The Red Line rattled out of the Morse Avenue Station, packed with early morning commuters. Kat grabbed a pole and hung on as the elevated train lurched and picked up speed. The train seemed even more crowded than usual after the holiday weekend.
“Uhhh,” groaned Brygitta, squished right behind her. “Adding a forty-five-minute commute to both ends of a school day sucks.”
Kat had to agree. Five stops and then they had to transfer to the Foster Avenue bus. But at least both trains and buses ran about every ten minutes at this time in the morning. They should make their nine o’clock classes all right.
The train was too crowded to talk. She couldn’t even see Nick and Olivia. Maybe they’d ended up in another car. But she couldn’t help smiling to herself, remembering the campfire at Lighthouse Beach the night before. She was glad they’d gone. The campfire ring had been tucked among the trees on a slight slope above the sandy dunes that led down to the beach. Firelight and shadows had danced on the faces of the fifteen or so teenagers, erasing the differences in their skin tones, though the group was fairly evenly mixed between white, black, and Latino. No Asians, though. Odd.
One of the younger boys, maybe fourteen, a white kid with freckles and reddish curly hair—Paul Somebody—had brought a guitar, and he had played while the group sang gospel songs. She’d been surprised how good he was for his age. Edesa had pointed out another boy, a couple of years older, dark brown hair, drop-dead good looks already, and said they were brothers. Last name Fairbanks. Kat had to take her word for it, because the two didn’t look anything alike.
Besides Josh and Edesa, the only other youth leader had been the worship leader guy, Justin. He’d been home with laryngitis when Pastor Clark died, and he still didn’t have much of a voice, but he’d told the kids he’d needed to be there tonight, needed to be with “his peeps.”
“The reason I’m a son of God tonight,” he’d croaked, “is because of Pastor Clark. I won’t lie to you. I messed up when I was your age, and that wasn’t too long ago. Ended up in juvie for five months. Pastor Clark and a couple other guys from SouledOut led a Bible study down there. At first we all made fun of him—this old white dude, skinny as a stick, coulda knocked him over with my little finger. I just hung out at the Bible study for somethin’ to do, to break the boredom. But he kept comin’ every week, talked to us like regular people. Told me I had lots of potential. Told me God had a purpose for my life, if I was willin’ to follow Him.”
Justin had gotten a little emotional at that point, but he’d soon recovered. “Pastor Clark prayed with me, an’ I think he kept prayin’ for me every day—before and after I said yes to God. I’m goin’ to college now”—the kids around the circle had clapped—“and I’m real sad at his passin’, ’cause I sure did want him to be there when I graduated.”
The young black man’s sharing had seemed to turn on a faucet, and several other kids had shared memories of Pastor Clark—his gawky smile, the jokes he told on himself, and the time he came to youth group and talked about becoming young men and women of character. “He told us character was more important than a high IQ, or top grades, or being popular, or makin’ lots of money,” said a girl with lots of dark, straight hair and olive skin. “I’ll always remember that.”
“Yeah,” another boy had piped up. “He said character is what you do and who you are when nobody’s watchin’. Now that spooked me. Know what I’m sayin’?” The other kids had laughed.
As she’d listened, Kat had felt a sense of loss, realizing she’d never get to know the man. Her only interaction with him had been pushing on his chest while he lay dying. Had anyone in her life talked to her about character like that? Seemed like it had been mostly, “Don’t waste your time on trivial pursuits,” or “Do what you need to do to get ahead,” or “You’re a Davies, act like it!”
At least the Jesus she’d met at the Midwest Music Fest had shown her a new way. The last shall be first, and all that kind of stuff. Right there in the Bible!
Bree’s poke in her back interrupted her thoughts. “Berwyn. That’s our stop.” Together they pushed their way out of the car, following the back of Nick’s head and Olivia’s blond ponytail down the stairs and out onto the street.
As they walked the few blocks to the bus stop heading west, Brygitta paused at a row of newspaper boxes lining the sidewalk. “All I want is the classifieds,” she said, feeding quarters into one of the boxes and pulling out a Chicago Tribune. “I need to start looking for a job. Anybody else want a paper?”
