11

Avis, Rochelle, and Conny trudged in the side door, stamping snow off their boots, just as Mikey ran up and down the stairs ringing a bell for supper. I got a tired smile from Rochelle and a damp hug from little Conny, who wanted to show me the colorful “bug” he’d made at the Children’s Museum at Navy Pier from different “bug parts.” Avis, wearing a hat trimmed with fake fur that matched the collar of her hiplength winter jacket, bent down to get a good-bye hug and kiss from her grandson, but I butted in. “Why don’t you stay for supper, Avis?—if that’s okay,” I amended hastily, realizing I had no idea what the rules might be about dinner guests.

“Si, si! The more, the merrier.” Edesa laughed, grabbed Conny’s hand, and headed for the kitchen/dining room.

“Thanks, but I need to get home. I told Peter I’d be home by dinner. Bye, baby! Grammy loves you!” She blew Conny a kiss.

Rochelle rolled her eyes, gave her mother a peck on the cheek, and disappeared in the direction of the washroom. I followed Avis to the door. “How’s Rochelle?” That felt lame. How should someone be who just found out she had HIV?

Avis glanced away, absently pulling on her gloves. “We’ve got an appointment at the HIV clinic next week. Conny needs to be tested. They strongly recommend that other family members come, too, to learn what the treatment options are. ‘How to live with HIV,’ as the brochure says.” She sounded weary.

My mouth went dry. Surely not Conny too! I swallowed. “What about Dexter? Has Rochelle told him yet?”

Avis shook her head. “We’re going to get some advice about that too. Peter thinks we should phone Dexter, tell him we need to talk, then all meet together. But . . .” Her mouth tightened. “Don’t know if I can do that. Right now I just want to strangle him.” Suddenly she pulled me into a tight embrace. “Thank you, Jodi. For being here. Knowing Rochelle and Conny are with you and Edesa and Josh this weekend helps. I just wish . . .”

She didn’t finish. Just turned and disappeared out the door. Snow fell gently into the narrow stairwell, the monster flakes sliding down light beams cast by the hundred-watt bulb just outside the door. Behind me, a wobbly a cappella rendition of the Doxology floated from the dining room. I shut the door and scurried in that direction.

The other new volunteer—a young black woman named Karen, whom I’d seen at church—turned out to be the cook that night. She’d done a passable job making enchilada casseroles for forty-plus hungry appetites, along with a chopped salad and brownies for dessert. The director, a stocky white woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, wire rim glasses, and a firm handshake, dropped by in time for dessert and coffee, and to meet the new volunteers. Karen and me, that is. She introduced herself as Liz Handley, but I noticed everyone else called her “Reverend Handley.”

Okay, so I was curious. “Uh, Reverend Handley, do you pastor a church?”

She smiled, grabbed a passing kid, and gave her a tickle-hug. “This is my parish now.” The child dissolved in laughter and pulled away.

For some reason, her comment put a lump in my throat. “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for Me.” Jesus had said that. And here I’d come, mentally dragging my feet and wishing I was anywhere but.

You’re here, Jodi. Don’t beat yourself up. Think of the possibilities . . .

Well, might as well start with the dirty dishes. Maybe the equivalent of “washing feet” here at the shelter. I joined the dish crew, drawn to a talkative young woman named Precious who had something to say about everything. “Gonna be a mild winter. All that global warmin’, ya know . . . Man, wish I could get myself down to Houston to see them Panthers play at the Super Bowl. My people come from Carolina, ya know . . . Wait, wait! Girl, don’t dry those dishes wit’ that.” She snatched the dishtowel from my hand. “Get that boilin’ water off the stove, pour it over them dishes in the rack, then let ’em air dry. They be dry in a minute.” She plunged her hands back into the soapy dishwater and tossed her braids—twenty or more skinny ropes hanging halfway down her back. “My grandma only got a third-grade education, but she taught me that much.”

I complied, wondering how a woman named Precious—someone, somewhere, had loved this girl enough to call her “precious”—had ended up homeless in a women’s shelter. “Do you have any kids?” I asked, stacking the hot, dry plates onto a rolling cart.

Precious jerked a thumb toward the common room, where we could hear the whack, whack, whack of a Ping-Pong game. “Sabrina. She’s my girl. She fourteen.”

I couldn’t contain my surprise. “You don’t seem old enough to have a teenager!”

