“Morning, guys,” Jeanette says to four men sprawled on the steps of the stone church. They’re scruffy, dressed in far more clothing than most people wear in July, their faces hardened into scowls. But when they see Jeanette, a few of them break into smiles. One guy is missing two front teeth.
I’ve seen people like this before. They’re the ones my parents cross the street to get away from in downtown Vancouver. Of course, when Jeanette wanted me to go with her to the soup kitchen where she volunteers, I knew we’d see people like this, but I hadn’t imagined actually talking to them.
Sarah might have imagined it, though, considering the outfit she picked out for me for today. She’s a strong believer in outfits that fit the situation and she has the closet to prove it. For my trip to the soup kitchen, she gave me scruffy runners, baggy cutoffs held up with a wide black belt, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Tough and street-smart,” she said, waving me out the door. She pulled a backward ballcap down on my head and looked very proud of her creation. Jeanette seemed more amused than anything else, but she didn’t say anything, either for or against, on our way here.
I’ve already decided not to tell my parents about the soup kitchen. Normally I brag to them about all the crazy stuff Jeanette and I do together, and sometimes my mother declares her sister insane and makes her swear never to take me white-water rafting or tree-climbing or tenting in bear territory again. Jeanette never promises anything, and Mom eventually gives up. Jeanette is the only person who can get my mother to admit defeat. We all laugh about it. I hope that never changes.
“Got a new recruit?” one of the men asks in a gravelly voice. He smells of cigarettes and stale sweat.
“This is my niece, Ellie,” says my aunt. “She’s staying with me for a couple of months. I wanted to show her where I spend my Monday mornings.” She looks at me like I’m supposed to do something. I mumble “Hello” and am about to shove my hands in my pockets when she clears her throat.
It’s a threatening kind of sound, one I’ve heard from teachers at school, but not one that’s ever directed at me. I hunch deeper into my costume, but “looking the part,” as Sarah says, doesn’t make things any easier. I don’t know what Jeanette expects me to do.
“Ellie Saunders,” she whispers. “Where are your manners?”
I look at her, wide-eyed, hoping she’ll realize how ridiculous she’s being. Does she honestly expect me to shake hands with these people? Mom would be horrified. Much as she believes in politeness, safety always comes first, and who knows if these people ever wash their hands or what they last touched. Yuck.
My aunt’s stare reaches out, grabs my stomach and twists it hard. I open my mouth, but no words come.
“Hey, don’t be so hard on the kid,” says one of the guys.
“Yeah, give her a break,” says another. “It’s not like I’m the king of France or something.” He smirks, and the others snicker like he’s made a great joke.
I sneak a glance at Jeanette and can tell I’m beaten. The only thing worse than shaking hands with these men would be to lose her respect. I stick out my hand and smile as though I’m greeting royalty after all. “Pleased to meet you,” I lie as I shake hand after filthy hand. There’s always soap.
Inside, the building is not the dark, dingy place I had imagined. It’s new and bright, with high ceilings and lots of windows, and people sit at long plastic tables, talking, drinking coffee and laughing together. A few people have their heads down, sleeping. One guy is talking to himself. In the far corner, a woman is dancing. Someone else is shouting about poison in the coffee. No one pays any attention to her or to the woman barfing into the garbage can in the corner.
Jeanette tells me this is the lounge, and the soup kitchen and dining hall are up the flight of stairs in the center of the room. As we make our way there, heads turn and people watch us. I don’t know if I should look friendly or tough—show no fear, like they say in self-defense class. Jeanette is walking straight and tall like she always does, smiling and saying hello to people. She knows a lot of them by name. Suddenly I imagine her coming here with Alison, the two of them walking in and stopping to chat along the way. I pull myself taller and follow Jeanette up the stairs.
The kitchen gleams—metal appliances and white walls. The other three volunteers are all Jeanette’s age or even older. The one woman, Louise, has tanned skin and bright white hair. One guy has an army-style brush cut and is in a wheelchair, and the third volunteer is a man whose wrinkled face reminds me of a turtle. They tell me their names too, but minutes later I’ve forgotten.
Louise shows me where to wash my hands, and then we start making sandwiches. As I smear margarine on hundreds of slices, I keep sneaking glances at my aunt. She’s smiling like nothing happened out there on the church steps. I can’t even see anger simmering in her eyes. She’s much better at hiding it than my parents, I guess, or maybe I just don’t know her as well. I’m not looking forward to our walk home, although maybe she’ll wait until we’re behind the closed doors of her house to ream me out.
“Ned’s looking good these days, eh?” she says to the others, then catches my eye and tells me Ned’s the guy with the earring we met as we came in. I nod as if I noticed that kind of detail, and she goes on. “He got out of detox a few months ago and has never looked back.”
Louise smiles. “I hear he’s moving in here soon.” She jerks her head toward the far end of the dining hall. Behind those doors, my aunt has told me, homeless people can have a room for up to three months, until they find a more permanent place to live. To be accepted, though, they have to be sober and looking for work.
“Pretty impressive, considering what he’s been through,” adds Turtle Guy.
Again, Jeanette fills in the blanks. “Alcoholic parents. On the streets by the time he was fourteen. In and out of shelters for ages. Finally got into a program for drug addiction, but the program’s funding got cut, and he wound up on the streets again. Last year, he got hit by a car. It happened right here, in front of the soup kitchen, and a bunch of people saw it. The driver got out, looked at Ned, made some comment about one less drunk and took off. Left him for dead.”
I stare. “God.”
“Yup, and that’s just one story,” says Louise. “Everyone here’s got stories like that. Amazing they keep going, really. It’s humbling to work here, that’s for sure.”
I think about that as I keep plopping margarine onto bread. Jeanette goes on smiling and talking, but I tune her out. No wonder Jeanette and Alison wanted to donate money to this place. I’ve never thought about the stories behind guys like Ned. And when I realize that, I see how dumb I’ve been. Like anyone would choose to live like they do. I shake my head, trying to shake my thoughts into some kind of order.
On our way out, I smile at a few of the people in the courtyard, and they smile back, like normal people.
For the first few blocks of our walk home, Jeanette acts like I haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, she even smiles when she says, “I’m glad you shook hands with those fellows on the church steps.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“One of the biggest gifts you can give people,” she says, “is to treat them with respect. You did that, and I was proud of you.” It sounds like the kind of Teachable Moment speech most adults would make, but Jeanette doesn’t do Teachable Moments. I know she’s totally sincere.
I don’t do tears, yet suddenly they’ve sprung to my eyes. I wonder if I’m turning into my mother, getting emotional about absolutely everything. I blink furiously. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“For shaking their hands? Why would I—?”
“For not shaking their hands,” I say. “I didn’t want to at first.”
“But you did, in the end. That’s what counts.” She looks baffled.
Suddenly I am too. When I was just visiting for a week or so, I didn’t worry about making Jeanette mad, but now that I’m here for two months, the thought of crossing her makes me jumpy. What’s worse is that I don’t know the rules. At least at home, I know where the danger zones are. For the first time it occurs to me that maybe there are no danger zones here.