A week later, Carli finished her second day on the soup line knowing Lucy could head to Hart Island in a matter of days. She was about to leave the building, but the open door to the St. Mary’s chapel beckoned her in. The room was empty. She walked two-thirds up the center aisle and sat in a pew. She rested her head on folded hands. It felt good to sit alone; lunch had been busy. The talkative op-ed table had shown again and had given rave reviews of a new show on Broadway, all edited from what they had read or heard secondhand, or simply believed out-of-hand. The mother/daughter duo had also come for lunch. Aquaman hadn’t shown. Neither had Grant.
Over the years, Carli had given. Offertory after offertory. Even as a child, she had placed quarters from her hard-earned allowance into the wicker basket. Dutifully she had sung as she gave: Dona Nobis Pacem – Grant Us Peace. At St. Anthony’s Church, in her college town, she also gave, and truly believed she was making a difference. She now sat within earshot of the St. Mary’s soup kitchen and realized a billion offerings would not fill the gap of need. What gnawed at her most: they couldn’t help Lucy find a way home. A reluctant prison labor force would bury her, and Lucy would be erased from humankind’s memory. Carli felt helpless.
The sound of a man clearing his throat startled her. Carli turned to see Grant standing inside the doorway. “Did I scare you?” he asked.
“A bit. Why are you sneaking up on people?”
“Can’t sneak up on anyone with this cold.”
“Did you get some of the chicken soup?”
“Hah! The cure-all. Yes, but I couldn’t taste a drop.”
Carli asked, “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, not long. Just sharing a little space. Comes in handy. Space, that is. Ask an astronaut. Gives ’em a job and everything.” Standing at the corner of Carli’s pew, he said, “Coffee?”
“Huh?”
“Join me. There’s a great little place around the corner.”
Carli jumped at the chance to finally ask him questions. God knew she had many.
“Tell me about Lucy,” said Carli.
“She had quite an impact on you, didn’t she?”
“I’ve never seen a person die, and I’m wondering why she was here, in a tent.”
“Why she was here is a mystery,” said Grant. “Often is, until they open up a bit. Lucy was a good one. Really sweet, but paralyzed. Mentally, that is. I couldn’t get her to move out of that archway. She was stuck. I worked damned hard at it. Must have stopped by her tent at least fifty times a month, but I couldn’t get to her. She claimed she had no family and no place to go. Said something once about a car. My guess is she lived in one until it wouldn’t run anymore or gas cost too much.”
Grant opened the door to Gloria’s and the welcoming scent of fresh coffee. “I almost got her to a shelter once. Sister Anna was going to keep the dogs one day, two days, a couple of weeks, undercover, of course. At the last minute, Lucy refused.” Grant shrugged. “It’s like that a lot. At least she got you to take her dogs. Or, maybe, we should call them her witnesses.”
“I don’t have them yet, but what do you mean by witnesses?” asked Carli.
“I’m convinced now that someone poisoned her. Just like the other three. No doubt in my mind. Some scum is out there, trying to send a message, and I aim to find him.”
Carli bristled. “How do you know?”
“Just do. I’ve seen it before. They’re still checking surveillance. Wish to God I had stayed with her. I can’t stand watching my friends die.”
After a long silence, Carli asked, “Do you think she lied? About not having family?”
“She could have,” said Grant. “But what if she did? Missing Persons will have to find them.”
A few sips of coffee helped Carli mull over his answer. “Tell me more about your work.”
“Mobile Outreach?” asked Grant. “That’s easy. Social Services runs it as a citywide program. A bunch of nonprofits hook into the funding and set up Outreach crews in different neighborhoods. I happen to work through Four Bridges, a couple of blocks from here. It has a drop-in center, a couple of social workers, and offers services that help with the first steps off the streets. About five hours a day, or night – my choice – I track down people who are out here and talk. Tell them about beds, medical help, and such. Mostly, I try to connect with them any way I can so they’ll listen and try moving back inside. Sometimes it takes hundreds of contacts. They have to want it. Once inside somewhere, other help follows when they’re ready. I’ve been with Four Bridges about three years now. NYPD has another Outreach program, with nurses and everything. Of course, the city also cleans things up sometimes.”
“To think, that night at the Church Run, I thought you were just getting soup,” said Carli.
“Hah! I don’t need to stand in an icy line for soup, but I need to check the lines for my people. I need to get any street intel I can,” said Grant.
“Intel?”
“Oh, just info.” Grant waved off the comment with a swoosh of his hand. “Like who might be lacing their food or bottled water with cyanide.”
Carli stiffened at the thought of it. “Do you have any idea who did it?” she asked.
“None.” Grant pursed his lips together and took in a deep breath with his mouth remaining closed. Then he repeated, “None.”
