The Least of These.

by Kathleen Neely

  A waitress in jeans and a black polo with Larry’s Diner embroidered on the pocket, spread two paper placemats in front of us and topped them with silverware wrapped in a napkin. Her nametag said Kimberly. “What’ll you have?”

  Pete’s booming voice echoed through the diner. “I’d be right grateful for some of that there coffee.” He pointed toward the coffeepot behind the counter. “Then a big old burger and fries.”

  The pancakes still sat heavily in my stomach, but I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich.

  Pete and I sat over a $3.80 lunch for almost two hours. Each time she went past our table, Kimberly refilled our coffee cups and wiped up the coffee spill and stray cigarette ashes from the shaking of Pete’s rheumatic hands.

  “So Pete, are all of those people who were in St. John’s homeless? Or do some just come for the breakfast?”

  Pete took a drink from his coffee mug, his hand shaking as he lifted it to his mouth. “People got all kinda different places they call home, Scotty. Some might have a place of their own but need help gettin’ food now and then.”

  “How about you? You live on these streets or do you have a place somewhere?”

  “Me and D.J. mostly stick together.”

  That didn’t answer my question, but Pete followed that with a coughing spell. When he recovered, he lit another cigarette and started in on a story about the old steel mill where he once worked.

  When the lunchtime foot traffic began to pick up, Larry’s Diner filled to its meager capacity. Pete got up to leave, magnanimously slipping thirty-five cents on the table for the waitress. The haphazard cluster of bills in his hand indicated that his take from panhandling far exceeded mine. An old man must elicit more sympathy than a young man, even with a proclaimed disability.

  “I’ll catch up with you later, Scotty.”

  “Hey, Pete. Hold on a minute. Where will you be eating and sleeping later? Do you go to the place on Stanwix?” I couldn’t afford to lose this connection. When and where might I hook up with old Pete again?

  “Naw. Ain’t fer me. Me and D.J. got us a vacant building over on Liberty. A storage shed in a parking lot. Don’t think nobody checked that ol’ lock out in a year. You come on over if you can’t get you a bed at the shelter. Beats being under the bridge.” He slipped out the door and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic on the city sidewalk.

  Settling back in the booth, I accepted Kimberly’s offer of a coffee refill despite the fact that I was already over-caffeinated. With seven hours until the shelter opened its doors, I finished my coffee and set out to find Pete’s vacant building. Perhaps I could sneak a few hours of shut-eye. None of my plans for the day would happen without some sleep. Why in the world did I decide to do this?

  2

  Claire Bassett

  Gentle humming tones sounded from the baby monitor. I glanced at the screen. Drew lay on his back, playful fingers on tiny toes as he warbled at the colorful array of trains cascading from the ceiling. His patience wouldn’t last long, so my packing time was limited. Instead of going upstairs as usual, I persisted with my task, thankful for Molly and Jan’s help as I loaded my entire kitchen into cardboard boxes.

  My table groaned with the weight of stoneware plates and cast-iron pans. How had I accumulated so much in ten years? Boxes, filled and taped, were stacked near the doorway while empty ones sat on my granite countertops waiting to be packed.

  The crib springs creaked as Drew stood on shaky fourteen-month-old legs. The hushed moment came while he waited for someone to rescue him, leading to the intolerant scream as the monitor exploded with sound. I hurried to seal the box, stretching the packing tape over the seam before perforating it on the dispenser’s toothed edge. Grabbing the thick black marker, I wrote Storage—kitchen.

  Jan pried the marker from my hand. “You go take care of Drew. We can keep packing. Everything in this room goes to storage. Right?”

  My sigh was deep. Tight spasms climbed from my jaw to my temples. “Yes, nothing here will go with me to my parents’ home. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Go. We’re good here.” She placed her hands on my shoulders and turned me toward the stairs. “It’s what we came for.”

  My tired legs ached as I trudged up the stairs. What kind of person left neighbors to do their packing? I peeked around the corner. Drew was on his feet, shaking the sides of the crib, his face red from the outburst. When he saw me, he reached forward with his chubby arms.

