Roam

by C. H. Armstrong

  ME: Yup. 3:00?

  ZACH: Looking forward to it! Wanna do something today?

  ME: Can’t. Family stuff.

  ZACH: Dang!

  ME: Gotta run. I was just signing off.

  ZACH: Later.

  I close the window and smile. I’m sleeping in my mom’s van, but I have friends. If I had to choose between having a house and having friends, I’d choose friends every time. I barely survived the alternative.

  I open my backpack and begin my homework, but I’ve barely started when Mom sneaks up behind me and taps my shoulder. “You ready? It’s already eleven, and we can go to the church at any time.”

  “Sure.” I toss my things in my backpack and follow her to the van where Nick and Amber are already waiting.

  MOM IS GIDDY about the soup kitchen we’re headed to for lunch. On the way there, she talks nonstop about how nice it’s rumored to be. It’s a soup kitchen—how nice can it really be? But Mom won’t be deterred.

  “It’s run entirely on donations with a volunteer staff,” she reports.

  “How is that different from the Salvation Army?” I ask.

  Nick meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and grins. He’s apparently asked the same question.

  Mom ignores the sarcasm. “The same woman has been running it mostly by herself for more than twenty years. They say it’s more personal than the Salvation Army.”

  Nick pulls into a parking space at the Presbyterian Church, then Mom leads the way through a set of side doors and follows signs directing newcomers to a large dining hall. Scattered throughout the room are round tables, each sporting white linen tablecloths, and formally set for eight people. At each place setting are real dishes, real utensils and paper napkins folded nicely. In the center of each table is a small flower arrangement.

  At the front of the room nearest the kitchen are three banquet tables, each laden with appetizers: fresh veggies with dip, bananas, granola bars, single-serving containers of applesauce, and a coffee pot with fresh, hot coffee. Moving in every direction are volunteers preparing for the afternoon meal.

  Though we’ve arrived early, the room is filled with dozens of people. Like at the Salvation Army, each person shows signs of enduring hard times, but that’s where the similarities end. There’s a feeling of camaraderie in the air, and as I study the people around me, I realize they know and like each other.

  At the table nearest me are four adults engaged in conversation. My attention focuses on the oldest of the group—a woman I guess to be in her mid-seventies, her silver hair pulled neatly away from her face in a tight bun. Her attention is focused on a woman to her left, who’s waving her hands theatrically as she shares some story with the group. I’m startled by the differences between the two women. The older woman is dressed impeccably in an outdated powder-blue, polyester knit suit and large pearl clip-on earrings. She completes the ensemble with nylon stockings and small heels, reminding me of a Sunday school teacher. The younger woman is her polar opposite and is decorated with piercings through her left eyebrow and septum. Her jeans are frayed at the hem and sport large holes at the knees. Behind her right ear and peeking above the collar of her red flannel shirt is the tattoo of a cobra, its scaly length winding down her arm and below the cuff of her rolled-up sleeves, ending at her wrist with its razor-like fangs bared and ready to strike. Despite these differences, the two women engage in conversation like old friends.

  At the same table are two older gentlemen whose appearances are so similar they could be brothers—twins, even. Both men wear too-long gray beards, faded, worn jeans, and nearly identical blue flannel shirts. Rather than appearing homeless, however, they are exactly how I’d imagined my own grandfathers might look if they were alive.

  At every table are people talking. I can’t understand what I’m seeing—this place is nothing like the Salvation Army, and doesn’t resemble any soup kitchen I’ve imagined. There’s a warmth here I never expected.

  “Welcome,” says a voice to our right. “You’re new. I’m Linda Cummings.”

  The woman offers us a warm smile and extends her hand to shake Nick’s. She’s an older woman, probably in her late sixties, with short gray hair and a white apron. Her face is flushed, either from heat in the kitchen or from juggling too many things at once, I’m not sure.

