I donned my scrubby clothes, retrieved my backpack, and hopped on a bus into town. I’d get to the parking lot shed early and have Pete and D.J. talking before alcohol stole Pete’s consciousness.
~*~
Once again, the lot attendant paid no attention as I went in. This time, I beat D.J. and Pete. Turning on my flashlight, I studied the dilapidated shed.
Everything lay stacked on top of other things with no semblance of order. An old file cabinet and desk served as the foundation, topped with orange traffic cones, metal chairs, and cardboard boxes wrinkled from the dampness. Bags of road salt appeared to be the only things that didn’t belong in a dumpster. I now expected the scurrying of little feet near the back of the shed.
I retrieved my silenced phone from the zippered compartment of my backpack and snapped pictures, making sure I included Pete’s sleeping mat and D.J.’s cardboard. I had my phone hidden before I heard them arrive.
“Well, lookie here. We got us an early visitor. Ain’t seen you for a few days.”
“Hey, Pete. Yeah, I moved around a little bit. How you doing, D.J.?”
“Me and D.J., we’ve been doin’ the same. Ain’t we Deej?” Pete answered for him.
D.J. nodded without speaking. So much for getting him talking.
Pete eased himself down to his mat, holding tight to the bottle gripped in his hand. D.J. watched Pete, waiting for him to be down and settled before he moved to spread out his own things.
Pete sat on his mat with his back leaning against an oversized box, took a long drink, and let out a contented sigh.
“So, Pete, you said you grew up in Johnstown, PA. How’d you end up in Pittsburgh?”
“The Burgh,” he said it with fondness. “Moved here before the war. That’s where all the jobs was.”
With a deep swig from his bottle, he held it out to share with me. I waved it away, and asked, “What job brought you here?”
A little chortle. “Well, truth be told, it was prob’ly more a lady than a job. But in them days, you needed a job to make the lady pay you any mind.”
Keep him talking. “Yeah, I think most ladies like to see a paycheck these days, too. Who was the lady?”
His eyes sparkled with the memory. “Miss Jewel. Miss Jewel Weston,” he whispered it like a prayer, shifted his eyes to the bottle, and took a long, slow drink.
D.J. glared at me.
“Did you get the girl? Marry her?” Jewel Weston. There had to be some info on her out there.
“Yep. We done got married a’for I headed out to Nam.”
“What’s your game here?” D.J. stepped into the conversation. I’d wanted to get him talking, and now he was. He sat straight up, his eyes drilling me.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I asked. What’s your game? What’re you doing here probing and questioning? You a cop? A reporter?”
“Hey, I’m here passing the time. I enjoy hearing about people.” I turned his question back to him. “What’s your game, D.J.? You’re not the same as them. You always live here in the ‘burgh?”
“Pass the time on someone else, and leave Pete be. He’s more fragile than you think.”
I glanced at Pete to see his reaction, but he had disappeared into the bottle.
I sat quiet for a moment. “Thanks for watching out for him. You’re a good friend.”
“Just leave him be.” With that, D.J. aimed his flashlight at his Bible and read.
Pete finished the bottle and soon passed out. Then I lay down, remembering Edwin when we were still young and best friends. Friends take care of each other. Only, I didn’t take care of him.
Sometime later, when I began to drift off, strange, raspy breaths brought me back again.
D.J. jumped up and began shaking Pete. “Pete! You OK? Sit up.”
He propped him into a sitting position, but Pete fought for air. He wheezed as he attempted to fill his lungs, eyes growing wide with panic.
He turned toward me. “Get the attendant. Have somebody call 9-1-1.”
I stood up to yell for someone outside, but the lot had emptied, no sign of anyone in the darkness of night.
I did the quickest thing I could—grabbed my silenced cell phone from the bottom of my backpack, dialed 9-1-1, and gave them our location. Even in his state of anxiety, D.J. shot me a knowing look.
Emergency services are efficient in the city, and an ambulance blared its way into the parking lot in minutes. We waited with the door opened. Pete’s pasty, gray pallor made his expressionless eyes appear huge. The paramedics started oxygen and loaded him into the ambulance. D.J. climbed in with him.
“Which hospital? I’ll meet you there.”
“Allegheny General.” And they sped off, leaving me alone in the parking lot. I didn’t look forward to the walk across town and over the bridge in the middle of the night, but buses wouldn’t be running. I took a last gaze around to make sure no live ashes from Pete’s last cigarette remained. I spotted D.J.’s discarded Bible and his backpack. I would take them to him, along with Pete’s grocery bag and panhandling signs.
As I opened the backpack to drop the Bible inside, I saw a wallet. Why does a poor man who won’t panhandle need a wallet? I couldn’t resist looking inside. It was empty of any money, not a dollar, not a coin. But it held a driver’s license with the name Andrew Bassett.
His photo ID showed a cleaned up and younger version of the man, the date two years earlier. That would make him thirty-nine, about six years older than me.
A business card behind the driver’s license said Chaulders and Associates, Andrew Bassett, Senior Accounting Manager. Accounting?
“I play the numbers,” he told me. Is this what he meant? Or did he gamble? Embezzle? What would bring him down this low?
