by Judy Clemens
“Don’t make me wait.”
“I won’t.”
He left her there and walked across the cracked pavement, up the rise to the restaurant. Casey looked down the street toward what appeared to be the center of town. Glanced at the sky. Still no more rain. And getting on toward late afternoon.
She was tired of sitting.
Climbing back up into the cab—holding her breath in an attempt not to hyperventilate—she pulled her backpack from its crevice, found another crumpled twenty in her pocket, and wedged it into a corner of the CD player. The trucker should find it there.
By the time she’d made it partway down the street, to where she would turn a corner and be out of sight, she looked back to see the truck pulling out of the parking lot, headed her way. She ducked behind a tree to watch him go by.
He didn’t even glance in her direction.
The old Midwestern town—Clymer, Ohio—was like many she’d seen already that day. Clean, quaint, but basically deserted. No mad rush of workers making their way home after a long day, or even neighbors talking in their yards. But she did come across an old-fashioned pharmacy, a bakery, a bank, and what looked like a seller of antiques.
A block past the center of town—a stoplight and Walk/Don’t Walk signs—she stopped and stared at a church, its sign proclaiming, “Strangers Welcome,” and “Feeling the heat? Try Prayer-Conditioning.” Casey let her eyes roam over the thick stone walls and up the front peaked roof to the bell tower. A chill ran through her, and she glanced sideways.
“Beautiful building.” Death stood beside her, hands linked loosely in front. “Do beautiful things happen inside?”
Casey shifted on her feet. “I don’t know. They could.”
“But you’re not going in.”
“It doesn’t look open.”
“Um-hmm.” A smile played on Death’s lips. “I don’t suppose you’ve tried the door.”
“Well…”
“I’m just saying…” The smile widened.
“You’re always ‘just saying.’ It would be a lot easier if you would ‘just do’.” The heat in her own words surprised her, and she swallowed forcefully.
Death’s eyebrows rose. “And here I thought I’d done more than enough.”
“Oh, you’ve done plenty.”
“But not lately. Not for you.”
Casey balled her hands into fists, her arms stiff at her sides.
Death turned to look down the street, at the businesses and homes. “It’s interesting to be in this town. It’s not unfamiliar to me.”
Casey jerked her head around. “What? You mean recently?”
Death shrugged. “Why do you think we chose this town to stop in?”
“We? What do you mean we? I—” A hot breeze hit Casey’s face, and she closed her eyes against the hair that had come loose from her ponytail. When she opened them, only a sense of displacement hovered around her.
She spun in a circle, grasping at the space. “You come back here. You come back!”
But the air, suddenly stilled, remained empty.
Casey rubbed her eyes, hard, and let out a deep sigh. Shaking her head and clenching her jaw, she continued down the street, muttering under her breath. In a few steps she was walking past an old movie theater, the kind with the ticket booth out front under the marquee. And then she smelled it. Something good. Stew, maybe? Or roast beef?
She followed the scent until she came to a place with Home Sweet Home painted on the window. She peered in the glass. Long tables, folding chairs…a soup kitchen? She stepped back and took another look at the empty street. Would a town this size have a homeless population? It was hard to imagine. She turned back to the building and tried to open the door, but the handle remained stiff under her fingers. Locked.
Shading her eyes with her hands, she leaned closer to the glass door and searched for any sign of people. She saw only one. A young man, his skin pale under the fluorescent lights, straightening chairs and picking up the occasional piece of trash.
Casey tapped on the glass, and he looked up. Seeing her, he left the chairs and came to the door, opening it. “Sorry. Supper’s not for…” He looked at his watch. “Another forty-five minutes. Five-o’clock.”
“I’m not here to eat. I was wondering if I might help serve.”
He took in her clothes and backpack, ending at her face. She couldn’t have deteriorated that much since she’d washed at the truck stop. Could she?
“Well, come on in. We can always use another pair of hands.” He held the door open wider, and she scooted past him, noting the fresh fragrance of laundry and something heavier. Cologne. But not a familiar kind. Once inside, the smell of the food was almost overwhelming, and the man’s scent was erased.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Um. Casey Smith.”
He nodded, his hazel eyes dancing. “All right, Ms. Smith. Nice to meet you. I’m Eric. Eric Jones.” He smiled, exposing perfectly straight and white teeth.
Casey couldn’t help but answer with a smile of her own. A small one.
“Actually,” Eric said, “my last name’s VanDiepenbos, but don’t tell anyone. It’s too hard for them to remember. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been called.”
Casey held up two fingers. “I promise.”
“Why don’t you help me straighten up these chairs, first. Here, I’ll take your backpack into the staff room.”
She hesitated.
“It’ll be safe. Really. We keep it locked all the time. There’s even lockers if you want to use one.”
With a mixture of relief and anxiety she unloaded her burden and handed it over to Eric. To this young man, at least a decade younger than she ever remembered being.
While he was gone she studied the room. The tables were laid with brightly colored tablecloths. Blue and pink and yellow. Like a birthday party. Vases of plastic flowers decorated every section. Pretty flowers, clean and cheerful. This was unlike any homeless shelter Casey had ever seen.