  “Nick Lunde.” He places his arm around Mom. “This is my wife, Claire, and our daughters, Abby and Amber.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the woman says. “Please come in and find a seat. And help yourselves to the appetizers. If there’s anything left after lunch, feel free to take what you need, but do please wait until after lunch so everyone has a chance to have some. We serve family-style, so don’t be afraid to sit with someone you don’t know.”

  “Thank you,” Mom and Nick say in unison.

  We sit at the closest table, leaving four seats open for others to join us. A smile is stretched wide across Mom’s face.

  “You look really happy, Mom,” I offer. “How’d you know about this place?”

  “The lady I talked to at the Salvation Army that first day mentioned it to me. It sounded too good to be true, so I didn’t want to tell you too much and be wrong. What do you think?”

  I smile. “It’s nice. Is it like this all the time, or are they doing something special?”

  “I’m told it’s like this every week.”

  My eyes roam around the room and pause on an older gentleman who swaggers in carrying a bushel of fresh vegetables. He strides directly toward the woman who greeted us and, reaching her side, pulls her into a hug. She smiles and accepts the vegetables he’s brought for her. For the next several minutes they relax in conversation like old friends.

  “That’s Kade,” a woman says, stopping beside my chair. “He’s sort of the patriarch here. He comes every week and never without a gift for Linda or one of the rest of us. You’ll like him.”

  Mom and Nick stand in greeting.

  “I’m Claire,” Mom says. “This is my husband, Nick, and our daughters, Abby and Amber.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The woman smiles and the maze of wrinkles pulls on her face. “I’m Ana. Care if I join you?”

  “Of course not.” Nick pulls out a chair and waves his hand toward it.

  “Thank you—and they said chivalry was dead,” she teases.

  “Have you been coming here long?” Nick asks, resuming his seat.

  “About three years. I used to come with my mom, but she died four months ago. It was our one mother-daughter outing every week. Now she’s gone, I feel sorta like this is the last of my family, so I keep coming and Linda keeps welcoming me.”

  “Are you homeless, too?” Amber asks.

  “Amber!” Mom’s face and neck heat with red splotches.

  “No, it’s okay.” Ana smiles. “No, I’m not homeless—not everyone here is homeless. Some are here because they’ve been ill or have mental illnesses that make keeping a job difficult; some are recovering from drug or alcohol abuse; and some others have made some bad life decisions that spiraled out of control. The rest of us are just doing the best we can to make ends meet on bad-paying jobs. There’s no judgment here. Linda makes everyone welcome, and we take care of each other.”

  “How do you mean?” Nick asks.

  “How do we take care of each other?”

  He nods.

  “Saturday is our day to network, so to speak. We share information about who’s hiring, or where to find cheap housing. Basically, we share information we’ve learned that might be helpful to others.”

  “How come there aren’t any other kids here?” Amber asks.

  Ana exchanges a look with Mom and Nick, then clears her throat. “We get kids here sometimes,” she says, carefully choosing her words. “But being poor is very hard, and mommies and daddies always want what’s best for their children. So sometimes, they let their children live with other mommies and daddies for a while so they have warm beds and plenty of food.”

  The blue
of Amber’s eyes glistens with tears. “You mean they give their children away?”

  “No, baby,” Mom says quickly. “They just send them to live with someone else for a little while so they can have the things their mommies and daddies can’t give them right now.”

  Amber’s bottom lip trembles and a fat tear falls to her cheek. “Are you gonna send me and Sister away?”

  “Absolutely not!” Nick’s voice is firm, brooking no argument.

  The finality of his words leaves an uncomfortable silence. Fear settles in my belly. It’s one thing for Nick to say “absolutely not.” It’ll be another thing for him to follow through if times get too desperate. Mom’s eyes meet mine and her gaze reflects the same concerns spinning through my own head.

  “Let me introduce you to Kade.” Ana’s voice is too bright, as though trying to make us forget our dark thoughts. She waves her hand in his direction, and he smiles and approaches our table.

  “Good to see you, girl.” Kade pulls Ana into a hug. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m good.” She nods. “Just one day at a time.”

