Wheels (Tabor Heights Year Two)

by Michelle Levigne

  "Can't call it 'annual' until it's been done at least three years in a row," she cut in. "Learned that in journalism school."

  "Hey, I'm the professional here. Don't give up your day job. As I was saying, the first Handicap Awareness Walk. Or should we call it a Roll? A lot of the volunteers will be in chairs. They may be gullible do-gooders, but they ain't stupid."

  "Somebody has an attitude here."

  "You could call it that." He gave her an abbreviated, sitting bow. "I hate gimp movies. Never saw 'The Other Side of the Mountain,' and I won't even let the video tape into the house. Although Claire tricked me into seeing 'Joni.' Nope, 'Inside Moves' is more my style. Or maybe Iron Man -- the comic books, when Stark ends up in a wheelchair for a while. But anyway," he hurried on, when Natalie opened her mouth to offer her opinion of Marvel Comics -- she suspected he knew that. "Anyway, we're going to roll through town Saturday, checking out the sidewalk ramps and accessibility of bathrooms and public buildings, and try to educate people."

  "And at the end of the day, after passing out flyers advertising the dinner and show -- featuring you, of course -- you lure people into the Mission, where you'll be set up to educate them one-on-one."

  "End of story."

  "For now."

  "Why do I have the feeling I should be scared?" he muttered.

  "Do you have a guilty conscience?"

  "I don't think I should answer that question."

  "That answers the question." She picked up her notebook and pretended to glance through it. "Gee, you haven't answered a single one of my questions yet. What am I going to do with you, being so uncooperative?"

  "Put me up on blocks and take out my center bolt?" Tommy waggled his eyebrows at her and clasped his hands under his chin. "Please? Oh, pretty please?"

  They were still laughing when Franky banged on the door once and shoved it open. From his lack of reaction, he definitely hadn't noticed Natalie in the doorway.

  "Oooh, big time comedy career," she remarked, when Tommy introduced Franky as his driver. "A chauffer and everything."

  "Not quite," Franky said, shrugging. He seemed to be more fascinated with the floor than looking at either of them. "I'm just filling in. Usually Paul drives Tommy around. I'm working at the Mission."

  "Yeah, what do you do?"

  "Whatever needs doing. Getting my feet under myself." He flicked a glance at Tommy.

  "Nope, didn't tell her a thing. It's up to you," Tommy said.

  "About what? Or shouldn't I ask?" Natalie said.

  "Natalie is a reporter for America's Voice, and she'll be hanging around through the weekend, covering the awareness walk and everything we're doing," he explained. "Might as well tell her now, yourself, instead of having her find out from someone else."

  "Someone who isn't so nice about it, you mean." Franky nodded. "I'm an ex-con. Open Doors prison ministry got me a place to stay in Tabor. I'm going to school and attending church and working at the Mission. Custodian stuff. Errands. Whatever needs doing."

  "Wow," Natalie murmured. "The Mission really does hit all spectrums of life, doesn't it?"

  Franky attempted a smile, probably reassured by her lack of reaction.

  *****

  "You're kind of quiet," Franky said, once the van exited the off-ramp from I-71 and headed down Sackley Road towards the Hyburg-Tabor Heights border.

  "Lots to think about." Tommy lifted his head and rubbed at his temples. He had worked himself into a headache. There was something about Natalie that gnawed at him, a sense that they had met before, but he couldn't seem to resurrect the memory or latch onto any detail that would help him pinpoint the time and place. It irritated him.

  "Good show?"

  "What do you think?" He tipped his head to one side, using the rearview mirror of the van to see Franky's face, several feet in front of him. "Didn't you see my act?"

  "Umm… no. Sorry. I just needed some fresh air. That place reminded me too much of -- well -- I don't know."

  "Where you used to hang?" Tommy guessed. He met Franky's gaze in the mirror. "Sorry, didn't even think of where I was asking you to go."

  "No, it's cool. You don't have to worry about that."

