Shadows Gray

by Melyssa Williams

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  When I wake the next morning, I have an idea, as if sleeping has brought me clarity of mind. I will not go on the assumption that Rose is traveling alone, but rather look for other Lost who may know her. She herself may be hard to locate, but perhaps her traveling partners – if they exist – will be easier. Also, I have laundry to do and the Laundromat that I frequent isn’t far from the shelter and the soup kitchen: a good place to start if I hope to find people like me. I skip a shower and instead wash out the sticky strands of hair in the sink, throw on my cleanest clothes, and grab Israel’s car keys on my way out the door. I have only driven once and it was a bit of a disaster (Israel tried giving me a driving lesson once but I nearly hit Gladys’ cat and Is wasn’t the most patient teacher), but I am not going to walk clear across town with three basketfuls of laundry. Typically, Emme and I go together with her mother, Bea, driving because Bea spent quite a few years in her twenties in the 1960s and knows cars. But it doesn’t look that difficult really and since I’m the one who helped Israel study the driver’s manual, I know most of the rules and laws. I see the same cat now as I slide all my laundry in the backseat.

  “Shoo!” I clap my hands at it and slam the door extra hard, hoping to frighten it away. It sits on the curb, washing its paws and eyeing me with its green eyes.

  I have to figure out how to adjust the driver’s seat which takes a minute. Finally, I slide it up quite a ways so that my feet can reach the pedals. Gas on right, brake on left, I take a deep breath. I can’t seem to move the gear shift and then I locate the small button where my thumb should be and press. Still nothing. I press the brake lightly and the button simultaneously and the gear shift jumps several positions. I try it again, putting it back in Park so that I can do it more slowly and make sure I will end up in Drive and not in Reverse or whatever else those other positions perform. What is 1 and 2, I wonder, and Neutral? I don’t remember these from the driver’s manual and I hope with fervor they aren’t necessary to get me to the Laundromat. I edge incredibly slowly away from the curb and even remember to signal, although there is no one behind me or in front of me to see it.

  “Stop watching me, cat,” I mutter, as I pull the Beast into the street. “You’re making me nervous.”

  The whole city seems deserted and whenever I do pass someone I try to look as casual and confident as possible, though I am sweating with nerves and driving at such a crawl I know I probably could have walked it quicker. With each turn or stop I make, I grow a little more confident and by the time I am halfway to my destination, I am calm enough to turn on the compact disk I brought with me. Since I am usually in charge of the music as a passenger in the Blue Beast, I can find the controls without even looking at them, and I turn up Fleetwood Mac good and loud. I also feel confident enough now to pry my let my left hand off the steering wheel and dangle my arm out the window as I drive, and I am doing quite well at this driving thing, I think. I am even feeling a bit smug, maybe even perky, until I get to the street my destinations are on and then I begin to panic a bit; the parking situation is less than ideal. The Laundromat is recessed in the middle of an old brick and mortar building that still has a huge wrap-around sign advertising Woolworths even though there is no Woolworths to be found. The Laundromat itself is being hugged, nearly squeezed to death by the look of it, by a sub sandwich shop on one side and a beauty parlor on the other. Upstairs, two stories high, are what appear to be office buildings or maybe cheap apartments. I cruise by very slowly, trying to determine by craning my neck, if there is an alley or something behind the building that can be used as an alternative to parking besides the blasted street. No such luck for me, and I sigh, as I turn the Blue Beast around the block and try to prepare myself for parallel parking.

  I bite my lip and crawl to a stop in front of the spot that looks the most available: a space between a pickup truck and a van that looks large enough for a tank, yet still too small to wriggle the Beast into properly. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and check the rear view mirror the way I’ve seen Israel do. Parallel parking was in the driver’s manual and I do recall reading it, but the head knowledge doesn’t seem to be helping. I put the Beast into Reverse and crank the wheel, but it takes me a full minute to get up enough courage to release the brake and press the gas. Instantly I know I have turned the wheel in the wrong direction as I am edging away from the sidewalk and the parking space instead of into it. I creep back up to my original starting point and try again, this time turning the wheel the other direction and saying a little prayer. It feels like it takes a week, back and forth, back and forth, inches at a time, but I finally get the car where it needs to go. I am feeling quite pleased with myself as I pull two of my laundry baskets out of the car and slam the door shut with my foot.