  “It’s hard. I know. We all miss your mom.”

  “Thank you.” Unshed tears glisten in Ana’s eyes. Turning to us, she sniffles once then makes introductions. “Kade, meet my new friends.”

  “Nick and Claire Lunde.” Nick stands and extends his hand to Kade. He nods at Amber and me and introduces us next.

  “Nice to meet you,” Kade says. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course.” Mom gestures at an empty seat.

  Kade settles behind the table and to the left of Nick with one chair separating them. “So you’re new I take it? What brings you here?”

  “Same reason as everyone else, I guess,” Nick says. “Bad luck and hoping for a hand up.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Where’re you staying?”

  Mom and Nick exchange a look. Before either responds, Amber interrupts.

  “In our van.” She frowns. “We moved from Omaha last week, and it’s cold at night. But I started a new school, and my teacher is really nice, and Sister and me already have boyfriends.”

  Mom winces. “Sister and I.”

  “Not you, silly.” Amber shakes her head. “You’re married to Daddy. Sister and me have boyfriends.”

  Mom opens her mouth, then closes it and shakes her head. Kade and Ana laugh.

  “Don’t be ashamed, Claire,” Kade says. “We’ve all been there, some of us worse than others. When I first came here, I was living in my car. It took me two years, but now I have a small apartment and a job that pays decent. It’s luxurious compared to what I had before.”

  “How long have you been coming here?” Mom asks.

  “Almost ten years. These people are like family—some change and new people move in and out, but there’s a core group of us who’ve been here for years.”

  Mrs. Cummings moves to the front of the room and raises a hand. “If I could have your attention, please. If everyone would please sit down, I have some announcements before we eat.”

  The room is a flurry of activity as those standing take seats. After several moments, the room quiets.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Today we have chicken tetrazzini with salad, garlic toast, and chocolate sheet cake for dessert. We have a few new guests, so please make any unfamiliar faces feel welcome. After grace, our volunteers will bring food to your tables in serving bowls. Please remain seated while the food is served—we don’t want to spill on anyone. When the bowls arrive, please serve yourselves and pass the bowls around. If there’s anything you need, please ask—we’re happy to try to get it for you. Once every table has been served, we can bring you more if there’s any available. Any questions?”

  The room is quiet and a few heads shake no.

  “Okay, then. If you would please bow your heads for grace.”

  Mrs. Cummings gives the most comprehensive prayer I’ve ever heard. It’s not that she drones on forever, it’s that she mentions so many people by name. She asks for prayers for a woman named Jo who hasn’t been seen in two weeks, and one for a man named Luke who’s in the hospital with pneumonia. She mentions that Amelia is anticipating word on a job interview, and prays it’s offered to her. Then, much to my surprise, she mentions our names.

  “Please guide and protect our newest guests, Nick and Claire and their two girls. Keep them safe and together, and help them find the resources necessary to see them through this difficult time.”

  Nick reaches for Mom’s hand as tears race unheeded down her cheeks.

  “Amen.”

  A flock of volunteers pushes in trays of food and systematically serves each table. Throughout the meal, they refill our bowls and pitchers of lemonade, and bring carafes of fresh coffee when asked. They treat us like paying customers at a nice restaurant, rather than the destitute partaking of a charity meal.

  The food is delicious, but the best part isn’t the food—it’s how we’re treated, like real people, rather than the beggars we are. For an hour, our circumstances are forgotten and we enjoy the meal for the food and conversation around us.

  After dinner, Mom and Nick stand talking to several people, so I go in search of Mrs. Cummings. I catch her as she passes by in a flurry of activity. “Mrs. Cummings?”

  She stops and her forehead creases. “Yes? Um—Abby?”

  I nod. “Yes, ma’am. I wanted to thank you for the meal. This place—it’s really special.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiles.

  “Could I—I was wondering if you needed help with cleanup?”

  “What a kind offer! But no, thank you—you’re a guest. Did you get any of the leftover granola bars or applesauce off the table? There’s plenty left.”

