by Neta Jackson
Kat felt her face growing red. Of course she could make her own granola! But the woman had told them to shop for three meals. What was she supposed to do?
“What we need,” Beverly said, “is more of them food pantries like the Salvation Army does. They give food away. I read about it once. Don’t know where it is, though.”
Estelle nodded. “Good point. A list of food pantries around the city would be very useful. I’ll tell Gabby, she’s good at making lists. Just remember, most food pantries can only stock nonperishable food, so fresh fruits and vegetables aren’t usually available, and that’s—”
“I find lots of still-good veggies and fruit in the Dumpsters.” Kat was startled by her own voice. But what did Estelle know about how she shopped? Sure, good food cost a bit more, but she also saved money by Dumpster diving.
Four pairs of eyes stared at her. Then LaDonna snorted. “You ain’t gonna find me digging around in no Dumpster to feed my babies. Not less’n it be the last place on earth got any food.”
“Well, I done it before”—Penny sniffed—“when things was really bad. But I’m lookin’ to get off the street an’ stay off.”
“All right, that’s a conversation for another time,” Estelle interrupted. “Right now we need to get this food back on the shelves. Go on now.” She shooed them away with a flap of her hands.
“Why can’t we just leave it in our carts?” Shawanda fussed. “They hire people to put stuff back you don’t want, don’t they?” But a glare from Estelle shut her up.
Kat stalked off with her cart. She’d intended to buy her groceries and take them home, but she felt too embarrassed now. After replacing her items, she looked at her watch. Almost four. Relieved, she found Edesa as Estelle checked out with the manager. “I’ve really got to head back. Got to be at work in an hour.”
“Oh. Okay.” Edesa looked at her closely. “Are you all right? Shall we talk about our experience today—maybe after worship on Sunday?”
Talk? Kat wasn’t sure she wanted to now—not if Estelle Bentley was going to be included. The woman was so bossy, and so . . . so know-it-all. “Maybe.” She shrugged and scurried out the door.
Wait. She still had time to check out the Dumpsters. So what if those women were too proud. Wasting good food was a crime. She could carry quite a bit in her backpack. Maybe her afternoon wouldn’t be a total loss after all.
Quickening her steps, Kat hurried toward the alley on the other side of the store from where all the construction was going on. A large truck was backed up to the loading dock, and she could hear voices and the bump, bump, bump of hand trucks going in and out. Just walk natural, she told herself. Nobody’s paying any attention to you. A few more feet around the front of the big truck cab and she’d—
Kat stopped short.
The Dumpsters were gone.
In their place were two huge compactors built into the brick wall.
All the way home on the El, Kat felt on the verge of tears. The whole afternoon had been a total bust. Her feelings jerked around with every bump and sway of the train. That Estelle! Made her feel about two inches high. No way could she work with that woman. Were all the big stores getting rid of their Dumpsters? Where would that leave people like Rochelle, who’d survived partly by Dumpster diving those few months when she had nowhere to go and no money? . . . And those women in the cooking class! You’d think they’d be glad to get free food. How different was rescuing food from a Dumpster than getting free food at those food pantries they mentioned?
Kat was pulled from her thoughts by the intercom. “Morse Avenue is next!” Her stop. She joined the throng pushing out the doors and headed down the stairs. Her stomach growled. Did she have time to go home to the apartment before work?
The apartment. Nick.
Nick and Rochelle last night . . .
Nope. Couldn’t deal with that right now. Kat headed down Morse Avenue toward The Common Cup.
Chapter 6
The mail room was growing warm as the temperature outside hiked up to the mideighties. Nick’s short-sleeve dress shirt started to feel wet under his arms as he read the next order and pulled the appropriate software from its bin. Box it, add the invoice, tape it, peel the address, and stick it . . .
“Here.” He slid the package to the guy who worked the postage meter, glancing enviously at Juan’s pullover sport shirt and cargo shorts. “Casual Friday” wear and it wasn’t even Friday. But he’d noticed that Peter Douglass, the owner of Software Symphony, and Carl Hickman, the general manager, both wore dress shirts and ties, and Nick had figured he’d start out somewhere in the middle dress-wise. Short-sleeve shirt, no tie, khaki slacks.
