A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Callie!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing? Are you okay?”

  He leaned over to help me. I let him lift me to my feet, and then I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  “You scared me to death!” he said. “Are you alright?”

  “You scared me!” I said, my mind already racing for an explanation. “You know I’ve been borrowing Judith’s clothes, so I came in here to find something to wear, and then I heard someone in the hall. I guess I just panicked. I hid.”

  To cover my burning face, I bent down and examined the shelf that I had broken. It wasn’t a real shelf, I realized as I looked at it, but just a plastic box, filled with heavy sweaters. The lid was pushed in where I had been standing and I pressed it back out with a snap.

  “I am sorry I frightened you,” Nick said. “Marion wanted me to come back and check on you because you never showed up. She was worried.”

  I looked at my watch, startled to see that over an hour had passed since they left the house.

  “I…I fell asleep!” I said stupidly. “I thought I’d rest my eyes for just a minute, and I ended up falling sound asleep. Then when I woke up, I came looking in Judith’s closet for something to wear. You know, because I don’t have many clothes here.”

  I made myself stop talking, knowing that whenever I lied I always ended up babbling. You know a person’s lying, Eli always told me, when they give you too much information.

  Nick studied me for a moment, an odd look on his face.

  “Well,” he said finally, “that explains it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry I frightened you.”

  “Sorry I frightened you.”

  He waited as I hastily gathered an outfit suitable for the wake. Then we walked together back through Judith’s bedroom and living room and into the hall. When we reached the top of the stairs, Nick paused.

  “I will just wait for you down here, in the foyer,” he said. “You can ride with me.”

  “Sure,” I said, heading for my room.

  Once there, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, leaning back against it, my knees trembling so badly that I could hardly stand. Quickly, I removed the paintbrush and the pad of papers from my pockets and, as quietly as I could, tucked them behind the radiator next to the paper bag. Later, when I had more time, I would examine both items more closely. For now, I had no choice but to pull myself together and get ready for the wake.

  Twenty-Three

  We reached the funeral home at eight o’clock. The parking lot was so full we had to park on the street. On the way over, Nick told me proudly of some of the people who had already come, including a congressman, one minor TV star, and a famous clothing designer.

  Once we were inside, Nick went off without me, and I hesitated in the front hall. I still hadn’t gotten a handle on my fright back at the house, and I took a moment to gather my wits about me. The problem was that I was going from one trauma to another: Since Bryan’s death, I had managed to avoid funerals and funeral homes. Now, standing here, the smells and sounds of the place assaulted me, and I felt my lungs growing tight, my head suddenly dizzy.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  I turned to see Carlos, strikingly handsome in his little suit and tie, his hair slicked straight back with some sort of shiny gel. He was standing in front of me, a worried expression on his face.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I said lamely, wishing I could get some control over myself. Without speaking, I let him lead me around the corner, away from the crowd, to a nearby couch.

  “On TV, they put their head between their legs,” he said, and so I sat and leaned forward, suppressing a smile even as I felt my heart pounding wildly out of control. A moment later, there was a small hand on my back, and I sat up, accepting the cup of water that Carlos held out for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking a sip. I closed my eyes and prayed for peace. I thought of the Bible verse Eli gave to me, and I repeated it to myself now. Within moments, I felt the calming of my heart, the amazing stillness that only the Holy Spirit can provide.

  “I think I’ll be okay,” I said finally to Carlos, who was still looking at me with concern. “Thank you for your kindness.” He nodded and sat back on the couch next to me, swinging his legs in front of him. “So how’s it going?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “I’m okay now. When we first got here, they were fighting over whether to have the casket open or closed. That wasn’t too cool.”

  “Did you see your grandfather’s body?”

  “He looked like an old wax dummy. It gave me the creeps.”

  “That gives me the creeps, too,” I said. “When my husband died, I insisted the casket stay closed.” I didn’t bother to add that, given the nature of his accident, there really wasn’t much choice in the matter.

  Carlos looked at me in surprise.

  “Your husband’s dead? Gosh, you’re not that old. I mean, you’re old, but not that old.”

  “Not old like a grandmother, you mean?”

  He nodded.

  “My husband was in an accident,” I said. “He would still be alive if it hadn’t happened.”

  “Wow.”

  “This is the first wake I’ve been to since then.”

  “Is that why you got sick when you came in?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s why I got sick.”

  We sat there in companionable silence for a while, until finally Sidra came out and joined us.

  “There you are, sweetie,” she said softly, sitting on the other side of Carlos. “You holding up okay?”

  “I am, but she wasn’t,” he said, pointing at me. “She was sick. I got her some water and made her put her head between her legs.”

  Sidra glanced at me with concern.

  “I think you’ve got a little doctor here,” I said, smiling. “He was very professional.”

  “That’s the kind of boy he is,” she said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. “Always taking care of everyone.”