  The bells above the doorway to the Laundromat give a rusty jingle as I enter and my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space. I am the only one here at the moment, although a dryer spins noisily nearby with a pink plastic bin bouncing on top. I pick my washers and deposit my coins which had come from my tip jar at the coffee shop. Although the driving and the money and the less than convenient local for my wash day seems like a hassle to some – say, Penny for example – it is worlds better than ways I have previously laundered my clothing. I have spent the largest chunk of my teenage years in the eighteen hundreds; first in Europe as a 13 year old, and then in Portugal later, which was where I went to the little missionary school. Wash day was every Monday and without Prue’s capable hands and knowledge, Dad and I would have worn dirty clothes every day, for it was such a difficult and time consuming chore. Just fetching the water took the whole morning and I remember trying to keep up with Prue and her thick, strong legs as we went back and forth from the river to the copper, the big cauldron that was the laundry’s ultimate destination. By noon time, my shoulders and back were aching and my fingers were cramping from grasping the buckets so tightly. Dad would chop wood almost all day long, stoking the fire between his chopping and taking swigs from an always present bottle of homemade whiskey. Why we gave him an ax I will never know, but desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose. Then came the scrubbing part, with lye soap, that hurt the calluses on my hands that had formed from carrying the buckets, the wringing, the hanging out to dry along all the trees, and my least favorite part of all: the sewing on of all the buttons we had removed so they wouldn’t be lost or broken during the scrubbing. I can’t say why I hated that part the most; I think it was because we were almost done, almost finished, the hard part over, the water tipped over and spilled out, the fire dying down, supper in sight, and still we had these blasted buttons. Prue, in spite of her large overworked hands, has nimble fingers with a needle and she is a taskmaster when it comes to needlework. I always and forever wanted to rush though it, sewing on buttons willy-nilly, not caring what it looked like or if they lined up properly on the clothing. After all, we’d rip them all off next Monday anyway, so what was the point? But Prue liked things done properly and neatly and if I slacked off, if my stitches were too large and not pulled tightly enough or the button too wobbly, she’d pull it out and make me start anew. I would sit there, daydreaming of being brave enough to not obey Prue’s commands, and make my fingers pull that needle in and out, in and out, spurred on by the smell of biscuits and last night’s ham and fresh tea brewing. The sun would be gone by the time we finished, and supper never tasted as good any other day of the week as it did on Mondays. I finger my blouse’s buttons now, remembering, as I watch my pile of clothes toss merrily in the washing machine in front of me, turning and spinning in the suds. If only someone had invented washing machines earlier, I think; but no, as much as I hated Mondays back then, I love the memories of them just as fiercely now. I can still feel those calluses on my palms and fingers, phantom leftovers from memories past.

  Chapter Nine

  I leave my clothes spinning and tumbling around and walk back out in the sunshine for the shelter and soup kitche
n, which is only a block away. I admire my parking job again as I walk by the Blue Beast. It’s a warm day and my plaid woolen skirt itches my thighs, and I realize the last time I wore the skirt I had worn it with winter tights. A woolen skirt is not the smartest thing to be wearing in late summer but I haven’t washed my clothes in nearly two weeks and it’s the only clean thing I had to put on this morning. Besides, I think it dresses up my plain white cotton blouse nicely, although I suspect Meli will find something wrong with it and purse her lips and sigh when she sees me.