“Classifieds!” Nick scoffed. “Easier to do an Internet search. C’mon, people, this is the twenty-first century.”
Brygitta whacked him with the newspaper. “So? I can start looking right now on the bus, and you have to wait till you get to your computer.”
Kat ignored both of them. Newspaper jobs or Internet searches might land her anywhere in the city! No, she was going to concentrate on the neighborhood near the church, even if she had to go door to door.
Both Olivia and Nick had an afternoon class on Tuesday, so Kat and Brygitta headed back to the apartment on an earlier bus. “By the way, looked like you and Edesa were hitting it off at the picnic. What were you talking about?”
Kat shrugged. “Oh, just getting acquainted. But I did find out she’s got a master’s degree in public health! And bam, I got this neat idea. Maybe the two of us could teach a class on nutrition at SouledOut—advertise it around the neighborhood.”
“Really? What did she think about that?”
Good question. Kat wasn’t sure. Edesa had made some comment about nutrition not being very high on the food priority list. “Uh, well, we didn’t really get to talk about it. Oh! Here’s our stop.”
Swinging off at Foster and Broadway, Kat pulled her friend toward Sheridan Road. “Hey. Let’s pick up some groceries before we get the El. We need more eggs and a green pepper. My turn to cook supper and I’m going to make a frittata.”
Brygitta shrugged. “I guess. But maybe we should grocery shop on Sunday when we’re at SouledOut. There’s a Dominick’s right there in the shopping center.”
“Thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest,” Kat teased.
“Huh. You should talk. You only started going to church a couple years ago.”
Kat draped an arm around Brygitta’s shoulders and laughed as they headed toward the big chain store. “Yeah, but you’ve been going since you were in the womb, so you should know better.”
As they crossed Sheridan, Kat playfully pushed Brygitta toward the front doors on the north corner, stuffing the envelope with their food money into her pocket. “Look, you go on, get some eggs and stuff—oh, some mushrooms too! And maybe a couple cans of tuna and a couple loaves of whole-wheat bread for lunches. I’ll come meet you in a few minutes.”
Brygitta stuck both fists on her hips. “Kat! No way. You’re not going Dumpster-diving again.”
Kat laughed. “I just want to look. You never know.” She trotted off down the street and around to the back of the store before Brygitta could protest any more. No one seemed to be around. Lifting the lid on one of the Dumpsters, she squinted into the depths. Flattened cardboard, broken glass, old boards, paper trash . . . but no food. Strange. She moved to the next one and lifted the lid. Same thing. Just trash. No food.
“Iffen you lookin’ fer somethin’ ta eat”—Kat jumped. Where was that voice coming from?—“change-over ain’t till Thursday midnight. Purty good pickin’s Wednesday night an’ Thursday.”
Kat peered around the second Dumpster. A street bum—well, he looked like someone who lived on the street to her—in grease-stained trousers, dirty gym shoes with no socks, a wool sweater that had seen better days pulled over a shirt of indeterminate color, and a gray knit hat pulled down to his eyebrows, sat on a piece of cardboard, his back against the brick wall of the big store.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Kat felt slightly embarrassed to have a homeless man who looked as if he could use a good meal telling her when “the pickin’s” would be good. She started to leave and then remembered the apple she had in her backpack, left over from her lunch. Slinging the pack off her back, she unzipped it and dug around until she found the apple. “Here.” She held it out. “Would you like this?”
The man’s eyes, sagging under folds of pale skin, glittered, and his mouth broke into a grin, showing a mouth full of gaps and bad teeth. He nodded, took the apple, and arranged his bite to take advantage of the teeth he did have.
Feeling awkward, she nodded at him and backed away.
But what the old man had said stuck in Kat’s mind all the next day. If he was old. Hard to tell. But he looked like he’d been out on the street for eons. She wondered what he’d look like if he got cleaned up, shaved, his teeth fixed . . .
When she met her housemates at The Chip for a late lunch, she told them she needed to study in the library until late, so go on home without her, she’d come later. When they parted ways, Olivia worried about her taking the bus and El alone. But Kat just waved them off. “I’ll be home before dark, Livie. I promise.” She started for the library, then turned and yelled, “Nick, it’s your turn to cook! Save some supper for me!”
