Carli practically danced into Elena Rossi’s Galleria, eager to present her idea. The prospect of seeing Tessie Whitmore’s waterscapes and landscapes was already creating a buzz, but Carli knew she had more important works to share. Through all her days with Outreach, she had come to learn she had to connect the two worlds; the ones in the atriums with the ones outside. Of all the people who could help the people on the streets, by helping the ones reaching out, it was the patrons with their passion, compassion, resources, and clout. Carli had to reach them. And she, herself, as Tessie Whitmore, had just the right kind of clout to do it. So did Elena Rossi.
Carli quickly made her proposal: a show of street people. Not an exhibit of their art. That had been done plenty of times. Rather, an exhibit of them—portraits of people. Of Sarah and Vera, Harry and Grudge, Cedric and Wilson, and so, so many others. Individuals, who lived outside in the city. The patrons’ city. Tessie’s city. What’s more, Carli knew there had been a different beginning and, with any luck, could be a different end to their stories. It was time to show not only portraits, but the essential links between street lives, former lives, and future lives back inside. Elena applauded, in her typically-quiet-mannered but influential way. To add impact, the exhibit would travel the city. Rocky’s building would host the opening month, with Elena’s Galleria and Tessie Whitmore underwriting the exhibit’s move through many of the city’s protective glass walls. Patron parties at the Galleria and other exhibit locations, along with invited speakers, would up the ante. The exhibit, showcasing the need for Outreach, and the need for others to reach out, had Elena Rossi’s immediate support.
For the next weeks, oil fumes swelled in Carli’s nostrils as she brought the people she knew from the street to life in full color across paint-laden canvas. Thelma gladly lent photos from which Carli portrayed young Lucy Birdwell. Vera said, “Why not? Count me in. I’d like to show some folks a thing or two.” Then there was Sarah. When Carli met Sarah at the shelter, the woman said very little, which was no surprise, but Carli could tell she was glad to see her and relieved to be safe back inside. Sarah had been a dam ready to burst. When it finally broke free, it had all gushed out. Only it gushed out red. Red for the violence, for the beatings, for the misunderstandings. Her fiancé had been abused as a child. In turn, so was she … by him. It must have been hard coming from the one she most loved. Yet, she felt prolonged and stinging guilt that he had died in the crash, and she had not. Pigeons might well have become her only safe havens – if one left, another glided easily into place, and flapping wings couldn’t hurt her.
On the first of the month, Carli handed Neuman cash for the next month’s rental of the room at Cooper’s. Something inside her wasn’t ready to close the account. She found comfort in being as close to Grant as she could be in its dark and tinny innards.
Neuman had taken Grant’s death hard. It didn’t bother him that Carli took ownership of Grant’s room. Carli’s attempts to save Grant proved ample evidence that what was Grant’s was now hers. Halfway to the elevator, Neuman’s voice tripped her up. “Hey, you want his second unit too?” Carli came to an abrupt stop.
“Second unit?”
Neuman rode with Carli to the sixth floor. On the opposite end of Cooper’s, far around the outer wall from Grant’s living room, was Grant’s second rental. Neuman had thrown it in for half price. Had it been closer to his living quarters, Carli would have smelled the paint. Would have seen his other paintings before now. Together, she and Neuman lifted open the metal door to reveal a studio floor splattered with dried pigments, a corner of artist brushes, turpentine, tubes of oil paints, and canvas in every stage of completion. It suddenly made sense; explained the occasional paint on the cuffs of his sleeves and across his pants. Neuman left her to contemplate another mystery of her brother.
Later that same day, Carli approached mailbox 2647 at the city’s Main Post Office, wondering what additional information she was about to uncover. The key to the box had been hanging in Grant’s room, alongside the box reserved for his door locks. With the key engaged in the door to 2647, Carli reached inside and retrieved a single item – a post card. It directed her to collect the excess mail before it was destroyed. When Carli reached the mail counter, she was given a stack of letters bundled together and curled over by a pair of sturdy rubber bands. It must have been months since Grant had stopped in.
Seated under Grant’s canopy at Cooper’s, she stared at unpaid credit card bills, no doubt the result of manic spending. How did he even get the cards? If anyone could do it, he could. She came across a letter with a simple return address: New Jersey. It was postmarked nearly nine months prior, and looked as though it might have already been opened. Maybe Grant thought it was from the cult and never bothered to retrieve mail after it arrived. Carli tensed as she pulled out the letter. Inside was a name and address. Nothing more. Goosebumps rose on her arms; Carli now had access to one of Grant’s sons, and a new way to keep Henry in her heart. Maybe Grant knew exactly who sent it, and had left it in the box for safekeeping, or, at least, for the cult not to find in his bin.
Carli gazed around the tin walls until her sight fell into the corner of Grant’s room. Cedric stared back; a perfect portrait of a man with his cans. Grant had even captured the gap in his front teeth and all the personality that went with it. Carli felt herself brighten inside and out. Yes, she was adding it to the exhibit!
