The next morning, Cornelia’s alarm clock woke her up at the ungodly hour of five a.m. She had to shower and get dressed quickly so her mother could drop her off at The Family Connection by six. Again she wore little make-up and put her hair in a ponytail. She put a small pink barrette on a piece of hair that was being unwieldy. This time she borrowed an old t-shirt from her mother and wore a ripped pair of jeans and an old pair of tennis shoes. She had learned her lesson last time when she got paint all over her cheerleading shirt and Nikes. Her mother made her use varnish to clean them rather than buying her new ones.
When Cornelia arrived at The Family Connection, it was still dark outside. The air was brisk and Cornelia put on an old black hoodie that her dad left behind after the divorce. Her mother waved good-bye, but Cornelia did not reciprocate. She was in a hurry to get inside, out of the cold.
When she got to the front, a young African-American girl opened the door for her. Cornelia nodded in thanks and looked around the room. She thought about what had transpired during her last trip and decided to walk right up to Monica to report for duty rather than looking around for Natalie, who, as it turned out, was not there anyway. Monica towered over Cornelia. She looked as if she didn’t want to be bothered, but Cornelia approached her anyway.
“Hi Monica,” she said nonchalantly.
“Cornelia, can you see I’m in the middle of a conversation here?” Cornelia actually had not noticed. She was so focused on Monica that she did not see that Monica had been conversing with none other than Admeta. “I’m sure you can wait until I’m finished talking.”
“Actually,” said Admeta, “that’s all I needed to know, Mo, thanks.” At that, Admeta gave Cornelia a dirty look and walked in the opposite direction.
“Sorry,” Cornelia said, honestly.
“Now what is it that was so important that you had to interrupt your classmate?” Monica asked.
“I—I was just reporting in,” Cornelia said apprehensively.
“Girl, you don’t have to report to me when you get here, you just have to give me your paperwork when the day is over so I can sign it. I don’t need to see you before then.”
“I said I was sorry,” Cornelia snapped without thinking.
“Oh you’re sorry alright,” Monica said sarcastically and then laughed and shook her head. Cornelia could hear Monica mutter something about a “princess” as she walked away. When she reached the back door, Monica addressed the entire group of fourteen girls. “Listen up, ladies!” The girls were still chattering amongst themselves, except for Cornelia who stood alone in the middle of the room. “Ladies!” Monica yelled at the top of her voice and everyone got quiet. “Thank you. It’s time to listen up. Today we’re going to the soup kitchen to serve breakfast and lunch. It’s in Over-the-River, so please do not get your little selves separated from the group.”
Cornelia inadvertently let out a quiet whimper. Over-the-River was a terrible neighborhood just outside of Storm River proper. There were many homeless and poor people but there were also many gang members. Cornelia was aghast at the thought of not only stepping foot in Over-the-River, but also working at a soup kitchen. Cornelia had never even seen a soup kitchen before except on television. The thought of serving ex-cons and homeless people frightened her. She had come to the Family Connection to avoid this kind of community service, not participate in it.
“Cornelia, do you have a problem?” Monica asked in front of everyone and all the girls turned to look at Cornelia.
“N—No, I just thought we’d be painting again is all,” Cornelia replied softly.
“It’s too cold outside to paint and probably will be until spring, so today we’re going to the Over-the-River Soup Kitchen, do you have a problem with that?” Monica raised both eyebrows and put her hands on her hips awaiting a response.
“No, ma’am,” Cornelia replied, but her heart was beating very quickly under her mother’s t-shirt. She could have sworn she saw Admeta roll her eyes, but everything was a kind of blur. The girls turned back to Monica who had started spouting other instructions. Cornelia wasn’t listening. All she could hear was “Over-the-River Soup Kitchen” over and over again. She had the sudden urge to run. She wanted to jet out the front door and call her mother to come get her. She could make up the community service some other time. This was not the sort of thing Cornelia had signed up for. She thought about calling her father to protest, but he was still out of town and she didn’t want to deal with her step-mother. Her father probably wouldn’t have done anything anyway.
Cornelia looked over at Admeta. When she caught her staring, Admeta rolled her eyes again. She had seen the fear on Cornelia’s face, and the terror in her eyes. This made Cornelia angry. She immediately tried to calm herself. “I’m in a large group of people. My phone is tucked away in my pocket and I’m not carrying a purse. I look like hell. No one is going to bother me. No one is going to bother me. No one is going to bother me,” she repeated in her head. Cornelia took a deep breath and composed herself. She wasn’t going to run. If Admeta could do this, so could she. She was going to stand her ground. She tried to look more nonchalant while Monica finished up her sermon.