She grimaced. “Yeah. Got myself pregnant, not much older than she be now.” She busied herself scrubbing one of the casserole dishes. “Sure did want a better life for my baby, but . . .” For the first time since we’d started doing the dishes, Precious fell silent.

LATER THAT NIGHT, curled up in a lumpy comforter on a lower bunk in one of the Sunday-school-rooms-turned-dormitories, I listened to the assorted breathing in the other bunks. I’d asked if I could spend the night in Rochelle and Conny’s room. In fact, while Josh was getting whupped by Mikey and Jeremy at the Ping-Pong table and Edesa played cards with other Manna House residents in the common room, I’d volunteered to read Conny a story and put him to bed. Rochelle shrugged and said sure, but stayed in the room with me buffing her nails. I read Goodnight Moon, which I’d tucked into my backpack at home, then tiptoed out after Conny fell asleep. I’d been hoping I could talk to Rochelle, get to know her a little better, but though she was friendly enough, she stayed distant. Probably because I was her mother’s friend.

I was tired now, but sleep eluded me. I felt so out of place. So . . . homesick. I wanted my own pillow and my crisp sheets and my husband’s comforting sprawl in the bed next to me. What a wimp I was! I had volunteered to stay here one measly night per month. Precious and her daughter, Sabrina . . . Mikey and Jeremy’s mom, Margo . . . and the other women I’d met that night—Estelle and Nikki and Bonny, to name just a few—didn’t have that choice. Whether for six weeks or six months, this was home.

Oh God! Why did You put me here? What am I supposed to do?

The Voice in my spirit responded, First things first, Jodi. You can start by praying for them. Pray for the women and the children by name. Precious . . . Sabrina . . . Estelle . . .

And so I did, picturing each one’s face that I’d met that night. Mikey’s delighted giggle when Josh let him plug in the Christmas tree lights one last time. Conny cuddling close to me while I read, “Goodnight room . . . Goodnight moon . . .” Precious dispensing her grandmother’s dishwashing wisdom. Sabrina absorbed in Allure magazine’s teenage fantasies, where no teenager was homeless or had to wear clothes from the Salvation Army. Estelle deftly knitting a bright blue sweater vest with skill and an eye for pattern and design. Each with her own story, stories I didn’t know yet. But if Avis’s daughter was just one example, how many others had been betrayed, abused, rejected? How many had turned to drugs or alcohol to dull the pain? How many dreamed of a day when they could sleep in their own bed. At home. Safe. Loved.

Oh God, help me to see these women as You see them. Like Precious, each one precious in Your sight . . .

BLAAAT! BLAAAT! BLAAAT! Blaaat! . . .

I groaned and turned over. Was it morning already?

Wait a minute. That wasn’t my alarm clock—

“Fire! Fire! Everybody out! Now!”

I sat up, eyes wide in the dark. That was Josh’s voice yelling from below!

Thudding feet on the stairs. “Oh my God! Oh, please God!”

I leaped out of bed, fishing for my gym shoes. I grabbed them and ran for the door. Smoke was drifting up the stairs.

“Keep low! Keep low! Don’t take anything—just go! Go!”

“My baby! My baby! Where’s—? I gotta go back! Let me go!”

Screams. Cries. Coughing and gagging. Bodies pushing down the stairs.

Edesa stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Go out the sanctuary door—don’t run. Ladies! Don’t run. Don’t push. But hurry! Hurry!”

Wait. Was everybody out of the room? Where were Rochelle and Conny? I turned and started back up. Two bodies pushed past me on the stairs, knocking me against the railing. But I finally gained the top and practically fell into our sleeping room.

“Mama! Maaaamaaaaa!” Conny was sitting up in his bunk, screaming.

Rochelle sat on the edge of her bed, a dazed look on her face. “Rochelle!” I screamed. “It’s a fire! We have to go!” I pulled at her arms. “Get up! Get up!”

She let me pull her up onto her feet. Bare feet. What was the matter with this girl? Had she taken a sleeping pill? Drugged herself?

“Maaaamaaaaa!” Conny screamed again.

I pushed Rochelle out the door toward the stairs and grabbed Conny into my arms, blanket and all. “I got you, I got you, sweetie.” Putting the blanket over his head and pushing Rochelle ahead of me, we stumbled down the stairs.

FIVE MINUTES LATER I found myself standing outside the old church on the sidewalk in my wet socks, holding Conny wrapped in his blanket and staring at the smoke pouring from windows, doors, the steeple, and hundreds of other cracks in the structure. I vaguely remember Josh grabbing my arm. “Mom! Thank God you’re okay. Is everybody out of your room? Yes? Good!” And then he disappeared again.

