Saturday Morning

by Lauraine Snelling

  Officer Langley walked behind her young charge and indicated that she should sit in the chair closest to Hope’s desk. “No. We just hoped you’d have room for her.”

  Hope poised her pen over a pre-printed admittance form. “What’s your name?”

  “Kiss.”

  She wrote the name down, then looked up and saw the girl cross her legs. “Is that your street name?” Kiss shrugged, her skinny shoulders reminding Hope of the way she’d looked at the end of her own street career. “Where are you from?” Something made Hope think the Midwest, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “Just around,” Kiss said, deliberately evasive. She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.

  Hope handed her a tissue.

  A spark of anger widened Kiss’s eyes, which were enlarged by a thick line of black pencil and layers of mascara. “I don’t have to stay here, you know.” Her voice rasped, as if she had a bad cold. She ignored the proffered tissue.

  Hope didn’t let the girl’s obstinacy get to her. In her own special way, she understood how Kiss felt. She tossed the tissue in the trash. “No, you don’t, and nobody will force you. But whether you decide to stay here or not, you might want to take advantage of a hot shower, a decent meal, and a soft bed—all to yourself. No strings attached.”

  “King will come for me.” The tough-toned words belied the hands clenched over her bony knee.

  “King—he’s your pimp?”

  Kiss turned her head and stared at the gold-framed print of the San Francisco Bay.

  Hope glanced at Officer Langley, who nodded and mouthed, He’s bad. Taking a deep breath, Hope scooted her chair back and stood up. “We’ve dealt with King before, Kiss. Tell you what. Let me show you around. You can talk with some of the girls who live here, then decide if you want to stay.” Please, Lord. Help us help this one.

  “I’ll be on my way, then, Hope.” Officer Langley stood and shook Hope’s hand, then touched Kiss’s shoulder. “These people can help you if you let them.”

  Kiss jerked her shoulder. “Fat chance.”

  Hope escorted Officer Langley to her office door. “Come on by the market tomorrow, and I’ll treat you to an elephant ear.”

  “Oh, thanks for reminding me. My son wants to see the clown again. He kept that balloon hat he got last time, until it shriveled down to nothing.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “So what now?” Kiss asked, getting up.

  Hope watched her and wondered what she would look like with out all that makeup, and with her hair clean and soft around her face. “Well, that’s up to you. Once we leave this office, you can either go out the front door and back to your life, or you can come with me and meet some of the other girls.” With a confidence born of experience, Hope walked out into the reception area and headed toward the shelter’s kitchen. She smiled when she heard Kiss’s spike heels tapping after her.

  The J House kitchen was the heart of the shelter. Here the guests worked together, talked, and shared their lives. The walls had been painted sunshine yellow, and the cupboards were the color of light cream.

  “Hi, girls, this is Kiss.” Hope motioned to the two young women chopping vegetables at the counters. Steam rose from a tall pot of some kind of soup, and the aroma of applesauce spiced with cinnamon emanated from another pot on the stove. She sniffed the air. “Whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful.”

  “Thanks,” one of the girls said with a smile. “Welcome, Kiss.”

  “Lunch is at noon, but if you need something now, we’ve got some of last night’s dinner in the fridge.” Hope snatched two pieces of carrot and handed one to Kiss, who shook her head and shrugged—a gesture that seemed to be her main mode of communication.

  Hope kept up the one-way conversation as they climbed the stairs. “Everyone works here at J House. That’s part of the agreement for those who stay. We have schoolrooms, and up here are the dormitories and a few private rooms, where the mothers with young children live.” Hope explained each area as they passed it. “We have room for twenty guests, many of whom are out working right now, since we are sort of a halfway house for those who really want to change their lives.” Oh, my dear little one, I do hope you are one of those.