Over the course of the next month, Carli mounted several of Grant’s pieces and was privy to a surprise find: sketches of herself done in soft 5B graphite. A letter tucked between his renderings didn’t surprise her at all – an offer of admission to a Chicago art school. He hadn’t gone, of course. To Grant, the act of applying was probably another manic fling, a passing squall that he abandoned when he envisioned the framework of a new and better dream or fell apathetically ill to the barbell weight of depression. Most likely, he never bothered to reply. The postmark was a few years prior.
An occasional tear streamed down her cheeks and soaked into Carli’s smocks as she worked. They were for Cedric and Sarah, Canada and Wilson, Vera and so many others. Of course, they were for Grant, as well. She cried at the irony of working like a maniac to meet the show’s deadline; cried with love, with grief, and for Grant’s missing the fruition of this worthy dream. Carli gained strength from her commitment, both to herself and to everyone on the streets and their broken families at home.
She stumbled through rounds, knowing she couldn’t abandon them. That had already been done to them at least once before, in one way or another, by loved ones, the system, or their own bodies. And now they had no Grant. She knew she was no replacement. No one was. With all his special qualities, troubles included, he sparkled brighter than anyone through the lunchroom, through the night, and through the protection of each and every corrugated cardboard home.
Canada helped Carli share the news of Grant’s passing with Cedric and Wilson. It was a big blow. Cedric accepted the news in stunned silence. It hurt to see him this way. Grant had worked so hard to help him. She, of all people, knew what it meant to have Grant bound into his life and then lose him. It would be up to Carli and Canada to check on Cedric. As Grant had said, you had to keep hoping for the best and forever lend support when they faced their biggest barriers. Wilson had simply cried when they sprang upon him the permanence of Grant’s absence. After the news sank in, he buried his head in his hands. He asked Carli to bring his coat from the closet. With the material surrounding him, Wilson clutched one of Grant’s coat buttons and quietly sobbed.
“It’ll be all right,” said Canada. “We’ll get through this together. I’m pretty sure he’s still with us.” He’d said the same to Cedric.
Sometimes when Canada walked with her, Carli wondered if Grant had ever spoken with him about taking care of her or taking care of the street clan. She sure wished Grant could speak with him now, but she realized she was actually learning patience. Wasn’t that what Grant had always recommended?
On one of the first cold days of autumn, Carli sat with Canada on the same stone steps where she had watched him greeting his people below when she and Grant had searched for Cedric. After a few quiet moments, Canada lowered his head and spoke softly. “You know,” he said, “losing Grant hit me hard. Real hard. It’s not the same out here.”
Carli nodded, unable to speak.
“I keep thinking,” he continued, “about what happens if one of my guys down there turns out to be another Grant.” Canada nodded at the building where he usually set up his backpack office. “What if I’m pushing someone out onto the street, when maybe I could be helping them go in … and maybe helping another Grant find himself again.” He stopped to look straight at Carli. She managed a half-smile. “Maybe I could do it.”
Carli took a deep breath in and slowly exhaled.
“Yes, you could do it. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ve already started.”
Grant was clearly still with them all.
A week before Thanksgiving, it was time to make it all count. Every loss. Every gain. Every fit and start. Inside Rocky’s atrium, Vera watched Carli and Kristin pull the protective wraps off Carli’s paintings and seemed mighty thankful to have been invited to help supervise, as Carli had described it. When Vera said she had pushed the limits of her arthritis, and she turned to leave, Carli said, “Wait, I have something.” Vera turned around. “You never saw the second painting I did of you,” said Carli. She removed the wrap from the last painting and slowly turned it for Vera to see.
Vera pulled her hand to her face. “Oh, my ... Oh, my. Oh ... my. Look at this.” Vera’s mouth remained open as she panned across the painting.
Carli said, “I have something else.” She pulled a postcard-sized print from her bag. It was laminated, an exact print of the painting. When she handed it to Vera, she saw Vera’s outstretched hands begin to tremble. Together they looked at the print of Vera and her husband standing along a sidewalk, with the Minnix House – Vera’s house – standing clearly in the background. “I wanted you to always be with your Minnix House and ... you know, your best friend.”
“Darling, darling, darling,” said Vera. “Thank you. I wondered why you wanted to see that old photo of us two. This means ... well, it means the world to me.”
“It can go anywhere in the world with you,” said Carli. “Or, maybe, just anywhere in the city. You’ll always have him with you.”
Vera continued to rest her eyes on the print. “Uh-huh, you sure know. You sure know,” said Vera.
As Vera pushed through the revolving glass door, Carli knew that she had finally reached her Vera Dear-a.
“A bit lower on the left,” was all Carli needed to say. Philip, the building manager at First Century Properties, was happy to oblige, having hoisted the last of Grant and Carli’s paintings onto the lobby walls. It was a clean sweep, and a good one. She wished Grant were here to see it.
“Are you all right?” asked Rocky.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Are you?”
Rocky nodded and said, “It’s a nice thing you’re doing for all of them.”
Carli walked the floor. It was unsettling seeing Vera through the atrium’s glass window, wrapped in a new, full-length trench coat, standing close to the wall half a block away, and seeing Vera in an oil wrap, striking a similar pose in her first work of Vera, right beside Carli in the atrium. It shook her, knowing Harry and Grudge would be shacked up outside again tonight, when part of them was inside, practically shaking hands with every office worker who crossed the marble floor.