“Let’s go, ladies!” Monica yelled and the room full of girls filed out the back door to the waiting bus. Cornelia maneuvered her way behind Admeta in the front of the pack. When Admeta sat in an empty seat, Cornelia asked her to move over. When Admeta refused, Cornelia climbed over her and sat by the window. Admeta stared at her. Cornelia stared out the window. Admeta resisted the urge to move, curious as to why Cornelia had insisted on sitting next to her. A few minutes later, the bus was full and Monica was giving the driver directions to the soup kitchen. They were on their way.
The two girls sat silently for a while, then Admeta finally decided to break the silence. “So why did you sit next to me wh--” Admeta caught herself before insulting Cornelia.
“Why not?” Cornelia asked as if the two had been best friends.
“Why not?” Admeta repeated, furrowing her brow.
“Yeah, why not? You’re the only one I really know here,” Cornelia said, honestly.
“That’s because you haven’t taken the time to get to know anyone else,” Admeta said and Cornelia could have sworn that her accent was thicker than usual.
“I’ve only been here once, hardly enough time to get to know someone,” Cornelia retorted.
“Yeah, but that one time you didn’t bother to even try to get to know anyone. Tell me one person’s name here. Just one,” Admeta insisted.
“Mo--” Cornelia began, but Admeta interrupted her immediately.
“Someone besides Monica,” Admeta smirked.
“O.k. then,” Cornelia began and looked around the bus. “Isabella!” She said a little louder than she’d planned. Truth be told she was excited that she could actually name someone because she knew Admeta was right. She hadn’t gotten to know anyone.
“One of the kids, not the adults,” Admeta corrected her.
“Fine,” Cornelia snapped, looking around again. She scanned the faces and backs of people’s heads but she couldn’t come up with anything. She decided to improvise. “That girl over there,” Cornelia said, pointing toward the front of the bus. “That’s Maria.”
“Where?” Admeta asked.
“Right there, in front,” Cornelia tried to be vague.
“What is Maria wearing?” Admeta asked.
Unwilling to back down, Cornelia looked around the front of the bus for someone with a dark complexion like Admeta’s. She found a girl in the second row and described what she was wearing. Admeta laughed.
“That is NOT Maria. That’s Tryphena. You couldn’t even pronounce her name if you tried. Do you think every brown girl is named Maria?” Admeta asked, putting a severe accent on the rolled ‘r’ sound in Maria.
“No!” Cornelia raised her voice. “I know someone’s name is Maria, I just can’t remember her face exactly. Her back is to me you know.”
“Actually,” Admeta corrected, “Maria is facing you. She’s the tall girl in the pink t-shirt two rows back.”
“Well I knew her name anyway,” Cornelia said.
“You knew a name,” Admeta corrected. “You didn’t even know who she was.”
“If you’ll remember, Monica had me working with you the entire day last Saturday, Admeta,” Cornelia shot back, not backing down. Admeta seemed to admire her spirit and did not pursue the subject further. The two were silent for a few minutes, and then it was Cornelia who broke the silence.
“Have you written your paper yet?” she asked.
“Which paper?”
“The one for Writers on the Storm,” Cornelia replied.
“Yes,” Admeta answered, simply.
“What did you write about?”
“I’m not going to tell you what I wrote about. We’re going to share in class, you’ll find out then,” Admeta said, slightly affronted.
“Well you don’t have to be rude about it. I was just asking,” Cornelia replied, also affronted.
“Are you asking because you can’t think of anything to write about? Is your life so perfect that you can’t think of any time you were discriminated against because of your perfect blonde hair or your perfect green eyes or your perfect white skin?” Admeta knew she had gone too far and she felt a pang of regret for making things about race again. Before Cornelia could reply, she said, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Cornelia was taken aback by Admeta’s quick apology. Admeta seemed to be more mature than most freshmen in high school. It came from being the only woman in her house, but Cornelia didn’t know that. The two were once again silent, both looking down at the floor. This time neither would break the silence.
As they sat in silence, Cornelia looked out the window. She soon came to realize that they were in Over-the-River. The bus had turned from the highway onto a downtown street, but it kept going past the business district until the towering skyscrapers turned into decrepit apartment buildings with falling down fire escapes and convenience stores that looked like they were robbed daily. Every building had bars on the windows. Cornelia wondered what it must be like to look out of your bedroom window and see only bars. She didn’t know it, but Admeta had been thinking the exact same thing. Admeta lived in Price Valley, which was a bad neighborhood compared to Storm River, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Over-the-River on the outskirts of town.