Well, she did have a lot of homework and the library was as good a place as any. She spent the afternoon translating a passage from a Spanish novel and working on a take-home midterm, then finally headed for the bus at six o’clock. The air was a good ten degrees warmer than yesterday, maybe in the sixties, and Kat got off the bus a couple of stops before Broadway, feeling like stretching her legs with a good walk. The wind off the lake half a mile ahead ruffled her hair, and she loosened the clip that usually held it at the back of her neck and shook it out, frizzy waves falling past her shoulders and lifting in the breeze. Ah, felt good.
Crossing Sheridan Road, she headed directly for the back of the Dominick’s store, though she slowed her pace. She wasn’t sure she wanted to run into the same homeless guy again. But all she saw were two big semis backed up to the loading docks and men going in and out, pushing dollies piled high with boxes. Drat. The place was too busy. Maybe she should wait awhile . . . or come back? No, too far to come back. She’d wait awhile, see what happened.
Walking north on Sheridan to kill time, she saw a paved path leading to a park beyond some high-rise apartment buildings. Wandering through the park, she followed the path through an underpass beneath Lake Shore Drive and came out on one of Chicago’s many beaches. And there was the majestic lake, its surface ruffled with whitecaps by the constant wind. Kat grinned, shaking her hair in the wind.
But she shouldn’t stay too long. Walking quickly back to the store, she saw first one truck pull out of the alley into the street, and right on its tailgate another one. Maybe the coast was clear. Grinning, she headed once more for the back of the store.
But even before she got to the Dumpsters, Kat saw a slight figure standing on a wooden crate, holding open the lid of the far Dumpster and leaning over the side, head hidden. She hesitated . . . but it was obviously a girl or woman, not the old guy. And there was another Dumpster. She was not going to leave without seeing what “the pickin’s” were today.
Kat walked quietly up to the closest Dumpster, set down her backpack, and lifted the lid. Gold mine! Plastic-wrapped six-packs of snack yogurts, sell-by date only yesterday . . . a box with tomatoes and green peppers, slightly bruised or overripe . . . a whole box of cauliflower, just a tad brown on the florets . . . a bag of apples, condition unknown. Grinning, Kat dragged out the box, added some of the yogurts, a few heads of cauliflower, and the bag of apples. Squatting down, she unzipped her backpack to stuff as much in as it would hold. She’d carry the rest in the—
“You! What are you doing, stealing food other folks need?!”
Kat was so startled, she nearly lost her balance. But she quickly stood up to face her challenger—and realized she was face-to-face with the young woman she’d seen in the foyer of the three-flat, the same woman in the photo of the apartment upstairs.
Avis Douglass’s daughter.
Kat steadied herself. “I . . . I’m not stealing. They just throw this stuff away.” And why are you here helping yourself, if it’s stealing? she wanted to add.
The young woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re that girl I saw in my mom’s building. Moving in, you said. Which means you aren’t living in the street like some. I bet you’ve got money. Why don’t you just . . . just go in the store and buy what you want, and leave this stuff for folks that really need it?” She flipped a hand toward the store.
Kat’s mind raced. What was this about? The young woman had on a pair of jeans, a hoodie with the hood loosely covering her raven-black tresses, and scuffed gym shoes. A bit disheveled, but she was still an attractive young woman, with smooth honey-brown skin and long strands of tightly coiled waves straggling out of the hood around her face.
“And you’re Mrs. Douglass’s daughter. I saw your picture in her apartment.”
The woman tensed, her eyes suddenly fearful.
Kat picked up the box and held it out. “Are you saying you need this? Take it. And here . . .” She set the box down, dumped the food out of her backpack into the box, and straightened. “It’s yours.”
Kat’s words hung in the air as the young woman stared at the box for a long moment. Then she darted forward, grabbed the bag of apples and a six-pack of yogurt, and stuffed them into an already-bulging black plastic trash bag she was carrying. Starting toward the street, she suddenly stopped and turned back. “Don’t tell my mother you saw me here.”
“But I don’t even—”
“Promise me!”
Kat hesitated, and the woman seemed to panic. “Promise me!”
“O-kay, I promise. Just tell me your name. I’m—”
But the woman turned and fled.