ITCH ROUSED FROM a restless night’s sleep. He’d driven to every hangout in town the previous night, hoping beyond hope to find his car. Stephanie rolled over to greet him, running her fingers through his tangle of blond hair. “What time’d you get finished?” she asked.
“Late . . .” he yawned, “but I found the problem. Shouldn’t give you anymore trouble–for a while, at least.”
Early-morning rays trickled through the bedroom blinds, their shafts turning his wife’s flowing tresses into soft golden threads of light. Mitch lay still, tethered to the sight, basking in the moment. “You are so beautiful.” He nuzzled his face in the shimmering strands, distracting himself from the glare of a guilty conscience. “Let’s go get you some clothes.”
“Not so fast, bud.” She wriggled close and wrapped her long, slender leg around his.
Eddie’s gym didn’t open at its usual early hour. The small army of homeless friends had spent the night taking orders from Nurse. All had reported no unusual activity.
Ritter had come from his new home under I-15 and spent most of the night on the bench in front of American Biomedical. Smitty had taken over around 4:00 a.m., and was still at his post when Nurse checked in at 7:30. She’d brought someone along with her.
“Smitty, this here’s a friend ‘a mine.” Though still swollen from sunburn, Greg was now dressed in acceptable attire. Nurse rambled on. “Fer now, least, goes by ‘Sunny’. He’s the one heard Eddie hollerin’ for help. You already know Belle.” Smitty grinned and blinked vigorously.
Today Greg noticed something different about the old woman. In contrast to her earlier behavior, she beamed with a strange confidence he couldn’t explain.“Smitty’s our resident lock-pick. Comes in handy now and again. Doesn’t say nothin’, but that don’t mean he ain’t smart.” Nurse motioned down the street. “Smitty, can you go find Cap’n? Need him to take charge keepin’ watch.”
Smitty got up from the bench and ran his hand down the brown fuzz that clung in small clumps to his heavily scarred face. His body seemed suspended in air. He blinked his eyes, considering her request, then nodded in agreement. After massaging his patchy beard one more time, he pulled his thread-bare Yankees cap down low over his gangly eyebrows, hunkered down like a freight train, stuffed one thumb under his red suspenders, and set off on his disproportionately long legs.
“Not like Eddie to open so late, is it Belle?” The old woman cocked her ear to the side, listening, then gave a nod. “Belle says she thinks he’s hurt, or maybe worse.” The old woman fluttered a finger at Greg, then motioned to the bench. “Now you sit right here in the shade and keep track a who’s comin’ and goin’. Cap’n‘ll find a replacement, if’n he comes on duty.” Nurse smacked her empty gums. “Belle and I ‘ll go’n rustle up some grub so your stomach don’t eat a hole in yer backbone.”
Greg took a seat and watched the morning unfold–totally oblivious to his own problems. Concerns that had seemed so monumental before now seemed so petty. His perspective had changed, perhaps from witnessing how his new friends were able to meet head-on the arduous task of living, and from seeing how deeply they cared for one another. Their burdens seemed heavy, yet they watched out for each other like family.
Twenty minutes later Nurse returned with a middle-aged man who wore a long-sleeve white shirt and a straw hat. A pasty layer of sun block was smeared over his nose. “Sound, here‘ll spell ya’ off, Sunny. You just as well come an’ meet Reverend Keller, seein’ I got to go there to get some grub anyways.” She took Greg by the hand and lifted him from the bench, then turned to Sound. “We’ll be back in a couple hours. Keep an eye out, hear?”
The left side of the man’s mouth drew up in an annoyed pout. “You don’t need to tell me again. I already heard it three times.”
Nurse shot him a patronizing glare and grunted through her loose lips, which seemed to rattle from the passing air.
“Okay, okay,” Sound apologized, collapsing onto the bench. “I’ll watch and keep track of anyone that comes or goes. . . . Just remember, I’ve got an appointment at 11:00.”
Greg struggled to keep up with Nurse as she scurried down Chandler Street. The open blisters on his skin scraped against his pants and shirt, a burning, stinging pain, like someone pouring sand in an open wound. “What’s the hurry . . .” he huffed, “and where’re we going?”
“Keller’s kitchen. Stops servin’ at eight.” She plowed along, paying no mind to his painful gait.
Stephanie, in stark contrast to her husband’s gloom, could be heard singing lullabies in the bathroom. Mitch stared distantly at the unopened credit application on the kitchen table. His fingers drummed at its battered surface. Where was his car? The bitter injustice of it all ate at his thoughts in the same way greedy alligators feed on a fresh carcass. Bino . . . he hated the lowlife–longed to punish him. A rat, a street-smart gambler educated by life’s hard knocks. These same traits, in fact, are what made him an even more feared opponent. And Vinnie . . . he’d gladly crush his skull. Mitch’s spiteful mind reeled in thought. At least things were starting to make a little sense, like the fact that Vinnie had made a special effort to scope out the GTO before ordering his thief to steal it.
