Tommy glanced around, pleased to be alone when he arrived in the weight room. It wasn't exactly the safest setup right now, especially if he got into a situation where he would need help levering something up. Despite his excellent condition from the waist up, if he couldn't push with his legs, he was in trouble. Still, he preferred working out alone. Besides the break from the children's constant demands for his attention, he liked to avoid people staring when he worked out. He could never decide if they were impressed by his biceps and chest, or couldn't reconcile the sight of a man in a wheelchair working out. As if he had a duty to let his entire body atrophy just because he couldn't walk.
Paul found him there, after he had worked himself into a nice even, slick, glossy sweat, and the whirling of his thoughts had settled into a background humming in rhythm with his pulse. Paul carried three long, flat boxes, and propped them against the doorframe for a few seconds, watching and silent as Tommy finished his bench presses. He appreciated the consideration, and applied his full concentration to the last few reps. He gritted his teeth, enjoying the strain.
"Which is it this time?" Paul asked, as the clang of the bar settling into the rack echoed against the cinderblock walls.
"Huh?" Tommy pulled himself upright and wiped sweat from his face, just before the waterfall gathered on his forehead slid down into his eyes.
"When you work out for a second time in the morning, you're either burning off a load of tension or working on a killer routine."
"How about both?" He grinned, glad once again his sister had given him Paul for a brother-in-law. "I got this idea, it feels right, but it keeps coming out stupid."
"What about?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"That stupid?" Paul smirked.
"Yeah, that stupid."
"Hey, it's me. Your main driver. Your brother-in-law. The guy who puts up with all your groaner jokes."
"Trying to put a guilt trip on me?"
"If it works..." He shrugged and adjusted his grip on the boxes in his arms, preparatory to moving on with whatever chore he had interrupted.
"Claire's the only one who can do that."
"Just tell me the stupid idea, will you?"
Chapter Ten
"What if you mixed Star Trek with Mayberry?"
"Come again?" Paul shook his head, blinking rapidly a few times.
"Put Andy in the captain's chair, and turn Spock into Barney. Floyd the barber would be Dr. McCoy, and Goober would be Scotty... and it's even worse when I say it aloud."
"Keep working on it. Never know what crackpot idea will appeal to the audience."
"Oh, thanks for the encouragement."
"That's what I'm here for. But can you do your brainstorming out in the gym? It's almost time for the lunch break gang to show up."
"I can't wait until this whole mess is over with." Tommy reached over and snagged his wheelchair, to tug it a little closer before he slid into it. He thought about using the little shower that had been installed for the convenience of some of the street people who came to the Mission for assistance. A second later, he knew he could get away with washing off with paper towels and bar soap, and changing his shirt.
"Just don't let Claire and Nikki hear you say that, considering it was your brilliant idea that started all this."
"What'll they do to me? Break my legs?"
Paul groaned. Shaking his head, he grinned and walked away.
*****
Natalie wandered around the Mission that evening, sticking her head into rooms with their doors unlocked -- usually rooms with nothing in them worth hauling away, or too difficult to haul away, like tables and chairs that wouldn't fold. Rooms that were locked, such as classrooms, she peered at through door windows or from the outside, taking pictures of the decorations when she could. This story was turning into more than just the accessibility awareness campaign. The entire Mission deserved coverage. She wondered if she could talk her editor into devoting half of an issue to it. Or maybe making it a series, with four or five pages each issue for half a year. The rooms that were in use were such a drastic, cheerful contrast to the rooms that hadn't been renovated yet, sometimes it was a shock. She made a note to herself to ask if they had any pictures of the entire building before Tabor Christian took it over. A before-and-after spread might do a lot to convince, or at least shame, the naysayers in the community. And might just encourage some churches with similar abandoned school buildings in their communities to try something along the same lines.
Her parents were of the opinion that a lot of the country's problems began when the Church allowed itself to be nudged aside, out of its role as the supplier of physical as well as spiritual needs for the community. Providing food and clothes, medical help and housing for the destitute opened doors to the Gospel that would otherwise be closed, and opened ears and hearts that otherwise insisted that God and the Church had nothing to offer them.
"Faith without works is dead," she murmured, as she started down a quiet hallway, following her ears toward the bustle of activity, and followed her nose to the aromas of coffee and hot dogs.
The hustle and bustle in the gym had spilled out into the hallway and threatened to take over the lobby. The orientation was over, and the teams had been assembled. Now they were putting together the information packets they would pass out as they walked around the community. More brochures had been printed out when the officials of Hyburg and Stoughton contacted the Mission that afternoon, saying they would not only permit awareness walkers into their cities, but welcome them. That necessitated a call for more walkers and volunteers and supplies. Which, judging by the expanded volume of work and noise and people, had succeeded.