Cornelia felt her pulse quicken. On every street corner there were young people, mostly boys who looked like they belonged to gangs (or worse), hanging out with friends. They were from all walks of life, but they seemed to group themselves by race. She saw groups of white kids, black kids, Asian kids and Hispanic kids, depending on the corner. All looked menacing and yet at the same time there was something about them that seemed sad, almost lonely. They were loud even through the closed windows of the bus. Many had mannerisms that were exaggerated, almost dramatic. Some of the kids turned to look at the bus as it went by. Some even yelled cat calls at the all female passengers.
Cornelia heard one African-American boy yell, “Hey white girl! How you doin’, baby?” Cornelia looked away and pretended she didn’t hear him. She was sure he was talking to her because she was the only white girl on that side of the bus. He yelled other things at some other girls on the bus, but Cornelia blocked him out. When the bus finally came to a stop outside the soup kitchen, Cornelia was almost relieved. As the girls began exiting the bus she began to look around. There were a lot of people hanging around outside the building which looked like a church of sorts. There was a cross above the door and a sign that said, “Over-the-River Soup Kitchen -- Bring us Your Hungry.” Cornelia thought it was an odd expression but she was more worried about all of the people hanging around outside. Most of them didn’t have coats and it was freezing.
“They look homeless,” she accidentally said out loud as she passed Monica.
“Of course they look homeless. This is a soup kitchen, girl; they ARE homeless. What are you thinking?”
“I just meant—never mind,” she said, knowing any justification would sound ridiculous.
After all of the girls had exited the bus, Monica rushed them into a side door. Apparently Monica didn’t want to hang around on the streets anymore than Cornelia did. As Admeta and Cornelia were shuffling behind the girls in front of them, they heard a voice call out to them from amongst a crowd of boys standing not too far from the door.
A Hispanic boy wearing nothing but an A-shaped t-shirt, and baggy jeans which were hanging off of his blue boxer shorts was laughing, but Cornelia hadn’t heard what he said. She thought he must be freezing with no coat on.
“What’s the matter, princess, you don’t speak Spanish?” he asked in what Cornelia assumed to be a thick Mexican accent. His ‘T’s sounded like ‘D’s and he rolled his ‘R’s the same way Admeta did.
Before Cornelia could speak, she was shocked to hear Admeta say, “Leave her alone.” Turning to address Cornelia she said, “Let’s get inside.” Admeta recognized the tattoo on the boy’s arm. It said “La Hijos de El Salvador.” She knew it all too well. This boy belonged to the same gang that her brothers had all been initiated into. The same gang that her oldest brother, Raoul, ran in Price Valley. Admeta wondered if he took part in her brothers’ jump-ins in the park. She wondered if it was his fist that blackened Jorge’s eye or if the jagged ring on his finger was the source of the scar on Manuel’s chin. She wondered if this boy had broken Vuello’s ribs or if he was partially responsible for nearly killing Raoul.
“¿Qué es su problema, la princesa?” he called to Admeta.
“Cierre el infierno arriba y tenga inconveniente en su propio negocio, imbecile!” Admeta screamed and Cornelia grew nervous. She didn’t know what Admeta was saying, but she was sure it wasn’t nice. She was certain that ‘imbecile’ meant the same thing in Spanish that it did in English. The group of teenagers surrounding the boy laughed.
“¿No enseñó su le madre ninguna manera?” he asked. Apparently he touched a nerve because Admeta looked like she might cry.
“He conseguido sus maneras aquí mismo!” Admeta screamed, holding up the back of her fist in what Cornelia was sure was some sort of sign language for a foul term. “Move!” Admeta shouted at Cornelia and the girls were the last to shuffle through the door.
Cornelia stopped just inside the door. “What the hell was that?” she asked, confused.
“Nothing, let’s just catch up to the group,” Admeta said, her spirit obviously broken.
“Wait, it wasn’t nothing, Admeta, what did that boy say to you?” Cornelia asked, standing her ground.
“Nothing, o.k.? Can we go now?” Admeta asked as Cornelia held her arm out to block Admeta’s way.
“Since I was the one you were defending, I think I have a right to know.”
“You have a right?--” Admeta was angry at the suggestion. “He called me a princess too, so I told him to shut the hell up and mind his own business. That’s all.”
“That is not all.”
“O.k. he asked me if I had manners and I told him I had his manners right here. Are you satisfied?”