Oh, Grant. She whispered his name silently, speaking with her inner voice—the voice a person can’t control but always hears inside their own head. Thankfully, Carli’s inner voice was kind and worked in synch with the rest of herself and the world around her. It wasn’t menacing. It wasn’t controlling. Others, she knew, weren’t so lucky.
On the walls, Carli viewed the best work of her lifetime. There were four portraits for Lucy, renderings created from Thelma’s collection of photos: in childhood, swinging under a tree; in love, dancing with her beau – William – her gown trailing, with softness and a lover’s drape to it. She was also reflective as a widow, resting sullen eyes on her husband’s portrait; and vulnerable, curled up and sleeping with her dear Lila and Terrance, gray hair covered by a teal-green winter hat. Finally, Lila and Terrance, well-groomed, with matching teal collars and ribbons, sat next to a bench at the Elmsville church. Carli closed her eyes and swallowed hard, remembering all it had taken to bring Lucy home and to give Lila and Terrance to Thelma.
After a moment, her eyes moved on. Wilson looked stately at his Princeton, New Jersey, prep school, and far less prestigious in a second portrait, clinging to a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, the same color and texture as his hair. Thank God he was still alive. “Conflict” depicted a troubled young adult – Lenny - meeting with a counselor. It was juxtaposed with “Conflict Too (2)” which showed him as a child, sitting in the shadows of his mother and an aunt, dreaming of his lost father. He, too, was going back home. Mercy and his aunt had finally reached him again, and he was willing. “Trusted Vets” showed Harry and Grudge in uniform, right next to “Common Bond” depicting their new two-person regiment. “Hope” was named not for a person, but a circumstance: Lanna in her new job. “Freedom” was a simple portrait—a bicycle with royal blue fenders, leaning against a light post, with no chain and lock around it. Under it, the sign read, “Just as a child learns to ride a bike by toppling, sometimes falling, and getting back on, these men and women must learn and be helped to ride again. And they can.”
Next in line was “Simply Sapphires” with Sarah wearing her sapphire heels in a corporate office. Carli had found the photo mixed in with the money. The last time Carli visited Sarah, her woman in blue had spoken a full sentence. Several in fact. They did not come easily, but they came. Just in time for the show, Carli had fleshed out her sketches of Central Park and the Plaza. A number of sleepers rested on the benches. All of these were joined by “Triumph,” and Rocky exalting the world in his work uniform. Carli, of course, knew it had taken many triumphs along the way – the triumph of going to a clinic, of admitting the need for help, of pushing away abusive substances, of simply facing every new day … and facing himself.
Suddenly, Carli felt resentful. Grant had just gotten it all together. He could have been here, standing next to her. Carli was back to putting on the biggest show of her lifetime, even bigger than the collection of art around her. She understood, now, how Grant had masked it all. He was a Master, indeed.
Carli viewed Grant’s work last, as she posted a sign next to his paintings.
“These works were done by a man named Grant White. He was gifted in many ways. He was homeless for part of his life and then chose to help the homeless by gently encouraging them, in his own remarkable way, to move off the streets and into shelter. Before that, he was Phi Beta Kappa and a New York attorney. He was also my brother. I knew him as Henry.”
Carli stared a long while at “Henry and Tessie,” a painting of them standing arm in arm as children. Bonaventura—beautiful Tura—sat in front, looking up at them in his dog-happy way. She then looked at the many other photos and paintings of her brother from their childhood and read the next sign.
“Often, one has no choice but to follow what life gives you. As an adult, Grant was given bipolar disorder and he chose not to treat it. Later in life, not long after he was admitted to one of the country’s top art schools for advanced work, he died of an accidental overdose. May those who see this exhibit reach out, as Grant did, to the many who are given difficult life challenges. No one says, ‘When I grow up, I want to live in a box on a sidewalk.’”
Carli stared at his work for many more moments. She smiled at the sight of Grant’s paintings of Madison and Cedric. She imagined him painting and saw clearly his arm and hand traversing the canvas. She had added to the exhibit Canada’s portrait of denial. Surprisingly, Canada had recognized denial’s sad picture and had owned up to it when he saw it in his painted reflection.
Carli sat among the plants in the atrium for nearly an hour, watching many rushing by, in their usual way, with their usual quiet clamor. A few were inexplicably drawn in, taking time to look and ponder, perhaps even willing to take the next bus or train home. Would it mean anything in the end? The leaves of the plants brushed together as she slid down the granite wall and glided gently into a circle of critics.
“I’ve seen this woman,” said one observer.
“Yes,” said Carli. “Usually halfway down the block. Her name’s Vera. Some street people don’t want to be approached, but Vera would like it if you said hello.”
The young man nodded and walked outside. Carli watched him walk that half block and saw him turn and look back as though seeking reassurance. Then, even from a half-block away, Carli was certain she saw Vera’s face turn a smidgeon brighter. He must have called her by name.