Clean Sweep

by E. B. Lee

  Carli nodded once and let him stare at the broccoli. He would leave soon. Coffee with extra sugar was his usual meal.

  Grant held Carli’s chair, seated himself, and immediately made his proposal. “I need your help with Outreach.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe once a week. Just like now, but working the streets instead of the soup line. Days only. Nights are mine.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Sister Anna agrees you’d be good for it, and it’s tougher for me to find the right help than it is for her getting extra hands for the lunch line. Volunteer position to start, but might turn into a paying job. You need a job?” he asked.

  “Are you crazy?”

  Grant ignored her question. “Oh, that’s right, you just retired. Well, it’s like I told you before, I work for the nonprofit called Four Bridges. Work out of its drop-in center a few blocks from here. About thirty other people do what I do. Most work in teams. I work on my own, by choice. We regularly meet with the people who are making their homes on the streets; ask how they’re doing, try to nudge them inside or to get medical treatment, if needed, and learn what’s stopping them from getting off the streets for good. Some groups only send out people who have come from the street. Other nonprofits don’t have any workers or volunteers with street time. Four Bridges sends out both. I need help with a couple of women. Two in particular. I doubt they’ll ever trust a man, so that leaves me out, and I haven’t seen anyone make any progress with them. I’m frustrated with this continued failure to connect. I mean, no one is reaching them. We need to change it up. I’d like to see if you could get through their shells.”

  “And you think I’m qualified? You’re nuts.”

  “I disagree. I see the way you talk with Lanna and Kris and some of the others here at the church. Noticed you got a couple of fans in Marvin and Leo. It seems to come easily to you.”

  “It’s not as easy for me as you think, and this sounds totally different,” she said.

  Grant proceeded with details. “We’ll give you a cell phone. I’ll do better at keeping mine charged. It’s kind of a weakness of mine. I’ll give you plenty of support getting started.”

  Carli shook her head. “Do you have any idea what my regular life is?” she asked.

  “I don’t care about your outside life. I mean, I care ... but it doesn’t matter to Outreach.”

  “What exactly would I be doing? I mean, I just retired and have plenty of things to do. I wasn’t looking for a job.”

  “You meet these two women, although I’ll introduce you to some of the men who are out there too, so you can see how I handle them. But no one’s been able to reach the women. You’d be like a specialist. Your task would be to visit them, talk with them. Make sure they’re still alive. See if they need help. Well, we know they need help. But you see if they’re ready to accept it. Everyone out there is different. It’s just talking to a couple of women.”

  “I want to help. I really do. But in some little way. I have a pretty major commitment already, doing my painting and preparing for a show. Serving lunches is easy. Getting into people’s lives isn’t what I do.”

  “Well, here’s the thing ...,” said Grant. “Getting into people’s lives is what I do best, and I know you have it in you, for who knows what reason. You, alone, knelt to assist in trying to save Lucy. That’s after you volunteered to help on a Church Run. Doing a Church Run, in itself, puts you on my radar screen. And, it’s not like you had competition for little L and T. No one told you to find Lucy’s house and family either. Something is pushing you. I can tell.”

  Carli was frightened by Grant’s words but was even more frightened by his certainty and the truth of it.

  “One day a week,” he said. “Actually, just part of a day, like the soup kitchen. Maybe two, if you want. Part-time. Volunteer. Think about it.”

  Carli shook her head again. “You must be …”

  “Think about it,” he interrupted.

  “Okay. Okay. Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Grant folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “A bit tougher than I expected, but a good start.” Uncoiling his body, he gently tapped his coffee spoon on the table in rhythm with his words. “Don’t think long. Say yes.”

  Joining Outreach was a preposterous idea. Who did Grant think he was, asking her like that when he didn’t even know her? Carli meant to give it no thought at all, but it poked at her every time she thought of Grant sitting in the lunchroom and connecting with people. It jumped to mind as she ran errands, unloaded groceries, and painted. In particular, it snared her two days later as she sat on a Central Park bench in winter wraps, on the edge of Columbus Circle. She had given herself a day to sketch uptown. It was now or never to exercise her artistic brain.