Cornelia wanted to laugh at the suggestion, but she was scared and angry because Admeta wasn’t telling her the whole story and she knew it. “There must have been more to it than that. I heard the word imbecile in there somewhere,” Cornelia pleaded.
“Well, he was an imbecile,” Admeta said putting a Spanish accent on the last word. Now Cornelia couldn’t help but laugh and Admeta’s stern face eventually faltered and she found herself laughing as well.
“I have your manners right here, imbecile,” Cornelia mimicked in a deep, manly voice. The girls laughed again and Cornelia felt as though she had finally found some common ground with Admeta.
“So what was that hand gesture?” Cornelia asked.
Admeta’s smile faded as she grew impatient again. “It was nothing, Cornelia, God, do
you need to know everything? Let’s go,” Admeta said and moved Cornelia’s arm out of her way. Cornelia did not protest further. She could see that Admeta’s mouth was still slightly curled into somewhat of a grin.
When the pair arrived in the kitchen, Monica was already in the middle of one of her introductory speeches. The girls started taking off their coats to hang on the hooks where the other girls had placed their coats.
“Oh, so nice of you two to join us, Miss Cornelia and Miss Admeta,” Monica said. Cornelia wondered if Monica had noticed they were missing before they entered the room.
“Sorry, Mo,” Admeta said softly, hanging her coat on an empty hook.
“Yes, sorry,” Cornelia echoed also hanging her coat, and Monica continued her speech.
Cornelia looked around the room. It was clean, but to Cornelia the kitchen looked filthy. She was used to seeing sparkling white restaurants on the east side. The only cafeteria she ever stepped into was at school. The floor was made of old stone squares separated by cement that Cornelia imagined had once been white. Now it was a dull shade of dark grey, just like the stones. The silver countertops looked clean, but they were scratched and cluttered with different devises like food processors, large mixers and pots and pans. The other pots and pans were hanging on hooks above the counters. They looked a hundred years old and they all had charred bottoms as if they had been burned over open flames on more than one occasion. The walls had once been white too, but now they were stained by repeated grease spatterings.
And then Cornelia looked over at the industrial-sized sinks. They were the biggest sinks she had ever seen in her life. Even the lunch room at school didn’t have sinks that big, not that Cornelia would have ever stepped foot in the high school kitchen. Cornelia noticed that the sinks had something in them. They were large chickens. And much to Cornelia’s chagrin, they were still feathered. She let out another quiet gasp.
“Miss Cornelia, do…you…have….a…problem?” Monica said, impatiently.
“What?—No,” and Cornelia started coughing to cover her faux pas.
“Good, you can begin by cleaning those chickens, Miss Cornelia.” Cornelia looked over at the chickens and was struck with horror at the thought. Admeta couldn’t help but laugh at the look of absolute terror on Cornelia’s face. Monica, growing more annoyed with the pair continued, “And you, Miss Admeta, can help her!”
Monica waited for Admeta to protest, but the girl muffled her laughter and remained silent. “Is anyone else here a joker? Anyone feel a compulsion to hunt down Batman and Robin? If so, I think there are some fish that need to be gutted!” This time it was Cornelia who needed to stifle her laughter. She thought Monica was pretty funny. Admeta was still covering her mouth as well.
Monica did not notice their chests shaking with laughter and she continued handing out assignments. Half of the other girls got to make corn on the stove or chop vegetables on large wooden cutting boards on the counter. The other half of the group got to serve the residents breakfast. The breakfast items must have been prepared before their arrival. Cornelia was a little jealous of the servers. She stood staring at the chickens for what seemed like ten minutes, but was really only about 30 seconds.
“They aren’t going to get cleaned by staring at them, Cornelia,” Admeta said as she walked over to the sinks.
“What exactly does she mean by clean?” Cornelia asked, looking around to make sure Monica couldn’t hear them. She must have been in the next room because Cornelia only saw other girls around them.
“You have got to be kidding,” Admeta said, laughing again. When Cornelia shook her head, Admeta added, “I’ll show you.” Cornelia looked on in revulsion as Admeta grabbed two chickens that Cornelia could now see still had their heads and feet attached. She let out another gasp. “Oh, get a grip,” Admeta said, still giggling. “Haven’t you ever seen a dead chicken before?”
“Not one that hadn’t been cooked! Or one with its head still on!” Cornelia said. Admeta laughed harder. “Hey, stop laughing at me,” Cornelia said, but she too was now laughing. She had to laugh, otherwise she might cry. She didn’t want to touch the poor birds whose feet, she could see now, were bound together by rope. After Admeta laid the first chicken on a wooden cutting board, Cornelia reached for the first knot to try to untie its legs.
