Neighbors And Favors

by Kate Davis

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rashid and I meet at the subway station (he seems to be a fan of those) and we walk what according to him is a short distance, with me clutching my handbag so tight, I’m sure my muscles will be sore by tomorrow.

  The neighborhood’s so bad, we pass at least three shacks with barb-wired fences and dogs that I swear were trained to rip your throat to shreds if you so much as breathe.

  “Over there,” Rashid says, pointing proudly at the charcoal building with bars at the windows.

  I crane my neck to get a better view, and for a moment I consider asking whether he’s taking me to a crack house. I’m mentally preparing my words to tell him that my writing isn’t going so badly that I would actually consider a career change as a drug mule. That’s when a car drives by, windows rolled down, two guys in their late twenties sticking their heads out, glaring at me, and my heart almost stops in my chest.

  Something sparkles in the light. Call it paranoia going into overdrive but I swear it’s the barrel of a gun. That’s when I decide, nope, I’m not going to die tonight.

  Thank goodness we reach Rashid’s destination before one of us is shot.

  “So, this is where you hang out after work, huh?” I peer at Rashid and smile to hide the tremor in my voice and the fear coursing through my veins.

  “Sometimes. It’s quite nice here. Once you get to know everyone it’ll feel like a second home,” he says and proceeds to show me around the large and dilapidated building where graffiti seems to be encouraged rather than charged as a class B misdemeanor punishable by up to ninety days in jail.

  Following him as he moves from hall to hall, I tune out his chatter because I’m busy calming down my frantic heart.

  Why did I agree to come along?

  I’m seriously having doubts about this friendship thing. I’ll give him five minutes and then I’ll let him down gently. I’ll tell him something about my schedule being very busy or me moving soon to some remote place in Alaska where any attempts at communication with the outside world would be futile.

  “What exactly is this place?” I stop to take in the tables set up on one side of the room and the counter on the other.

  When Rashid doesn’t reply, I turn to him and catch him waving at someone heading for us.

  “Hey, Rashid. Thanks for helping out today, man. With the change in weather, it’s going to be busy and we’re grateful for all the help we can get.” I turn to look at the guy speaking. He’s tall and light-haired, with the physique of someone half his age. But the lined face betrays him. He also wears a similar collar to Pastor Rick, but it’s half-hidden under the round neck of his shirt.

  “Happy to help.” Rashid winks and leans into me to whisper, “He’s organizing all of this. The faces around here change all the time, but he’s done it for thirty years.”

  “Done what?” I blink, confused. “What is this place?”

  “The modern version of a soup kitchen slash free hostel for the night. Homeless people come here because they have nowhere else to go.” Rashid looks at me but there’s no judgment.

  Truth be told, I’ve never seen a soup kitchen outside of the movies, and I feel so stupid for it. I always thought they were outside with people lined up holding an empty bowl to be filled with something steaming to warm their hands.

  “Shall we get ready?” Rashid points at a door through which I spy at least a dozen other people talking with each other. Some greet, others pay us no attention as we enter. I hesitate but Rashid seems to know his way around. He hands me sterile gloves and an apron, and dives right into the work.

  “Just tell me what to do,” I say.

  He winks at me, good humored. “You asked for it.”

  I help Rashid carry heavy pots with homemade food and trays with baked goods, all courtesy of local volunteers and stores that would rather donate their expiring food than throw it out.

  We arrange the food on the counter, and everyone takes their places.

  “Most stores would never donate food. It’s against their policy. They would rather chuck it,” Rashid says. “Particularly the big chains care nothing about the people. That’s why my family and I tend to shop locally.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Most people don’t,” Rashid says. “You’re a Christian?”

  I nod because it’s easier than to explain to him that it comes and goes. I want to believe, but there are times that life gets so complicated I simply have my doubts about it.

  “So am I,” he continues. “I came here as a child, but I still remember the poverty back home. I wanted to get actively involved so I dug deep and found this place.”

  “Is it easy for you to believe?” I don’t know where the question’s coming from. I know I’ve never asked anyone anything remotely personal in my life, but seeing that he’s someone who hasn’t had it easy, it makes sense to ask.

  He seems surprised by it. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because—” I look around me, hesitating, considering my words as I rummage through my memory for the little he has revealed about his childhood. “You haven’t had it easy in life. And I thought Islam is practiced in Pakistan.”

  “It is.” His tone is serious. “Most people there are Muslims, but my family converted.”

  I look at him, stunned.