His mind returned to the lanky gas-station chain-smoker. He’d mentioned the night before how he’d once been an honest gambler, and that his boss lent money. The likely conclusion was that Bino was stuck paying off a debt or two. Janice had in part confirmed the theory by explaining how he made it a point to ensure that the property he hawked was never hot.
The thought of two precious unborn children soon to be in his home finally squelched Mitch’s nagging desires for revenge. He stopped his finger-drumming and rested his heavy brow in his hand. It was time to tell Stephanie about the car–but not until they finished shopping. He wasn’t about to completely ruin her day, too.
“I’m ready,” Stephanie announced, coming from the bathroom. She picked up her purse and paycheck from the counter. “We need to stop at the bank.” She looked down at the application in Mitch’s hand. “Oh, that reminds me. The credit card company called just after you left last night. They approved your card. They just needed to verify your social security number and mother’s maiden name.”
An alarm went off in Mitch’s head. He hadn’t applied for a new card. “Which company was it?”
“MasterCard, I think. . . . Is everything alright?”
Managing to keep his fury in check, Mitch nodded. “Yeah,” he exhaled. “Let’s go get those clothes.”
He pulled the little Ford from the garage, climbed from the car and helped the garage door down. Then they set off.
Stephanie gazed out onto the lazy Saturday morning streets. “I’ve been thinking about names for the babies. Do you want to hear them?” She pulled the baby-name book from her purse. Names. . . Mitch tried to join her in her excitment, but it was all in vain. The only name that kept ringing in his ears was that of Vincent Domenico.
The smell of blood was no stranger to Eddie. Now, the smell of blood– his own blood–together with pain, stirred him into consciousness. He concentrated on lifting his puffy eyelids. His right arm, pinned beneath him. Every part of him was stiff and sore. He was also suffering severe cramps, much like those he’d experienced five decades earlier when his appendix exploded during the miserable third round of a division title fight. His trainer had brushed off the pain as food poisoning, and insisted that he finish the bout.
Several toes felt oddly out of place. Wiggling them proved futile, the joints seemingly fused. The shooting pains in his shattered legs were like red-hot javelins that pierced the old man’s knees, thighs, and back. Gliding a hand up his twisted spine, he found that he’d been speared by a shard of wood from the splintered landing.
When Eddie raised his left arm, he discovered that the entire right side of his body was cold and clammy, from where he’d felt the pinch before he fell. Recollection of his predicament was finally sinking in. Missing in action for going on twelve hours, he’d lay unconscious from a blow to the head and the effects of the spider venom–though minute–still ounce for ounce15 times more powerful than that of a rattlesnake’s.
The grizzled fighter labored to pry his other arm loose. His shallow breaths gave way to a nauseous wave of pressure building up in his stomach. He focused on breathing, but the nausea won out. Abilious flow inched up into his paralyzed voice box. It was futile to arrest the explosion. The warm river gushed down the front of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, joining with the puddle of blood on the concrete floor.
When the heaves and subsequent dry heaves had subsided, he struggled to lean forward, but fell back from the stabbing pain in his kidneys. Eddie let his head loll sideways. He’d never imagined his final round would end like this: dying and disfigured, trapped at the bottom of a laundry chute, knocked cold by a black widow spider.
Cracked wheat cereal and oatmeal boiled in big silver pots, a worker hustling about keeping the table filled with food, donning oven mitts, she removed one of the steaming bowls and rushed out the door. Oven-like, the only thing in the kitchen that was cold was the milk and orange juice.
At the back of an adjoining gymnasium, the round, smiling face of a short man in his early fifties could be seen sticking up between two kettles. A wide band of shiny forehead extended up and over between his ears, which were bordered by short brown hair. His scalp practically glowed from the overhead lights that reflected down on it. Several dozen men were lined up at one side of a table. Calling each by name, this jolly elf slung the thick goo into bowls using giant spoons.
Reverend Bart Keller had been a plumber until age 45. He’d inherited his father’s hair line and business at 40, but after five miserable years of managing employees, fighting unions, overseeing a fleet of vans, and calling upon hundreds of demanding contractors and homeowners, he’d sold out, kit and pipe-threaders, to one of his competitors at 50 cents on the dollar. Even so, a healthy wad of almost a million dollars would go a long ways. The very next day he’d bought the run-down church building on Stewart. He still claimed, after seven years, it was the best thing he’d ever done. He was paid half-a-million up front, most of which went to buying and fixing up the building. The balance, disbursed in tax free increments, was paid in charitable donations to the shelter over the next several years. This money, however, was now nearly exhausted.
