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.
Two days after Christmas, Carli finally found Grant at St. Mary’s. She gave him her decision to try Outreach for one part-day a week. “I knew I could count on you,” he said. “That they could count on you.” He scratched a few words on a napkin and said, “Go to this address and complete the paperwork. Meet me here, at Lucy’s church, as you call it, next Wednesday at eleven. We’ll have you making visits in no time.”
Carli asked about his holidays.
“Holidays? Quiet. Always quiet, which is good.”
Early the next day, Carli visited Mercy Gonzalez, a social worker and Outreach Manager at Four Bridges. A half flight of stairs, running alongside the front of the building, led from street level to the basement level door. A remnant of police tape hung limply from the metal handrail. Carli stepped past and admired the brickwork around the 1930s entry before she swung open the door and descended the final four steps. In front of her was a room filled with people, sitting one person to a chair in crooked rows.
Grant had made it sound so simple, meeting two women. Instinct told her she was making a mistake as she looked at the people around her. These were people’s lives she was about to enter. Not brands. Not campaigns. Not a simple serving to someone in a lunch line. Why had she felt so invincible, let alone the least bit qualified to help? Because Grant had said she could do it? Because she had reached out to Harry on the street? What was she thinking? Carli stared across the room and caught the flash of a waving hand. She focused more closely. It was Leo from the op-ed table ... reaching out ... to her! Marvin sat one seat to his left. Carli slowly lifted her hand in return and felt surprisingly more capable. Worst case, she thought, it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few more questions. Carli proceeded through the room of chairs to step into Mercy’s office, but not until she gave a light tap to Leo and Marvin’s shoulders, and they, in turn, did the same to her.
Mercy was a slight woman, wearing an updo with product, and a vibrant red, yellow, and black large-print blouse. Mercy’s shimmering red lipstick played beautifully off the rest of her attire. Eyeglasses hanging from a gold chain around her neck were big, bright, and green. Mercy had style and clearly wasn’t shy. Not about her self-image, and, as Carli had learned from life experience, likely not about life either. In contrast to this bold exterior, Mercy exuded the warmest, most gentle welcome as she stood, extended her right hand to shake, and placed her left hand on top of Carli’s as she did. All Mercy said was, “Carli, so nice to meet you,” but her words and handshake combined to immediately bring Mercy into Carli’s confidences.
“Please, sit,” said Mercy. “And tell me what’s on your mind.”
“You know this is new to me,” said Carli. “And it hadn’t crossed my mind to join Outreach. So, I need to know if the two women I’ll be seeing are ever violent,” said Carli. “I don’t know how any of this works.”
“Vera? Sarah? Not a chance,” said Mercy. “No worries there. We wouldn’t have you reach out to them if they were.”
“Are they anything like Bruce?”
Mercy knew Bruce. “No, not at all.”
Carli felt better. “Last, I need to know why someone is poisoning street people,” said Carli.
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s what Grant told the police. When Lucy died, he said they should check for poison.”
“I see,” said Mercy. “I don’t know about poisoning. Not with Lucy. Not with anyone else. I’ll have to ask him.”
“No one’s been poisoned? Grant was mighty adamant about it.”
“Not that I know of, but I’ll double-check.” Then, Mercy said, “I don’t know how well you know Grant. I don’t expect very well yet. Our other employees and volunteers go out as teams. We try to keep tabs on just under a hundred street sleepers. Grant checks on more than anyone, and he’s done a whole lot of good work. Unbelievably good work. He prefers to reach out on his own, and we give him leeway because he’s so successful at connecting and persuading them to come inside for help. His methods aren’t typical. Sometimes they are ... well, a bit baffling, to put it mildly, but I trust him. Just like I trust his judgment in asking you to help.” Mercy stared straight at Carli. “Anything else?”
Carli had decided ahead of time to finally reveal the truth. Deceiving another person, especially Mercy, would put Carli over the edge. Of course, Mercy’s welcome manner made it easier. If Mercy sent her away on account of it, Carli would move on without regret.
“Before we discuss any more details,” Carli started, “I have something to share. It’s about my name ... and it’s a bit embarrassing.”
Mercy looked interested.
Carli explained her name change for the Church Run and the soup kitchen. Mercy listened intently and then said, “I see. Mind me asking who you really are? Confidentially, of course.”
Carli hesitated. “Tessie Whitmore. I’m Tessie Whitmore.”
“I see. And I understand,” said Mercy. “I thought you looked familiar. It must have been from your pictures in the news.”
Carli nodded; her point taken.
Mercy took in a deep breath as she looked toward the ceiling. “Anonymity isn’t something unusual when it comes to donations and charity. Maybe not so common when talking about volunteers and donated time. You’re not the first person to come in here under an alias, however. Not likely to be the last either. Hell, a few of our clients have three names. IDs to match.” Mercy let out a staccato laugh. “But that’s a different story,” said Mercy, more calmly. “You’re not getting paid, so we don’t have to worry about the legalities of payroll. And, as I said, plenty of people give one thing or another anonymously. Why don’t you give me a name, address, and contact person. Just fill out the forms as Carli. I’ll know who you are. And I’ll keep it confidential.”
It sounded easy. Kristin’s name and number went into the system as an emergency contact.
“Well, welcome aboard. If you have any troubles with anything, get in touch. Any day. Any night. This is my card.”
Carli took the card and prepared to leave, thankful to have such a good ally.
“And by the way,” said Mercy. “Congratulations on your company’s buy-out.”
Carli looked up.
“For the record,” said Mercy, “and full disclosure ... When I saw it in the news, I marked you down as someone to chase down for a donation. We’re always looking for funds. But, don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone. Just want you to know I like seeing people succeed.”