by R. R. Banks
“I'll take you wherever you need to be.”
Her lips compress into a tight line as we get to our feet and head to the car. I don't know what's going on, but I can see that it's breaking her heart – which, in turn, breaks mine. Yeah, Bailey has gotten under my skin. I can't deny it anymore.
Not even to myself.
* * *
“How is he?” she asks.
“He's okay,” replies an older Hispanic woman. “The EMT's are back there with him now. They're taking him to the hospital soon.”
We're standing in the industrial-sized prep area behind the cafeteria of the soup kitchen at St. Bartholomew's. Bailey spends a lot of time volunteering here, and we got here right before the evening dinner rush, apparently. The place is crowded, but there's a subdued buzz of conversation, and all of the people stopping by for a hot meal are speaking in hushed, reverent tones. No doubt, they saw the ambulance out front, which is making them all curious.
“What happened?” Bailey asks.
The older woman, her face etched with as much sadness as Bailey's, shrugs. “We were just starting to set up for the night shift, when he just collapsed,” she says. “Heart attack, I think.”
I look around the cafeteria, and see the crowd milling about. Everybody is craning their neck, trying to get a look at what's going on. As we headed over here, Bailey explained to me that Father Gus is the parish priest, and the one who does most of the cooking for the soup kitchen. Not only that, he’s the closest thing to a father figure to her. I gather that they're incredibly close – which is why they called Bailey to let her know.
“Is he going to be okay?” Bailey asks.
The older woman, whose nametag reads Olivia, shakes her head. “I don't know anything much right now, hon,” she says. “They've been back there with him a long time, though.”
Tears roll down Bailey’s cheeks, and she angrily scrubs them away. A moment later, the doors to the rear offices crash open, and two EMT's push a gurney out. On top of the gurney is an older black man with a thick head of white hair. An oxygen mask covers most of his face, and he's unconscious. Bailey runs over and falls into step beside the gurney. She takes the old man's hand in hers and murmurs a few words I can't make out over the rest of the background noise.
“Ma'am, we're going to need you to clear the way,” one of the EMT's tells her gruffly.
The other one, seeing her tears, gives her a compassionate smile. “He survived the initial heart attack. Now, we just need to get him into the hospital for some more tests and treatment,” she says. “We're taking him to Three Angels. Do you know where that is?”
Bailey nods, and steps away from the gurney. She stands there, silently watching them take the old man out the front doors to the waiting ambulance. The crowd falls silent as the gurney passes, each of the people seeming to bow their heads respectfully, and some say a little prayer for the man. It's a heartbreaking yet touching scene.
I step up next to Bailey and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You okay?”
She shakes her head. “Not really,” she says. “Gus is basically the father I never had. He’s been so good to me.”
“Three Angels is a good hospital. They've got one of the best cardiac care units in the country,” I say, hoping it's reassuring. “He's going to receive top of the line care.”
“I don't think he has insurance,” she says.
“Don't worry about it,” I reply. “I'll handle it.”
“I can't ask –”
“You're not asking me,” I say. “I'm telling you.”
She takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. Olivia steps up next to her and takes her other hand. Together, they watch the doors. The sound of the siren fades in the distance as they take the priest to the hospital. Olivia turns to Bailey.
“We still have a shift to do,” she says gently. “People are hungry, and Father Gus wouldn't want us to let them go without, no matter what.”
“No, he wouldn't,” Bailey says, her voice sounding completely disconnected from the reality of the situation.
She scans the crowd and seems to be trying to gather herself. She’s collecting her wits, and mentally and emotionally readying herself to do what needs to be done. What Father Gus would want her to do.
She turns to me and gives me a small smile that doesn't even come close to reaching her eyes. “I can't ask you to stay,” she says. “I'll be fine here, if you want to go ahead and take off. Olivia can give me a ride home later.”
I shake my head. “I've got nowhere better to be,” I say. “And I'd like to help you in any way I can.”
Her smile becomes softer, more genuine, and grateful. “Thank you, Colin.”
“Anytime,” I reply.
We walk back to the kitchen to get ready. I take off my coat and hang it up while Bailey hands me a full-length apron. A couple of men are standing at the stoves, cooking away, trying to make up for lost time.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
“Nothing just yet,” she says. “We can't get started until the food's finished cooking. After that, I'll have you on the line, dishing out some of the food, if you don't mind.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” I say.
“Thank you, Colin,” she says. “I appreciate this more than you know.”
“No need to thank me,” I reply. “I'm just glad I can be here for you.”
Two hours later, after dishing out the last of the rice pilaf I was in charge of, I take the pot back to the kitchen, and set it down in the sink to let the washers have at it. Bailey is still busy, running around like a chicken with her head cut off, trying to do everything I assume Father Gus usually tends to.
I watch her with the people and see the way they react to her and can't help but smile. It's easy to see that she cares for them all – and they care for her as well. As she tends to their needs, you can see the warm, genuine gratitude and appreciation for her in their faces. Seeing the way they interact tells me a lot about the woman – though, nothing I didn't know already. But, it only reinforces the fact that she's a genuinely good person with a large, generous heart.