  “I know what you must think,” he continues, shaking his head. “My father used to be a devoted Muslim, but the war was hard on him. He was in pain every single day. His experiences shaped him. There was so much pain and hate in him, and he couldn’t get rid of it. He didn’t know how. He wanted peace and for some reason he didn’t find it in his faith.” He glances away, as if realizing how personal it is to tell such a story to an almost stranger. I wait for him to decide whether he wants to continue. At some point, he does. “When we came to the US, we had very little money. We had no help, initially. No job. But there was this Christian couple who took us in. We lived with them for a year during which my father worked at their store. They introduced him to Jesus, taught him that he is more than a prophet. My father began to come home late every night. We thought he was working overtime, but that wasn’t the case.” Rashid takes a breath. His eyes are dark and hooded, lost in memory. “I still remember the day he asked my mother and us children to sit down, that there was something he needed to discuss with us. You see, he isn’t usually a nervous man, but I think that day he was. He told us how one day he passed a church and decided to go inside. Whatever the pastor said to him that night, it changed him. He said he had enough of the pain that had been following him for too long. He wanted to get to know Jesus right there and then. He wanted to know Jesus, the real Jesus, who had died for us. The Jesus who takes away all sorrow and pain. The Jesus who offers forgiveness and gives eternal life to those who come to him in faith. He wanted to get to know the person who said ‘Father, forgive them,’ after suffering for hours on the cross.” He pauses again, and this time, he looks at me, his eyes searching mine. But what it is that he’s looking for I cannot tell. “I remember him saying that when he prayed using Jesus’s name, he felt peace and that’s how he knew it was right. My mother didn’t want to hear any of it. They had a huge fight about it. The following Sunday, he took us to church, and that’s how it started.”

  “That’s—” Astonishing, I want to say, but for some reason the word doesn’t seem right. Nothing seems right to describe the soul searching they must have gone through. “So, your mom came to terms with it?”

  “She did, almost instantly, though she never talked about it the way Dad did,” Rashid says. “Do you think faith is just for those who never have to worry about money and food?”

  “No. I think it’s for everyone.”

  “I agree.” He nods. “If I let a few struggles unsettle my beliefs, then how can I prove myself worthy of what is to come? Faith isn’t the absence of fear or worry, but the promise of a reality far more rewarding than we could ever dream of.”

  I l
et his words sink in. My parents aren’t poor. I never really saw the kind of poverty Rashid’s probably seen. I want to believe and yet I struggle. Why is that? Why do some people find consolation in their faith, and I can’t?

  “Ready?” someone yells and rings a bell. People cheer and clap, but the noise isn’t coming from the unfamiliar faces around me. It’s carrying over from outside as a long line of people flood in.

  To my surprise, the entire event runs smoothly. Everyone gets their food and takes their seat in silence. I try not to stare but it’s hard. Seeing so many poor people makes me think of Rashid and his story, of how he grew up in poverty. I scan the faces, never lingering on anyone for more than a few seconds so as not to make them uncomfortable. Some seem well dressed and you would never expect them to be in need of frequenting a soup kitchen, others are clearly not particularly well off. The mothers with kids are the ones that bring me to the brink of tears. The kids seem so happy even though no child should be in lack of food.

  Two hours later, all tables are cleared and we’re packing up again.

  “What did you think?” Rashid regards me with his usual kind expression.

  I shrug to downplay just how touched I am but I think he can see right through my charade. My throat is a little choked up as I speak. “I think I’ll come back.”

  He smiles. “I figured you would. Let’s get you home.”

  “Preferably alive,” I mutter to myself. As we grab our stuff I remember the boarded-up windows. I ask, “What’s on the upper floors?”

  “We call them the sleeping quarters. We have those set up for the elders and the mothers with their kids who have nowhere else to go. They get a safe place to spend the night.”

  My throat constricts again. Obviously, I’m aware of the homelessness epidemic that’s been sweeping over the country but for some reason, I never thought it would also involve children.

  “Who pays for all of this?”

  He hesitates. “Not the government. I know there are benefactors but other than that—” He shrugs, signaling that he doesn’t know.

  Rashid says his goodbye and we head out into the foyer.

  “How was your sister’s birthday?” I ask in the hall, my gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar faces. That’s when I see Shane standing in the doorway, shaking hands with the pastor.

  “Crap!” I whisper and duck behind an empty table. He’s focused on whatever the pastor’s saying so he hasn’t spied me yet, but he’s standing only a few feet away and could see me any second.

  “What’s wrong?” Rashid asks.

  I grab his arm and pull hard, forcing him to duck with me.

  “I can’t have him see me,” I hiss.

  Rashid looks confused. “The pastor?”

  “No. The other guy.”

  “Oh.” He raises a little to get a better look, and I pull him down again. “Who is he? He looks familiar but I can’t place him.”

  Probably because he used to bring me a lot of coffee.

  I bite my lip, hesitating. What can I say to that? That Shane is someone I don’t really know but like a lot? That I’m avoiding him because I don’t like that he’s seeing a woman, which was sort of to be expected.

  I know how irrational my reasons sound so I settle for, “Just someone I’d rather avoid. I can’t believe he’s here. What is he doing there?”

  “You know him?”

  I nod. “Yes. A little. He’s never come here before?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rashid shakes his head, thinking. “I don’t think so. I know everyone here. But he definitely looks familiar. I just can’t figure out—”

  “That’s quite the coincidence that he’d turn up the same day,” I say, interrupting him before he realizes Shane probably spent a little fortune in Starbucks. “First Mom’s party, now this.”

  Rashid regards me with a wary expression. “You think he’s stalking you?”

  I hesitate. I was actually more talking to myself than to him, but the question is quite valid. Is Shane stalking me?