  “Sidra,” Derek said suddenly, appearing in the doorway. I could see Sidra’s shoulders stiffening as she released Carlos from his hug.

  “What?” she answered, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

  “The Hansens are here. I think you should come out and say hello.”

  “Of course,” Sidra said softly. She gave Carlos a pat on the knee and then stood and went with Derek.

  “I’m sorry your parents are having problems,” I said suddenly to Carlos, once they were gone. I wasn’t sure if it was a subject he would be willing to discuss, but I knew most kids were pretty aware of the things going on around them.

  “It’ll all work out,” he said breezily. “I have a few ideas.”

  “Ideas?”

  He glanced at me, then turned away.

  “Never mind.”

  I could see from the set of his jaw that he wasn’t going to say any more. I wondered what possible impact a child his age could have on his own parents’ failing marriage. But then I thought of the blood on the windowsills—painted the night he was off on his soccer trip—and I knew there were other forces here, other elements to this mix besides just two adults who couldn’t get along.

  “Your mother is so beautiful,” I said, steering us toward more neutral territory. “Is she Spanish?”

  “From Honduras.”

  “Wow,” I said. “How did she end up in Pennsylvania?”

  “My dad.”

  “Ah.”

  “She lived near one of Grandpa’s factories there. That’s how they met, when Dad went with Grandpa on one of his trips.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Yeah, I guess. My dad says he fell in love with her at first sight. Then, when he became a missionary, he got them to send him there so he could marry her.”

  “I see.” The story was fascinating, but it was in the shorthand of an 11-year-old boy. I wanted the long version.

  “An
yway, I’ve been there a few times. It’s a long plane ride, but really fun. My other grandparents live there.”

  “Cool.”

  Carlos stood and walked to the door.

  “Guess I better go inside,” he said. “You think you’ll be okay?”

  I stood, smoothing my skirt in front of me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

  The place was packed, the crowd spilling into every available space. I gave Marion a hug and apologized for my delay, then positioned myself near the front of the receiving line, listening as everyone who came through spoke about the wonderful Wendell Smythe and what an amazing man he had been, not to mention their shock at learning his death had been a murder. I began to appreciate the extent of his popularity when the mayor of Philadelphia came through, addressing Marion by her first name, talking with her as though they were old friends.

  After a while I grew tired of the crush of the crowd, and I made my way back out to the guest book in the front hall. There were pages and pages of signatures, most of which would mean nothing to me. Next to the book was a laminated copy of Wendell’s obituary, and I picked it up and read it with interest.

  Apparently, though Wendell had made his fortune in clothing, he was going to be remembered mostly for his contributions in human rights. I was surprised to see that besides Feed the Need, he was on the board of several other charitable organizations and in fact had sponsored the passage of quite a few humanitarian laws in Honduras, where his largest clothing factory was located.

  He was also described as a generous supporter of his church as well as a few museums and the arts. “An avid collector of antique clothing,” the article said, “Smythe has bequeathed the remainder of his private collection to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The museum already houses quite a number of pieces previously donated by Mr. Smythe and his wife.”

  According to the article, he was survived by his wife, one sister, and his children and grandchild. Two brothers had preceded him in death.

  “He was quite a man, wasn’t he?” I heard over my shoulder. I turned to find Gwen standing behind me. She was immaculately attired, the pearls on her ears now replaced with a pair of square-cut emeralds.

  “You go on in, dear,” she said to the man next to her. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The man patted her shoulder and walked away; I assumed that was her husband, Frank.

  “I just wanted to apologize for being so brusque with you at the office today,” Gwen said to me, taking hold of my elbow. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just a little overwhelmed.”

  “I understand,” I said, though I didn’t. I still thought she was holding out on me regarding important information about the need for the J.O.S.H.U.A. money.

  “Have you been inside yet?” she asked.

  “Yes. The family seems to be holding up well,” I replied. “So far, anyway.”

  “Poor Marion,” Gwen said. “I don’t know what I’ll do when Frank dies. I only pray I go first.”

  Still holding my elbow, she led me with her into the main room where we joined her husband in the long line that snaked almost to the door.

  “So, Gwen,” I said after she made the necessary introductions, “I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about the hunger relief business. I don’t know much beyond what I’ve seen on those late-night TV commercials.”

  She enthusiastically launched into an explanation of how needs were identified and then how the money they raised was distributed. As we slowly worked our way up in the line, she talked about Feed the Need’s efforts toward education regarding proper health and hygiene, nutrition, farming, and medical care, all of which helped improve a needy community’s standard of living. As she spoke, I recalled a mission trip I once took to Mexico as a teenager with my church. The need there was so great, and our group’s resources so limited, that I had spent most of the time on the verge of tears, aching for the suffering that could’ve been so easily alleviated with a little money from other, more prosperous countries. That trip had overwhelmed me with despair, and it had taken me years to come to grips with the devastating poverty I had witnessed there.