Carli asked about the man she called Aquaman.
“Him? That’s Harry. Funny name you gave him, but I suppose it fits. Between you and me, ’cause this stuff is kind of confidential, he spends nights with another man under the FDR Drive. Right around Forty-Second Street. You know the place?”
Carli nodded.
“That’s their preferred home. But sometimes they move down to Thirty-Sixth Street. Have a real nice view of the Circle Line boat tours cruising around the city’s edge. I guess Harry’s story started when his wife died. At some point, Harry moved in with his daughter, but she kicked him out on account of his PTSD. Sometimes, he makes a bunch of noise at night. It scared his little grandchild. He’s a Vet, and help’s available, but he ran into complications and gave up on the government. It’s been at least two years. Every so often, the police round him up, along with Grudge.”
“Grudge?”
“An amputee who parks his wheelchair alongside Harry’s trestle. They look after each other, one Veteran to another.” Grant sipped his coffee. “Occasionally, the squad puts them in a drop-in center or on a ferry to a Staten Island center, but they always go back. Sometimes, they return on the after-midnight ferry. They want to be home, and the trestle’s their home.
“I think you know the mother/daughter duo, Lanna and Kris, from the soup kitchen,” said Grant. “They stay at a women’s shelter. The man of the house walked out years ago. Kris, the daughter, is in her mid-thirties, though she looks like she’s a teenager, and she’s occasionally, well, suicidal. Lanna’s taking classes to be a nurse. She can’t pay rent, take care of Kris, and afford food. Government assistance is all they have. Kris needs drugs to stay well but often refuses. As an adult, she has that right, except when she’s having bad thoughts. Then Lanna can step in, thank God. Hopefully, Lanna will get her degree. Then, she’ll have a paycheck and benefits, but she’ll need someone to watch her daughter.
“You’ve seen Marvin and Leo too,” said Grant. Carli knew them as part of the talkative op-ed table. “They’re interesting,” he said. “Work the soup kitchens to the bone. Marvin usually sleeps at the drop-in room at Four Bridges with one chair per person, no bed, but a chance at breakfast and a shower. Sometimes Leo joins him, but usually Leo shacks up alongside the streets in the mid-Forties. He trusts himself more than anyone else and refuses to go on public assistance. He says it’s a matter of pride. Unlike Kris, he’d be better to leave drugs alone.”
Most of the ones who visited the kitchen had homes of some sort, but something else was missing. A few worked night shifts and saved on money by “going to church.” What Grant made crystal clear was getting out was do-able, but it was like climbing the Empire State Building … on the outside.
“Sorry to grill you,” said Carli. “I’ve worked with lots of people, but none were as down on their luck as the ones in the soup kitchen. Mostly, I worked with ideas. I mean, what does advertising have to do with basic needs of food and shelter?” Carli quieted. She hadn’t meant to share a word about her former work. Grant didn’t seem to care. Nonetheless, Carli tried covering her tracks with an additional thought. “I retired a short while ago,” she said, “and wanted to help. The Run intrigued me, but the soup kitchen seems better suited.”
“Keep up the questions, and you’ll have to join Outreach. You seem to have a passion for helping. We need that.”
Carli laughed.
Grant looked her directly in the eyes. “Don’t assume the soup line visitors didn’t once have very different lives. Some of them even in the corporate world.” Grant’s tone had changed. “And I wasn’t kidding about joining Outreach. I’m a pretty good judge of certain things, like needing to help and having the right kind of passion. Most people ... well, they turn away from all of this as fast as they can, as though living on the street is a communicable disease. Clearly, you know it’s not.”
Carli, with her fake name, and insecurity in her newfound world of tough lives, felt like a cad. Thank God, Grant had to leave to check a woman in the park. Carli left the diner and walked, as though drawn by a line of fishing filament, to the river along the city’s eastern edge. She stared at the blue and gold glimmer on the water. This bench, she thought, taking a seat, might be someone’s bed tonight. As her navy coat wicked heat from the air, she considered the strangers who had become family for lack of lunch money, and city-dwellers in donated suburban clothing. She envisioned a man in an aqua-striped coat, a woman thrusting her arms around the ragged tires of a worn-out wheelchair. She heard the rough outline of Grant’s laugh. And she thought of Lucy. Why was she poisoned? Carli considered her plans to take in a pair of street dogs, ready or not, and also the fact that she was living a false identity, with no easy way to erase her lies. Despite the hardship she saw at the soup kitchen, Carli felt her life was more a mess than anyone else’s now that Henry had burst back into it. A tear rolled down her coat collar to her lap. Carli wanted to return to work and leave this emotional turmoil. Writing a check would be easier than reaching out to strangers.