  While Kiss wasn’t committing to anything by word or gesture, at least she was looking around. If she was feeling anything—anything at all—she was hiding it well. What had happened to her to cause her to be so withdrawn and sullen? Every girl had her own story, some worse than others. Some left before they had a chance to recuperate from their physical and mental wounds, some healed quickly and then left … and some never healed. And some like Celia never left.

  They continued down the hall, Hope leading the way, Kiss following at a safe distance. “Here are the showers,” Hope said, opening the door to a huge bathroom that had been transformed by a former guest into a garden of hand-painted sunflowers. “There’s soap and shampoo, and the towels are over there.” She pointed to a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves. “We ask that you use only one towel, and when you’re finished with it, please dump it in the hamper. While you’re showering, someone will bring you clean clothes.”

  Kiss stepped back. “You’re not going to take these,” she said, sticking her hands in the pockets of her leather short shorts. “These shorts cost me big time.”

  “No one will take them, but after you’ve eaten, you might want to throw them in the wash with the rest of your things. We have washers and dryers in the basement.”

  Kiss walked over to the shelf and grabbed a towel. “I’ll take a shower, but I’m not staying here,” she said, turning to Hope.

  “I see.” Hope glanced down at her watch. “Lunch is at noon if you decide you’re hungry.” She waited a moment, hoping for some response, but when none came, she smiled and left.

  How many times over the last couple of years had she played this wait-and-see game? Dozens. If only there were something she could say or do that—She broke off, laughing at herself. She was doing it again—if onlying.

  Too much coffee leads to indigestion.

  Hope knew no other way around the pressure, or so it seemed lately. She rubbed her midriff and felt a belch rising. Not now. But then, why not now? She was alone in the mauve and gray waiting room, so nobody would hear her. Better now than later, when she was in the middle of a conversation, she thought, putting her hand in front of her mouth to muffle the sound.

  Feeling somewhat better, she eyed the large silver sculpture that stood near the receptionist’s desk. She knew nothing about contemporary art, but knowing Peter, it stood to reason that the sculpture had been created either by one of his clients or by a renowned artist.

  Too bad it didn’t have a brass nameplate, like some of the oils, so she could tell what it was. She cocked her head this way and that to study it from different angles, but she still had no clue as to what it might be. Finally, she gave up and took a recent copy of Architectural Digest off the small glass table next to her chair. The featured homes were like nothing she had ever seen, and some of them were like nothing she ever wanted to see. She quickly thumbed through the pages, hoping to find a house she could relate to, but they were all too formal or too exotic or just “too too.”

  She returned the magazine to its pile and picked up one of the three issues of Smithsonian Magazine. An article on Jamaica caught her eye, and the first line grabbed her and carried her into the story and back to her beginnings.

  “Mr. Kent will see you now.” The svelte personal assistant, or so her nameplate read, appeared as if by magic and nodded toward the double doors leading to Peter’s office.

  Hope debated taking the magazine with her, and begging Peter to give it to her, or leaving it behind. The day’s busy schedule loomed in front of her, telling her there would be no time to finish the article. No surprise there. These days there was hardly time to breathe. She put the magazine down and followed Miss Swaying Hips into Peter’s office. How does she do that?

  �
�Ms. Hope Benson to see you, sir.”

  Hope rolled her eyes. As if Peter didn’t know her name. He had been on the board of directors for J House for over two years. I must be PMSing. She’s new. She doesn’t know me. “Hello, Peter.” Hope crossed to the huge free-form desk. No drawers, no files, just glass, the color of which reminded her of the clear blue waters of Montego Bay, the prettiest bay in all of Jamaica.

  Peter Kent stood up behind his desk. “Good to see you, Hope.”

  He had aged since she’d seen him last. When was it? Three months ago? His dark hair was now silver-streaked, and a once healthy tan now appeared faded and splotchy. Dare she ask after his health? He was a very private man.

  He came around the desk and indicated they should sit in two leather chairs, which bracketed a small table of the same blue glass as the desk. “Let’s sit here, where we can be more comfortable.”