He and his wife Renae lived in two rooms at the back of the building. They ate their meals in with their guests–his “friends” and “children,” he called them. The couple was never able to bear children of their own.
Nurse jostled Greg into line and cupped her crippled hand to her mouth to speak above the roar of vagrants. “That’s reverend ‘hind the pot,” she yelled. “Might be good if’n you had a word with him. Get whatever’s weighin’ you down off your hump.”
“What make’s you think something’s bothering me?” Greg called back over the breakfast din.
“Just a feelin’.”
“No thanks.”
“We’ll see,” she muttered under her breath.
“What?”
“Nothin’. Get somethin’ to eat.”
The end of the line slowly crept up to the large aluminum pots, where
Nurse nodded and stuck her thumb back over her shoulder. “This here’s the fella you sent the orange juice for other day. We call him Sunny.”
“Morning, Sunny . . . oatmeal or cracked wheat?”
Greg considered the options. He’d never cared for hot cereal–never even tried cracked wheat–but his stomach was caterwauling to be filled. “I’ll try the wheat.”
“Good choice; my personal favorite.” The corners of Reverend Keller’s mouth turned up, like a friendly elf, ever so slightly, exposing the dimples in his cheeks. His eyes, soft and inviting, seemed to look past Greg’s sunburned exterior, beyond the whiskers and greasy hair, into his soul. “Nothing like a bowl of God’s whole grain to start a bright new day.” The spoon dipped into what was left of the mush and returned with a heaping portion. “A little brown sugar and milk on that, you’ll think you’re in heaven.”
Following Nurse, Greg moved quickly to the low table nearby, sprinkled out a spoonful of brown sugar and picked up a paper cup of milk. He and Nurse then took seats at a table set off from the others. The last few stragglers that had wandered in behind Greg filled their bowls and found seats.
“Got enough chow for a few to have seconds if you want,” the reverend hollered.
Nurse shoved a heaping spoonful of oatmeal in her mouth and squirmed in her seat, looking out the corner of her eye. “I know, I know,” she whispered, speaking from the side of her mouth. “I seen him already.”
Greg stirred some milk into his cereal. “Who?”
“Belle’s just a worry wart, ‘s all.”
“Who’s she worried about?”
“Nothin’. Ain’t no need nobody gettin’riled up.” Nurse’s eyes followed a man who was making his way toward the chow line. The guy was your regular tramp, except he wore some nice designer slacks and an expensive–though dingy–shirt. On his feet were a pair of scuffed, name-brand shoes.
Greg craned his neck to see who she was staring at, then turned back to take his first bite of cereal. Stopping short of putting it in his mouth, he swivelled around, mouth agape, and cried out, “He’s wearing my clothes!”
Reverend Keller shook the last remnant of oatmeal in the fellow’s bowl, then dropped the spoon in the pan. Nurse had told the reverend how she’d found Greg, and everyone knew that this guy–fittingly, ‘Finders’was his street name–had cashed in an expensive watch at the local pawn shop.
Greg rose from his chair and started toward the man. No contest–embroidered initials on the shirt sleeves was easily enough to condemn the clothes thief.
Sensing trouble, his short legs chugging like the little red train that could, Reverend Keller, the driving force of a steam engine behind him, rounded the table to intercede. “Sunny,” he said, extending his stout arm over Greg’s shoulder and turning him on his heels. “How’s the wheat?”
“I, I. . .” Greg stuttered as he pointed in Finders direction.
“I’ve got something you might be looking for,” the reverend said. He lifted the mush-specked apron from his spherical belly and leaned sideways to allow his hand to fit into his pocket. Easing Greg down into a chair, he extracted something and pulled up a chair of his own.
From his seat, Greg couldn’t help but give the shoes on Finder’s feet a passing glance as the man sat back down at his table. Resisting the arm that yet rested on his shoulder, he started to say, “But he’s wearing . . .”
“. . . previously owned clothes, just like you and me.” The reverend laid a finger to his lips. Greg ran his hand through his too-long hair to pull it from his eyes. He’d been two months now without a haircut, a week without a bath. Finally he looked down at what Reverend Keller had resting in his palm. A gold Rolex. Keller spoke quietly. “Tell me the inscription on the back and it’s yours.”