  Sitting in the nursery rocker, I stroked gentle, circular patterns on his back until the stiffness relaxed into a softness. My shoulders softened as I inhaled the sweet smell of baby and marveled again at his soft, velvet hair. A gentle melody jingled from the mobile, orchestrated by the lazy movement of the ceiling fan. How many mornings had I sat like this? But next week, this room would belong to another boy. One too old to be rocked and stroked. The crib would become a bed, the baby toys would turn into video games, and the gentle tones of the mobile would be exchanged for the music of today’s teens.

  Twenty minutes later, with a fresh diaper and his little jacket, we went to the front porch to watch for the school bus. It would bring Isabella home from the last day in her kindergarten classroom. Molly joined me, carrying a tray with three cups of tea.

  “Jan’s finishing the last box and all the cabinets will be done.”

  We sat on the porch sipping our tea, rocking on white Adirondacks, a contrast to the pots of red geraniums hanging in increments between the posts. The mild weather allowed the blooms to outlast the typical season. Yet their curled leaves and fading blossoms revealed that they, like me, were on their way out.

  I wrapped my hands around the warm cup and looked at my neighbors. “Thanks so much. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “It’s what neighbors do. Friends help friends.”

  I took a long, slow sip of my tea, looking around at all that remained to be done. “Can one of you use these chairs? No sense in them sitting in storage if they can be used.”

  Jan glanced at Molly. “Molly, my porch is full. Can you use these?”

  “I’ll put them in my sunroom, but only to hold them for you. You’ll be back, Claire. This is a temporary move.”

  “I hope so. I really hope so.” The pulse in my throat throbbed, and I fought tears.

  “You’re doing the right thing. You’ve been trying to do this all on your own. Let your parents help you. You know they want to.”

  “I know, Jan. But it feels like I’m giving up. Giving up hope that Andrew will return. And look what I’ve done to Isabella. Three weeks into kindergarten, and I have to move her to another school, another church. As if she hasn’t been through enough. My little girl needs some stability in her life.”

  Jan set her cup on the tray and leaned closer to me, twining her fingers with mine. “You’re her stability. You didn’t know the house would rent so quickly. None of this is your fault. You can’t do any more than you’ve done. It’s a miracle you haven’t fallen apart.”

  I chuckled. “Who says I haven’t? I fall apart a little every day.”

  Molly set her cup down and leaned forward. “You’re strong, girl. You keep hanging in there. Hey, we’ve finished up the last of the packing, and we’ll get out of your way.”

  Jan stood to join her. “Call us if there is anything else we can do.”

  I got up and hugged them before they walked back to their homes, one across the street from me, and the other two doors down.

  I sat back down and watched for the school bus. It had all been decided six weeks ago. I’d pondered my options a hundred times. I had minimal workforce skills, and the cost of good daycare didn’t make it feasible to take a low-level full-time position. It would be unmanageable to remain in this neighborhood with bills mounting, savings depleted, and health insurance canceled. The house couldn’t be sold without Andrew’s signature, and that was impossible. When Dad suggested I rent the house out and stay with them, at first I resisted. Three years ago,
they had down-sized to a community with patio homes and a high population of senior citizens. I couldn’t imagine three more people in that space. And Slippery Rock? I had escaped that tiny rural community years ago. I never expected to live there again. But in the end, I could see no other logical option.

  Tension locked in my neck and shoulders. So many changes loomed in the next three days. The renters would relocate from Charlotte and planned to stay in my home for at least six months while they searched for a home of their own. My children would squeeze together in a room the size of my walk-in closet. I was forced to leave my home, friends, and church, and I remained powerless to stop it.

  How did one prepare to become a single mother? Divorce would have left some assets and child support. Death would have generated life insurance. But when your husband goes missing, you’re left with nothing but a bucket of bills and a house that’s no longer a home. If I could have foreseen my situation, I’d have never quit college without finishing. But when I dropped out to get married at twenty-one years old, Andrew was all that mattered.