At the edge of the organized chaos in the gym hallway, Tommy sat at the end of a long assembly line table, with volunteers working on both sides of it. Natalie stood in the safety of the lobby, a good ten feet away from the traffic, and took pictures. Then she switched her camera over to video, with a vague idea of putting some scenes on YouTube tonight if she could, to increase awareness. At the very least, Claire and Paul would enjoy the video. The volunteers put together their kits with brochures and pens and magnets; Tommy took the piles they handed him and put them into clear plastic drawstring bags. He handed them to Sammy, who sat on the floor at his feet. She put them into cardboard boxes, which she pushed down the hall and into the lobby to get them out of the way as they were filled. The little girl seemed to be having the time of her life, her face flushed, and every once in a while giggling at whatever Tommy said to her.
Natalie wished she could step over to join them, but she hesitated to interrupt their rhythm and teamwork. Besides, she didn't want to get too close to Tommy right now. Not until there was time for him to forget what she had said about her father knowing his father, and Claire letting Jonas Donnelly know he was going to be a grandfather. Let things calm down and cool down. Wait until Tommy was so busy with the awareness walk that he completely forgot about what she said.
After she got enough pictures and video of the team of Tommy-and-Sammy, Natalie wandered down the hall on the other side of the lobby. This one had boxes lined up along both sides of the hall. They were full of donations that volunteers had been gathering, and that the community had been bringing into the Mission for weeks. It amazed her, the variety of equipment for the physically handicapped. And it was depressing, too, seeing all the manmade things that filled in -- often inadequately -- for missing or non-working limbs and senses. Crutches, helmets, knee and elbow padding, wheelchairs in various states of repair or disrepair, leg braces, frames to strap onto arms with hooks on the end to replace missing hands, or prosthetic legs. She shuddered, wondering what happened to the people who used to wear those prosthetics. She saw equipment in all colors, conditions of wear-and-tear, and sizes. It hadn't occurred to her, even knowing Tommy had been in a wheelchair since he was twelve, that little children got around on crutches or with white canes and seeing-eye dogs, or learned to write holdi
ng a pencil in their toes because they had no hands.
Her mind full of half-formed ideas, she hurried back down the hall and ducked into the office, for some quiet and a chance to write down what she was thinking before she lost it. As she jotted her notes in the pad she kept tucked into her back pocket, she heard voices coming through Pastor Wally's office door. Natalie tried to ignore them, especially the one that sounded a little too jolly and false. What she termed used-car-salesman-making-a-politician-look-genuine. Then she heard Claire's voice, and winced in sympathy for her. She would bet her notebook computer that Claire was dealing with another political figure. Someone trying to jump onto the wagon and join the effort late in the process, after someone else finally impressed on him how this support for the physically handicapped would look come election time.
"Oh, hey," Grace said, stepping into the office. "Looking for someone?"
"Something." Natalie held up her notepad for a moment before putting it back down on her thigh and finishing the last thought. She sighed and flipped it closed. "Some peace and quiet to think, mostly. Looking for Claire?"
"Still tied up with Councilman Novotny?" Grace said, pitching her voice softer, and glancing toward Pastor Wally's office. She shuddered.
"Bad?" Natalie got up and let Grace lead her out of the office, and down the hall that hadn't been pressed into service. Yet. She gave herself two points for guessing it was a politician. Although, after everything she had heard and seen so far at the Mission, and the people either supporting or denigrating its efforts, it was an easy guess.
As they passed Pastor Wally's door that opened directly into the hall, the slick, too-rich voice sounded even louder, yet strangely just as muffled and indecipherable as before.
"You wouldn't believe the junk some people dump on us and expect us to be grateful. And make a big fuss over whatever scraps they gave us, just because they're 'somebody' in the community. He's not as bad as others -- all he wants is some of her time."
"That's all?" Natalie snorted, earning a grin from Grace.
"He thinks he's on a fact-finding mission, getting all the data he needs to throw his support behind us. Better to play up to the self-important… honestly, he means well. He's been around so long, genuinely trying to help Tabor, but I swear, the man wouldn't know how to deal with the real world to save his life. No, he's not as bad as others. Some self-righteous creepazoid from city hall brought in four wheelchairs that should have been burned during the Civil War. Claire had to play nice and grateful and give him a tour to show him everything we're planning on doing. Like the Picayune didn't run a full-page spread last week?" She glanced at Natalie, stopping them halfway down the hall. "Could I borrow you, maybe get Claire out of there before he sucks up all the air? I'm not ready to play the pregnancy card, but I will, just to give her a chance to sit down and stop talking for a while."
"Like what?"
"Oh, just a little impressing, that's all."
"Impress?"
"Yeah. Big-time national magazine reporter thinks this place deserves print. Ought to put a cork in all the hot air."
"You're really into all this, aren't you? The awareness walk, all the new things the Mission is doing."
"Not as much as it's into me. Personal experience." Grace shrugged and looked away for a moment. "I had an uncle who got multiple sclerosis. There was nobody to help him when he couldn't get around anymore without pain and when he got so bad he couldn't even use crutches. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life in bed or a wheelchair, with nothing to do but watch TV. He overdosed. I don't want anybody else figuring that's the only answer."