  “No ma’am. I’m fine, thank you.”

  I am fine, but it would be nice to take some extra with us, just in case. But I decline so as not to seem greedy.

  “No, you’re not, and I won’t hear another word of it,” she huffs. “There are plenty of leftovers and we never let anything go to waste. Come with me.”

  Mrs. Cummings walks away, obviously expecting I’ll follow. In the kitchen she finds a large Ziploc baggie then stalks out into the dining hall and begins filling it. “This cheese will save well in this weather—keep it in your car and it’ll be fine for a few days. These rolls might also come in handy, and you should always have a couple of granola bars on hand.”

  When she’s done packing the bag, it’s too full to zip. She shrugs. “Oh well. Take the granola bars out later and seal the cheese and rolls inside so they stay fresh. Be sure to share with your sister and parents. Will we see you next week?”

  “I think so.” I nod.

  “Good.”

  Tears threaten and I bite my lip to hold them back. I want to tell her how much her kindness means to me, but I’m afraid my tears will spill onto my cheeks. Instead I stand there, awkwardly.

  She regards me carefully. “You look like you could use a hug. May I?”

  I catch my bottom lip between my teeth and swallow hard as I nod, then step into her open arms and breathe in her scent. She smells like garlic and fresh bread, and my eyes mist again with tears. She’s so warm and comfortable—it’s like hugging my grandma, except I’ve never had a grandma. Pieces of the hurt and anger I’ve been carrying around are chipped away. I want to stay here all day, but that would be weird. So I squeeze one last time and step out of her arms.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  She lifts my chin with her right knuckle. “Keep your chin up, sweetheart. What you’re going through is especially hard at your age. It’s easy to forget you’re worthy when you’re trying so hard just to make it through each day, but always remember: you are worthy. Never be embarrassed to accept a hand up when someone offers. Today someone helps you, but someday you’ll return the favor by helping someone else in kind.”

  My throat closes and the tears I’ve tried so hard to hold back, fall. I wipe a hand over my eyes an
d nod. You are worthy. Just three simple words, but they mean everything to me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SUNDAY MORNING ARRIVES AND WE’VE SUR-VIVED ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE VAN. WE HAVE TWO CHOICES today, neither of them appealing. We can stay in the van, all four of us in close quarters and the temperature cold enough to make us miserable, or we can find a church where hopefully they’ll offer refreshments before services. It’s our only real hope for anything to eat before dinner, and it’ll get us out of the cold until the library opens at one o’clock. The decision is easy: we attend services at the Episcopal Church where Nick’s been hired as the night janitor.

  Dressed in our Sunday best—which isn’t any better than our Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday best—we’re greeted in the narthex by an elderly woman seated on a mobility walker. She smiles and directs us toward the refreshments offered for an implied donation.

  “Only take what you need,” Nick whispers.

  I select three mini-muffins then follow Nick and Mom to an empty table. Amber scarfs down the donut holes she’s selected in just a few bites, but I can’t eat. The muffins are like sawdust in my mouth. Crashing the church’s Sunday services is the lowest of the low, and I hate myself for being here. I offer my muffins to Amber and pick at a hangnail on my thumb.

  “Nick!”

  At the sound of Nick’s name, I glance up as a gentleman approaches. In his early fifties, his thick glasses cover electric-blue eyes. His smile is genuine and welcoming, but my attention is focused on his short, mostly graying hair. It’s cut in military fashion and flat on top like Buzz McCallister’s in the Home Alone movies. It looks prickly, and I have this insane desire to pat his head to see if his hair pokes my palm.

  Nick swallows a bite of muffin and extends his hand in greeting. “Jim. Thanks for the invitation.”

  “I’m glad you could make it,” he says. “This is your family?”

  “It is.” Nick introduces us and explains that Jim is the Director of Christian Education at the church. He’s also the man responsible for hiring him.

  “Have you checked out our Sunday school classes?” Jim asks.