Prologue

CHICAGO’S NORTH SIDE—1990

A soft mist clouded the windshield of the Toyota wagon, playing catch-me-if-you-can with the intermittent wipers. Apartment buildings and three-storied six-flats crowded the wet narrow street like great brick cliffs. The woman behind the wheel of the Toyota drove cautiously through the Rogers Park neighborhood of north Chicago, looking for Morse Avenue.

At least it wasn’t the typical macho Chicago thunderstorm: blowing in on big winds, shaking the trees, darkening the skies. Boom! Crash! Flash! Sheets and sheets of rain . . . and then just as quickly rolling away, leaving puddles and sunshine. A midwestern girl at heart, she usually enjoyed a good storm.

But not today. She hated driving in a heavy rain, especially on unfamiliar city streets with her kids in the car.

Mist . . . swipe . . . mist . . . the gentle rain softened even the rough edges of this Chicago neighborhood as she peered past the wipers looking for street signs—

A dark blur rose up suddenly in front of the car through the thin film of mist. Startled, she stomped on the brake. Swipe. The clear windshield showed a dark bedraggled shape—man? woman?—banging a fist on her hood. Heart pounding in her chest, the driver fumbled for the door locks. Oh God, Oh God, what’s happening?—

“Mom-meee!” A frightened wail from the car seat behind her stifled the woman’s first instinct to pound on the horn.

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay.” She forced her voice to be calm for the children’s sake. “Someone walked in front of the car, but I didn’t hit him. Shh. It’s okay.” But she gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking.

With one final bang on the hood, the figure shoved its fists into the pockets of a frayed army jacket and shuffled toward the driver’s-side window. The driver steeled herself, heart still racing. Now she was going to get yelled at. Or mugged.

But the person hunched down, tapped gently at the window, and whined, “Change, lady? Got any change?”

Anger and relief shredded her anxiety. Just a panhandler. A woman at that, surprisingly small and bony beneath the bulky army jacket and layers of scarves. But the nerve! Stopping her car like that!

The driver rolled down her window a mere crack.

“Mom! Don’t!” commanded her five-year-old man-child in the backseat.

“It’s okay. Give Blanky to your little sister.” She peered at the woman now standing just inches from her face. Dark-skinned, bug-eyed, the army jacket damp and limp, buttoned askew . . . the mist clung to the woman’s uncombed nappy hair like shimmering glass beads.

“Got any change?” the panhandler repeated.

The driver channeled her voice into assertive disapproval. “You shouldn’t jump in front of my car! I could have hit you.”

“Need food for my baby. And diapers,” said the woman stubbornly. She peered though the crack in the window into the backseat. Her voice changed. “You got kids?”

The driver was tempted to roll up the window and move on. Her family had made it a rule not to give money to panhandlers. Even a suburban mom from Downers Grove knew a dollar was more likely to find its way to the corner liquor store than be spent for bread and diapers.

But she hesitated, thinking of her two preschoolers in the backseat. What if the woman really did have kids who needed food and diapers?

Still she hesitated. Then an idea popped into her head. “Uh . . . I was just headed for Uptown Community Church on Morse Avenue.” To pick up my husband, she could have added. Uptown had invited men from several suburban churches to volunteer once a month in an “urban outreach” to homeless men and drug addicts. “If you stop in there, I’m sure somebody will help you.”

The woman, damp and glistening, shook her head. “Been there b’fore. Don’t wanna wear out my welcome. Just a little change, lady? A dollar will do.”

If you do it unto the least of these, you do it unto Me.

The driver sighed. Life would sometimes be a lot simpler if years of Sunday school lessons didn’t follow her around like Jiminy Cricket sitting on her shoulder. What would her husband do? After all, he came to this “outreach” today because he wanted to help people like this woman.

On impulse, she leaned over and pulled up the lock on the passenger side of the car. “Get in,” she said to the woman standing in the mist. “I’ll take you to a grocery store.”

“Mom!”

The panhandler scurried around and got in the car. She didn’t put on the seat belt, and the driver tightened her mouth. She couldn’t be this woman’s keeper about everything. She turned and glared at her five-year-old before he opened his mouth again.

Now what? She had no idea where a grocery store was in this neighborhood! She’d passed the Rogers Park Fruit Market a few blocks back, but it probably didn’t carry stuff like diapers. What she needed was a Jewel or Dominick’s.

Or maybe her son was right—this was crazy, picking up this woman!

Then she saw it: Morse Avenue. She could ask at the church where to find a grocery store. Turning onto the busier street, full of small stores with security grids on the windows, she watched the door numbers slide by. There. She slowed beside the old two-story brick storefront that housed Uptown Community Church and turned off the ignition. The wipers died.

The woman in the passenger seat narrowed her eyes. “Thought we was goin’ t’ the store.”

“We are,” the driver chirped brightly, hopping out of the car. “I just have to let my husband know that I’ll be a little late. Be right back.” She opened the back door. “Come on, kids.” Another encouraging look at the woman in the front seat. “I’ll only take a minute.”

With her daughter’s legs wrapped tightly around her waist and the boy plodding along in sulky silence, the mother pulled hopefully on the handle of the glass door. Oh, please open. Relieved when it swung outward, she hustled up the narrow stairs to the second floor that had been remodeled into a large open meeting room. She stood uncertainly at the top of the stairs, looking for her husband among the small groups of volunteers scattered around the room who were talking, some praying. There he was. She caught his eye, and he acknowledged her with a smile. Could I see you a moment? she mouthed as she motioned at him.

The kids hugged their daddy as she explained the situation. But instead of being pleased, his voice rose. “You picked up a panhandler? In the car? Of all the—”

A tall thin man with wispy gray hair and wearing a Mr. Rogers sweater suddenly appeared beside them, smiling warmly. Her husband shook his head, still incredulous. “Uh, Pastor, this is my wife . . . honey, you tell him.”

Feeling foolish now, she described the woman who had stopped her in the street and her intention to get the woman some groceries. “She said she’s been here before. But I’ve got the kids . . . do you think it’s okay?”

Uptown’s pastor nodded, his large Adam’s apple bobbing. “I know the lady. Last time she was here, I tried to get her into a detox program, but she didn’t follow through. Probably not too anxious to see me again.” His warm hazel eyes hinted at the compassion he no doubt handed out as freely as meals and good advice. “She can be a nuisance but is probably harmless. Sure, get her a bag of groceries . . . but as a general rule? Don’t pick up panhandlers.”

Relieved, she got directions to the nearest supermarket and ruffled her son’s hair. “Okay, kids. We’ll just help this lady out then come back and pick up Daddy.” She picked up her daughter and reached out for her son. The boy pulled away from his mother’s hand but allowed himself to be guided back down the stairs and out the door.

“Now be nice,” she muttered under her breath as they approached the Toyota. “We’re supposed to help people, even when it’s inconvenient.” Right.

“Hey, Mom, look!” Her son pointed an accusing finger at the car.

The woman was gone.