A sharp rap on the door made me jump, and I opened the door quickly.
“I don’t have time for lollygaggers,” Lucille reprimanded me.
“I’m just finished.” I pointed to my feet showing her they were still bare. “I was just missing these.” I tried for a smile, but her stern look made me turn around and just grab my sneakers. They squelched when I put them on, but I would burn in hell before I complained.
“The kitchen runs all day. We feed our clients at breakfast, lunch and dinner. The last meal is served at nine if we haven’t run out of food by then.” She cast me a quick look. “We have never had food left after nine.” I noticed she seemed very smug about this, whereas I was wondering, if they knew they wouldn’t have enough, why not make more? I dared not ask the question. I was very aware I was here under duress—Lucille’s and mine.
“Clients?” I asked curiously.
“Homeless,” she told me tersely. “Do you think they want to be labelled as homeless?” Her look was stern, and I fought the urge to tell her that we didn’t care what we got called if they were willing to fill our bellies. “As a volunteer, you usually only have to do one of the mealtimes; however, your friend told me you would cover all three.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs and regarded me coldly. “I appreciate the donations that get made, I appreciate the extra care we get given, I do not appreciate being told how to run my shelter.” I nodded wordlessly. Did she think I hadn’t got that? “If you’re here to assess my capabilities, then I don’t appreciate it.”
I was pretty sure I was speechless, right up until the moment I burst out laughing. “Did you not see me on your bathroom floor after he threw me in there and turned the cold water on?” Lucille cocked her head at me in question. “Do I look like I’m a spy?”
“Clever manipulations can fool anyone.” She sniffed derisively.
“Lady, you’re out of your mind if you think that,” I told her with a shake of my head. “Man, yesterday, I was one of your clients.”
“You’re homeless?” Lucille watched me shrewdly.
“Well, as of today, I live here,” I answered with a shake of my head. I tugged at my bun and shrugged. “I’ll leave if you want, but if you don’t mind me saying, I really don’t want you to upset him.”
“You think he’ll hurt me?” Lucille assumed with a narrowing of her eyes.
“You? Possibly.” I chewed my lip. “I damn well know he will me. I’ve run twice now”—I thought of the alley—“actually, three times, so I don’t think I get another chance.”
Lucille smiled suddenly at me, and it almost blinded me with its intensity. “Well then, let’s not give the bastard a chance.” She held her hand out, and with a small laugh, I shook it. “Let me introduce myself again, my name’s Lucille. I am the administrator of the shelter as well as the day-to-day manager of it. We have fifteen volunteers, and you make sixteen. They’re a great bunch of people.”
Well…not all of them, I thought, remembering the guy who took my money, but I kept quiet. “I’m Devon, newly made volunteer.”
“Devon, I hope from now on, it will be a pleasure to meet you. Now let’s get you working. I don’t hire slackers even if they are only volunteers.”
I stood quietly as Lucille introduced me to the other volunteers. The guy from yesterday wasn’t there, but four friendly faces all smiled at me in welcome. She didn’t tell them I was formerly one of their clients, and none of them recognised me. I mean, why would they? At the moment, I was as clean and presentable as I had been in a long time, wearing fresh clothes that had been donated before they had been worn by about three different people. I wouldn’t recognise myself at this point.
“Do you have kitchen experience?” one of the older men asked me. He was short and stocky and had a dark cap on, covering what I assumed would be a bald head.
“No, sir,” I answered honestly. I mean, I could make toast, but so could a toddler.
“You aren’t precious about your nails, are you?” he asked me with a sceptical look.
I glanced at my stubby fingernails and my dry hands and held them up for inspection. “No, sir.”
“We’ll start you on dishes then,” he told me with a warm smile. “And my name’s Fred, no need for sir.”
“Okay.” I smiled tentatively as a younger girl handed me a white apron, and then I was at the double sinks, looking at the kitchen layout. Lucille left me with a friendly but firm smile, and I nodded in acknowledgement. As I listened to Fred tell me how the kitchen operated, I knew I was only half paying attention.
I got to stay? It was so unbelievable that, even though I had been there and was right now standing in the kitchen, I couldn’t believe I got to stay. After my brief induction into the kitchen—for me as a dishwasher, it was pretty much stand here and wash dishes—Fred returned to his vegetable pile while the three others all carried out their own work.
I had been to some of the food kitchens for breakfast a few times and knew not all of them served three meals a day. There were a lot of people on the streets, and looking out over the ten rows of bench tables, I didn’t want to think of the cost to feed all the hungry who came in here. I now felt guilty for my earlier thought about buying more food to serve. Looking at the pile of food being made just for breakfast, I realised I didn’t have a clue what I was thinking.
I watched two of the volunteers finish the breakfast prep while Fred and the young girl who gave me an apron were already working through the lunch preparation. Her name was Amanda, and she chatted to me easily as she told me what their normal day was like. Amanda didn’t actually need me to converse with her; she spoke a mile a minute, and I was content to listen. Fred and Mike, who was currently in charge of eggs, started at six in the morning, with her and the other volunteer being in the kitchen from seven thirty. They served breakfast. At eleven, two other volunteers came in, and the six of them would cover lunch. When lunch was being served, three of the volunteers made dinner, and then four more people would join them at five. By five in the evening, the morning volunteers were basically gone and had been replaced. The whole kitchen was one giant machine moving steadily throughout the day.
