by Neta Jackson
Several people were “shopping” the various shelves and tables with paper shopping bags, assisted by two African American women, one middle-aged, the other younger and enough of a look-alike to be her daughter.
“Sister Beatrice, these are the young people from that other church.”
The woman turned. She seemed a motherly sort, plump and a bit frazzled. “Oh, thank you, Sylvia. Would you finish assisting Miss Dharuna?” She looked from one to the other of the newcomers. “Four of you? I was just expecting Miss Davies. Which one—?”
Kat extended her hand. “I’m Kathryn Davies, Mrs. Wilson. These are my housemates, who decided to come.” Kat introduced each by name. “I hope we won’t be in your way.”
“Well, as I said on the phone, we’re awfully busy during open hours on Wednesday, but if you’d be willing to help out, we could bring more people through a bit faster. Some of our volunteers didn’t show today.”
Kat nodded eagerly. “Just tell us what to do.”
Mrs. Wilson gave them a quick rundown. Each person coming through the food pantry was assisted by a volunteer who stayed with them as they “shopped” because supplies were limited and they wanted enough to go around. Each person or family was allowed to take a certain number of items—posted— from the nonperishable section, frozen foods and meats, and from the tables of fresh produce and baked goods. Same with clothing and shoes. Once done shopping, they should be escorted out another door.
“They’re allowed three shopping bags total—two for food, one for clothing. Oh, I want you to meet my grandbaby, Stacy. Stacy, honey, can you show these young people where the bags are?”
Stacy was no “baby” but an older teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Half a dozen questions popped into Kat’s mind as the girl acknowledged them with a shy smile and showed them the paper shopping bags to pass out, as well as plastic bags for frozen food. But Beatrice Wilson was already at the door speaking to the man on the other side. A moment later Kat heard him call out, “Numbers thirty-four, thirty-five, and thirty-six!”
As the people holding the numbers came in, Mrs. Wilson assigned each of them to Kat and her friends. Kat tried not to look aghast at the skinny white woman she’d been assigned to. The woman—Mrs. Wilson called her Lady Lolla, of all things!—was maybe in her fifties and dressed in a long, slinky, tight-fitting white dress that was probably an evening gown in its earlier life, complete with glittery earrings and necklace (costume jewelry, surely), bright-red lipstick and blush, all beneath brassy red hair. But Kat swallowed her shock, handed the woman her first bag, and ushered her to the wall of nonperishables.
Lady Lolla shook her head. “I don’t need no more beans. It’s just me an’ Ike, ya know. Would like some of those bagels, though. And are them oranges? Got any frozen fish?”
They did indeed have packages of frozen fish in the freezers. As it turned out, Lady Lolla only took one bag full of groceries, thanked Kat sweetly, and announced, “I used to be a model, you know. For Marshall Field, back in the day.”
“That’s nice,” Kat murmured.
As soon as Lady Lolla was out the exit door, Kat alerted the man near the vestibule—whose name turned out to be Tony— and another family was ushered in with two children in tow. Tony introduced them as the Hidalgo family, and they filled up two bags with boxes of cereal, pasta, canned vegetables, canned fruit, two loaves of bread, a bag of apples, frozen pot pies, frozen vegetables . . . as Kat tried to keep track of the number of items they were allowed to take. The preschool children—two little girls with straight black hair and large black eyes—were then outfitted with tops, shorts, shoes, and pajamas before the parents said, “Gracias, gracias,” and made their way out.
It was that way for the next two hours. Kat’s “customers” were a more diverse crowd than she’d expected, from obviously homeless characters to neatly dressed mothers and grandmothers, many Hispanic, but blacks, whites, Middle Eastern, and Asian too. Her heart gave a pang at the elderly customers, a few well over eighty. Didn’t they have family members to care for them?
Anyone who wasn’t inside the food pantry room at eight o’clock had to be turned away, and Kat realized why they’d chosen Tony for the job of gatekeeper. One slightly inebriated man—at least he sounded that way from the yelling in the vestibule— got fairly abusive. But then . . . all was quiet.