  "But if doing me a favor puts you back in a place you don't want to be, that's not good."

  "It's cool." They slid up to a stoplight and Franky looked over his shoulder. His wide eyes made a lie of his lopsided grin. "I was glad to help you." He glanced forward, then back to Tommy. "So, who's the girl you were talking to?"

  "Like I said, a reporter."

  He shrugged, his grin wobbling for a few seconds. "Guess I wasn't really listening. Don't know what's wrong with my head."

  Something about the crackle in Franky's voice -- and now that he thought about it, the forced casualness of his first question -- made Tommy think he was relieved to get that particular answer.

  "Yeah, like I said, she works for America's Voice and she's covering the awareness campaign." Tommy leaned back in his chair. "Why? Did you think maybe you recognized her?"

  "Me? Nah. Where would I have met a girl who looks like her, anyway?" He grinned and turned around to drive.

  Definitely he was relieved that the light had turned green. Tommy knew Franky thought he had recognized Natalie. Gut instinct and warnings from Paul and Franky's counselor at Open Doors told him not to push for information. If they were going to help Franky get used to being out in the "real world," they would have to let him go at his own pace. That meant letting him choose when or if to confide in them.

  That didn't mean Tommy couldn't talk to others about Franky's actions and words and put them on the alert.

  Weird -- he thought he had recognized Natalie, and now it looked like Franky thought he knew her. What were the chances?

  Unless Natalie had an evil twin? Tommy grinned, feeling the little buzz in his brain that meant he was on the verge of going off on a tangent, making wild associations and coming up with a fun, sometimes downright warped, routine. Sure to fry someone's brain.

  But that didn't mean he shouldn't confront Natalie tomorrow and talk with her for a while, to help him figure out where he had seen her. Otherwise this sense of recognition would nag and nibble at him until he got a blister on his brain.

  Wednesday, September 16

  Claire Hunter didn't recognize Natalie when they were introduced the next morning. Of course, part of that could be blamed on how busy the phones were at the Mission. Even before Natalie crossed the lobby from the front door and stepped into the office of the former elementary school, she heard the phones ringing. Claire was distracted.

  Sitting back and looking around the office, Natalie calculated her chances of either Donnelly sibling suddenly remembering who she was. The longer it took one of them to remember her from Owens Forge, the more awkward it would seem when the truth came out. Unless she just resolved to pretend she didn't remember them, either? That way, if she decided they weren't ready to be reunited with their father, nothing would have to change. Unless of course she decided they were ready -- but how exactly was she supposed to do that without asking them some questions that someone who had just met them wouldn't be able to ask?

  "Oh what a tangled web we weave," she murmured.

  Just how was she supposed to bring up the subject of their shared past and their father's repentance and longing for a reunion if she did decide they were ready? Maybe she could pretend she had been so busy with everything else, she hadn't put the pieces together, hadn't recognized them any more than they recognized her? Maybe she could contact them a few weeks later, claiming after everything calmed down she had done some background checks, she realized who they were? Gee, guess what? My dad has been in contact with your dad. He's really a great guy, not the self-righteous jerk who abandoned you. Could you give him a second chance?

  "Worth a try." Natalie glanced at Claire, still on the phone, and her face warmed. Having the reporter who wanted an inside look at all the work going into the handicap awareness campaig
n talking to herself would not be a confidence-booster.

  For now, she would stick with silence and pretending she didn't recognize them. Then she wouldn't have to confess to Tommy that she had had the most awful, excruciating crush on him when they were children. Because how could she forget the guy who had filled her every waking thought for most of her young life?

  Easier said than done, she mused, as Claire finished the phone call and turned to face her with an apologetic smile.

  "I suppose the most obvious question to ask is how I got involved in handicapped rights." Claire gestured at the bottle of raspberry tea sitting on a little stone coaster next to her computer. "Can I get you something to drink before we get going?"