“No, not like that,” Admeta protested, and then picked up a large butcher’s knife out of its holder. “Like this!” she said, slamming the knife down on the chicken’s legs with as much force as she could muster. Cornelia let out a blood curdling scream.
“Oh my God, Cornelia, calm down or you’ll have Mo in here yelling at us again. Ut oh, too late,” she stopped abruptly, pointing toward the door to the dining room.
“Miss…Corn…eeee….lia!” Monica shouted as she came through the door. “Are you TRYING to give everyone a heart attack?!”
“I’m sorry, Mo’, but Admeta just cut this chicken’s legs off,” Cornelia replied, then cupped her hand over her mouth looking as if she might throw up.
“Well, of course she did, girl. What else do you think ‘clean the chickens’ means? And who told you to call me Mo’?” Monica had one hand on her hip and the other pointing a finger at Cornelia while shaking her head in exasperation. “Girls, let me tell you what,” she said, still shaking an index finger in their direction, “if I have to come in here one more time for your silliness there’s gonna be heck to pay; you hear me?” Monica was being completely serious but Cornelia could tell that her lips were slightly curled as if she was trying to hold back a grin.
Cornelia and Admeta nodded their heads and Monica turned around and started back out of the room. Cornelia could hear her whispering under her breath, “Girl ain’t never seen nobody skin a chicken. Lord have mercy,” and she shook her head as she passed through the door.
Admeta smacked Cornelia on the shoulder, lightly. “Cornelia, you’re going to get us kicked out of the program if you keep that up.”
“Sorry,” Cornelia replied. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve just never seen anything like that before.”
“You sure have lived a sheltered life,” Admeta said, honestly. There was a pause and then both girls were laughing again. They tried to stifle themselves so Monica would not come back in the room.
“I guess I have,” Cornelia replied when she was finished laughing. “How do you know how to do this anyway?”
“My dad works on a farm. Sometimes he brings home chickens for us to eat and I help him clean them.”
“Oh,” Cornelia replied, surprised that Admeta’s father could be a farm worker.
“What? You have a problem with my dad being a farmer?” Admeta asked and Cornelia was disappointed that the sharpness had returned to Admeta’s voice for the first time since they were on the bus.
“No, not at all,” Cornelia exclaimed. “I was surprised that there are farms in Storm River. Like you said, I’ve lived a sheltered life. I didn’t even know there were farms nearby.” Cornelia was looking hopefully at Admeta.
“Oh,” Admeta began, changing her tone. “You’re right, there aren’t. My dad drives about an hour to work.”
“An hour? And I thought my dad’s commute was bad. He drives a half hour into the city.”
“What does your dad do?” Admeta asked, rearranging the chicken on the board.
“He’s a lawyer,” Cornelia replied. Realizing that his occupation would reinforce Admeta’s idea that Cornelia was rich, she added, “but my parents are divorced. I live with my mom.”
“What does your mom do?” Admeta asked and then slammed the knife clean through the neck of the chicken, chopping its head off. Cornelia put her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. “Get a grip,” Admeta said again as she nudged Cornelia with her elbow in a friendly manner.
“I’m o.k.” Cornelia said, waving her hand in front of her mouth as if she was trying to give herself more air, but she still felt like she was going to throw up. Admeta
quickly brushed the feet and head into a trash can and Cornelia was relieved that she no longer had to look at the chicken parts.
“So?” Admeta asked.
“What?” Cornelia asked, hoping Admeta had forgotten the question.
“What does your mom do?”
“Oh,” Cornelia was disappointed. “She doesn’t do anything really.” Seeing the knowing look on Admeta’s face, she added, “but she’s looking for a job.”
“Doing what?” Admeta asked.
Cornelia paused while Admeta lined up the second chicken on the chopping block. As Admeta slammed the knife down on the second chicken’s legs, Cornelia replied, “I don’t actually know.” She was so taken aback by her realization that she didn’t have time to feel nauseous about the poor, legless chicken.
“You don’t know what your mom does?” Admeta asked, curiously while flipping the chicken around on the cutting board.
“No,” Cornelia said and she was slightly ashamed. “What does your mom do?” she asked, changing the subject. Admeta slammed the knife down hard, cutting off the second chicken’s head with such tremendous force that she startled Cornelia who jumped a little.
“You’re too jumpy,” Admeta said, trying to avoid the question.