  The brakes on the school bus shrieked, pulling me back from my pointless thoughts to face today’s reality. No good ever came from “what ifs.”

  Isabella bounced down the two steps from the bus at the same time that I reached the end of our walk. I always met her so she wouldn’t dart off into the street. Kids did unpredictable things, and Isabella had a mind of her own.

  ~*~

  A bright orange sunrise greeted me when I opened the slats on my bedroom blinds. The weatherman had predicted a sunny day. That didn’t seem right. Today should be gray and gloomy, a sorrowful day, a day for regrets. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I completed my mental checklist. I had packed all of the clothes except Andrew’s. They wouldn’t go to Slippery Rock but would be boxed for storage. Dad said I should donate them to charity, but I couldn’t do it.

  When I could delay no longer, I opened the closet I’d been so careful to avoid. I began with his suits, placing them in protective garment bags so they would be ready when he returned. I had no difficulty placing them into the box. Yet as I removed a handful of T-shirts and golf shirts from their hangers, hot tears clouded my eyes. This is where Andrew lived—not the office attire, but the everyday casual work-around-the-house clothes. Even through my blurred eyes I could see him in each one. I held them to my cheek, and the soft cotton absorbed the salty stream.

  A glance toward the window told me the orange sunrise had turned golden. I didn’t get my gloomy day. Was it too much to ask, God, that He mourn with me?

  The rental truck pulled up to the house, followed by my parents’ car. Picking Drew up, we jaunted down the stairs to meet them. My brothers leapt out of the truck and dashed toward the children. Bradley scooped up Isabella and spun her as she squealed in delight. Kevin hopped the gate to the porch and began to tickle Drew, his giggle so loud and genuine, it even made me smile.

  “I have coffee and doughnuts ready on the deck once the truck is loaded.”

  “So, no work, no coffee? Is that it?” Kevin teased. Five years my junior, Kevin was in his last year of college. Bradley, the oldest, was already loading the truck with boxes stacked by the door. Isabella attempted to help him by carrying items from her toy box, one by one. As she approached the driveway, I sprinted and caught her arm.

  “Isabella, no driveway! You know that.”

  “But Uncle Brad said I could help.”

  “No driveway!” I used my sharpest tone and pulled her back onto the porch, but not before I caught Bradley’s sympathetic look in her direction. He knew better than to intervene.

  It didn’t take long to load the truck. It only contained the personal items that would travel about forty-five miles north on I-79 to Slippery Rock. Most of my things would be going into storage. Professional movers would come tomorrow to take the furniture and boxes to the storage facility, courtesy of my father.

  We finished and went around back to the deck. Isabella, her hair a mop of thick, spiraled curls, had telltale signs of her jelly doughnut on her chin. “Nana, I’m coming to your house today, and Mommy is staying here.”

  My mother took a napkin to the messy chin and ruffled her hair. “Yes, sweet Bella. You’ll come to my house. We’ll have a little extra time before your mama comes up tomorrow. Won’t that be fun?”

  With hands on her hips, Isabella showed her spunky side. “Well, it will be fun if we can bake cookies.”

  With a sharp intake of breath, Mother seemed amazed, as though the idea had not occurred to her. “Great idea! We can bake cookies and have them ready for when your mama comes. Won’t that be a nice surprise?”

  “Nana! It isn’t a surprise ’cause she heard us.”

  Mother smoothed a stray curl from her eyes. “Well then, we’ll have to think up another surprise.”

  With the car loaded, Drew in his car seat, Isabella in her booster and both surrounded by a large array of toys, everyone waved as they pulled out of the driveway. The car curved around the corner out of our subdivision, and I turned to go back inside with my brothers.

  But I stopped first, gazing at my home. It had been a bright, sunny day like this when we moved the furniture in. There had been no brilliant red geraniums potted on my porch, no remnants of the marigolds and impatiens I sowed into the earth last spring. I could see the corner of the swings in the back that Andrew had set up for Isabella. It was just a house when we purchased it. We’d made it a home.

