by Sharon Sala
John 3:16 Mission.
The name said it all, Maria thought as she put the car in Park. The scent of cooking food was in the air as she emerged. According to a sign on the window, they were serving free lunch, which explained the number of people who kept going inside.
She hit the remote, locking the car as she walked toward the door. The car horn beeped to indicate success, and the sound caught the attention of a group of men standing near the entrance to a nearby alley. One of them whistled beneath his breath, then called out to her.
“Hey, bitch…you lose somethin’? I got what you need.”
The others laughed as their friend grabbed his crotch.
Lord help me, Maria thought, and kept her head down and her eyes averted as she walked into the mission. The black-and-white floor tiles were cracked and stained, and the furniture was a mishmash of styles and colors. But there was an air of comfort within as she paused near the door to get her bearings. Maybe it was the corn bread she could smell coming from the kitchen, and maybe it was the rich sound of gospel music coming from a CD player sitting on a shelf.
Humanity in an assortment of ages and sizes was already forming a line along one side of the room, waiting for the meal to be served. She took a deep breath and headed for the sound of human voices, trying not to react to the stares she was receiving. Being the only woman in the room amped up her anxiety. The fact that she was also the only Caucasian made her feel that much more vulnerable.
All of a sudden there was a voice behind her.
“Welcome to the house of the Lord.”
Maria flinched, then turned abruptly to find herself face-to-face with a tall, skinny black man. He was wearing an African print shirt over a pair of faded blue jeans, with an ivory cross hanging from a thin strip of leather tied around his neck. Except for a halo of gray hair that stretched from ear to ear around the back of his head, he was bald. But his voice was soft and deep, and when Maria looked into his eyes, the tension she’d been feeling disappeared.
His gaze was rock-steady as he smiled.
Without thinking, she smiled back.
He eyed her clothes, the finely tooled leather of her purse, then arched an eyebrow.
“I’m guessing you’re not in need of food, so how can I help you, miss? Are you lost?”
Maria’s smile shifted. “In a manner of speaking…I guess I am.”
“Did your car break down? Do you want me to call for a tow?”
“No, no…not that.”
“Then how may I help you?”
Maria sighed. “I’m not sure how to start.”
“At the beginning is usually best. So let’s start over. My name is Henry.”
“My name is Maria Slade.”
“Then come and sit with me, Maria Slade.”
He cupped her elbow, pausing to make sure she accepted the gesture, then motioned toward an empty table near the back of the dining room.
She nodded gratefully, her anxiety easing with every passing minute. As soon as they were seated, a young teenager appeared carrying two cups of steaming coffee. He placed them on the table near Henry’s elbow, challenging Maria with a cold, angry stare, which upped her anxiety again.
“Thank you, Tyrell,” Henry said.
The boy shrugged, then walked away with a swagger in every step.
Henry saw Maria’s expression and felt obliged to add, “The boy’s all right. Got a man-size chip on a kid-size shoulder. Gonna take him a few years of livin’ on the right side of the Lord to get it off, but we’re workin’ on it…me and him.”
Maria allowed herself a short moment of grief. Henry reminded her of her father, which made her stifle an urge to weep. But she hadn’t come for comfort. She had questions that needed answers, and this Henry seemed amenable enough.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
“Certainly,” he said. “As you were saying…I believe you were lost?”
Maria nodded. “My father died last week.”
Henry’s face softened into such an expression of empathy that it was once again all Maria could do not to cry. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Thank you, but his death triggered a lot more than grief. After he died, I learned I was not his daughter by birth, and that, until the age of four, I lived with my mother in a boardinghouse called the Hampton Arms. Twenty years ago, it was a couple of blocks east of here. I flew into town to…I don’t know…visit my past? Only the place isn’t there anymore.”
Henry’s expression changed to one of curiosity.
“I remember that place. My, my…hadn’t thought of it in years.”
“What happened to it?” Maria asked.
“Time, mostly,” Henry said. “Not much goin’ on in this part of Tulsa anymore except trouble. For sure, the only thing thriving is bad business…not God’s business.”
“I understand,” she said. “Time changes plenty. I don’t suppose you know of anyone who used to live there…say twenty years ago?”
“Actually, I do. A man named Montrose. Used to work the desk there.”
“How do I get in touch with him?” Maria asked.
“He comes here every day to eat. If you want to wait around, he’ll likely show up.” Then he added, “What was your mother’s name?”
“Why?” Maria asked.
“I’ve lived here for nearly thirty years. I know there’s gray in my hair, but my memory is still pretty good.”
Maria couldn’t believe her luck. “That’s great,” she said. “I don’t know what my mother looked like but—”
He frowned. “Why don’t you know what your own mama looked like?”
Maria shrugged. “I just don’t. I have no memories at all of my life with her.”
“That’s a real shame,” Henry said. “I’m thinking there’s quite a story in that, but you didn’t come to satisfy my curiosity. So, what was your mother’s name?”
“Blake…Sally Blake.”