Eric returned, and together they picked up trash and straightened chairs.
“It’s supper only,” Eric told her. “We’d like to do more, but it’s hard to find enough food for the meals we do, let alone a supply of volunteers. The Missionary church down the street offers lunches on Wednesdays, but other than that people need to fend for themselves.”
Casey could feel his eyes on her face, as if gauging her reaction.
“Really,” she said. “I’m not here to eat.”
She could tell he didn’t believe her, but there was nothing she could do about that. “I’m curious…”
“About what?”
“You’ve got a small town here. I didn’t see… Do you have that many homeless people? Folks who need meals?”
He squatted to pull a wadded napkin from under a table. “Not homeless, necessarily. But we’ve added a lot of place settings during the past year. And it’s only going to get worse with the plant leaving.”
“What plant?”
He stood up. “You’re not from around here?”
She shook her head.
“I should’ve figured that. Sorry.”
“What plant?” she said again.
“The one on the edge of town. HomeMaker. It’s closing. Moving to Mexico, actually. About a quarter of the employees were laid off last Christmas—nice time for that, huh?—and it’s shutting down completely within three months. This town, it’s just going to— Anyway, we’ve got lots more people coming for supper than we had even six months ago. But not any more supplies. People can’t afford to feed their families, let alone have anything left over to give away.”
“What happened? With the plant?”
He held out a trash bag and she dumped her handful of garbage into it. “The usual. You know. The union wants more money, better wages for the workers. The owners say, ‘screw you,’ and move to Mexico to get the tax breaks and cheap labor. Nothing new.” He tied the top of the trash bag and heaved
it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll put you to work with the food.”
Casey followed him through a narrow door into a steaming hot kitchen. A skinny elderly woman stood at a stove in an apron, her hair scraped back into a hairnet as she stirred something in a big pot. Her coffee-colored skin shone in the moist heat, and she wiped at her forehead with her sleeve.
“Loretta, this is Casey. She’s going to help out with serving tonight.”
Loretta glanced up. “Well, thank you Jesus, that’s good of her, um-humm. You just make yourself at home, baby, okay? Praise God!”
Casey met Eric’s eye, and he turned, smiling, to the other person in the room. “Johnny, this is Casey.”
Johnny grabbed Casey’s hand and shook it enthusiastically, his smile almost as wide as his face. His eyes had the slant of Down’s Syndrome, and he stood several inches taller than Eric. He was stockier, too. “Eric always finds nice ladies to help,” Johnny said. “I wrap all the silverware in the napkins. Everyday.” He waited expectantly.
Casey cleared her throat. “I’m sure you do a great job with that, Johnny.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I do. I’m the best at it, want to see?”
“Well. Sure.”
He bounded back to his station and returned, clasping a smooth bundle of silverware encased in a white paper napkin. “You see? You put the knife at the back, then the fork, then the spoon so they fit together right, and then you put them in the middle of the napkin and wrap the napkin around them. I’m the best at it.”
“I can see you’re very experienced.”
“I’m the best.”
“Okay.” Eric clapped Johnny on the shoulder. “Better get back to work, buddy. The folks will be here before too long and we want to be ready for them.”
“Oh, yes, Eric, yes, we do. I’ll get to work. I’ll do them all. I’m—”
“—the best at it. Yes, you are.”
Johnny smiled angelically, gave Eric a bone-crushing hug, and lumbered back to his spot.
Eric grinned. “I love my crew.”
“I can see why.”
“Now.” Eric clapped his hands together. “You and I can set out the bread.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a dozen baskets. “Line these with those linen napkins over there. You can use that counter.”
Casey washed her hands at the large metal sink, then took the baskets and set them in a row, flapping open the white squares of fabric. Eric followed, removing sliced bread from plastic bags and filling the baskets.
“Homemade bread?” Casey asked.
“Day old, from the bakery down the street. Or two days old. Still good. Better than store-bought. Plus, it’s free. You want to cover the bread with the extra napkins?”
She did, and they carried them out to place them on the tables, along with economy-sized tubs of margarine.
Movement at the front caught her eye, and Casey saw faces at the glass of the door. “Guests?”
Eric turned. “Yup. It’s almost five. Why don’t you let them in?”
She went to open the door and stood back as a family of five eased past her, the three young children studying her with an uncomfortable intensity. Casey took another step back. The parents glided by without a glance, their eyes on the floor. Casey peeked out the door, but seeing no one else, shut it and went back to the kitchen, passing the family, who’d seated themselves at the far end of the first table.
Eric stood beside the open refrigerator door in the kitchen. “Here.” He took out a tub of peaches and set them next to some spotted bananas on the counter. “Cut these up and arrange them on these trays.”
“How—”
“Doesn’t matter. Just in slices. You can divide the bananas into quarters, maybe. Leave them in the peels.”
“Where are you going?”
“To greet the folks. They’re used to seeing me. I like to at least say hello.”
“They didn’t say anything to me.”
“No.” He smiled sadly. “They wouldn’t. It’s been…” He stopped.
“What?”
“Oh. Difficult.”
“With them losing their jobs?”
“Sure. Yes. That’s been really hard.”