Why don’t I hear any sirens? Didn’t someone dial 9-1-1? I could do it. Where’s my cell? . . . I shifted Conny to one hip and slapped at my sweatpants. No pockets. No cell phone. It was upstairs in my backpack, probably melting down into a glump of plastic and computer chips. That’s when I realized I didn’t have my shoes either. Hadn’t I grabbed my shoes? Must have lost them when I went back for Conny and Rochelle.

I heard sirens then. Thank God! Somebody called the fire department.

Josh appeared again. I suddenly realized he was bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only sweatpants. Two inches of fresh snow were soaking through my socks, but Josh, Rochelle, and several others didn’t even have socks. “Everybody, into the Laundromat,” he croaked. “We have to count noses, make sure everybody’s out.” His voice didn’t sound like Josh. Stretched with strain. Had he swallowed smoke?

Numbly we followed Josh, the only male among the herd of females and assorted children, into the Laundromat. Oh, hallelujah, thank You, Jesus, for Laundromats that stay open all night! My throat caught at the unexpected blessing. It was warm. It was dry. It was empty—no, an old gentleman in a rumpled golf hat sat in a corner, babysitting a tumbling dryer, staring at us as we came in. A clock on the wall said 1:40.

The bundle in my arms squirmed. “Mama!” I found Rochelle, who still seemed in shock, pushed her into one of the molded plastic chairs, and plonked Conny into her arms. Several fire trucks roared up outside. Men in big boots and heavy coats jumped off the pumper, grabbed axes, and ran for the church. Others grabbed huge, pythonlike hoses, and pulled them toward a fire hydrant. The long hook-and-ladder backed into place, beeping warnings.

“Listen up, everybody.” Josh’s voice was firm, though to my mother’s eye, he looked like he was about to cry. “Is anybody missing? We have to know now. We have to tell the firemen if there’s anybody inside. Estelle? Everybody out of your bedroom? Margo?”

“Precious! I don’t see Precious or Sabrina!” someone cried.

“I saw ’em heading for the alley door. Couple others too.”

Josh sprinted for the glass door of the Laundromat.

“Wait, son!” The old man in the corner moved with surprising speed from chair to door. He peeled off his faded jacket and pushed it at Josh, who wiggled his long arms into it. Then the man took off his shoes that had seen better days. “Good thing I got big feet,” he chuckled.

Stuffing his bare feet into the old leather shoes, Josh flew out the door, laces undone. In two minutes, he was back, herding a small group of women and children who had been coming out of the alley on the far side of the Laundromat. Cheers went up from the crew crowded around the window, watching the drama outside.

We counted noses again. And again. I felt helpless, because I didn’t know everyone and couldn’t have said if anyone was missing. But Josh and Edesa and the others finally seemed satisfied. Everyone was out.

Several of the women broke down crying. Others shouted. “Praise Jesus!” Children clung to the closest adult. Someone muttered, “We sure is homeless now.”

The fire chief pushed open the door of the Laundromat and asked who was in charge. Edesa spoke up. “If you’ll let me use your cell phone, I’ll get our director down here.”

Fifteen minutes later, Rev. Handley arrived. Shock at what she’d seen outside had tightened her face into a grim mask, but she quickly kicked into gear, huddling with the fire chief, Josh, Edesa, and Estelle, who at fifty-something seemed to be the senior resident of Manna House. I sank into a plastic chair and watched. The adrenaline of fear was wearing off and cold reality was settling in.

Manna House was gone. What were all these women and children going to do?

A mad started to build up inside my gut. I knew without asking where the fire had started. That tinderbox Christmas tree. I knew it was a fire hazard. Josh had known it too! I glared at his back, looking slightly silly with his long arms sticking out of that too-small jacket. He was still a kid. Nineteen. His good intentions outweighed his wisdom. But the director, that Rev. Handley—she was responsible too. She should have told them to throw it out weeks ago.

Estelle’s voice rose above the rest. “Yessir, praise Jesus, every one of them smoke detectors was working. That’s why we are all here and not in there.” She pointed dramatically in the direction of the burning building next door with her knitting needles. I stared at the wad of bright blue yarn clutched in her hand. . . and started to laugh. Estelle had run outside shoeless, coatless, and wearing nothing but a shapeless, flannel bag of a nightgown. She’d just lost every possession down to her toothbrush.

But Estelle had come out carrying her knitting!