But he hadn’t counted on the air-conditioning going out.
Another order. And another. The mail room fulfilled orders, packaged, printed postage, and shipped them out. Not exactly a demanding job, except needing to get it right. But he had no complaints. He was grateful to have a job for the summer, and working for Mr. D was a bonus.
“Taylor! Message for you.”
Nick looked up. Carl Hickman was leaning in the doorway waving a slip of paper. The Hickman family had been one of the first African American families Nick and the other CCU students had met when they first visited SouledOut in the spring, but then Carl was out for most of a month with a work-related accident. Hard to imagine in a software business that had a relatively small staff: a few computer programmers, a tech support guru, a small sales and advertising staff, a couple of secretaries, and three guys in the mail room. But Carl had tripped and cracked his head on the sharp edge of a counter in the mail room, causing a neck injury. According to office gossip, the father of three had started in the mail room and worked his way up to general manager, making himself indispensable. So much so that at the height of the economic crisis, Mr. D seriously considered selling the business when he thought Carl might not be able to come back.
Nick left his stool and took the note. “Thanks.” He unfolded the paper. Pastor Cobbs called. Can you meet tonight at the church at 7:00?
Huh. Kind of last minute. But the pastor had said he wanted to meet with Nick and Mrs. Douglass in the next few days to talk about roles and responsibilities of the team during this interim time. Well, better sooner than later. At least he’d have time to go home, change out of his rumpled shirt, and gather up the necessary papers from the seminary that detailed expectations for his internship—he’d already given Pastor Cobbs a set when he and the elders were deciding whether to recommend him to the congregation—before heading back over to the church.
Except . . . was he supposed to cook tonight? Rochelle cooked last night. No, he was pretty sure Bree and Kat had tonight and Friday, and he had Saturday.
When five o’clock rolled around, Nick punched out and quickly headed out the door. Mr. Douglass had given him a ride a few times since they lived in the same building, but Nick didn’t want “the boss” to think he was expecting that kind of favor regularly. And even though the humidity was fairly high, it felt good to walk.
Gave him time to think.
About Kat.
What in the world was going on with her?
If only she hadn’t seen that kiss! Didn’t she know he hadn’t initiated it? And Rochelle didn’t mean anything by it. The young mom was just so grateful to have a roof over her head and friends to support her caring for Conny, it just happened! And good grief, it was just a peck on the cheek at that.
Though he had to admit it had rattled him. The soft lips brushing his cheek. The sweet floral smell of her hair. The young woman was attractive, no denying that.
He should be so lucky, sharing an apartment with three beautiful women! Because, to tell the truth, both Kat and Bree were also stunning in their own ways. He’d been kind of proud of himself, able to be “just friends” with the two of them on campus the past couple of years. And they’d gotten tighter taking the Urban Experience class together, which is where they’d added Olivia to their circle, even though she was s
till an undergrad. Taking on Chicago with all its magnificence and melded cultures and seething underside had bonded the four of them in a way that was hard to explain.
But that was before he’d started to have deeper feelings for Kat . . . even though some of the very things he loved about her—her zest for life, her passion about things she cared about, the way she threw caution to the wind once her mind was made up, even her innocent naiveté about the new faith she’d found four summers ago at the Midwest Music Fest—could be maddening sometimes. But just looking into those mesmerizing blue eyes surrounded by all that dark, wavy hair, especially when she wore it down instead of clipped up in back in a careless tangle, had a way of turning his insides to jelly.
He was so deep in thought he almost passed their street, but caught himself and turned the corner, picking up speed the last half block to the three-flat. It was already five thirty. He needed to get some supper, change clothes, and walk up to the church—
“Mister Nick! Mister Nick!” A childish voice from above his head caused him to look up. Conny was leaning out of the second-floor window waving at him. “Come see what Grammy got me today.”