There was more, Casey could read it in the tightness of his jaw. But Eric wasn’t saying anything else.
Casey watched him go, the stiffness of his shoulders the only other clue of his discomfort. Of some kind of pain.
This town is not unfamiliar to me. Death’s face hovered before Casey’s.
“Eric!”
He stopped in the doorway, his face turned back toward her, eyes wary. “Yeah?”
“Oh. It’s nothing. Never mind.” Yes, Eric, Death told me a few minutes ago that…
He continued on.
The dining room soon filled, and Casey stayed busy helping Loretta serve the beef and vegetable soup (low on both beef and vegetables), mopping up a glass of spilled milk, and refilling the bread baskets, until the bread was gone. There was even dessert—day old cookies and brownies from the bakery, along with the remainder of a birthday cake. Casey wondered if the bakers got some kind of a tax break with all of their donations, or if they gave out of the goodness of their hearts. Perhaps both.
The guests ranged in age from an infant, still at his mother’s breast, to a man so old he needed help guiding his spoon to his mouth. There must have been sixty-five people around the tables, but from the noise level Casey would have guessed fewer. The lack of volume disturbed her, as if these people had no energy left to do anything but fill their stomachs. Had this room sounded like this a year ago? Or before last Christmas? A sudden cry rent the air, and Casey swallowed the lump in her throat as the young mother paused in her own eating to hold her baby over her shoulder and pat his back.
Eric came to stand beside Casey, an empty bread basket under his arm.
“It’s nice of his daughter to help him eat,” Casey said, indicating the old man, and the woman beside him.
“Oh, she’s not his daughter. He doesn’t have any family around. She’s his neighbor. Brings him along with her every day. Or the days he feels good enough, anyway.”
“Where’s his family?”
His face tightened. “Left at Christmas, when Karl kicked them out.”
“Karl? Who’s Karl?”
“What?” Eric blinked. “Oh, Karl Willems. He’s the CEO of HomeMaker. Made the final decision to move HomeMaker out of the country.”
Families were beginning to clear out now, bobbing their heads and mumbling thanks to Eric as they left. Casey watched him do his best to make eye contact with them, even hunkering down to talk with the kids, one of whom hit him on the head with one of Johnny’s carefully wrapped silverware bundles. The mother, horrified, snatched her child from the floor and hustled out the door. Eric saw the last of the guests out and locked the door before heading back toward the kitchen, rubbing his head.
Casey grinned. “Need an ice pack?”
“I’m going to have to ask Johnny to double-wrap the children’s forks and spoons. Come on, let’s see what he’s up to.”
They found him standing beside Loretta at the sink, a dishtowel in his hand as he lectured her about silverware and the best way to clean it. Together the two of them had already made quite a dent in the washing. Reassured that things were in hand, Eric led Casey back out to the dining room, where they cleared the tables, wiped down the tablecloths, and began picking up trash.
“Whoops,” Eric said, glancing at the clock. “I gotta go. Have something at seven, and I’ve got ten minutes to get there.”
Casey saw with surprise that time had, indeed, flown by. “I’ll finish up here.”
“You don’t have to. I usually do it the next day, like you helped with earlier.”
“I don’t mind. Really.” It’s not like she had anywhere to go.
“Oh. Well, all right. Thanks.” He jogged to the kitchen and came back out with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He paused at the front door, his han
d on the latch. “Thanks for helping tonight. It was…fun.”
Casey regarded him. “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me be a part of it.”
“Loretta can open the staff room for you to get your bag when you’re ready.” He looked out the front door, then back again. “If you’re around tomorrow…”
“I’ll try to come back. If I’m still in town.”
“Okay. Good.” He gave her another one of his blinding smiles, although this time Casey could see the events of the past two hours reflected in his eyes. “See you around, then, Casey Smith.”
She nodded. “Mr. Jones.”
And he was gone.
Chapter Four
The door locked behind Casey with a snap, and she stood on the sidewalk, her backpack resting on the ground beside her.
When Casey had finished cleaning the dining room, Loretta (Hallelujah! Praise God!) had insisted on feeding her before letting her leave. Casey didn’t argue. There was just enough leftover soup for the three of them, and even a little fruit. Johnny cheerfully slurped his way through his bowl after bestowing Casey with a set of silverware. She had thanked him solemnly, and he sat next to her so closely she couldn’t move her left arm.
“Birthday cake for the nice lady,” Johnny said when she was done, handing her a corner piece with a wilted icing flower.
“Thank you. Who’s birthday was it? One of the children?”
“Oh, no, baby,” Loretta said. “It was Eric’s, the dear boy.”
“And how old is he?”
Johnny pursed his lips, and Loretta stared at Casey’s cake. “Somewhere in his twenties. Or is he thirty now? He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but he’s such a precious child of God we didn’t want to miss it. Thank you Jesus!”
Casey ate her cake, but didn’t ask any more questions.
Now she stood outside after retrieving her bag from the locker room, and for the second time in one day she had a full belly. The air in the darkening evening had chilled, and Casey pulled a jacket from her pack, zipping it up to her chin. She looked back into the building, but the lights were off, and everything was quiet.
Time to find somewhere for the night.