“I’m beginning to get that,” Cornelia said. “So what does your mom do?” Cornelia repeated as Admeta swept the other chicken parts into the trash.
Admeta hesitated and then gave a laugh and said, “Nice try.” Cornelia was confused. “When you tell me what your mom does,” she continued, “then I’ll tell you what my mom does.
An eye for an eye, you know?” Cornelia got a sneaking suspicion that there was something more to Admeta’s avoidance of the question, but she left it alone, just happy that the two were getting along.
“That’s not what that expression means, you know,” Cornelia said, looking at Admeta out of the side of her eye.
“I know, but you understood what I meant,” Admeta replied as she put one of the dismembered chickens in front of Cornelia and one in front of herself.
“What now?” Cornelia asked apprehensively.
“Now we pluck,” Admeta said. Noticing the look of disgust on Cornelia’s face, she continued. “It’s not so bad, look,” Admeta said while pulling out a feather from the recently decapitated chicken and throwing it in the trash can. Cornelia reluctantly mimicked Admeta’s actions, throwing the feather away in the trash can on her right. The feathers were harder to pull out than she expected. She had to use quite a bit of force. By the time the two had stripped both chickens completely naked, Cornelia’s arms ached. Admeta asked someone who worked at the kitchen what they should do next and the little elderly African-American woman taught the girls how to season the chickens and put them in the oven.
Next, Monica gave the girls a tray covered with bowls. They were to put a mix of fruit in the bowls. At first they tried to pile the bowls high, but the elderly woman, who Monica called Miss Thompson, told them they had to make the bowls small in order to stretch the fruit as much as possible. The thought made Cornelia sad somehow, but she and Admeta complied with her wishes. After a few more odd jobs and some idle, but pleasant conversations, the girls were ready to help serve lunch as the other girls began to prepare supper. Other volunteers were going to serve supper later that evening.
As they carried trays out to the dining room, Cornelia was puzzled by the tiny pieces the chickens had been cut into. Miss Thompson had guided some other girls as they pulled all of the meat off the bones and cut them up into pieces that Cornelia felt were way too small. As she looked around the dining room she could see long wooden tables stretched out in three rows. There were benches on each side of the tables. It was dark in the dining hall. There were no windows and the walls were stone, like the floor. The place was ancient and Cornelia thought it must look like a prison cafeteria.
The place where they deposited the food trays was not unlike the lunch line at school. There was one long line of silver counter tops with holes cut out for trays of varying size. There was a sneeze guard stretching the length of the line and a silver banister a few feet from the counter to prevent line cutters. Two girls were setting out drinks at the end of the line. The only thing missing was a cash register.
As Cornelia and Admeta placed a tray of fruit and a tray of corn into the holes in the counter, Cornelia noticed a line of people waiting just outside the door to the dining room. She wondered how long they had been standing there. The other girls were filling up the remaining holes. When all was said and done there was chicken, fish sticks, soup, fruit, rolls and various vegetables along the lunch line. Cornelia noticed a tray full of peanut butter and butter and jelly sandwiches behind the counter that had not been put out. At the end of the counter the girls were finished setting out small pints of milk and juice and cups for water. There was a small water fountain at the end where people could fill their own glasses.
Miss Thompson said, “All right, girls, take a position in front of a tray. Remember everyone gets just one serving of anything in particular. Do not give them more even if they beg.” Cornelia was taken aback. How could she deny someone who was begging for more? How could the soup kitchen do such a thing? As if she could hear her thoughts, Miss Thompson continued, “If we go around doing that there won’t be enough for everyone. There already won’t be enough for everyone as it is, so we just can’t do it. One more thing, girls, don’t take any gruff off of nobody. If someone gives you a hard time you see Miss Thompson, you hear?” Cornelia thought it was funny that Miss Thompson spoke about herself in the third person, but she was growing more nervous with every word that was spoken. “Don’t offer anyone food unless they ask for it. We don’t want to give anyone more than they need. Waste not, want not. Got it?” Miss Thompson asked and the girls all nodded.
As the girls took their positions, Cornelia stood behind the chicken while Admeta stood behind the corn on her left. “Shift over to the other side of me,” Admeta said.
“What do you mean?” Cornelia asked.
“That’s Miss Thompson’s spot at the head of the line, you need to move down.”
“Oh,” Cornelia said as she moved to Admeta’s left side behind the fruit. She had perfect timing as Miss Thompson came up behind the girls just then and took her place at the head of the line. Monica was at the other end with the drinks.
“Miss Monica?” Miss Thompson questioned.