Greg slumped in embarrassment. It had been a birthday gift from his wife. They were still in love then, ten years ago. Crazy about each other, in fact. Linda had skimped and saved, taken on odd sewing jobs, baby sat neighbor kids and kids from their church to save enough money to buy it. Those days were difficult–and wonderful at the same time. No money, no worries. Still in college, came and went as they pleased. Long hours of work and a tiny two-room apartment and a new baby on the way–pure heaven. “To G.H., forever yours. With love, L.H.” Greg mumbled.
Reverend Keller lowered his head to catch Greg’s eye. “I didn’t quite hear that last part.”
Greg met the gaze of the man sitting next to him, looked deep into those caring brown eyes at his own shabby reflection. “To G.H., forever yours,” he repeated more loudly. “ With love, L.H.”
“I thought so.” The reverend handed over the watch.
“Thought what?”
“You know–you’ve just forgotten. . . .” Nurse peered over, bits of oatmeal at the corners of her mouth, and smiled. Greg almost smiled back.
“So, Sunny, what do you do for a living?” the reverend asked, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
“Uh, computers. . . . I was a computer software and programming executive.”
“Maybe you can return the favor. I’ve got a computer giving me trouble.”
Greg slipped the watch on over the bright red ring on his sunburned wrist. In corresponding fashion, he subconsciously twisted at the tight wedding band on his finger. It, too, had a similar inscription, though he hadn’t read it for years. The extra weight he’d put on had locked it tight–just not tight enough to keep a marriage together. “I’ll be glad to take a look,” he finally said.
“Great. Now finish your wheat before it gets cold.” He wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “See you in ten minutes.”
Nurse swept her mouth with the front of her hand and wiped it on her dress. “Told you,” she said. “Reverend’s got a gift. Says he gets help from higher up. Can look right into yer heart and see what makes ya’ tick. ‘Fore ya’know what hit ya’, you’ll be ‘fessin’up an’lightenin’‘nother’s load.” Nurse stood and gulped the last of her milk. “I’ll meet ya’ back at Eddie’s. Meantime, I best see if Smitty found Cap’n.”
The makeshift cafeteria was nearly empty now. Only Greg remained sitting; a few others chatted near the exit. All at once, a huge man, legs like pillars and a huge droopy sack of wheat for a gut, bolted from the kitchen carrying a dirty ladle. “You!” he thundered, striding up and pointing his weapon in Greg’s face. Taken aback, Greg stayed put, not daring to move. Satisfied with the frightened man’s response, the whiteaproned man, having spied the others ducking for cover, gave chase. “You and you and you,” he pointed, ordering the last three people out the door to follow him. Pointing once more at Greg, he barked, “You, start on tables.”
Greg, a panicked look on his face, looked to Reverend Keller for help. The reverend dropped his apron on the table and said, “He’ll be helping me today, Cook.”
The big man–known by all simply as “Cook”–then turned his wrathful stare on the other unlucky three. “You,” he pointed to a thin woman, “start on the tables. You,” he pointed at another wide-eyed patron, “wipe down and mop the kitchen. . . . You, you sweep the hall. . . .” With that, he turned and stomped back into the kitchen.
Reverend Keller shrugged apologetically and looked at Greg. “He’s harmless. His friendly tail’s a whole lot worse than his bark. A little intimidating, is all, until you get to know him.”
Greg glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where the big drillsergeant cook could still be heard giving orders. “If you say so.”
“He keeps up his guard to protect himself–hides his feelings. Not unlike the rest of us.” The reverend guided Greg into a side office, piled high with papers. Even with the door closed, Greg could still plainly hear Cook’s brusque voice. What kind of feelings could he be hiding? he thought.
Apparently Reverend Keller felt the need to explain what had just happened. “Cook served in Nam. All I know is not a single one of his friends came back with him.” Then he turned his attention to the misfiring PC. “That’s it,” he said, referring to a keyboard and monitor on the desk. “The only thing I still own that tries my patience. Torments me, to be more accurate. Possessed by some sort of cyber-demon. I’m afraid my own prayers and faith aren’t strong enough to fix it.”
The man’s good humor brought a smile to Greg’s lips. He flipped the switch. “I don’t know anybody that prays for their computer. You ever have anybody look at it?”
“Nope, just figured I wasn’t praying hard enough.”
Greg wagged his head. Was this guy serious? Did he really think prayers could fix it? “What does it do?”