  "I'm good." Natalie picked up the super-size cup of sweet tea she had picked up on the walk she took around town this morning, just to get familiarized with the layout. "And I'm not going to ask that question, because the answer can be summed up in one word, starting with T."

  "True."

  "But at the same time there has to be more than just frustration with how inconsistent municipalities and businesses are in enforcing and obeying the Americans with Disabilities Act."

  "You have to wonder sometimes how much research the lawmakers did, and how many physically handicapped people they actually consulted, when they passed some of those laws. Yes, it's nice having extra-wide parking spaces near the doors, especially when it's raining or there are five inches of frozen slush to contend with, and you have a wheelchair ramp that sticks out almost as far as the van. But the enforcement leaves a lot to be desired. What we need is what we have to do ourselves -- make people aware.

  "I can't count how many times I've pulled into a parking spot marked for a van, and by the time I get out and slide open the door to lower the ramp, someone pulls into the spot that is clearly marked with diagonal yellow lines, meaning don't park there. One time, this oblivious jerk pulled in so close, he actually snagged my shirt with his side mirror. I got so angry, as he swung his door open to get out of the car, I actually unfolded the ramp, stopping it just short of hitting his window and blocking him in. Of course, the one who's in the wrong is always the loudest and in his case, the most foul-mouthed. Tommy wheeled up to the doorway and leaned out and drowned him out, pointing out the very visible sign in front of his car that even said, no parking. Do you know what that idiot said, when we had proof that he was in the wrong?"

  "He threatened to sue you if you didn't get out of his way? Did you come back to your van to find it keyed?" Natalie guessed.

  "We've had that happen after altercations." Claire sighed and leaned back in her desk chair. "He said he knew the owners of the shopping center didn't care… ahem… diddly squat about the handicap parking regulations, and nobody was going to ticket him. If we didn't want to be blocked in, we had to move, because he wasn't."

  "What did you do?"

  "I just stood there. Tommy, who can out-lie every politician ever born, told him we were friends with one of the owners, and offered to call and have him come enforce the shopping center's policy. When potty-mouth called Tommy a liar, Tommy started lowering the lift."

  "Scratched the jerk's paint?" Natalie was surprised and amused to realize she hoped that was what happened.

  "He shrieked so loudly, we got the attention of people in the parking lot, including a police officer. Most of them were on our side, and they got loud enough, potty-mouth got back in his car and drove away. After a couple people pulled out their cell phones and took pictures of him, his car and license plate, and warned him that if there was any damage to our van, they would testify that he did it."

  "Was there damage to the van when you came out?"

  "Not that time." She sighed, eyes crinkling up in silent laughter. "Our biggest challenge is that people either don't know what the laws are, or they don't know why the laws are there, or they're so concerned about their own convenience that they think their rights are being violated if someone else gets preferential treatment. Over at Heinke's, they put in special parking spots marked for expectant mothers, and some self-centered idiots threatened to sue them for giving -- get this -- preferential treatment to people who shouldn't leave their houses if they weren't able to handle the walk from their car to the store."

  "They didn't actually follow through and sue, did they?" Natalie almost held her breath. She was grateful she was tape-recording this. She certainly couldn't write all this down as fast as she needed.

  "The Picayune is an incredible newspaper. They pick up all the little sub-currents and odd stories that give you the real flavor of this town. They heard about the threats and did a survey of people in town, to see what our residents felt about the issue. It turns out, the loudest voices protesting the special treatment didn't even live in Tabor. They were from Akron, in town for some high school sporting event, and in a bad mood because their son or daughter hadn't won whatever race or game they were in."

  "Some people," she said on a groan.

  "Exactly. And that's why we need the education, along with the accessibility modifications. We have to train people to see that they aren't being inconvenienced by reserved parking, or ramps that take up three times as much room as steps, or drinking fountains that stick out another two feet so someone in a wheelchair can roll up to them. It's a matter of making the playing field a little smoother, not blocking people from the playing field so others can play--"

  "Or changing the game altogether? Do you ever hear from people who were anti-wheelchairs, until they ended up in wheelchairs themselves?" Natalie scribbled a note to herself to do research in that area, for a sidebar piece. Hal was going to be ecstatic when she gave him all her ideas for follow-up. He loved taking on causes.