“Yes, Miss Thompson?”
“It’s time to open the gates.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Monica said with great respect resounding in her voice and she walked up to the door to open the steel gate that had been keeping customers out. It made a hideous screeching noise that hurt Cornelia’s ears. She thought it was worse than fingernails on a chalk board.
Miss Thompson addressed the incoming crowd, “Good afternoon, everyone. As always there is no pushing or shoving in this dining room. You will mind your ‘P’s and ‘Q’s and go with God, always. And if’n you don’t, you will deal with the wrath of Miss Thompson and don’t you forget it.” Cornelia wanted to giggle but she could tell Miss Thompson was totally serious. Cornelia wondered what Miss Thompson would do if anyone really did get out of line. She was a tiny old woman who looked like she could barely stand.
Despite her tiny stature, Cornelia was amazed by Miss Thompson. She greeted every single person and called them by name. When she didn’t know someone’s name she would say, “You are new here, what’s your name?” When the person answered, Miss Thompson would tell the person, “It’s nice to meet you, Stan,” or whatever the person’s name was, “I’m Miss Thompson.” Then she would spout the rules that she went over when the gates were opened. She would also tell them that if they wanted food they would have to ask for it with a “please.”
As people went through the line, they would say to Admeta, “May I please have some corn.” Then they would turn to Cornelia and say, “May I please have some fruit.” Co
rnelia was caught completely off guard by this behavior. She thought it was terribly thoughtful and completely unexpected.
The people were also bewildering. They came from all walks of life. There were people there from many different races. They were also all ages. Cornelia was surprised to see small children, even babies waiting in line, usually with their mothers. Some people were dressed like you would expect homeless people to be dressed, but others, whom Cornelia guessed were newly homeless, were dressed just like her, in jeans and a t-shirt.
Cornelia was suddenly glad she didn’t wear designer jeans and shoes to this service event. She was self-conscience about the big home she was going to return to where there was plenty of food in the cabinets and the refrigerator. Cornelia had never wanted for anything in her whole life except for expensive toys that her father usually eventually provided after much begging. Her cheeks flushed as she thought about her life of privilege and she felt ashamed, not for being privileged, but for not raising a finger before now to help those less privileged than herself.
As the line progressed, an older Hispanic man approached Admeta’s station and spoke to her in Spanish. She was startled when Miss Thompson yelled, “Ut uh, Señor. We speak English in this here dining room. Comprende?” Her accent was horrible and Cornelia thought she was being quite rude. Admeta repeated something to the man in Spanish and he replied in kind, disregarding Miss Thompson’s warning.
“It’s o.k. Miss Thompson, he doesn’t speak English. He was only asking for corn.”
“Well teach him how to say ‘please’ in English then and tell him to say that to all the girls. It ain’t nothin’ personal. I don’t want any foreigners saying things to my girls that I can’t understand, you hear? They could be saying terrible things and I wouldn’t know it. No, sir, I can’t allow that, you understand?” she asked Admeta. Admeta said a few things to the man in Spanish and Cornelia could tell that she was teaching him to say “please” to everyone else.
The man repeated the word “please” to Admeta. She responded, “si, si, excelente.” The man smiled at her fondly.
As he walked in front of Cornelia he said only one word, “Please.”
His lips were curved in a very apprehensive grin. Cornelia could tell that he was worried he did not say it correctly and Miss Thompson might yell again. “Excelente!” Cornelia exclaimed before she even thought about it and she smiled at the man brightly as she served him a fruit bowl. “Gracias,” he exclaimed and he smiled brightly.
“De rien,” Cornelia replied. The man looked confused and Admeta turned to look at Cornelia.
“What does ‘de rien’ mean?” Admeta asked.
“It means ‘you are welcome,’ ” Cornelia replied.
“Not in Spanish it doesn’t. What language are you speaking?”
“French.”
“The man speaks Spanish, Cornelia, he has no idea what you just said.”
“Well, I’m taking French so it’s the only way I know how to say it not in English.” As the words came out of Cornelia’s mouth, both of the girls laughed at the silliness of it. “Well how do you say ‘you’re welcome’ in Spanish?” The man was still looking at Cornelia with confusion.
“De nada,” Admeta said with a laugh.
“De nada,” Cornelia repeated, bowing to the man, still smiling.
“Oh, si!” said the man and he smiled once again. Cornelia could see he was missing some teeth. She felt sorry for him. For the first time in her life she felt lucky she had to wear braces for two years in junior high. She was feeling lucky about a lot of things.