  Andrew and I once stood hand-in-hand in this exact spot, gazing at the fine brick home, its handsome rooflines, the brilliant chandelier visible through the window in the two-story entry. A finer home than I’d ever dreamed of. My accountant husband had viewed it as an investment. He’d always been a saver. Unfortunately, the balance of that savings didn’t survive his eleven-month absence.

  I had fallen in love with Andrew in college—at Pitt where we were both accounting majors. I learned two things at Pitt: I hated accounting and I loved Andrew Bassett. He finished with honors, but I quit to marry him.

  Andrew was the accountant prototype—logical, practical, dependable. He was all I ever wanted—the husband I dreamed of. He could give me a home and a family I could nurture.

  What was the old saying? Man plans and God laughs. Where was my logical, practical, dependable husband now?

  Someone touched my shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze, pulling me back from my pointless thoughts. I hadn’t seen Bradley step up beside me.

  “You OK?”

  I positioned a smile on my face. “Sure.”

  I reached into my pocket and retrieved the envelope I’d prepared. It had truck rental written on the front and a check inside. As I handed it to Bradley, he curled his gentle hand over mine, tucking the envelope inside. “I’ve got this, Sis.”

  ~*~

  The kids went with my parents, and my brothers had taken my things away, leaving me alone and vulnerable. I picked up a plate that had somehow escaped packing. How is it that this set of stoneware, glazed in a dusty rose pattern, had once been so important?

  The day Andrew and I completed our bridal registry, I saw the set of earthenware dishes. Nothing else would do. Andrew picked up a masculine design of brown stoneware with a tan border. I’d scrunched my face in distaste and he’d laughed. We added the rose pattern to our registry. I found the perfect placemats to match, complete with linen napkins and rose napkin holders. I’d set a flawless table.

  I enfolded the loose plate in a remnant of bubble wrap and placed it in a box with mismatched, haphazard pieces, hoping someday to reunite it with the rest of the set. I went upstairs, pulled back the bedspread on one side of my king-sized bed, and sat down. In a few weeks, it would be Isabella’s sixth birthday. How would it be possible for me to celebrate? Bella’s birthday marked a year since my nightmare began. But for her sake, I’d put on my smile, hand her colorful packages with pink ribbons, and pretend I wasn’t falling apart.

  With experienced movements, I reached into
the nightstand drawer and pulled out the wedding picture I couldn’t bear to be without. As I did every night, I touched a gentle finger to the cold glass that covered my husband’s face and wished him a good night. I said a prayer for his safety and placed it on the spot where he had once lain beside me. Reaching for the pillow where his scent had long since been laundered away, I held him close to my heart. I couldn’t hate him. Even after all this time. I thought of all of the things he missed—Drew’s first steps, Isabella’s first day of school, Maxwell’s death when he’d curled up in his dog bed and died of a broken heart. If not for the children, I might have done the same.

  I slid from the bed to kneel beside it, holding fast to his pillow, feeling tiny and insignificant.

  “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” Tears threatened, but I held them at bay. “Forgive me, Lord. I know You’re my strength in weakness, but right now, I can’t feel Your strength. Help me to understand how You’re working in my life. I can’t see it, Lord.”

  I gave in to the tears that would saturate this pillow case for the last time before it joined my other belongings in a storage shed.

  3

  Scott Harrington

  Pittsburgh, once a main trading post for those en route to the West, had developed into a striking city. Despite my fatigue, I enjoyed walking through the park at the point of three rivers, where the Monongahela and the Allegheny met to form the Ohio. My eyes drank in the majestic fountain, complimented by a backdrop of impressive skyscrapers with the US Steel Tower standing tall over all the others.

  As I made my way toward Liberty Avenue to find Pete’s vacant shed, it struck me that, as impressive as the city appeared from a distance, walkers saw all the flaws. Trash littered the sidewalks despite the abundance of receptacles. Grime from the port authority buses blackened many surfaces, and a pungent smell of exhaust permeated the air.