  "No. But then again, we haven't been around that long. When Tommy first landed in his wheelchair, some of his therapists tried to encourage him and yet warn him not to get his hopes up, either. They told him about how he wouldn't be able to go into some restaurants or theaters or sports arenas, because they weren't accessible. Then they would add that more places were being adapted, as the population aged and became disabled in one form or another, and their families or employers made changes. They mentioned some people who had to sue because they were fired when they couldn't perform their jobs anymore without simple adaptations -- not expensive, inconvenient adaptations -- their employers weren't willing to make. Other people had to sue when they couldn't travel around their neighborhoods because there weren't any ramps at intersections." She frowned thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, Tommy might have heard stories where people who were most vocal against changes became the most vocal for changes, when they needed them."

  "That might make a good story all on its own," she mused.

  "Hmm, maybe. You should ask Tommy about some of the hypocrisy and outright stupidity he's run into. Friends would drive him around in their own cars, not using our van, and they would be so busy getting him out of the car and into the wheelchair, they wouldn't hang up the handicapped parking tag right away. It never failed, some gung-ho cop would ticket them, even though he could see they had a gimp in the car. Or cite them for double-parking, because they took too long in the drop-off area." Claire shook her head, her smile a little weary. "The world is a strange place, and looks and acts even stranger when you're looking at it from doorknob level."

  "I noticed the gimp zone signs hanging around here. Did Tommy put them up?"

  "Amazingly, no." Her smile brightened. "Paul, my husband, put them up soon after he joined us and started on all the renovations. Tommy was actually speechless. It usually takes a while, a lot of exposure, before someone 'gets' him like that."

  "Paul must be pretty special. I take it he and Tommy get along?"

  "A little too well, if you ask me." She sighed as the phone rang. "Excuse me. If you weren't here, it would be deader than a tomb." She reached for the phone. "Good morning, you've reached the Mission." She frowned. "Board of Health certificates? Of course we have our-- We are not bringin
g in any infectious diseases, if that's what you're inferring." Claire reached for a notepad and pen.

  Natalie could barely hear a high-pitched male voice, speaking rapidly, but couldn't make out any words. The tone of voice grated on her nerves. She would have slammed the phone down ten seconds ago, and wondered how Claire put up with such nasty-sounding people.

  "Have you read any of the literature we've distributed in the last three months? From your remarks, I doubt that very-- No, you listen to me." Without raising her voice, just tightening her tone, Claire had Natalie sitting up and listening more carefully. "I've listened to your slander, now you'll listen to facts! Have you ever taken the time to--"

  Claire took a deep breath, held the receiver away almost at arm's length for a moment, then slowly put it down. Obviously the irritating man had hung up on her.

  "--really listen?" she finished.

  To Natalie's amazement, Claire leaned back in her chair, raked her fingers through her hair, patted it smooth, and let out a few ragged chuckles.

  A knock on the door on the far side of the office, opening onto the hall, stopped Natalie before she could frame a question. A sleek young Black woman, in her mid-thirties, swung the door open and leaned in.

  "I know that tone of voice," she said. "Are you all right? Or should I lock up the guns and warn the post office you're finally on the warpath?"

  Chapter Seven

  "Very funny." Claire gestured for the woman to come in. "Natalie, this is Grace Mendez, one of our Jane-of-all-Trades who help us figure out what we're doing around here."

  "Claire is much too kind." Grace sauntered up to the desk and settled on the one clear corner. "You're the reporter Tommy was going into histrionics over?"

  "Histrionics?" Natalie wanted to laugh, figuring it was just Tommy's seriously warped sense of humor, but she hesitated. What if he had changed incredibly from when they were children, and he tended toward bitter more often than wiseacre-funny?