Henry’s eyes widened, and his lips went slack.
“Pretty brunette…nearly six feet tall. Had a real friendly way about her. Now that you mention it…you put me in mind of how I remember she looked.”
Maria’s heart skipped a beat. Oh, my God. This is real.
“I didn’t put it together. She always called you Mary. I didn’t know you were really a Maria.” He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “It was a real tragedy what happened to her, but it explains why you don’t remember. Losing your mama like that would be a terrible shock. Good thing you were across the hall at the babysitter’s that night.”
Maria’s belly knotted, thinking of the deception her father and the babysitter had concocted to keep her alive.
“Yes…a good thing.”
Three
H enry offered her a meal, and when he came back with the food he’d promised, Maria took her bowl of beans and chose a seat near a man in a wheelchair and across the table from a woman with no teeth. The smells emanating from their bodies were daunting, but she reminded herself that she was no better—only cleaner. She was the child of a prostitute, and if it hadn’t been for Andrew Slade, this could have become her fate.
Bracing herself, she took a bite of beans and was surprised by the rich, meaty taste of the broth. The beans reminded her of roundup-day food and made her homesick for Montana, at which point she politely asked for someone to please pass the salt.
The salt slid toward her from somewhere upwind. She grabbed it on the fly, shook it over her bowl, then slid it back down without missing a beat.
Her presence was something of an anomaly to the hungry people at John 3:16 Mission, but not enough to sway them from free food. The meal progressed without conversation, and once she’d eaten her beans and corn bread, she got up and took her dirty dishes into the kitchen.
The room was small but orderly. Shelves had been added above a workstation against one wall next to an old four-burner stove. The industrial-size double sink was at the f
ar end of the room next to a large drain board.
Henry was standing at the makeshift counter, serving the meal.
Tyrell, the teenager who’d given her a go-to-hell look, was at the sink, alternately washing, then drying, dishes in an effort to keep up with the need. It appeared to be a losing battle. The John 3:16 Mission was making do with odds and ends of assorted crockery. Spending money on paper plates and bowls obviously wasn’t in the budget.
Maria sighed. She wasn’t leaving until she got a chance to talk to the man Henry had mentioned, and she wasn’t the kind of person to sit around and watch others work. So she slid her purse beneath a table, took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves and moved into place at the sink beside Tyrell.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” she said.
He looked a little startled, then shrugged and handed her the dishrag, got a fresh towel and began drying the stack of bowls he’d just washed.
Henry caught the gesture and thought to himself that someone had raised her right, then turned his attention back to serving the line of hungry people.
Nearly an hour passed before Henry saw Montrose Benton, the man Maria wanted to talk to, step up to the window for food.
“Hello, Montrose. How you been doin’?” Henry asked.
“Can’t complain,” Montrose said. “Heard about any work?”
“Not today,” Henry said.
Even if he had, there wasn’t a business owner in Tulsa who’d hire the old man in his current state. His clothes were filthy, and it was apparent he hadn’t shaved in weeks. Henry didn’t know what had gone wrong in this man’s life and didn’t have the ability to fix it even if he did. What Henry could do was feed Montrose’s belly and hope something he said later might fill the man’s soul.
“Eat up. And I hope you don’t mind, but there’s a lady here who’d like to talk to you,” Henry said as he handed him the food. When the old man nodded, Henry added, “God bless you.”
The old man smiled. “Thank you, Henry. Thank you.”
Henry waited until Montrose found himself a seat and started eating before he went to get Maria. The woman was still at the sink. She’d surprised him by helping out like this. Despite the fact that she was in a better place financially than most people he saw, she seemed as lost as the old man with his beans.
He hoped Montrose could help her.
“Hey, Tyrell, stand in for me a minute, will you?”
Tyrell gratefully set aside his dish towel and headed for the food line.
“Not too much,” Henry said softly. “It needs to go a long ways.”
“I remember, Preacher Henry,” the boy said, and deftly scooped a ladle of hot brown pinto beans into the next bowl, laid a square of corn bread on top and passed it along.
Satisfied that the boy had everything under control, Henry moved to the sink and tapped Maria’s shoulder.
“The man I mentioned who used to work at the Hampton Arms is here.”
Maria flinched, nearly dropping the pan she’d been scrubbing, then rinsed it off and set it aside before grabbing a towel to dry her hands.
“That’s great,” she said. “Will you introduce us? No one wants a stranger in their face when they’re trying to eat a meal.”
Again, Henry was taken by her manner. The man she wanted to talk to was a vagrant, and yet she was considering his feelings as much as her own desires.
“Yes, ma’am, I will, and I hope he has some answers for you.”
“So do I,” she said, then slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready when you are.”
Henry led the way out into the dining area with Maria close at his heels.
Henry suddenly stopped and bent down to speak to a tiny, wizened old man, and Maria eyed him carefully, wondering if seeing him would trigger any memories.