As I returned the wallet to the backpack, I spotted an envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and the flap showed the wear and tear of frequent use. There were pictures inside. A newborn baby with a blue blanket and knitted hat. A little girl with a mass of spiral curls and an impish smile. A professional photo of him, a lady, and the little girl. It would take something significant to make him leave this family. Or had they left him? I remembered his fixation on the little girl that passed on the city street. She also had curls. Had he been thinking of his daughter?
I took out my notebook and wrote as much as I could. I slid each picture from the envelope and read the back. The names Andrew, Claire, and Isabella were etched on the reverse of the family picture. Someone had printed Isabella Bassett on the girl’s picture and Drew James Bassett on the baby. Andrew—D.J.—Drew James.
This was my third bio. I would write the story about Andrew Bassett—D.J. But first, I’d make my way to the hospital to check on Pete.
~*~
I trekked across the Rachel Carson Bridge toward Allegheny General Hospital. Still shivering from my night walk, I passed through hospital security to enter the emergency room. D.J. sat hunched-over in the waiting area, head down and hands folded. Unsure if he was praying or deep in thought, I waited a few moments before placing my hand on his shoulder. He startled, his head jolting up.
“How’s he doing? Any word?”
He shook his head. “No. Nothing much. They told me they stabilized him, but he needs some tests.”
“Pete’ll hate that.”
D.J. offered a slight grin. “He sure will. And all without his bottle.” He ran his hands through his hair before speaking again. “I think he has emphysema, or lung cancer, or something like that. It’s getting worse.”
“Is there anyone we can call? Any family?”
D.J. was quiet for a moment, probably deciding how much to tell. “There’s a daughter. Mary Anne. I don’t know her married name. Maiden name is Simmons. Last Pete knew, she lived in Monroeville.”
I sat across from him. “Does he ever see her? Talk with her? Does she know about him?”
D.J. shook his head. “He doesn’t want her to know how he’s living. He’s convinced she wouldn’t f
orgive him for the years of alcohol. Her mother died while he binged. Department of Social Services put her in the foster system when she was fifteen. He tried to clean up so he could get her, but he couldn’t do it.”
I had learned more about Pete in these last two minutes than in all the time I spent fishing for information.
“So what are you going to do now? Oh, by the way, here’s your pack. Do you want to keep Pete’s with you?”
For all of D.J.’s mistrust of me, he didn’t question whether I looked at anything inside.
“I’ll take the backpacks. I’ll hang out here ’til morning and see what I can find out.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “What can I do?”
He assessed me for a long minute. “What exactly do you do?”
I almost told him, but we were both too weary.
“That’s a story for another day. Know this—I won’t do anything to hurt him. Or you either. Buses should start running in about a half an hour. I’ll head on out of here and be back tomorrow to see what the doctors say. Can I bring anything for you?”
“You can bring some answers.”
I reached in my wallet and pulled out a twenty.
“I don’t need that.”
“There’s no free breakfast here. Please take it.”
D.J. rubbed the weariness from his eyes, his shoulders slumped. I laid the money on the backpack that had been placed in the chair beside his.
“Tomorrow, come with some answers.”
18
Scott Harrington
Tyler always had a book in his hand. It took me a few minutes to realize what he was reading. As he turned a page, I saw pictures of the Cathedral of Learning, the gothic architecture of the University of Pittsburgh.
“Pretty remarkable architecture, isn’t it?”
He looked up from the book. “Yeah, it is.” A shadow crossed his face, and he returned to reading.
“You ever been inside the cathedral?”
He scowled. “Only in books.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down. “What’s going on, Tyler? What are you thinking?”
He closed the book and looked up. “Sorry. Just daydreaming. College was never an option for me. I need some kind of trajectory in my life. Something beyond living day to day.”
“There’s nothing wrong with daydreaming. Everyone needs to have goals, something to reach for. Have you thought about yours? What would you like to see happen in your life?”
He sat pensively, slow to answer. “It’s funny how goals are rooted in a person’s circumstances. My goal had been to get a job, any job that would get me back to my old rented room. At the time, it was a desperate goal. But now, staying here with you, in a nice quiet neighborhood away from the city, I feel like my goals are changing.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
He released a sarcastic laugh. “Maybe not. But nothing’s really changed from when I lived on the street. I still have no family, no job, and no possibility for college. I can’t keep imposing on you.”
“You’re not imposing, Ty. Kids your age are supposed to be dependent on someone. Here’s a little piece of advice for whatever it’s worth. You can set a goal, but unless you back it with a plan, it’s only a pipedream. Think about what you want, and let’s see if we can work out a plan.”
Tyler pulled a folded paper from his pocket and scanned it before handing it to me. I took the creased page and read it. Ty, I’m leaving to make a better life for us. I need a little time to get settled and I’ll come get you. Hang in there, buddy. Love you. Dad.
I refolded it and handed it back. “You kept this all these years?”
He shifted to return the page to his pocket. “Yeah, but I don’t know why. My mom and dad, they worried about themselves and had nothing left over for their son. Not enough money, not enough time, not enough love. The note’s just a lie in writing. I’m sure he made a better life, one that didn’t have the responsibilities of a son.”