  The thought is both ridiculous and far-fetched. He’s seeing the blonde, so what would be his motivation exactly? But there are weirdos out there, and I really know next to nothing about him. He’s been very elusive about his private life. Then I remember the black screens set up in his bedroom, and his strange reaction to my gawking, and suddenly the idea isn’t so improbable after all.

  Just because someone has a pretty face doesn’t make him harmless. In fact, many murderers were said to have been quite charming.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “He might be.”

  “Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine, then.” Rashid gets up and has pulled out his cell phone before I can stop him. I see him fumbling with it, then put it back inside his pocket. “Don’t worry. He won’t see you. We’ll take the back entrance.”

  We head back into the dining area. We cross the kitchen, and exit the building through a back door into a dark alley with dumpsters filled to the brim.

  The night’s dark, the light from the lanterns dim. I hear a police siren in the distance, the sound coming closer. Tires screech around the corner. I shiver with fear, but for some reason I think I prefer this to facing Shane.

  “How was your sister’s birthday party?” I ask Rashid again to take my mind off where we are and what could happen to us. I can already picture Mom and Dad getting the phone call to say that my body was found in a dumpster.

  “Long and tiresome. Lots of people came.” He grins. “We’re still waiting for them to leave.”

  I smile and scan the shadows. The dark corners are almost impenetrable. My heartbeat spikes and my breathing quickens. I really don’t feel like making small talk.

  “Look.” Rashid holds up his phone to me, oblivious to my fear. I peer at the lit-up screen and feel all the blood draining from my face.

  There’s a picture of Shane with the caption “Stalker Attack” and a bunch of other text beneath it. The screen is tilted all wrong so I can’t read it, but it already has hundreds of shares and new comments ping up as we speak, most of which aren’t particularly friendly.

  “What is this?” I manage to whisper through my constricted throat.

  “The entire world will know about him. He won’t ever stalk a woman again.” Rashid sounds so proud of himself I feel like smacking him over the head.

  No!

  “But he wasn’t really—” I pause as I sort through my thoughts. “I don’t think he was. I didn’t really mean it. That he’s here is probably just a coincidence.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.” Rashid stares at me, confused.

  “Take it down,” I’m almost yelling with panic as I realize what he’s done “Take it down now.”

  “Why? I thought—”

  First, I called 911. Then, I got a friend to shame him in public. Shane will think I’m a complete idiot. He’ll hate me for the rest of his life. Or worse—he’ll sue me.

  I shake my head, hyperventilating. “Please. Just do it.”

  “Okay.”

  I see him fumbling with his phone and the photo disappears from the screen. “Is it gone?”

  He nods. “Yes. See?”

  I stare at the screen. Where the photo of Shane was is now a blurry picture of a huge cake that almost hides the two people behind it, who I assume are Rashid and his sister because she’s wearing a sash that reads “Birthday girl”.

  “Is it really gone?” I ask warily.

  He nods again. “I thought you said—”

  “He can’t ever know about this. He really can’t,” I mumble.

  “Are you two—” Rashid breaks off, leaving unspoken the obvious conclusion anyone would draw given the circumstances.

  “No. Never have been, never will be.” I shake my head grimly, my mood taking a nosedive. “Can we leave?”

  “Of course. I’ll take you home.”

  I shake my head again. “Just get me an Uber. I’d rather not take the subway.”

  “Sam
antha, I’m sorry,” Rashid says. “I really thought—”

  “It’s fine.” I avoid his gaze. “It’s all my fault.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A couple of days later, I’ve probably lost at least four pounds in water weight from all the sweating and the freaking out. Since the soup kitchen incident, I haven’t stopped surfing the internet, checking social media feeds for Shane’s picture with the incriminating stalker description. The tag word “stalker” has yielded thousands of mug shots in search results, but luckily Rashid’s snapshot of Shane hasn’t been one of them.

  By day four, I’ve calmed down to the point of actually trusting Rashid that the photo is gone for good.

  I heave a sigh of relief and sit down to type up my latest blog post when Sammy starts her incessant barking, and it’s even shriller than before, if that’s even possible.

  “Sammy, baby, Mommy needs to work,” I say patiently because that’s the way you’re supposed to talk to your dog: calm and poised. They’ll instantly accept you as their pack leader and from there it’s going to be a smooth ride. They’ll listen forever to your commands and you’ll never have to yell “Starbucks” again. I just read it on Pinterest, and it sounds like someone knows their dog business.

  Really great advice, if you ask me. For an instant, Sammy shuts up, cranes her neck to look at me, probably thinking something along the lines of, “Mommy’s the alpha dog. Why didn’t I realize it before?”

  I smile. Way to go, me! My smile dies on my face when Sammy decides to lift her leg, like the male dog she isn’t, and pee right on my new pair of shoes.

  This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening! Pinterest sucks big time! I should sue them for a new pair of shoes.

  “Sammy!” I yell. “No! Bad—” I stop myself before I can say the one word I could never take back. I can’t say “bad dog” given that she doesn’t know she’s a dog. I refuse to label her, or us, or our relationship for that matter.