  The Plaza Hotel sparkled, dressed in its holiday best. Shiny black limousines lined the street in front, and horses clopped past, carriages in tow. On the nearby sidewalks, peddlers sought out customers, and, midday, a wave of people splashed into the streets and then receded, their hunger satisfied by upscale meals and food cart cuisine. Late afternoon, Carli finally set down her pencils and swiveled around to look into the park itself. Two men in multiple layers of coats, hats, and hoods slept upright on a bench. One sat with his head tilted against the rail, his mouth opened wide to the cold air. The other hunched over, his chin buried against his chest in the creases of his overcoat. Three benches away, another man lay curled up in the fetal position, asleep. A month ago, she would have glanced and done nothing more. Today, thanks to Lucy and the soup kitchen, she stared and wondered who they were.

  Carli walked slowly along Fifty-Ninth Street, following the edge of the park. Who else was out? A man studying his newspaper while eating looked the same as others, except for the hole in the knee of his black slacks. A twig of a man said hi to all who passed, perhaps a friendly neighbor, except he reeked of alcohol. Carli managed to say hi back at him, but nothing more.

  She watched the people, nearly invisible to most, for a long while. Twenty minutes were spent on a woman in a bright blue coat. A matching hat covered her head. She glowed. Her three black plastic bags on the ground, and four more bulging on the bench, were joined by a small, rusted, four-wheel shopping cart.

  The woman pulled a roll of newspaper from one of her bags and then fished out a pair of high heel shoes, blue to match the coat and hat. She carefully folded the well-worn paper around the heels and placed them on the bench. Out next came an olive-green sweater and a second pair of shoes. Other items were already wrapped. The women removed their paper and wrapped them again with new. Old paper was lightly pressed and smoothed by hand and then piled on the bench. The woman checked the deepest corners of her first bag before folding it neatly and placing it on the bench. She weighed it down with the wrapped blue heels.

  Bag two came next. Three sweaters, five pairs of pants, and two more shoes were either wrapped, unwrapped, or both. Carli lost track, but the woman probably did not. Bags three and four brought more of the same. Bag five was reserved for newspapers. Bag six was different as well. Labored tugs brought forth the bedroom. One rolled-up sleeping bag, a piece of foam, three blankets, and a gray, flattened pillow, barely an inch thick, emerged. From within the blankets came a pillowcase. From it, the woman pulled pieces of paper, which she unfolded, observed, and refolded. Carli thought of Lucy’s photographs as the woman also pulled from the case one small box, pill bottles, a ball of string, and three large gray and white feathers. The inventory was returned to the pillowcase and carefully settled inside the blankets. The final bag had a collection of socks and a brown leather satchel, which was left unexplored. Carli supposed it was filled with more knick-knacks, but what if it held secrets, as Lucy’s dog coats had? What if it was this woman’s ticket back home? Carli wanted to grab the satchel and look inside.

  Throughout the night, the woman in blue periodically sauntered into Carli’s thoughts. It was as though Grant had stationed her ther
e for Carli to discover. Could she actually help someone like the woman who packed clothes in the park? As disconcerting as it was, Carli was considering Grant’s proposal. He had sensed her deeper need, as if someone had told him her personal reason for wanting to help. It was as though he knew her. Certainly, she could spare half a day a week, but wouldn’t she be better playing it safe at the soup kitchen? She knew the routine. Wasn’t looking to get any more involved.

  The next day, Carli tried to catch Grant at St. Mary’s to ask him her questions, but he was nowhere to be found.

  “He does this sometimes,” assured Sister Anna. “Goes to another kitchen downtown, I think. Actually, goes all over, as far as I know. Wherever he needs to go to find them. Sometimes he disappears for weeks at a time.”

  “Say, what do you know about Outreach?” asked Carli.

  “I know it does a lot of good work. That’s what I know,” said Sister Anna.

  “Has Grant ever talked about any women in particular? Ones he can’t connect with?”

  “No one in particular,” said Sister Anna. “But I do know he thinks you might make some connections. That’s what it takes.”

  “I don’t know why he would think that.”

  “I don’t know, but he seems to get it right more times than not,” said Sister Anna.