When the last customer had been ushered out, Beatrice Wilson sat down heavily on a chair and fanned herself. “My, my, my, you children were a godsend. Why was it you came again? You want to volunteer?”
Kat saw her friends look at one another. “Uh, not exactly,” she said hurriedly. “Mostly we just came to learn what a food pantry is all about.” She saw Rochelle and Bree edge toward the exit door. Couldn’t blame them. Her own stomach was pinching with hunger. “I know you’re tired, Mrs. Wilson, but can I ask just one question? How can you give all this stuff away free? The used clothing, yes. But . . . fresh bread? Bananas and apples and carrots? Where does it come from?”
Mrs. Wilson sighed. “Donations, mostly. People in the church and neighborhood provide most of the nonperishables. But some of the stores in the area will give day-old bread, or vegetables and fruit they have to clear out for new stock if we come pick it up. All the frozen foods, too, come from stores. We have drivers who volunteer to pick stuff up, people to stock it, volunteers to help customers—like you did today.”
Nick leaned in. “Is that the way most food pantries function?”
“Oh my, no. It’s the way most start out. But a church or organization can buy whole boxes of food from the Chicago Food Depository for just pennies a pound. Our church has applied and is setting up a food pantry budget now.”
“MeMaw?” The girl Stacy touched Mrs. Wilson on the shoulder. “We should lock up and get home now. You’ve been on your feet a long time.”
Beatrice Wilson got heavily to her feet. “What would I do without you, child? Anyway, Miss Davies, I thank you an’ your friends for pitchin’ in today. Not sure what happened to our usual volunteers. But God surely sent you.”
Kat barely heard Bree and Rochelle chatter and complain good-naturedly as the foursome walked home. At least the rain had stopped, though the evening was thick with humidity. Nick walked alongside her silently. But finally he said, “Penny for your thoughts?”
She gave him a tired smile. “I’m feeling kind of overwhelmed by how many people came to that food pantry. I mean, it’s Rogers Park! Not a ritzy neighborhood, but you don’t see boarded-up buildings and vacant lots like the west side of Chicago, not the obvious poverty. Is there that much hunger here too?”
Nick shrugged. “I guess so. Some of those people waited two hours to get a couple bags of groceries. Must really need them.”
“Same thing at the food pantries I used,” Rochelle piped up from behind them. “Seemed like more and more people came every week. Not enough food pantries to go around. What they need is more churches opening food pantries all over the city.”
Which was exactly what Kat was thinking.
Chapter 16
Nick barely saw Kat the next day, just “Hi” and “Bye” the next morning after he came in from his run before she flew out the door to do her volunteer thing at Bethune Elementary. Rochelle and Conny were all excited that her parents were taking them to see the Chicago fireworks that evening—always on the night before the Fourth—and when Nick got home from work, Kat was already at The Common Cup for an evening shift.
But she’d been on his mind all day. In spite of how tired they’d been when they got home from the food pantry last evening, Kat had seemed animated. All during their late supper of Rochelle’s black-eyed peas and rice in the Crock-Pot—surprisingly delicious spooned over corn bread—she had talked about nothing else. She’d asked about the various people each of them had helped. The Cuban woman who spoke no English. The old man who’d shuffled into the food pantry in his stocking feet and filled up his clothing bag with nothing but shoes. The Muslim woman
so shrouded in her head scarf that only her eyes showed. The cute Latino kids who got so excited about a Barbie shirt or Batman sneakers.
They’d shared stories. Laughed about the mistakes they’d made. “I tried out my high school Spanish on one woman who came in,” Brygitta had confessed, “trying to ask her to write her name on the sign-in sheet—you know, ‘Escribe su nombre en el papel’—and she looked horrified. I think I asked her to, uh, ‘Excreta su nombre’—”
Kat had screeched, “You didn’t!” and they’d all fallen out laughing in spite of themselves.