I had the easy job: I rinsed dishes, stacked the dishwashers, emptied the dishwashers, stacked the plates. Monotonous but essential. I was also smart enough it kept my back to the clients, and I was effectively hidden in the kitchen. I also received three meals. Two hash browns, sausage and eggs were placed in front of me halfway through the morning serving. Amanda also gave me two pieces of hot buttered toast. I ate quickly, but I still savoured every taste of it. When the last of the people were gone, I helped straighten the tables, clean the tabletops, disinfect the benches.
Then I spent the next hour on dishes as the kitchen slowly reopened for lunch. Midday wasn’t as popular, and they catered for fewer numbers; however, the workload in the kitchen increased because dinner service was the busiest. I knew why they weren’t as busy at lunchtime. For most of the clients, lunchtime was when we did well. We couldn’t afford to skip getting money for a meal.
Midway through the two-hour lunch, a plate with a warm wrap was given to me with some chips. I ate it more slowly, feeling guilty that I was taking someone’s meal from them. I wasn’t sure when the last time was that I had eaten so regularly.
My guilt at the wrap was gone an hour into dinner service. The line to get in was halfway down the block. I worked hard and thanked the angels that I had the two meals to sustain me. As Lucille told me, we ran out of food just after eight, and it wasn’t because they hadn’t bought enough, it was because there were just so many people.
Cliff was the evening version of Fred, and he didn’t raise an eyebrow when he got told I was on all three services. He said little, but the kitchen ran even more efficiently than when Fred had been here.
There were three more volunteers that sorted out the bunk beds. The shelter had three large rooms which contained several bunk beds for those of their clients who didn’t want to g
o back on the street that night. The beds went fast, and if you got a meal and a bed, it was like winning the lottery.
As I helped clean the tables, going through the same process as before, I was half asleep as I waited for the dishwasher to finish its cycle.
“Devon.”
I turned to a plate with two slices of beef, cabbage and potatoes. “Come and eat your dinner first,” Edna told me as she set the cutlery down beside the plate and sat with her own food.
“I thought we ran out?” I asked as I looked at the others in the kitchen making their way to the table.
“We keep for ourselves, it’s our payment,” one of the guys said gruffly. I remembered his name was Sergio. “Hard work we do here,” he said as he pointed his fork at me, “you have the right to eat.”
“Okay,” I answered with a small smile. Sergio was heavyset, and I didn’t think he was missing many meals. Neither was Cliff, I suspected, but Edna and the other three women were all eating heartily, and I was too new and numb to think about arguing the point.
“So you’re a transfer?” Cliff asked as he chewed.
Shit. All day, I had managed to avoid answering the questions of “you sure you’re doing three meal services” and “where were you before?”
“Devon is a new volunteer.” Lucille appeared as if by magic, and one of the women collected her plate of food from the oven. “She is going to be staying here for a short term and helping out as much as possible.”
Despite the fact I had three solid meals today and a bed to go to tonight, was it wrong that I had sudden flashbacks to the movie Annie? I envisaged myself singing “It’s a Hard Knock Life”—not even the Jay-Z version, but the proper orphan Annie version. I wasn’t ungrateful, far from it, today was the first time I felt like a human being in a long time. Lucille had given that to me. My mind firmly refused to accept who had actually given it to me, that man would get no thanks from me. Ever.
“You doing it for part of your studies?” Edna asked eagerly.
“Studies?”
“You going to be a social worker like Lucille?” she asked me.
“Um, something like that.” I nodded as I kept my head down.
“Your bag arrived,” Lucille told me as she ate. Her beef was cut into small cubes on her plate, and she ate with a grace that I knew I would never possess.
It did? “Really?”
“Yes, I put it in your room.” Dark brown eyes assessed me curiously as she ate, and I felt the weight of her scrutiny.
“Thank you.” Rising, I took the empty plates back into the safety of the kitchen and resumed my work. I wanted to run up to the room and check the contents. I wonder what he forwarded me. Forwarded? I clamped my mouth shut from the hysteria threatening to break free. Forwarded from where? Shaking my head at the thought of an empty bag sitting upstairs, I suddenly realised Lucille had said she put the bag in my room. How did she get in?
Turning to seek her out, I saw she was waiting for me. “Ready?”
“Um.” I wiped my hands on my apron and looked at Cliff.
“Yeah, yeah, go,” Cliff said as he brought his plate and Lucille’s back to the kitchen. “You’ve worked a hard shift,” he said with admiration. “Appreciate ya.” His smile was genuine, and with murmured goodnights from the others, I followed Lucille.
“I have a master key,” she said without preamble.
That made sense, I realised. But then how did he get in last night? “Is there more than one?”
“More than one?” She glanced at me and then realised what I meant. “No, only one master key.”
“Okay.”
Lucille stopped in the corridor and stared at me for a long time, so long I began to get uncomfortable. “Why do you ask?”