Not knowing what else to do with myself, I wander around the cafeteria, picking up plates, throwing them away, and wiping down the tables with a wet rag.
“Haven't seen you around here before.”
I turn to find a middle-aged man looking at me. He's white with dark hair, shot through with gray, green eyes, and a neatly-trimmed goatee. Dressed in black jeans, and a blue button-down shirt, he's a bit cleaner than some of the other folks who've come through here tonight. He's got a plate of food in front of him but he just seems to be picking at it.
“I'm here to help Bailey out tonight,” I say.
He nods. “She's a good girl,” he says. “One of the kindest, most compassionate people I've ever met. She really cares.”
“I'm getting a sense of that,” I say.
I sit down at the table with the man and can see the pain in his eyes – pain he's trying to hide, but failing at. There's an air of sadness about him that's as deep as it is dark.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I just hate this time of year,” he says. “But, I'll be fine. I'm always fine.”
I've heard about the Christmas Blues, and that it's the toughest time of year for a lot of people. I've never met one of them, though. Not until now, at any rate. I can see the shadow cross his face and know that he's not actually fine. Nor is he ever, more than likely. He just puts on a good show.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He nods. “Sure.”
“I don't want to sound rude –”
“Which is how people preface a comment that's going to be rude,” he chuckles.
“I don't intend to be rude, but I'm curious. How'd you end up here?” I ask. “I mean, you seem –”
He cuts me off with a derisive snort. “Smart? Articulate?”
“Well, not to put too fin
e a point on it, but – yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
“Well, let's see,” he says. “It all started with some really shitty luck, actually. First, my wife of twenty years was diagnosed with Stage IV, terminal cancer. It was aggressive as hell, and her treatments sucked our savings dry. When she passed, we were broke. But, I would pay twice that to have more time with her.”
His cheeks flush, and his eyes well with unshed tears. I feel like I should do something to comfort the man, but I have no idea what to do. Instead, I sit there in silence, feeling like a heartless idiot.
“Anyway,” he says, sniffing back tears. “Shortly after she passed, I lost my job. Downsizing. They were offshoring my department, apparently. With no job – and likely, because of my age, I got no bites when my resume made the rounds – no income, and no money left in savings, I ended up losing my home. And here I am.”
I sit back on the stool, feeling completely stunned. His story has left me speechless. I don't know what to say or what to do. It's obvious the man is in emotional distress, and has been for a long time, I'd guess. But, he seems like the type to just bury it, put his head down, and keep trudging forward.
“Is that common?” I ask. “That you end up on the streets because of something like that?”
He shrugs. “It's a lot more common than you’d think,” he says, pointing to a man in a blue baseball cap. “Rick over there was an airline mechanic for twenty-two years. They cut him loose to bring in some younger, cheaper mechanics.”
I look over at the older Hispanic man sitting at the table next to us, eating his meal in silence.
“That's Darryl,” he says, pointing to a man in a red coat. “He was a contractor. Fell off a roof one day, ended up in the hospital for a long while. Can't do the same work anymore, and ended up out of a job,” he says. “He lost everything after that. Wife, kids, his dog – everything. So yeah, it's probably a lot more common than you think. It's why we're all grateful to have a place where we can come and get a warm, hot meal.”
I look around the cafeteria, looking at the sea of faces out there and wonder what everyone’s story is. Wonder how many of them are there because of circumstances beyond their control. Wonder how many ended up on the street through a series of unfortunate events, or a turn of bad luck. I turn back to the man, my mind swirling with a thousand different unasked questions.
“What did you do?” I ask for lack of anything intelligent or actually compassionate to say.
“I was an accountant,” he says. “Headed the company's accounting department until they figured they could find cheaper labor overseas.”
Sitting here with this man is something of a humbling experience for me. He's not a drunk. Not an addict. Not a criminal. He's none of the preconceived notions of the homeless I've held all my life. I don't like to admit it, but yeah, I guess the fact that I looked down on the poor and the homeless as lazy, or as somehow being in their situation because of something they did wrong, is a form of bigotry I never thought much about.
I feel like the air is being sucked right out of my lungs as I hear that phrase ringing through my mind on an endless loop – I’m a bigot. I've never been so ashamed in my life. And I know, if I gave voice to this epiphany, my father would be ashamed of me too.
Where did I develop this prejudiced, cavalier attitude toward others? Do my brothers have the same thoughts and beliefs? I think back and try to piece it all together, try to figure out where my prejudice against the poor first started, where it came from – and I really don’t know. I have no idea whatsoever.
It's a revelation about myself that leaves me sickened. Stunned. I never actively treated the poor like they were trash – at least, I don't think I did – but, I realize now that I regarded them with a certain degree of callousness and coldness. To me, they just didn't exist.
“What's your name?” I ask.
“Matthew,” he says and extends his hand. “Matthew Rehnquist.”
I shake his hand and nod. “How long were you an accountant?”