Alarmed, Nick shouted, “Conny! Don’t lean out the window!” Why in the world wasn’t the screen in place? “Hold on! I’m coming up.”
In the background he heard Rochelle yell, “Conny! Get back in here!”
Good. His mother would pull him back in. Pushing into the foyer, Nick fished out his keys, let himself into the stairwell, and raced up the stairs. Conny met him at the door to the second-floor apartment. “See what Grammy got me?” He held up two large plastic dinosaurs. “Grrrrrr! Gonna eat you up!”
“Not before I eat you up!” Nick grabbed the little boy and pretended to nosh on his arm as he carried him inside and kicked the door closed behind him. He was going to have to do something about that window.
Then he saw Bree sitting with her arm around Rochelle on the couch. Rochelle looked as if she’d been crying. He set Conny down. “Hey, buddy, why don’t you go find something for those dinosaurs to eat? I think they like lettuce.”
“No! They’re meat eaters!” But Conny ran into the kitchen.
Nick looked at the two women on the couch. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”
Rochelle sniveled again and blew her nose. Bree shook her head. “She didn’t get the nanny job. Because of . . . you know.”
Nick sank down into the overstuffed chair catty-corner to the couch. “You told them you have HIV?”
Rochelle nodded. “Kat said I should. To be up front about it.” Her wet eyes flashed. “It’s not like I’m dangerous. Don’t they think I know how to be careful around kids?” She sagged against the cushions. “Should’ve taken Conny with me so they could see I’m a mom too, but my mother thought she was helping me out by taking care of him while I went.” Her voice got tight. “Knew I shouldn’t have gone,” she spit out. “Say HIV and people treat you like a leper.”
Nick didn’t know what to say. It did feel like a catch-22. They might need some help with this. He sure didn’t have any experience. “I’m sorry, Rochelle. Really sorry. I’m sure you’ll find something. We’ll all keep our eyes open.”
He got up, walked over to the open window, and shut it. “But, uh, speaking of safety, we gotta keep this window locked. It doesn’t have a screen. And I hate to run, but I’ve got a seven o’clock meeting at the church. Is there something I can grab to eat?”
Bree jumped up. “Sorry, Nick. I know it’s my turn to cook, but I just got home and Rochelle was upset. Uh . . . scrambled eggs okay?”
Nick was halfway to the shopping center where SouledOut was located when a black car pulled up alongside and a window rolled down. “Going my way? Hop in.”
He peered into the window. “Mrs. Douglass? Sure. Thanks.” Nick opened the front passenger door of the Toyota sedan and settled into the leather seat.
“Seat belt.” She smiled.
“Oh, right.” He buckled the belt.
“I stopped at your apartment before I left, but you’d already gone.”
“Yeah. Had to give myself time to walk. Which is fine. I like to walk. But thanks for the ride. The AC feels good.” Silence settled into the interior of the car for several long moments. “Conny showed me the dinosaurs you got him today. He was wired!” Nick chuckled. “Don’t blame him. I collected a whole set of dinosaurs when I was a kid—but I was about ten. He’s starting early.”
Pleasure warmed her voice. “It’s wonderful having Conny so close by, being able to spend time with him in little, everyday ways. I’m grateful that you folks took them in. Can’t thank you enough.” Another long silence. Then . . . “I suppose you heard that Rochelle didn’t get the nanny job.”
He nodded. “It must be tough. The HIV thing, I mean. Never really thought about all the implications—about getting a job and stuff like that. Guess I have a lot to learn.”
“Mm. Our whole church has a lot to learn. We haven’t really faced what it means to welcome all who come into the kingdom, but if we look at what Jesus did, He ministered to the sick, the lame, the blind, the hungry, the poor, the outcasts— and that has a lot of implications for average church folks.”
Nick laughed nervously. “Makes me wonder if I know what I’m doing, wanting to be a pastor.”
Avis Douglass turned into the Howard Street shopping center and pulled into a parking space. “That makes two of us.”
