Mags had a good head for business, even if she had been sidetracked by the bad dealings of the leadership in her huge brokerage house. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask them to put these services back on at a lower rate. Everybody will scream about that. They’ll want a lower rate, as well.”
“Can’t blame them.” Jeep was intrigued by this problem.
“But we can possibly get them food for less.” Mags, green eyes enlivened, was also being drawn in.
“My acres won’t be productive until fall harvest and the first harvest often isn’t that good.” Jeep was irrigating one thousand acres of her contiguous ten thousand acres to be used to grow food that would be sold cheap, locally, removing the middleman. This was her new pet project.
“The churches could help with food,” Babs offered.
“And so can the casinos. But here we have another problem to circumvent. Regulation. So much good food is wasted, both in those casino refrigerators and at the supermarkets. Somehow we have to get those foods that are near their sell-by date to the people. This will take some thought.” Jeep was not a woman to be deterred by regulations she thought foolish, and she thought most of them were.
“Where do we start?” Babs threw up her hands.
“Actually, Babs, we start on Spring Street. You, myself, and Mags need to talk to people there. I expect they’ll be reluctant. Why should they trust us? We could be part of some government agency, all that crap.”
“We take the dogs.” Mags smiled.
Baxter sat up. “I can convince them you’re okay.”
King opened one brown eye. “Ha. You look like a fuzzy muffler pipe.”
Baxter refrained from a comeback. No point starting a fight when there’s company.
“Well, why not? Children love dogs and I have yet to see any government official paying calls with dachshunds.” Babs smiled. “Mags, I am so glad you left Manhattan.”
“I’m glad to be home with Aunt Jeep,” Mags diplomatically replied, for she still sometimes missed the excitement of New York City. “She took me in and gave me a second chance.”
“Tosh.” