From a distance, Carli spotted Sarah holding a bottle of water against the side of her face. Carli chuckled. She knew Sarah would have a few street tricks to combat the ills of the weather. Sarah sat very still, ignoring the pigeons. Carli guessed it was another measure to conserve energy. Carli stepped near, and Sarah slowly lowered the bottle from her face. A pulse of adrenaline surged through Carli’s body. Staring back was a gaping wound on the side of Sarah’s mouth. It had untidy edges of flapping flesh, and it was bloodied, red, and raw. The rest of Sarah’s left cheek, from eye to chin, was a black-and-blue mess.
“Oh, my God, Sarah! What happened?”
“Rat.” Sarah squawked out. “Looked … for … you.” Dried blood on Sarah’s clothes said it must have been a gusher.
“You need a doctor. Now.”
Sarah nodded. “Go … in.”
Carli studied Sarah carefully. It sounded more permanent than seeing a doctor. Carli had passed her over in the park, trying to help Grant. All along, Sarah had needed her. Had wanted her. After all the pigeon talk, feedings, paintings, over-the-shoulder investigations, all it took was being there. The foundation had been set. Carli gently touched her arm and silently thanked God the woman was persistent.
“Okay,” said Carli. Sarah tried to nod. Carli pulled out her phone.
“Where?” asked Sarah.
“Police,” said Carli. “To ride to a hospital.”
“No.” Carli looked up. The look on Sarah’s face was frozen scared. “Wait,” she said.
“The police will help,” said Carli.
“Wait,” said Sarah.
A voice on the phone asked for details. Carli held it at bay as she questioned Sarah, “Why?”
“Mon … ey,” said Sarah.
“You don’t have to pay,” said Carli. The phone voice probed. Carli asked for more time. It no longer mattered. In the frenzy of the past days, she had pulled “a Grant” – the phone was dead.
“Keep,” said Sarah. “For me.” It didn’t sound like Sarah was concerned about payment. “Lots.” Sarah stared intently.
Carli thought a moment. Even if it was only a dollar, she knew it was important. Then again, it could be more. Much more. It had happened before. “Sarah, let’s see a doctor, and find you a place. I’ll hold your money for you. How much is it?”
Sarah studied her face carefully, as though looking for something specific. Carli didn’t know what. Her voice was as harsh as ever. “Seven ... ty? Eight ... y?” She shrugged and began unloading her plastic bags until reaching one, in particular, at the bottom of her cart. After prying it from the cart’s metal womb, she pulled out several piles of folded newspaper and then the brown, fake-leather satchel, with a roll of toilet paper tied to its strap. All that remained in the plastic bag was Buffy’s framed portrait. Swinging the toilet paper roll aside, Sarah slid the bag over to Carli, unopened. Sarah looked straight ahead for a moment, before turning her eyes toward Carli, and giving a slight nod.
“Sarah, just tell me how much ... ,” she began.
Carli’s words were cut short by darts of panic shooting from Sarah’s partly closed eyes. Carli unlatched the buckle and pried the bag open. It was as though she had found Lucy’s pictures again. Crumpled bills—tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds—jammed the satchel, covering bundles of neatly-stacked bills.
“Okay,” said Carli. “Lots.” She looked straight at Sarah and said, “I’ll take care of it. Anything else?” Sarah shook her head.
With all bags, save the satchel, piled on the cart, Sarah and Carli bused the baggage out of the park. Even with the new shopping cart, it was a bulky load. As Carli carried the satchel, she felt eyes of many upon them. Blood, after all, was blood.
A call box brought a police officer from the Outreach squad straight to Sarah’s side within minutes. He understood an ambulance would scare the woman away. So, he gently shielded Sarah’s head, and held her weight with one of his arms, as she jostled her way onto the black vinyl interior of his car. Her bags fit nicely beside her. The cart settled into the trunk. Sarah was going in. Carli had the officer phone Mercy with the report.
Were it not for the money and cart full of bags, Sarah likely would have gotten help on her own. Certainly, she knew where to go, though fear might have kept her out. The money explained a lot, like why she never went in before, why she never took a shower, or put her bags in storage. A doctor’s recommendation would surely get Sarah moved to one of the more private shelters. Carli was certain Sarah would actually go in this time. She was ready.
Carli demanded kid-glove treatment. Didn’t want to see her woman back on the sidewalks and refused to leave her. The park would be fine with one less person. Carli stood by Sarah’s side until a social worker completed the papers, and the doctor made his review; the suturing process wasn’t pretty.
At last, they brought Sarah to a bed. Her swollen legs and battered body finally had a mattress, and her head a clean pillow. Carli took the satchel and one extra bag Sarah relinquished to her care. First thing in the morning, Carli would return to visit. Buffy’s mama was finally in! For five minutes, Carli sat on the doorstep to Sarah’s building and cried.
Grant was no spring flower when Carli returned. In fact, he idled like a car burning oil, and his black haze pushed Sarah’s news far afield. Grant had pulled out his ace. A handgun rested on the floor, bedside, barely visible under the sheet spewed off the side of his mattress. The black-barreled revolver screamed at Carli in silent sirens.
“Grant,” she said softly. “What are you doing?”
She managed one step forward. She wanted to run but didn’t dare leave. Grant remained fixed to his bed. Did he intend to kill her too? She inched closer. Grant made no move toward the gun. He was painfully silent.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“This?” Grant managed to point a finger at the unwanted intruder. It was as though he was pointing it straight at her. “Just had it,” he said. “Used to wear it.”
“Why … is it out?”
“Rats.” He paused and stared her down. “Heard ’em. Ugly sons of bitches.” His voice sounded ugly and slow; so slow, there was a pause between nearly every word. “It’s the problem … with everyone storing food here,” he said.
“There are better ways to get rid of rats,” she said.
“You took my lock.” His monotone felt threatening. She might have preferred anger. She wondered if the steel intruder had bullets enough for both of them.
“Yes,” she confessed. “I wanted …”
“Leave,” he demanded.
Carli focused on his face. Leaving was what she wanted to do. Others were far better trained at this than she. Yet, she was afraid to go. Afraid of the possibilities. “Grant,” she started. He glanced up, and she looked straight into his eyes for several long seconds. Then she said, “Henry … please …”
Grant peered at her for many moments, silent and still. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t mean to say it,” she said. She moved a step closer. “I didn’t mean to say it.”
Grant moved his hand slightly.
“Please, Grant, let’s see a doctor. Now.”
Barely raising his eyes, he said, “Leave. Now.” His finger seemed poised.
“Grant, you can’t …” She wondered if he would point it at his temple or down his throat. She saw a violence-filled struggle for the weapon to stop his intentions cold. She saw gunshots to her back and to his front. All of this she saw in a mere flicker of a second. In the end, she acquiesced to his request. He seemed far too sedate to do anything, let alone end his life.
Three steps back took her out of the bin. Two more removed him from sight. She heard no sound, no leap toward the gun. Grant was silent. The gun was silent. Carli ran quietly, fearing what she might hear. God, she silently prayed, don’t let him do it.
Carli grabbed Neuman’s phone. It was a call she had hoped to avoid. It was a long seven minutes before first responders arrived – six of them from many sectors. Thankfully, the gun was never raised. Carli grabbed it from his bed and hid it in her bag before others saw it. Grant had made no move to claim it. For all she knew, it wasn’t even loaded, but the last thing Grant needed was to be charged for an illegal weapon in New York City. Grant went peacefully. Something inside him must have known. Perhaps he had wanted her to walk in, as she had, to be his gun’s safety lock, and answer his pitiful cry for help, the cry he couldn’t put into words. Oh, surrounding blackness.
Far from feeling like she had saved him, Carli felt she had abandoned him when she handed him over to a system of strangers. It was the worst thing she had ever had to do. She described the inciting incident, his appointments with Dr. Greenberg and diagnosis, and his recent refusal of prescribed medication. Against his former wishes, she told them she was his sister. It was now up to him.
Carli walked the streets in a haze of guilt and loss, wanting Henry back, but knowing how ill he truly was. How could he see it in everybody else, and ignore it in himself? That was the illness. Dear God, she thought, let him see it.
He was placed on suicide watch. Though he hadn’t made a direct threat, Carli’s account of the gun, news of the knife, and Grant’s overall intent and demeanor were evidence enough for his examiner. His supervision was constant, his means few, and the care good.
During the next days, drugs flowed back into his body. He responded well. Perhaps it would only be a matter of time before he would be his renewed self, but it could be a rocky road, and he would have to be willing to travel it. For now, he at least seemed safe.
Carli shared the news with Mercy.
“It’s mighty hard to do what you did,” said Mercy. “It was the right call. The only call. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Street visits were bittersweet in their semi-empty state. Sarah had spent several sleepless nights inside. As much as she wanted in, she didn’t. At least she wasn’t sharing space with a rat, and she seemed comforted by Carli’s visits. Grant was heading in a better direction. Wilson’s park looked like it was waiting, just waiting, for another to come along. Carli found Canada resting lazily on a bench in a park near the library. He was just the person she wanted to see.
“I had a problem with Grant,” she said. “I wanted you to know.”
Canada listened intently as the news percolated. Both agreed a person could hide things. Canada seemed to have less to hide than many others, perhaps because most of Canada’s baggage had already surfaced and was carried in the open. Carli knew Grant wanted Canada off the streets, not only for Canada’s sake but for the sake of others. It was Grant’s belief that Canada could even join the Outreach team, and maybe even partner up with Grant. At least that’s what Grant had said. Carli didn’t know what to believe of Grant’s words. Clearly, no one had been poisoned. Yes, three had died over the past year, but not as Grant envisioned. His poisoning theory was just a bad memory associated with his gruesome departure from the cult. Nevertheless, Carli tested the waters and quickly learned that Grant had, indeed, talked with Canada about doing Outreach. Several times, as a matter of fact.
“Grant’s right,” he began. “I know a lot of them. Wilson ... well, he was going to be out until some emergency raced him in. That’s just what happened. Who knows if it is too late for his body. Harry’s hurting as bad as any. I figure he looks after Grudge to direct his loss and feel more useful. That Spaceman Irving has issues. Most everyone stays clear, but I don’t think he’d hurt an ant. The Screamer’s a weird bird, and nobody knows her name, but she’s still a person somewhere in there. We just have to find her again. There are a whole lot of others you might not know too well since you’re visiting a couple of ladies, but I know them.”
“What about you? What keeps you out? Grant’s so certain you could go in, and, what’s more, reach others.”
Canada tried to smile, a clear cover. “I’m not sure I can start over,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Just the way it is,” he said. “Afraid, I guess.”
“People change. Getting inside would give you a better place to think about it. And think about a different way to help others. On the street and down on Wall Street.”
Carli left him to consider it and found herself strolling past Sarah’s bench in the park. On this spectacular summer’s day, the park, bustling with people, felt oddly empty. Sarah had been a part of Carli’s park for as long as she had done Outreach, and even before she had known Sarah by name. It was empty, too, without Grant. She didn’t bother going to Lucy’s church. There was no one she wanted to see. She skipped out on Vera, put off Harry for another day, but phoned for an update on Wilson, and learned he was holding steady.