  Carli checked Gloria’s and ordered coffee to reconsider the offer before returning to her studio. As a blast of cold air blew her napkin from the table, she turned toward the open door and saw a man in a familiar yellow hat and aqua-striped coat juggling his duffle bags between a set of tables.

  “Oh no, not today. We’ve got our business hours. You should know that.” The waitress practically slammed Carli’s coffee mug onto the table and continued talking while lifting her chin toward the wall. “Either you order, or you’re out. The sign’s right up there.”

  Carli looked in the direction of her nod. The sign was clear: bathrooms were for customers only.

  As Aquaman Harry fumbled through a pocket, two men in suits tried to pass. His bags blocked their path, and the men showed their impatience through a pair of matching scowls.

  “Always trying to wash up here,” said the waitress.

  Carli said, “I know him.”

  “Really? I just figured he was homeless.”

  “He is, but he goes to the soup kitchen. I know him from volunteering.”

  “Well, he comes here every week, sometimes stinking real bad. Hate to turn him away, but it bothers the paying customers.”

  Aquaman shuffled outside. Other places would turn him away too. With three days until Christmas, most tables bulged with gift bags, but his bags were different.

  Carli slapped down several dollars and left. Harry was already half a block away, even though his pace was slow. The uneven weight of his shoulder bags caused a lopsided walk, as usual, and several people bumped him off balance as they passed. He glanced from one side to the next, as though checking a rearview mirror. By block’s end, he was sidling close to the buildings, retreating from the pedestrian mainstream. Red lights caused others to fidget, but Aquaman waited patiently. He passed most stores with little fanfare, but a travel agency caused a five-second review.

  After trailing him for four blocks, Carli finally caught up. She had seen enough bumping and sidling. She had felt enough anger. Anger with others, but mostly with herself. She could have shared a table or, at least, bought Harry a coffee. She did nothing. The only way around her anger was to take action.

  “Hey, Harry,” she said. “Don’t know if you remember me. I’m Carli from St. Mary’s.”

  Harry swung around to look her straight in the eyes. After a moment he said, “I know who you are. You’re the one with the cookies.” He nodded as he spoke, and his hat’s yellow tassel slid along the side of his face.

  “Right,” said Carli. “Right. Say, how’s your new hat working? It looks good.”

  Harry shrugged. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what to say. So, he nodded, nothing more, and his tassel swung once again.

  “Well, I saw you and wanted to say hi. Hope your day goes okay.” Carli pulled a few dollars from her bag. “You might not need it, but, please, take this ... in case you want something else for you or Grudge, and don’t want to walk all the way to the kitchen.”

  Harry stuffed the bills into his coat pocket and nodded his thanks. With a slight wave, he continued on his way. Carli watched until he was nearly at the end of the next block. Maybe, she thought, joining Outreach wasn’t crazy. When Harry passed through the next crosswalk, Carli muttered under her breath, “Dear God, I’m listening. I hope I’m hearing you right.” Almost immediately, she found herself rubbing her hand on her coat collar, something she knew she did with her shirt collars at work when she felt anxious but equally resolute. It told her something.

  Eight

  Carli’s painting was becoming more natural again. She credited it to the heart-to-heart she had with herself early one evening, sitting in the cushy gray club chair in her bedroom studio. Across the room she saw her floral sofa, standup mirror, crowded bookshelf, boxes, and knick-knacks, including a twenty-ounce “shot glass” from a trip to Tijuana. Her mind and heart shouted in unison: get rid of it! Painting and sketching in a cozy home worked in high school. And it worked in college, in the small family-style art department of Castle College of Art. She was an office artist now. Cozy clutter fostered daydreams, not completed work. Carli needed good light, open space, freedom from distractions, white walls—like the walls of her former office—and a business-like studio.