Pastor Cobbs was waiting for them in his office. “Come in, come in, Sister Avis and Brother Nick! I apologize for the short notice, but I’m glad you could both make it.” He waited as they settled into their chairs, then leaned forward with clasped hands and his elbows on his desk. “I think starting out with a time of prayer would be appropriate.”
Nick tried to push other things out of his mind—Kat, Conny, Rochelle, HIV—and simply soak in the passionate prayer. Pastor Cobbs thanked God for the life of Pastor Clark, acknowledging that the “homegoing” of the elderly pastor had left a big hole in the life of the congregation. But he also thanked God “for faithful stalwarts like our sister Avis here, and an up-and-coming generation of young people called to preach the gospel, like our young brother Nick here . . .” Then he went on to name the challenges they faced right there on Howard Street. Too many kids without fathers in the home. Too many jobless men hanging out on the street. Too many young girls having babies and dropping out of school. Too many drug pushers taking advantage of the bored, the restless, the hopeless . . .
The back of Nick’s neck prickled. This wasn’t seminary. This wasn’t theory. This wasn’t even life neatly packaged inside the church. This was life teeming outside the doors.
He suddenly felt like a Kiddie Car at the Indy 500.
“Amen.” Pastor Cobbs looked up sheepishly. “Sorry. Sometimes I get so caught up in all the situations so desperately in need of prayer, I forget what I started out to pray for. But God knows.” Picking up a couple sheets of paper, he handed one to each of them. “Let’s talk about some practical schedules first. We can meet together once a week to start, to work out preaching schedules, who’s handling which pastoral duties, situations that come up . . .”
They agreed on Monday night, if the elders would be willing to move to Tuesday so they could deal with anything coming out of the pastoral team meeting. Then Pastor Cobbs went down the list of basic responsibilities:
Choosing the worship and teaching themes for each month.
Preparing the sermon. They decided Pastor Cobbs would preach twice a month, Avis and Nick each once a month.
Pastoral oversight of the various ministries, which basically meant mentoring the various persons in charge. Pastor Cobbs would oversee the elder board, missions, discipleship, and men’s ministry. Avis Douglass agreed to oversee the worship teams, Wednesday night Bible study, and women’s ministry. That left Nick to oversee youth ministry and outreach—“which,” Pastor Cobbs admitted, “is woefully underdeveloped.”
“Oh, one las
t thing, Nick,” the pastor said as they prepared to close. “How do you feel about becoming a member of SouledOut? I know your internship is time limited, but I think it would be meaningful to both you and the congregation if you became a member of this church. Committed yourself one hundred percent while you’re here.”
“Absolutely. When?”
The pastor handed him a packet in a folder. “Look through these papers—our statement of faith, our covenant with one another. We normally go over all of this in a membership class when several are interested in becoming members. But if it all looks good to you, maybe . . . a week from Sunday?”
Nick nodded, but his brain was churning—not to mention his gut—as they walked out into the long twilight of late June. “I . . . think I’ll walk home, Mrs. Douglass. I need some time to unwind before I hit the apartment, if you know what I mean.”
She smiled sympathetically. “If you’re sure. And please, Nick, call me Avis—or Sister Avis, if you like. If we’re going to be part of this pastoral team together, we need to be on a less formal footing.”
He allowed a grin. “All right. I like Sister Avis. Good night.” He gave a wave as he walked toward Howard Street. Maybe he’d get something to eat. Bree’s scrambled eggs had slid off his ribs long ago.
Tucking the membership folder under his arm, Nick headed east on the lively drag between Chicago and Evanston. He felt excited—excited and scared at the same time. This had been his dream ever since he’d been accepted at Crista University. Now it was no longer a dream, but the nitty-gritty reality of real life.
A train thundered overhead as he passed under the El tracks and walked past the small shops and tiny ethnic restaurants lining the border street between Chicago and Evanston, most of them still open. What time was it, anyway? Almost quarter to nine. Suddenly his pace picked up, food forgotten. He turned south on Greenleaf and walked quickly, block after block, until he came to Morse Avenue.