  Hope felt the now familiar heartburn start to creep up her esophagus. Go away!

  “Coffee? Tea? I have iced tea.”

  How about a milk shake of antacid? “Iced tea would be fine,” she said, glad for the offer. “And artificial sweetener, if you don’t mind.” She saw him nod toward his assistant. Miss S.H. nodded back. It wasn’t difficult to spot the resentment in the young woman’s eyes, even through all that mascara. She didn’t appreciate playing maid.

  “So what brings you here today?” As usual, Peter got right to the point.

  In for a dollar, in for a dime. Her mother had loved old sayings. “Peter, are you all right?” she asked, concern overriding polite correctness. “You look … ” She clamped her mouth shut when she saw him glance at Miss S.H., as if to say, Wait till she leaves. So he didn’t want to say anything in front of her.

  As soon as the door closed, Peter answered her question. “I’m happy to say I’m recovering.”

  “I didn’t know you had been ill.” She leaned forward. “What was wrong, if you don’t mind my asking? You know how incredibly nosy I can be.” There were times she wished she weren’t so nosy; this was one of them.

  “I had part of a lung removed. Malignancy.”

  The personal assistant returned a few minutes later and set a small lacquered tray down on the table. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No thank you,” Peter said, flashing her a quick smile. “That will be all for now.”

  Wordlessly, the young woman left the room.

  Hope leaned forward, took a packet of Splenda off the tray, tore it open, and poured it into the tall, frosty glass of tea.

  Peter simply picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

  “Six months ago, if you remember, I would be lighting up about now. But no more. I’ve learned my lesson about smoking.”

  “Oh, Peter, I wish you had let me know.” No wonder she hadn’t heard from him. I should have called when I thought about him.

  “There’s nothing you or anyone could have done.”

  “Sure there is. We could have prayed for you.”

  “Thank you, Hope. I appreciate the thought, but you know how I am. Anyway, I’m doing fine now. God was good to me and gave me a reprieve.” He smiled, leaned against the chair back, and steepled his fingers. “Now, I know you didn’t take time from your crazy schedule to come here and drink iced tea with me. What can I do for you?”

  “How about getting us a million dollars?” she said with a half laugh.

  He tilted his head slightly and raised one eyebrow. “No takers yet, huh?”

  “Not yet.” Hope failed at trapping a sigh. “I admit I’m a little worried.”

  “A little worried?”

  “Okay, so I’m a lot worried,” she amended. “I thought for sure that by now, what with all the letters we’ve put out, someone would have stepped forward to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

  “Retrofitting an old building like J House isn’t cheap, my dear.”

  “But I thought big corporations were always on the hunt for a good tax write-off.”

  “There are a lot of worthy causes out there. You aren’t the only ones seeking help.”

  Hope sighed. “No, I suppose not.” She took a long cooling sip of her drink. “I keep reminding myself that our heavenly Dad owns all the cattle on a thousand hills. I need to ask Him for more help—a big corporate donation for J House and the wisdom for me to not panic.”

  “Wisdom is something I should have asked for a long time ago,” he said, indicating the empty ashtray sitting on the table.

  Hope sucked in a deep breath. “Believe it or not, money isn’t the reason I’m here to … day.” A belch snuck up on her and came out with the word, lowering her voice an octave. “Oh, excuse me. I have a little heartburn.”

  He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. “You’re excused.”

  She pulled three letters from her briefcase and handed them to Peter. “They’re all from the same company. The last one came a couple of days ago, and there’s something about it … Read them in the order they were sent and tell me what you think.”

  He unfolded all three, then arranged them by date. “Blakely Associates,” he said, reading the letterhead. “Never heard of them.” He read the rest of the first letter in silence. “It’s an offer on J House.” He looked up at her. “That’s nothing new. There aren’t many lots the size of yours left on Telegraph Hill. You have a prime building location, especially for condos.”