His cheeks were a washed-out red. She couldn’t decide if it was from the broken blood vessels beneath his pale skin, or if they were chapped from living outside in all kinds of weather. Tufts of gray hair poked out the holes in the knitted cap on his head, matching a sparse assortment of gray, scraggly whiskers. A quick glance revealed that while he was dressed in several layers of clothing, he was nearly barefoot. The tennis shoes he was wearing were literally tied to his feet with some kind of grimy, frayed cording.
Just as she was about to feel sorry for him, he looked up. The smile on his face was unexpected in so many ways. How could a person still have joy in his heart while leading such a miserable existence?
“Montrose, this is the lady who wants to talk to you. Would that be all right?”
Montrose squinted as his gaze shifted to the woman standing beside Henry.
“Sure, I don’t mind,” he said. “Have a seat. I’ll just finish my food while we talk.”
Maria sat down in a chair across from him as Henry introduced them.
“Montrose, meet Maria Slade. Maria…Mr. Montrose Benton.”
“Call me Montrose,” he said. “Or Monty.”
Maria smiled and nodded, but her heart was pounding. She didn’t quite know where to start or how to explain her situation without giving too much away.
Since she wasn’t talking, Monty wasn’t interested in wasting time. He scooped more beans into his mouth, then chased it with a bite of corn bread as she took a notebook from her bag. He couldn’t imagine what he had to say that would interest her, but it was a welcome change in his routine.
Maria glanced down at the notebook, then leaned across the table.
“Henry told me you used to work the desk at the Hampton Arms.”
Monty’s eyes widened. “You talkin’ ’bout that old roomin’ house that used to be down the street?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Probably ten or fifteen years, but I lived there until it closed.”
“Were you there twenty years ago?” Maria asked.
“Yeah, yeah…I would have been working the desk on the night shift around that time.”
“Good,” Maria said. “Can you tell me what you remember about the place?”
“I guess I remember a lot of things. I lived on the first floor near the back fire exit. Exactly what do you want to know?”
“Do you remember a woman named Sally Blake? She would have been living there at that time.”
“Sally Blake…Sally Blake… I don’t know if—”
All of a sudden, Maria saw recognition dawning.
“Oh, yeah, I remember her. Tall, curvy brunette with green eyes. Real looker, too.”
His eyes narrowed. “You put me in mind of her,” he muttered, then took another bite of beans.
A bean fell off his spoon and caught in his whiskers as he began to chew. Either he didn’t know it or didn’t care, but Maria couldn’t think for watching the bean as it jiggled up and down in the precarious perch on which it had landed. She grabbed a couple of paper napkins that had been left on the table by an earlier diner and handed them over.
Montrose blinked, then grinned as he took the napkins and mopped at his beard.
“Sorry…when you live on the street, you lose company manners.”
“About Sally Blake,” Maria said, shifting the conversation.
Montrose nodded. “She lived on the third floor…her and her little girl. I reckon she lived there at least six years. I remember when she brought that baby home from the hospital. Cutest little bit of nothin’ you ever saw. Had a whole lot of dark hair, just like her mama.”
Maria’s stomach lurched. He was talking about her. It was surreal to be sitting here, talking to a stranger who had more memories of her life with her mother than she did. It made her want to weep, but she hadn’t come this far to screw up, and Montrose Benton was her first lead.
“To your knowledge, was the child’s father ever in the picture?” she asked.
Monty hesitated. Maria was guessing he was hedging his answers, pending how much she knew about Sally Blake’s past.
“I know she was a prostitute,” she said, not bothering to hide the distaste in her voice.
Monty’s expression shifted slightly, but Maria couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“She did what she had to do to put food on the table and a roof over their heads,” he said sharply.
“There are other jobs,” Maria said before she thought.
“If you have the education to back them up, then yeah, there are other jobs. But you have to be able to read and write to get them, and the way I remember Sally Blake, she couldn’t do either.”
Maria was staggered. “You’re kidding.”
Monty’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Not hardly, miss. It’s not the first time someone got passed through a school system without the proper skills,” he said. “She had a good memory, so I guessed she faked her way through as far as she could. Who knows? Besides, it’s not like she had anyone to speak up for her. She came up through the system.”
“What do you mean, ‘through the system’?”
“Welfare. She used to make jokes about the fact that the closest she’d ever come to Jesus was when she’d been found abandoned on the steps of a church.”
Maria wanted to cry. Every judgmental thing she’d thought since learning about her mother’s background had just made a one-eighty shift. Her mother had begun life as an abandoned baby and been shuffled through the welfare system, and never even learned to read and write. God. The more she learned, the more tragic the story became.
“What do you remember about her?” Maria asked. “Did you know her friends?”
Monty laid down his spoon and leaned back in his chair.
“Why all the interest in Sally Blake?”
Maria had never said the words aloud, but something told her that if she wanted answers from Monty, she was going to have to answer some of his questions, as well.
“I’m that little baby you remember her having. I just found out recently that she was my mother. I have no memory of her or of living at the Hampton Arms. I guess I’m just trying to get some answers about my past.”