He snorts. “Probably longer than you've been alive,” he chuckles.
I fish a card out of my coat pocket and hand it to him. “My name is Colin Anderson,” I say. “We're about to shut down for the holidays, but once they're over, I want you to call me at my office. I'm going to bring you in and we'll get you a job in our accounting department.”
He takes the card and looks at it, then looks up at me. I can see the skepticism in his eyes.
“Aren't you a little young –”
“Family company,” I say, cutting him off.
He looks at me a moment longer. “What's the catch?”
I shake my head. “No catch.”
He chuckles. “I've been around long enough to know there's always a catch,” he says. “Like they say, there's no such thing as a free lunch.”
“Well, the catch then, is that you show up on time, and do a good job for me,” I say.
Matthew looks at me for a long moment. The skepticism is still in his eyes, but now, I see the faint flickering of some other emotion – hope, maybe.
“Is this for real?” he asks.
I nod. “One hundred percent.”
A wide smile crosses his face, and I watch as his nose and cheeks grow red. His eyes are wet with tears I can see he's doing his best to keep from falling. He rubs his hand across his face, doing his best to keep his composure in front of me.
“And what are you boys talking about over here?” Bailey asks as she steps over to the table.
She's looking at me with a look of pure adoration in her eyes, and it melts my heart. It's a face I could stare at every day and never grow tired of. Bailey turns and looks at Matthew, and when she sees he's struggling to contain his emotion, her face falls, and she rushes to his side. She casts a wary, slightly accusatory look at me – like she thinks I did something to upset the man.
“Matthew, are you okay?” she asks. “What's wrong?”
He shakes his head, but he can't hold the tears back any longer. He covers his face with his hand as the tears start to roll down his cheeks. Bailey looks over at me with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw.
“What did you do?” she hisses.
Matthew puts his hand on Bailey's shoulder and looks up at her. He shakes his head and gives her a trembling smile.
“I never believed in Christmas miracles, Bailey. Always thought they were Hollywood movie garbage,” he says and looks over at me. “Until right now.”
Confusion sweeps across her face as her gaze shifts between Matthew and me. She wants to be mad, assuming I did something horrible, but something in Matthew's face seems to be keeping her anger in check.
“How many years have I been trying to get a job?” he asks Bailey.
“A lot of years, I know,” she says.
“I guess I have one now,” he says. “After all this time, I finally found a job, Bailey.”
She looks at me, her confusion only deepening. I just shrug and give her a small, enigmatic smile. She immediately thought the worst, so I'm enjoying seeing her squirm a bit.
“What are you talking about, Matthew?” she finally asks.
He looks over at me and brandishes my card. “Mr. Anderson here,” he says. “He's giving me an accounting job at his company.”
Her eyes widen, and I can tell she's not sure what to think. I nod, confirming what he's saying – though, it does nothing to lessen her expression of confusion. She stands up and motions me to join her.
“We'll be right back,” she says to Matthew, giving him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.
He nods, then looks up at me, his face filled with nothing but gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Anderson. Thank you for this opportunity,” he says. “I won't let you down. I swear.”
“I know you won't, Matthew,” I say.
Bailey drags me out of the dining room and into the now-deserted kitchen. She rounds on me with anger and distrust in her eyes. She steps forward and thrusts a finger into my face. To any
body seeing this from the outside, it has to look funny, I'm sure – this delicate, diminutive woman, standing with her finger in the face of a man two, maybe three times larger than her. But, seeing the fury in her eyes, I wisely bite back the laughter and any snarky reply.
“You had better not be screwing with him,” she says. “That man has been looking for work for a long time. He's absolutely demoralized about having to come here to begin with. The last thing he needs is for you to come in here and mess with him.”
She's red in the face, huffing and puffing, and I find it utterly adorable. Not that I'm going to say that to her. Not if I plan on getting out of this kitchen alive, that is.
“Are you done?”
“For now.”
“Good. I'm not messing with him,” I say. “I spent some time talking to him, and his story genuinely moved me. I think I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I can see that he's a good, decent, hardworking man. He needs to catch a break for a change, and I want to help him. Really.”
She eyes me for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not I'm being sincere. “So, this isn't just some random, Christmas-fueled offer that you’re going to change your mind about when the tinsel comes down?” she asks.
“No, it's not. It's a genuine offer. If he doesn't work out in accounting, I'm sure I can find him another position somewhere else,” I say. “But hey, thanks for thinking the worst of me. I appreciate that.”
Her face softens, and she looks down at the ground. Bailey shuffles her feet and pushes some loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. When she looks up at me again, she looks chastised and abashed. I'm not going to lie, the fact that her first instinct is to think the worst of me hurts a bit. But, given her past experiences with me, plus my previous attitudes regarding the poor, I can't blame her too much.
Still, I thought she knew me better than that by now. I mean, I know we still have a lot to learn about each other – and that we've only scratched the surface – but knowing that's her default reaction still stings.
“I'm sorry,” she says softly. “I'm just so protective of the people here, and –”