I promise you we won’t go to trial,’ he said.” Mike didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “Promise! He promised. Now we’ve got all our lives sunk in this soup kitchen, half the people we know ready to walk out the door, most of our proceeds from the rent already committed just in food costs, and now we have to take it to trial?”

  “We could concede,” Cyndi mumbled under her covers. “We could quit and go back to the way life was.”

  “Concede? No way! We are not giving in. We won’t quit fighting until we win. We have to stand for right, even when it hurts.” Once Mike took something on as a personal project, he’d never quit. He clenched onto his beliefs like a pit bull. But when did he stop supporting Home Fires because Cyndi wanted him to, and start believing in it himself?

  Cyndi sat up. “That’s just what those picketers are saying. You’re fighting on their territory. Maybe it’s time to throw in the towel on this one. We can always do something else that won’t be so controversial.”

  “Like what? A car wash? I don’t think so. This soup kitchen is helping people, and I’m not giving up on it. We just need a better lawyer. That guy is an idiot.”

  “You mentioned that before. You get what you pay for, though. Maybe if we offered him his going rate, he’d put a little more spirit into the fight.”

  “You know we can’t pay that much. We were lucky to find someone to take the case pro bono.” Mike climbed into bed beside his wife.

  “It’s not lucky if he can’t get us what we want.”

  “Remind me again why we’re not using the guy Simms recommended? He seemed like a pretty competent lawyer.”

  “He’s a real estate attorney, not a trial lawyer. He doesn’t do court.” Her voice of reason sounded flat and annoying, even to herself. “The light’s still on.”

  Mike stomped across the room and hit the light switch. “Well, it’s too late now. Even if we had time to find another lawyer, we could never afford one. I’ll have Simms look at our budget again, but I think we’re spending all the mall revenues plus a little more to keep the kitchen afloat. If we hired someone else, it would be out of our own pocket.”

  He stomped back to bed and climbed in beside her. Cyndi lay in the dark next to her husband, feeling very much alone and very much like everything was her own fault.

  She’d thought feeding the hungry would make her feel better. That she’d be so busy she’d forget Madi. And the actual feeding was great, but this hassle with the Ridleys . . . It just might not be worth it.

  Chapter 24

  “So come on down for our Halloween blowout sale, where you’ll scream over the lowest prices of the season at your local Ford dealer. Deals so low, they’re scary!”

  The common room television blared while Joe and all the other men in the shelter ate their breakfast. Cold cereal again. He shouldn’t be surprised. After all, that’s what most of the men preferred. At least the crunch of the sugary puffs drowned out the noise of the TV.

  Joe stood up and stretched his back. He was getting too old to sleep on the ground. Technically, last night he wasn’t on the ground. He’d had his own foam mat on the floor of a dorm-style room. It was better than sleeping on the street, especially now that the weather had turned cold again. Still, the kinks in his back were taking longer and longer to work out each day. Maybe it was time to look for a different life.

  Loud, raucous laughter interrupted Joe’s stretch.

  “Hey, look! Joe’s on TV!”

  “Hey, Joe, it’s you!”

  All eyes in the room went to the television screen, where a pretty lady sat behind a news desk. Sure enough, that was Joe’s picture in the little frame above her right shoulder. Dang, he thought that story would have come and gone by now.

  Several of the men closest to the television set shushed the others. The common room attendant turned up the volume. The news lady’s voice rose above the din.

  “—an inside look at the problem of homelessness in our city from an intriguing man who articulates the problem in his unique way. Join us tonight at seven thirty for an exclusive special report, ‘Street Talkers.’”

  “Hey, hey!” A couple of guys thumped Joe on the back on the way past. “You’re famous!”

  Joe didn’t even pretend to be excited about being on TV. The interview was a couple of months ago. Spokesman for the down and out wasn’t exactly the kind of new life he was dreaming of. News was supposed to be instant. Why the delay? He looked back at the TV, where the news droned on. Another face appeared on-screen, a lady.

  “Hey, give me your glasses a minute,” Joe said to the guy next to him. He balanced the spectacles on the end of his nose and took a closer look. Sure enough, it was that lady,
the one who’d given him her scarf last winter outside the bookshop.

  “Be quiet up there,” Joe yelled, moving closer to the television so he could hear better. The anchor was saying something about a lawsuit between a strip mall soup kitchen and the other businesses in the mall. Some video footage flashed on the screen—protesters—and then it cut back to the woman.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” he said, surprised by a flutter of emotion just above his stomach. “She actually did something. Good for her.”

  The news anchor wrapped up the story by saying, “Whether a person has the right to serve the poor on her own property will have to be determined by the courts. And that’s just what’s going to happen, starting today.”

  The story ended and a commercial came on. Joe went back to his cereal, now soggy. He carried his bowl to the kitchen window and went to collect his belongings. It seemed he had an informal appointment at the courthouse.

  Chapter 25

  Cyndi sat back in the court-appointed defendant’s chair. Her toes ached from her grinding them into the floor.

  Mike sat on one side of her, every bit as nervous as she was. Their attorney sat on the other side, looking professional and studious with his copious notes on the table. But from Cyndi’s angle, she could see that the notes were a mishmash of random ideas. Surely this bozo would pull things together and bring some order to his arguments. Was that a page of football picks? Surely not.

  If she leaned out, Cyndi could see Allie and Spencer Ridley, the plaintiffs. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them. Cyndi turned away to snub them, but they had already done the same to her.

  A door in the paneling to the left of the judge’s seat opened about a foot. What was the seat called? The pulpit? No, the bench. A stenographer wiggled herself into a comfortable position. The bailiff called out, “This is the case of Ridley v. Riverton Plaza, Judge Edith Ferndale presiding. All rise.”