“Curious.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me,” she asked me softly, and when I raised my eyes to look at her, I realised she was genuinely interested and not on the brink of throwing me out.
“I stayed here last night,” I admitted. “I slept in the room I have now.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, her soft gentleness gone completely. “Who let you in?”
I shifted on my feet and looked away. I didn’t want a confrontation, and I knew I wasn’t going to get away with not telling her.
“He heavy, greasy hair, and grumpy looking?” Lucille asked me with a frown.
“He had some good qualities,” I attempted.
“He take money off you?” she asked me shrewdly.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said as I crossed my arms. “Can you just forget I said anything?”
Lucille sniffed as she turned and continued to climb the stairs. She had shown me the dorm rooms for the homeless earlier, and I could hear a soft murmur from that direction. The homeless entered the rooms from the front, the entrance was to the side of the main food hall, but inside, they were accessible past the kitchen.
When I got to the corridor where her office was, she lingered at her door. “I’m heading home soon,” she told me hesitantly. “Will you be okay?” Looking at her in surprise, I nodded, but Lucille sighed. “I can’t babysit you, Devon, but I can tell you that your friend was quite adamant that you stay here. I admit I was suspicious, but you worked hard today, you didn’t complain, and you got on well with the others.” She reached for her office door. “I hope you’re still here in the morning,” she added softly.
“You think he’ll come for me?” I asked in alarm.
“What?” Seeing my fear, she reached out and placed a comforting hand on my arm. “No, I was worried you would run.”
Relief swelled in my chest as I gave a light laugh. “Honestly? I couldn’t run if you paid me right now, I’m ready to sleep.”
“Good.” With a smile, she entered her office, and I was almost at the door to my room when she called for me again as she came walking swiftly down the hall. She pressed a key into my hand. “I’m trusting you with this.”
Looking at the master key, I nodded. I didn’t want her to see the tears threatening that she had shown me such a complete act of trust or kindness.
“Sleep well,” Lucille said, and I went into the room. A plain rucksack sat on the bed. It was so obviously new that I wondered why the tags weren’t still on it. I opened it cautiously. I still wasn’t sure what his intent was, and when I saw only clothes and a toiletry bag, it was almost anticlimactic.
Pulling out a pair of jeans and three T-shirts, I then took out a pair of sneakers and the toiletry bag, which had a simple toothbrush and toothpaste in it as well as shampoo and bodywash. That was it.
No note.
As I considered my new clothes, I realised there were no underwear or socks. I searched the bag again to reveal nothing else. Sitting down on the bed, I looked at the clothes.
Why would he provide me with clothes? Why would he put me in here? What did he want? I never wanted to see him again, but at the same time, I wanted answers, and only he could give me answers.
Taking off my borrowed clothes, I looked at my old, ratty T-shirt. I’d slept in worse. I enjoyed a long shower with the bodywash he gave me, and it felt nice to wash my hair after the long hot day I had spent in the kitchen. I had an old hairbrush of my own, and as I tiredly braided my hair for sleep, I thought again of why I was here. However, I was just so tired that I decided I would think of it in the morning.
Two weeks passed, and I was firmly ensconced in life in the shelter. Lucille eased up on the three food services, and I alternated between breakfast and lunches but always worked during the dinner service. Within a day of me telling Lucille I had stayed in the room the night before—and I think the fact I didn’t abuse her trust on having the master key—I had an envelope under the bedroom door with my thirty-six dollars back. Also the guy was never seen at the shelter again, and I felt bad, but it wasn’t like he lost a job. I felt bad because Lucille lost a volunteer. Which she told me she didn’t because she gained me
.
So, armed with my thirty-six dollars, I’d gone out and bought a multipack of panties and another bra. I budget shopped, and sure, they would never win me awards for sexiness, but it wasn’t like I had a line of suitors. In a thrift store, I found a pair of pyjama pants and a camisole top for five dollars.
In the kitchen, I had migrated from the sink and the dishwasher to sometimes helping Fred chop vegetables. I was no sous-chef, but it beat rinsing and stacking plates all the time.
The panic from the thought of his return eased, and I was almost lighthearted. My one shopping trip out of the shelter was carried out with pace and purpose. I hadn’t risked going to my alley to check on Jimmy, and I stayed away from the shelter’s clients. Lucille and I had an unspoken agreement that I didn’t bring attention to myself, and I was down with that.
Until the afternoon when I let my guard down. It was stupid. I was careless. I knew better.
“Devon, you turned up so suddenly and fit in so well, yet you never tell us about yourself. Where you from?” Cliff asked me casually. “You local?”
I was happily learning how to julienne and dice carrots without chopping off a finger for the soup, so I was half paying attention. “Local? Not really, born in Nevada,” I answered distractedly.
“Hot.” Cliff grunted. “Hate the damn desert heat myself. You come here for school?”
“I bet it was a man,” Amanda cut in teasingly. “Devon’s so pretty, I bet she moved here for her high school sweetheart.”
“Hardly,” I scoffed as I kept chopping. My high school sweetheart was a complete bastard, and I learned that the hard way.
Beautifully Broken (The Denver Series Book 2) Page 4