Something about Tyler’s dad nagged at me. The pieces didn’t seem to fit. A father who took his kid fishing and to baseball games. The note saying he’d come back to get him. I couldn’t quite buy into the theory that he’d managed to forget about him.
“So let’s get back to the goal. What do you want to do with your life? Don’t think about the obstacles.”
Tyler managed a small smile. “I guess I want what you have. A small house in a nice neighborhood. A job where I can feel like I’m doing something important.”
I needed to let that sink in. Tyler wanted what I had. Yet it didn’t satisfy me. I wanted more. Another award to hang with the others. “Let’s get past this police investigation. While we’re waiting, you have plenty of time to start some inquiries. Do some checking on financial aid and scholarships. Then we’ll put plans to that goal.” I stood and pushed my chair back. “I’m headed into town to see Pete. Sorry to leave you alone.”
“No problem. I think I’ll walk down to the café and say hi to Stella. Now that’s a lady that will make a good mother someday. I need to add that to my goal. Marry someone just like Stella.”
19
Claire Bassett
We sat at Molly’s kitchen table. I could see out her French doors to where my rockers sat in her sunroom. She had placed a rose-patterned cushion on the seats and had a knitted throw over the back of one.
“Molly, why didn’t Jason go over to him? Talk or try to help? Why didn’t he bring him home?”
She leaned forward and took my hands. “Honey, Andrew’s an adult. He isn’t there because he has nowhere to go. He’s there because he needed to get away. To think things through. Don’t you think he would have been humiliated if Jason had approached him?”
My shoulders tensed and I lifted my chin. “I’m not worried about his humiliation. I’m worried about getting him home.”
Molly met my sharp tone with her calming words. “We will. And we’ll get him help.”
We were silent for a moment. I reached over to hug her. “I have to go. Thanks for keeping Drew.”
Molly walked me to the door. “Claire, go easy on yourself. It’s a big city.”
~*~
My list had three names of agencies that provided resources for the homeless—Hope House, Three Rivers Missions, and LifeWay. I would start with Hope House. I had my phone picture, but I also printed it in a 5x7 photo. I would show it to everyone I could, hoping for any kind of lead.
I hated city driving, especially during the busy rush hour. I wound around the spiral path of the parking garage until I found an empty space on the third level. My destinations were spread out, but I’d leave my car and walk. If necessary, I’d hop on a bus for a few blocks.
I started with Hope House and got nowhere. The office was tucked between a diner and a cigar shop, only a doorway with lettering.
Inside, a receptionist greeted me.
“I’m hoping you can help me.” I pulled out the flyer and turned it toward her. “I’m looking for this man.”
She took it and examined it. “No. This is not one of our residents. He’s never been here.” She handed it back to me.
“Can you be sure? Do you know them all?”
She leaned back in her chair and nodded. “I know them all. He’s not here.”
“Do you think any of your residents will recognize him? Could I go in and show the picture around?”
She shook her head. “No, ma’am. We protect the identity of our residents.” Then she stood, obviously indicating the end of our meeting.
Three Rivers Mission was five blocks away. Thankful I wore my athletic shoes, I made my way there, only to discover the door locked and a sign indicating it would open at five o’clock, seven hours from now. An alley beside it offered a side door. I knocked. No one answered. Three Rivers Mission would have to wait for another day.
LifeWay had a small office, not an open environment where homeless people came. Two women and one man worked in the close quarters. They shook th
eir heads when I showed the picture.
“We don’t work directly with the men. We work behind the scenes, raising money for healthcare and food lines. We support the people who work with them.”
My shoulders slumped, and I breathed a heavy sigh. Three closed doors.
“Do you have any suggestions for me?”
Their suggestions were already on my list—Hope House and Three Rivers Mission. I thanked them and walked back outside.
My next step would be labor intensive. I began canvasing the city, going to panhandlers and anyone that looked like they might be in that culture. Three hours later, aching and exhausted, I was no closer to finding Andrew.
My throbbing feet carried me back to the parking garage and up to level three. I unlocked my car and sat with my head resting against the steering wheel. What now? I pulled my phone out of my handbag and called off work tomorrow.
Back in the northern suburbs, I turned into my neighbor’s driveway, glancing over to my own home. With leaden legs, I walked to Molly’s front door. I wanted to be in my house across the street, gardening, cooking, and waiting for Andrew to return from work.
I tucked Drew in his car seat, my movements slow and sluggish. Molly stood at her driveway with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed.
“I’m worried about you, Claire. Are you all right to drive?”
“I have to be all right. I have no other choice.” My voice went flat. I had no energy for talking. “I called off work, but I’m going to leave Drew with my parents. I’ll leave the same time as I do every morning, and they’ll think I’m working.”
“OK. I’m getting a sitter and coming with you. Give me the photo, and I’ll get duplicates made.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s not a pleasant task.”
“No arguments, my friend. We can cover twice as much territory. What time will you pick me up?”
~*~
Mom and Isabella were setting the table when I got home. Drew slept in my arms.
The Least of These. Page 12