“What? What?” Conny had asked, flying to the table. He’d already eaten supper with Grammy Avis and had been playing nearby in the living room. But they’d forgotten about his big ears. Rochelle had whisked him off to get him in his pj’s, after which he’d begged Nick to read him a story before she tucked him in bed . . . and by the time he was done, Kat and Brygitta had disappeared into their bedroom.
And now it was already Thursday night, and his membership at SouledOut was coming up on Sunday. He wasn’t satisfied with his last conversation with Kat about membership and the fact that she hadn’t been baptized.
With Rochelle and Conny gone to see the fireworks and Kat at work, Nick had fixed an easy Chinese chicken salad for himself and Bree and they’d eaten it out on the back porch. When he asked whether she’d thought about becoming a member on Sunday, Bree said she wasn’t sure she’d still be coming to SouledOut once school started again, so probably not. Disappointing, but made sense.
But that still left Kat.
Bree disappeared after supper to catch up on e-mails, but Nick sat down at the kitchen table with the Membership Covenant he’d be making on Sunday. He wasn’t sure why he wanted his friends to join him in the commitment to this church he was making—Kat especially. But his pastoral internship committed him for the next six months at least. It’d be nice to have his closest friends there for support.
He read through the covenant. “On profession of faith in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, having been baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I joyfully enter into this covenant with my brothers and sisters of SouledOut Community Church . . .”
There it was, that baptism thing. But if Kat really wanted to become a member, surely they could do something about that before Sunday.
He really liked the covenant. “To walk together in Christian love . . . to participate in its worship and ministries . . . to contribute financially through tithes and offerings . . .” A lot of the basics. But also some other commitments he didn’t usually see in church memberships. “To maintain regular Bible reading and prayer . . . to be just in all dealings with others . . . to aid my brothers and sisters in sickness or distress . . . to reconcile differences and seek for unity and avoid division . . .”
Oh, Lord, make me worthy—
The front door opened. “I’m home!” Kat stuck her head into the kitchen. “Oh, hey, Nick. Where is everybody?”
Nick’s heart skipped a beat or two. Kat’s hair was down, all waves and curls around her face, instead of bunched on the back of her head with a clip. Her blue eyes never failed to stand out even more, framed by all that dark hair. She wore the barest of makeup, but her cheeks were pink from the walk home from the coffee shop.
He found his voice. “Well, Rochelle and Conny went to see the fireworks with the Douglasses, Bree is somewhere chatting on the Internet, and I saw Nick somewhere around here—”
“Goose. I meant besides you.” Kat laughed and flopped into another chair at the kitchen table. “Any leftovers from supper? I’m famished!”
Nick hopped up and whisked a covered plate out of the refrigerator and got a fork. “Set aside just for you, mademoiselle. Chinese chicken salad. Still good, I think.”
“Looks fabulous.” Kat dived in. “Mmm.” As she chewed the chilled chicken, lettuce, mandarin orange sections, and almond slivers, she pointed her fork at the papers in front of him. “What’re you doing?”
“Reading through the Membership Covenant for SouledOut. Did you get a chance to read through it?”
She sighed. “Not really. Kind of got hung up on the first section that assumes you’ve been baptized.”
“Mind if I read it to you while you eat? I’m trying to absorb it all. Reading it aloud would be good for me too.”
Kat shrugged and forked another mouthful of salad. “Sure. Go ahead.”
He read through it. The personal faith commitments. The commitments to the rest of the body of Christ. The commitments to serve others.
She nodded slowly. “It’s great. I like that one about ‘courtesy in our speech.’”
He took a slow breath and blew it out. “So . . . if we could do something about getting you baptized, would you—”
“Nick! There’s, like, only two days before Sunday. There’s no time! Yeah, sure, I might want to become a member at SouledOut at some point, but I need more time to think through this whole baptism thing. I don’t even know how they do it! Maybe you have to take a class or something. Do you know?”
Nick hesitated, remembering what Avis Douglass had said about the pastors meeting with the person and usually waiting until there were two or three people who wanted to be baptized and doing it in the lake. “Well, yeah, but . . .”