"I'm sorry." She rested her hand on Grace's shoulder for a moment, before the woman summoned up a smile and gestured back down the hall to the door of Pastor Wally's office.
Just before they reached it, the door swung open and Pastor Wally and Nikki stepped out, followed by a pot-bellied, little man with a silvery-white goatee and a shiny bald head. Natalie muffled a giggle. That big voice had come from such a small man? Last to exit the room was Claire. She looked serene, just tired, and Natalie was relieved. The little councilman shook Claire's hand, then let Nikki and Pastor Wally lead him down the hall to the lobby. Claire rubbed at her temples and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed for a few moments.
"Darn," Grace muttered. "We were just on our way to rescue you and impress the socks off Novotny."
"Don't even mention that. I've heard horror stories about his stinky feet." Claire giggled, muffling the sound behind her hand. She glanced a little nervously down the hall to the lobby.
From where she was standing, Natalie couldn't see Councilman Novotny or Nikki or Pastor Wally. Chances were good they were out of earshot. And even if they were in hearing distance, the noise coming from the gym hall would make overhearing something almost impossible.
"So, we didn't get a chance to really talk about it at dinner last night -- Grace, Natalie has been going around town, getting the man-on-the-street viewpoint of what we're doing here. What's been going on that people aren't willing to tell us to our faces?" She smiled as she said it, with a slight edge to her amusement.
Natalie decided Claire just wanted to be distracted. What was on her mind, that she wanted to hear about the idiocy and rumors and political games being played in Tabor Heights, using the Mission and the accessibility awareness campaign as pawns? Mentally shrugging, she decided to comply.
"Well, it's interesting. And weird. I stopped at the Picayune office late in the day for another load of clippings, and I'm spending my evening checking out old stories about the Mission. It makes interesting reading, at the very least. You've been getting some pretty strange press, all the letters to the editor, the fights at the council meetings over variances and zoning and such. But you knew all that, since you dealt with it. What's interesting… You've got some real characters in this town. And your enemies are getting desperate. At least, that's my take on it. Did you know someone is passing around petitions to drive you out because you're starting some weird mutilation cult?"
"You're kidding!" Grace blurted, her face lighting up. Then her amusement changed instantly to a frown. "You are, aren't you?"
"People are afraid of what's different," Claire said. "They used to keep disabled people in the cellars and attics. Some people are more vocal about their fears than others, that's all."
"Yeah, that's all." Natalie snorted, relieved when she got grins from the other two. "You guys are doing something great here, and when I'm done with my story you'll have so many volunteers and donations -- decent, usable donations -- you won't know what to do with them all."
"Such humility in a career woman. It's refreshing."
A short time later, after Claire and Grace had to head in different directions to deal with more questions and emergencies, Natalie wandered back to the gym hall. She laughed at the sight of all the boxes Tommy and Sammy had filled and the little girl had pushed aside. She would run out of room soon, and wouldn't be able to push the boxes any further out of the way. Even as Natalie thought it, several men walked over to the long, ragged "train" of boxes and picked up a box each to haul away somewhere. In the pause, Tommy looked up and around. Their gazes seemed to lock as if they had homing signals.
Natalie flashed back to a day in the school cafeteria, when she had come in late and couldn't find the table where her friends sat. Tommy had stood up, looked right at her, and gestured for her to come sit with him. He had been her hero then, and a funny, twisting feeling something like that emotion washed through her now.
"Paul says you have a performance this evening. Shouldn't you be leaving soon?"
"Maybe another ten, fifteen minutes. The traffic is good at this time of night." He glanced down the long table and nodded, visibly satisfied.
Natalie could understand that feeling. The table was practically empty, and the volunteers who had been assembling packets were picking up the bits and pieces and putting them away in boxes stored under the tables. Tommy g
ave his wheels a hard push, aiming himself for the gym doors.
"Mind if I tag along?"
"Aren't you supposed to be covering all this? I mean, I'd love all the press I can get, but--"
"My angle starts with you, the guy who inspired the renovations by making the needs personal, but doesn't need a lot of the help the Mission offers -- then shift the focus to the Mission's overall vision of helping all members of the community. Two sides of the same story."
"Makes sense. Not that I know anything about writing magazine stories. So, what makes you think I don't need any of this?" He turned down the hall, heading for the lobby, with Sammy scurrying to catch up.
"Look at you. Successful comedian. Your own van. Supportive family. You're a real go-getter."
"Just because I don't enjoy sitting on my butt all day -- figuratively speaking, anyway -- that doesn't mean I don't need help. Everybody does. I'm just more visible, that's all."
"Why do I think there's a lecture and a joke coming?"
"Somebody spilled the beans and warned you, didn't they?" He leaned back in his chair, then popped a wheelie and wheeled forward balanced on his two wheels, wagging his foot pedals at her. It could have been taken as a threat, especially with that big, teeth-bared grin. Natalie dug her feet in and held her ground.
Wheels (Tabor Heights Year Two) Page 15