  “Roger looked them up,” Hope said. “They’re a consortium out of Los Angeles.”

  “Hmm. They’re offering a decent package. You could easily buy another place that didn’t need major repairs.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before, Peter. Yes, we could sell out and move to the Tenderloin, but by being where we are, my girls get away from the street life, and they get a taste of the possibilities of a new life. A move would be disastrous. We’d lose Mai’s restaurant, and you know how many of my girls she hires. And what about the Saturday Market? You’ve seen how that works. It brings the whole neighborhood together. We make a difference where we are, Peter. We make a difference in the lives of the women and girls we take in, and in the lives of our neighbors. A move is out of the question.”

  “You’d think after everything, I wouldn’t forget all of that,” Peter said, looking suitably ashamed of himself. Ever since Hope and her crew had helped his little sister get clean and sober, Peter Kent, attorney at law, had been a strong supporter of Casa de Jesús.

  “Read the other two and tell me if you don’t start to see a difference in tone.”

  Hope watched Peter’s expression change as he read them.

  “I see what you mean. The wording gets stronger in the second letter and almost sounds like a threat in the third.” Holding the third letter, he read several lines aloud, “ ‘We dislike reminding you yet again that the time for negotiating a deal that will give you the means to move and relocate is running out. Be assured that we are aware that on January 1, if you have not begun the necessary repairs, the city of San Francisco will condemn the property and you will be forced to vacate. Rather than wait until that happens, we hope that you will accept this very generous offer.’” He rubbed his chin. “They certainly have all the information correct. This last part, about what they’ll offer once J House is condemned, is sort of unsettling.”

  Hope felt like rubbing her midsection again but refrained. Instead of feeling better, she was feeling worse. “They remind me of vultures waiting for the kill.” Please Lord, I can’t lose J House. Please. You know that’s my dream and reason for being.

  “That’s the way some companies do business.” Peter pulled his PDA from his coat pocket and clicked out the stylus. “I think it’s time for a board of directors’ meeting. How about four o’clock Wednesday?”

  Hope checked her pocket calendar. “Fine with me. Here or at J House?”

  “Here. I’ll have dinner brought in. In the meantime, I’ll do a little digging and see if I can find out why Blakely Associates wants J House so much.”


  Hope thought about walking back to the shelter, but she caught the bus instead. She greeted the driver, found an empty seat, and nodded to the petite Japanese woman sitting next to her. “Konnetchewa, obasan.” Hope said, using the traditional Japanese greeting.

  “Hai.” The woman sketched a slight bow, then in perfect English said, “Thank you for speaking my language.”

  Hope returned the bow. “You are most welcome.”

  An elderly man, who lived in Hope’s neighborhood and sometimes attended Sunday services at J House, got on the bus at the next stop. “Hey, Hope. Good to see you.” He smiled as he found a seat.

  “And you,” Hope returned, trying to remember his name.

  “You have a good name,” Hopes seatmate said, nodding.

  “I thank my mother for that.” Times like this, Hope was grateful she’d learned greetings in several of the many languages spoken in San Francisco.

  “I get off next.” The little lady stood and gathered her parcels.

  “Sayonara.”

  Hope smiled after the woman, then settled into her thoughts. Thanks, Big Dad, for Peter and for all those You bring our way. She blew out a breath at the fumes seeping in the window. Kiss, what am I to do with her? Lord, please get her to stay long enough for us to help her.

  Knowing her stop was coming up, Hope stood and made her way to the front of the bus. “Thanks, Juan. You’re the best driver in all of San Francisco.”

  “You take care now.” The bus driver waved a good-bye. She stood on the sidewalk and waited for the signal to change. She only had a couple of blocks to walk, but they were uphill, and she wasn’t feeling her best today.

  The common room rang with the laughter of playing children, led by one of the younger women who was well on her way to a second month of clean and sober living and a fifth month of impending motherhood.