  The shelter and soup kitchen is a place I know quite well, though I haven’t dropped by in quite a while. When we first arrived here we spent long hours here, eating a free meal, sometimes serving to help out, and playing Checkers with other people who were down on their luck as well. Prue spiced up the lunches, bullying her way into the kitchen, and Dad and Matthias and Harry would make friends as they sat on the hard plastic chairs, sipping coffee and telling stories. Israel was the only one who never spent too much time in this place, instead he spent his time around other parts of town, looking for houses cheap enough to rent or merely squat in for a time, and trying to make connections with doctors who might give him a job or teach him the practice of medicine.

  I swing open the large, doublewide glass doors and the familiar smell of potatoes, hot steam, chicken, boiled vegetables, and cleaning supplies hits my nose. The long tables are clean and empty, the chairs all pushed in neatly. It is only late morning and the only people here will be Jim, the director, and all his volunteers, getting ready to serve the lunch crowd. Jim is a heavy set, jovial man, with a large nose, pink cheeks and frizzy, wiry, white hair. He is upbeat and comical and nothing ever gets him down. He was threatened with a knife once long ago, from a homeless man who was high and angry, and Jim still goes each weekend to visit him in prison, bringing him leftovers from the soup kitchen wrapped in foil. I hear they are now good friends.

  I spot Jim now, moving in the back of the kitchen at a speed that is surprising for a man his bulk. He claps his workers on their backs and spurs them on as he makes his rounds, checking the food, the ovens, and the dishwashing station. As he slings a white dishtowel over his shoulder, he spots me and shouts merrily.

  “Sonnet Gray! Is that you? Are you on the schedule today? It must be our lucky day!” he beams and steps out of the kitchen towards me, where I am waiting and smiling by the salad bar.

  “No, I’m not on the schedule but I’ll help out if you like,” I embrace him fondly. “I’m doing my laundry and wanted to stop by and say hello. How are things?” I pop a carrot in my mouth from the salad bar and he shakes his finger at me playfully.

  “Now, now, that carrot is going to cost you two hours of manual labor, young lady! Suit up! You know where the aprons are.” Jim shoos me towards the kitchen and I obey, grabbing a long white apron as I pass them on their hooks. I have worn my Budweiser cap this morning, so I can skip the hairnet, which is a plus.

  “Any new regulars?” I ask, busying myself by pulling out huge stacks of white plates and setting them on the counter. “Say, a girl about my age, blond hair, my eyes, red dress?”

  Jim is counting plates for a moment and does not answer. “We need bowls too. Clam chowder today,” he responds. “Umm, blond hair, blue eyes, huh? Well, we’ve been busy lately, lots of newbies. It’s been a good summer for camping and hiking and hitchhiking, so we’ve had a run of those types. Been so busy actually, I haven’t had time to meet everyone. But I guess if she’s real regular I’d know her alright. If she’s only been here once or twice, she’d have gotten lost in the shuffle. Might ask around.”

  “That’s what I’ll do, thanks, Jim. Serving at noon straight up?”

  He nods, absentmindedly, going back to counting stacks of dishes. The kitchen moves with efficiency, bustling and moving along with its tasks like clockwork. All of Jim’s volunteers are well trained and hustle quickly, baking the chicken, stirring the peas, mashing the instant potatoes, and whisking the gravy. This room, this teamwork, these smells, will be one of the things I remember most about my time in the twenty first century.

  After the dishes are pulled and stacked in convenient rows where the customers can easily access them, I start slicing small squares of chocolate cake and plating them. The rows multiply fast and before I know it I have enough tiny white plates of dessert to feed an army and it’s noon straight up and Jim is propping open the front doors. I lick the frosting off my fingertips and when I catch Jim narrowing his eyes at me for this health code offense, I wash my hands and take my place in line with the other volunteers prepared to dish food and offer small talk. Before I get too busy though, I remember my clothes in the washer across the street and I take a couple minutes to rush across and switch them to the dryer.