  She hired Luis, a one-person operation, to paint over the warm gray walls of her spare bedroom. Bright white, not yellow-white, not linen-colored, not pink-toned, gray-toned, green-toned, or any other kind of white, soon coated all four walls, doors, jambs, and moldings. She put the warm greige (part gray, part beige) carpet in her storage bin, had Luis sand the floors to the original wood color, and paid extra to have him coat them with heavy-duty polyurethane. She removed plants and squeezed the mirror and extra bureau into her bedroom. Not even the patterned fabric headers remained over her windows when she was done. In their place, she installed mini blinds, which could allow a clear-ish view out, sunlight in, or total darkness and privacy. All this prompted her to spend three nights with Lila and Terrance at Kristin and Friedrich’s place.

  “Grant asked me to do Outreach with two street women,” Carli said one night after dinner.

  “What does that even mean?” asked Kristin.

  “I don’t know all the details. He said I’d visit them, try to connect with them, and, hopefully, encourage them to go inside somewhere for help. Do I look like the type that walks up to a street person and starts talking, asking how their day is going? Well ... except that it is exactly what I did a couple of days ago.”

  “Honest answer ... no,” said Kristin. “It’s not that you don’t care about people, but usually you’re more job-driven. Less interested in the touchy-feely side of things, especially with people you don’t know. If you know what I mean.”

  “Exactly,” said Carli. “So, why am I considering it? Why can’t I let this go?”

  Kristin pulled Friedrich closer. “In this episode of ‘Let’s Ask Friedrich,’ we call upon the world-famous wonder-dog to ask, ‘Why is Tessie considering something that makes no sense?’”

  Carli laughed as Kristin gently turned the tips of Friedrich’s rounded ears and said, “Wait ... he’s looking for signal. ... Yes ... we have it. Friedrich says, ‘I haven’t a clue,’ but he also says, ‘She might know more than she thinks she knows. She’ll figure it out.’”

  “Well, thank you, Friedrich,” said Carli. She leaned in to give the dog a hug. “I think I’m going to try it. If I haven’t said no yet, I must be thinking yes. And Friedrich is right, there is something else.”

  “Oh?” said Kristin.

  “I used a fake name,” she said.

  “And what does that mean?”

 
“Everyone at the soup kitchen and Church Run thinks my name is Carli. Same with the people in Elmsville. I didn’t want them to know who I really am, with my money and all.”

  “Interesting. How are you going to get out of this one?”

  “I’m not,” said Carli. “At least, not yet.”

  The first thing Carli did when she and her dogs returned home was hammer a picture hook to the left of the door to her newly refurbished studio. On it she placed a framed graphic for Bright Start’s Morning Magic facial wash. It was her first solo production for Madison Avenue advertising. Granted, it wasn’t as magical as she once thought, but it sold product, and it would remind her every time she entered her new workspace that she not only could but would succeed. It was perfect. Carli was considering adding a couple of dog beds, but, for now, Lila and Terrance could sleep curled into tiny balls, or stretched full length on their bellies, on a pair of towels.

  St. Ignatius was a small neighborhood church, tucked into a residential block roughly ten minutes’ walk from Carli’s apartment. The congregation included a mix of families, younger singles, and older members, both coupled and not. She connected immediately with Father Timothy’s sermons, and it was Father Timothy who steered Carli toward Pastor Miller’s Church Runs. At the time, doing the Runs sounded oddly enticing; a mix of excitement and mission. During her working years, Carli had been one of the “CEO churchgoers,” making it, as the saying indicated, only for services for Christmas, Easter, and an occasional other. After retiring, she had yet to make regular services, but each time she attended she felt more alive. As Carli waited for Christmas service to commence, she momentarily reflected on Lucy. Thanks to Thelma, Lucy Stemple would go home soon. She wasn’t the first to be disinterred from Hart, but making real headway required a route through the City’s Bureau of Vital Statistics. With Lucy now in the Bureau’s book, all that was needed was the ground to thaw. The McFaddin Funeral Home in Elmsville would handle the logistics, thanks again to Thelma. Plenty of town folks were chipping in to pay for a proper burial and headstone next to William’s. Carli was grateful she had shown the courage to step up and answer the call, but, mostly, she gave thanks to God that hearts could now mend because their Lucy had been found. She couldn’t ask for anything more. Mid-service, when the offertory came around, Carli slid a donation among the others. It wouldn’t save the world, but it sure saved her soul to be able to give.