Now as the man worked his way down the rest of the line, he had the confidence to say “please” with a huge smile on his face. All of the girls returned his smile and those who could speak Spanish said a few words of encouragement as he went along. When he reached the end of the line and picked up his drink he looked back down the counter at Cornelia and said “de rien!” and waved to her. Cornelia blushed and waved. She resisted the urge to laugh because she didn’t want him to think she was making fun of him. In reality it was herself she wanted to laugh at for ever thinking that someone who spoke Spanish might understand French. She could see Admeta’s stomach shake as she stifled her laughter, so she gave her a playful nudge with her elbow and smiled at her.
More and more people filed through the line. The sight of the children made Cornelia particularly sad. She smiled brightly despite her feelings. She didn’t want to make any of the customers feel worse than they must have already felt. There were young people who like they might have been teenage runaways. There were old people who looked as if all hope had vanished from their world. Cornelia smiled extra wide for them, hoping she could brighten their day somehow. Most of the time it worked. Sometimes it just wasn’t enough and that hurt Cornelia’s heart. The sadness of it all was difficult to internalize.
One particular little girl especially touched Cornelia’s heart. She was a young African-American girl who was standing in line holding her mother’s hand. Her hair was pulled back in corn rows, capped with little pink barrettes. One of her barrettes had fallen off and she was crying because she feared it was lost forever.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find it,” Cornelia said, but the little girl did not stop crying and her mother shook her head, trying to cut Cornelia off. It was obvious the little girl had lost a lot in her life and her mother didn’t want to set her up for any more disappointment.
“Let me tell you what, you can borrow my barrette. And if you don’t find yours, then you’re welcome to keep it, would that be o.k.?” Cornelia asked. She was addressing the little girl, but also asking the mother’s permission. The mother nodded, but the little girl looked apprehensive, although she stopped crying long enough to consider the offer. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks.
“Look, it’s pink, just like your other ones,” Cornelia said as she removed her barrette and held it out to the little girl, under the sneeze guard. After a moment’s hesitation, the little girl reached for the barrette. After examining it for a moment, she too smiled brightly and stopped crying all together. She wiped the tears from her face and tried to put the barrette in her hair by herself, but it was too difficult for her little hands.
The girl’s mother put the barrette in her hair instead and said, “What do you say, Oceanna?”
“Thank You!” the little girl shouted and jumped up and down as she tried to examine the barrette bouncing around the side of her head.
“You’re welcome,” Cornelia said and the mother and daughter moved down the line.
Admeta would never have admitted it, but she was impressed. She had been so convinced that Cornelia was racist it never occurred to her that Cornelia might have just made a very bad mistake out of anger when she wrote those things on the school wall. Admeta watched Oceanna as she reached the end of the line. The little girl seemed to recognize Monica. She told her all about her new barrette and Monica bowed her head in Cornelia’s direction in approval. The excited little girl went out to the dining room to eat with her mother.
People continued to go through the line, but the food was beginning to run out. First it was the fruit, then the vegetables. When one little Asian boy took the last piece of chicken, Miss Thompson pulled out the tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to replace it. The little boy’s mother let out a sigh. She was a very tiny Asian woman who couldn’t have weighed much more than her son. She looked malnourished and Cornelia found herself wondering if the pair had a place to sleep that night.
“Here, mommy, you can have my chicken,” the little boy said, pointing to his tray. When his mother shook her head, he pleaded, “It’s o.k. mommy, I want peanut butter, it’s my favorite.” The mother smiled back at her son and seemed to know that he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, although she did not speak. Cornelia wondered if she spoke English, but she seemed to understand what her son was saying. She switched trays with him and gave him a kiss on
top of the head and they moved on. The drinks, too ran out and the mother and son had to drink water instead. It was one of the hazards of arriving late to the soup kitchen.
The group passed out all of the food until there were only a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches left. As they were packing up Miss Thompson commented, “You girls must be a lucky charm. We didn’t run out of food today. Didn’t have to turn no one away, yes sir that’s a good day. A good day indeed. May we be this lucky at supper, thank you, Jesus.” Miss Thompson said as she held her hands up to the ceiling. Her statement pierced Cornelia’s heart like a jagged sword. There were some days when people like the little boy who gave his chicken to his mother had to be turned away hungry. She wondered how little girls like Oceanna could go hungry in such a wealthy nation. Cornelia’s chest was pounding. She couldn’t believe how harsh the reality of the situation was. Her heart broke for each and every person in the dining room.
Chapter 9
Epiphany
Writers on the Storm Page 8