  In less than an hour we have served the line of people and although I have greeted several by name as they are regulars and know me, I haven’t served so much as a pea or a pat of butter to my little sister. When everyone is seated and eating, that’s our cue as volunteers to make ourselves a plate of food and join them. I pile mine up with salad and then ladle clam chowder into a bowl. I grab a roll and carry my tray over to an empty seat by two of my favorite people, Margery and Ed, both volunteers. Margery is the sweetest, nicest person you will ever meet, with a high pitched voice and a tendency to wear a lot of costume jewelry. Her husband, Ed, is bald up top but with a long, gray beard and mustache, several tattoos and he is a good 75 pounds overweight, all of it centered in his belly. She looks like someone who attends PTA meetings for fun; he looks like he is in a biker gang. Together they are sweet as pie and if anyone has seen Rose, it’d be these two: they seem to know everyone. I ask the same question I had asked Jim earlier and wait for their answers as I blow on my chowder.

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen her!” Margery chirps, nodding vigorously. “Remember, Ed? She was in here last week, or maybe it was two weeks ago. And I saw her again down by the river when Jim and I took the leftovers to feed the homeless out there. She didn’t want any though, little thing looked at me like I was crazy and like she’d never seen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before. Strangest thing. I wondered if she was on some pills or something, she looked real confused or lost.”

  You don’t know the half of it, I think. Aloud I say, “Do you think she was living out there, by the river?”

  “Well, I don’t know, honey, could be. It’s been a lovely summer so the city has had its fair share of homeless, especially down there where the camping’s good. They’re clearing out now though, the nights are getting colder already.” As if her words were a premonition, Margery pulls her cardigan closer around her shoulders. Ed wraps his arm around her and rubs her arm, never pausing in his chicken eating.

  “Was she alone? Did it seem like she had friends or anyone with her?” I prod.

  “No, no, I don’t think so. There were a lot of people there that day, and here in the soup kitchen that time I saw her here, too. But I got the impression she was alone.”

  “Did you see her, Ed?” I turn my attention to him. It seems as though I’ve gotten all the information I can out of Margery and it’s doubtful her husband will be any more helpful, but I have to try.

  Ed gnaws on his chicken wing bone before responding. “Nah, darlin’, I remember her real vaguely but I didn’t notice any more than Margery did. You say she’s your sister?”

  “Yes, and it’s very important that I find her,” I sigh. “Will you do me a favor? If you ever see again, will you tell her that her sister, Sonnet, and her dad are looking for her? That we’re here and she can find us through Jim?”

  “Sure thing, honey,” Margery says, standing and clearing all of our plates. “Come on now, let’s get that dessert served. I am craving some chocolate!”

  Rather than make everyone line up again and be served in order, Jim likes the volunteers to serve them their cake and coffee at their tables. It also makes for more chitchat, which is almost as important to some as the food. I can f
it 12 small plates of cake on my platter, if I overlap the scalloped edges of the plates a bit, and once it’s balanced on my shoulder, I grab a pot of coffee to bring with me and head over to the table in the back. There’s no one seated there that I know, but I smile and act like I do anyway and serve everyone their cake. The last man that I pour coffee for is dressed in a suit and has one of those Humphrey Bogart type hats on the back of his chair. He is in his thirties he looks like, but it’s an older version of thirty somehow. He looks as though he has done too much living in those years, his eyes are deep and sad looking, with circles under them, and his hair is prematurely turning gray around his temples. He is very thin, painfully so, and his body trembles when I ask him if he’d like another piece of cake. He turns his sad looking eyes on me. He shakes his head, wordlessly dismissing me. But as he reaches for his coffee cup and brings it shakily to his lips, I see something on his left forearm where his sleeves have been rolled up: a five digit number tattoo with a triangle beneath. I know this mark, for Matthias and Harry have it as well, though their numbers are different. It’s a gift from the Nazis at Auschwitz and now I understand the source of some of this young man’s sorrow and trembling. Has he only just left there? I wonder. I reach down and grasp his hand, the one that is not holding his cup, and he looks up at me again, this time in surprise.