“Dies. I’ll be right in the middle of whatever and the damn thing dies. Oops–don’t usually take to cursing. It’s just this machine, and a few of my old habits. Used to be a plumber. Nothing quite like laying under a sink full of dirty water while it drips on your face. Or messing with somebody else’s used toilet paper. Or getting your arm stuck up a toilet while trying to pull out a rubber duck. I worked in sewer water, see? Couldn’t help but get a little on me now and then. The cursing was a daily thing–an outward manifestation of my inner frustrations, being stuck in my fathers business, and all. The worst part was that my dad died before I realized why we didn’t get along as good as we should have. Even sadder, after he died and I told my mother, she told me he only kept the business for me. That really took the cake. . . . How about you? Have a family?”
Greg nodded as he typed in his first command. “Two children, a boy and a girl. My son, Devin, is 10; Larine’s eight.”
“See them often?”
“It’s been over three weeks.”
“I’ll bet you miss them.”
Greg swallowed hard and typed in several more commands. “It’s my own fault.”
“I know what you mean. I sometimes wonder if I should’ve had someone come and take a look at this computer sooner. . . .” The reverend’s broad smile narrowed. “Your wife?”
“Linda. . . she filed for divorce more than a month ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. . . . You know, I’ll bet if I’d had had some help on this blasted machine when it first started giving me problems, it wouldn’t have driven me to swearing.”
Greg scanned through the various startup commands, bios and autoexec.bat files, wondering where the strange conversation was going. “ I don’t see anything wrong. When does it usually give you trouble?”
“Sometimes it just didn’t respond when I moved the mouse.” He leaned across the desk and gave the mouse a shake. “The first time I noticed a real problem was when I was writing a love note to my wife. I had it half finished and got sidetracked. When I came back, the machine was frozen up. I never did get back to finishing my note.”
Greg rifled through the computer’s sleep program, its temp files, the recycle bin, and every other place he could think to look. “It could be in the hard drive. I just can’t see anything wrong.”
“Maybe if you open up the word processor and type awhile. That’s when it usually gives me grief. I’ll go help with the dishes.” Reverend Keller pulled away from the desk and left the office.
Taking the suggestion to heart, Greg opened the program and, out of habit, typed in a simple nursery rhyme he‘d written. As a programmer, he’d used it many times over as test text.
My little Devin came down from heaven.
An angel child from God.
To fill my heart, make joy in part . . .
He paused. He couldn’t recall the rest of the rhyme. Rolling to the side, he peered out the office door. The reverend was still in the kitchen. He leaned back in the chair and snapped the watch from his wrist to read the inscription on the back. He ran his thumb over the indented letters, words once so lovingly etched that now had given way to mistrust and malice. The cloudy reflection staring back was no longer the same man those tender words had been meant for.
Shaking his head in despair, Greg lay the watch on the table, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and began to type.
My dearest Linda,
It’s the silliest thing. I’m sitting at a reverend’s office desk at a soup kitchen for the homeless. After somehow returning to me the stolen watch you gave me years ago, the reverend asked me if I could find out what is wrong with his computer. You will probably never see this letter, nor will anyone else, but he says the machine only gives him trouble when he’s typing. Therefore, I type.
A breath of air slowly escaped Greg’s lips. He’d never apologized to her, not the way he should have. The pain she’d bottled up had slipped from her lips in the form of angry words–deserved reproof for his deception.
Oh, Linda, I was a fool. My selfishness and stupidity cost me everything I own, nearly including my life, which I would gladly give to have you back.
Greg daubed at his eyes and leaned to see if anyone was watching before continuing his heartfelt missive.
If I could have the wish of my heart, I’d turn back the hands of time to the day you gave me this beautiful watch. I’d start anew, loving you, being sensitive to your needs, guarding your tender feelings, never allowing the ugly sands of deceit to filter into the hourglass of your heart, living our lives to the fullest.
I’d return to a time when poverty brought us together, when the car we drove was only a means of transportation rather than a symbol of my achievements. My most treasured possessions are and always have been you and our family, not things. But I let them get in the way . . .
“So, did you find the problem, or do I need to pray harder than ever?”
Greg recoiled at the sound of the reverend’s voice. He’d been too caught up in thought.
Embarrassed by the private words lit up on the screen, he ran the cursor up, hit delete, and wiped at his cheek. Reverend Keller could read between the lines of human emotion; his years in the ministry had taught him well to read people, and their feelings. The man sitting at his desk was hurting. He turned his back and gently eased the door shut. When the few critical seconds had passed in silence, he spoke. “I’ve met a lot of people that live on the street. They come here to get a decent meal. Most have no other place to go. . . . Sunny, when you’re ready to talk, I’m here to listen.”
Greg pushed back, stood, and scooted the chair back under the desk. He motioned to the humming computer. “There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
The reverend shook his head. “But if there was, I’d need help to fix it. Hope, prayers, wishing, they wouldn’t be enough.”