Kat laid a hand on his arm. He felt her touch all the way up his arm and down to his feet. “You’re sweet to want me to become a member the same Sunday you do, Nick. But I need more time to find out what it’s all about. But you . . . go for it. I’m cheering.”
She got up from the table and put her empty plate into the dishwasher. “The salad was yummy. Hey—tomorrow’s the Fourth. Do you have the day off? The STEP program is on holiday, but Bree and I are both scheduled for morning shift at the coffee shop, which means I oughta get to bed. But maybe we could do something later? At least you and me and Bree since we didn’t get to see the Chicago fireworks tonight. Maybe they do something up in Evanston.”
Nick nodded, swallowing the lump of disappointment in his throat. “Yeah. We should do something.” He watched her go, flitting out of the kitchen like a leaf on the wind. He realized more clearly why he’d been pushing her. The membership covenant said things about faith and church that meant a great deal to him. And he wished they were making those same commitments together, a foundation they could build on for wherever their relationship might take them in the future.
But she was right. Of course she should take time to understand the process for baptism at SouledOut, not be pushed to take shortcuts just for him.
Just for him . . .
But he wished she would. Just for him. Wished she wanted to, just for him.
Chapter 17
The morning shift at The Common Cup that Friday was longer because of the holiday hours and because more customers had time to kick back and hang out with their friends. By the time Kat and Bree got home, Nick had rounded up some bicycles from the Douglasses and the family on the first floor—one of which even had a kid seat for Conny—and asked if they wanted to bike up to Evanston to hear a band concert and see the fireworks.
“Bikes! Sounds fun. But I thought . . .” Kat had assumed she and Bree and Nick would go to the fireworks tonight, just the three of them. Hadn’t Rochelle and Conny gone downtown to Chicago last night with Mr. and Mrs. D? It’d been awhile since the three of them had spent much time together, now that they were all working and had such crazy schedules. Not that she really minded Rochelle and Conny going along if Rochelle kept her little boy entertained. But the way Conny hung on Nick, he was liable to be distracted the whole time.
Nick seemed to read her mind. “How could I say no?” he murmured to her.
Kat shrugged and dragged Bree to the kitchen to see what they could put together for a picnic. Why fight it? It’d still be fun.
With everybody pitching in, they soon had a picnic of tuna sandwiches, carrot sticks, celery boats with peanut butter (Conny’s idea), grapes, home-popped popcorn, tortilla ch
ips, a jar of salsa, and hunks of cheese to nibble on. Rochelle looked at the food on the table and made a face. “Doesn’t seem like a Fourth of July picnic without grilled chicken and potato salad.”
A quick retort sprang to the tip of Kat’s tongue. You were home all morning while Bree and I were working. Why didn’t you make some?—but she swallowed it. What had the Membership Covenant said about “courtesy in speech”? “There’s still Saturday,” she said instead.
“Sure.” Rochelle shrugged. “We could grill on the back porch.”
Kat was glad she’d caught her tongue. Like Bree said, Rochelle was trying. She busied herself distributing the food between the four of them, using a couple of backpacks and grocery sacks to hang from the handlebars.
Nick rode the bike with Conny on the back, and Kat worried that none of them had helmets. But they kept to the side streets until they hit Calvary Cemetery, which divided Chicago from Evanston along the lakefront. The only way around was busy Sheridan Road, but they rode on the sidewalk until they got past the huge cemetery. After that, they were able to pick up a bike path for most of the way running the length of the parks along the lake up to Northwestern University.
Once Kat got used to using the gears on her slightly ancient bike, she enjoyed the ride. It was a nearly perfect day, midseventies. Clouds scuttled about, but no hint of rain. They rode single file, dodging joggers and walkers who seemed to ignore the cinder footpath and insisted on cluttering the bicycle paths, sometimes two or three abreast. Rochelle rode close behind Nick, probably to keep an eye on Conny, who was having the time of his life, holding out his arms and screeching, “Wheeee!” or “I’m flying!” to people they passed. Kat chuckled. He really was a sweet kid.