  “Do you really bring in enough money to these countries to make a difference, though?” I asked. “It seems to me that the suffering is just so tremendous.”

  “We can’t look at it that way. For every water pump we install in a village in Africa, for every well we dig in Korea, for every health worker we place in Mexico—we’ve made a difference. We’ve changed someone’s life for the better.”

  “I suppose it all helps the giver, too. Gives them a feeling of altruism, of making a difference themselves.”

  To my surprise, Frank grunted and turned his head.

  “Oh, you hush,” Gwen said to him. “Yes, Callie, it does help the giver. We live in such a wealthy country; we should all be sharing that wealth.”

  “Frank?” I said. “You have an opinion here?”

  He grinned and shook his head.

  “I respect what they’re doing there,” he said. “I just don’t agree with the means.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s an ongoing debate in our house,” Gwen explained. “Frank has a problem with the whole starving-child angle.”

  “It’s exploitation, it is,” he said. “You show me a picture of an emaciated child and tell me my $20 a month or whatever will change her life. Of course I’m going to send you money.”

  “Doesn’t the money go to help the child?”

  Gwen hesitated and then spoke, lowering her voice.

  “For the most part, the money is pooled. One person’s donation won’t go very far, but the combination of lots of donations can help pay for schools, food, health care, and so on.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, also lowering his voice, “but with some of those hunger relief organizations, the things your money’s paying for aren’t even in the same village as the child you’re sponsoring—sometimes not even in the same country! I give my $20 to help little Jose in El Salvador, and unbeknownst to me, it’s used to pay for an irrigation system in Mozambique!”

  “But people are still being helped,” Gwen said. “Regardless of where the money is ultimately being used.”

  “Exploitation,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I’m getting these cute little photos and sweet letters and patting myself on the back for making a difference in the life of this child. In reality, this child’s life hasn’t changed at all. Maybe an extra sack of rice at Christmas time. Other than that, he’s still living in squalor, and my monthly donations haven’t helped him one bit. And it’s not just Feed the Need. Almost all the hunger relief organizations work that way.”

  “Charity is charity,” Gwen countered in what I could tell was their well-worn debate. “Your money still goes to help the needy one way or another. And at least with Feed the Need, the majority of the money goes into the program and not to support some exorbitant CEO’s salary.”

  “Yeah, the money is spent wisely. But they’re still using the innocent little faces of children to get that money out of my pocket. I have a problem with that.”

  The three of us were silent for a moment. I could see both sides of the argument equally. Though in my heart I agreed with Gwen, as a nonprofit professional I had to side with Frank. One of the basic tenets of good stewardship is that “all statements made by the organization in its fund raising appeals about the use of the gift must be honored by the organization.” In other words, the money you raise should always go to the exact cause you stated that it would go for in your money-raising efforts. Anything else was fraudulent.

  “What you really should have a problem with,” Gwen said softly to her husband, “is the American people. As a whole, they don’t respond to intellectual information. Tell them some remote village somewhere needs a well or an irrigation system, and forget it. But show them a hungry child, and they’re there. They give their money based purely on emotion.”

  “Yeah,” Frank
agreed. “You know what they say in this business, Callie? They say, ‘You wanna build a well? You won’t collect a dime until you’ve given that well an adorable face with pouting lips and big sad eyes.’”

  Twenty-Four

  I was heading outside for some fresh air when I happened to glance at Marion. Our eyes met through the crowd, and she waved me over, so I abandoned my plans for a moment and went to join her.

  When I got there, I was surprised to see her standing with her pastor, Ian Quinn.

  “Pastor,” I said, my surprise evident. He nodded at me.

  “Ian was just asking about you,” Marion continued. “He didn’t realize you were with the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

  “You should’ve told me you worked for Tom this afternoon, child,” he said, taking my hand. “I might not’ve kicked you out quite so abruptly.”

  “You’re familiar with Tom and the foundation?” I asked.

  “You have no idea!” he cried, beaming. “Let me tell you what you people have done for us. And call me Ian, please.”

  Glad to see that the pastor and I had connected, Marion excused herself and then turned to face another grouping of people.

  “I’d love to hear about it,” I said, “but if I don’t get some fresh air very soon, I’m afraid I’ll pass out.”

  “It is a bit crowded in here,” he replied, taking my arm. “What do you say we go for a walk outside?”

  The warm air soothed me like a balm. I breathed it in slowly, feeling my heart return to a steady, even rhythm. So far, I had been holding up very well, but I didn’t want to push it too far. I took Ian’s arm, and we walked through the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk beyond. It was a clear night, full of stars. Light from bright street lamps spilled down onto the strip of closed shops surrounding us.

  “Is it safe here at night?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Ian. “I think we can walk to the end of the streetlights and back.”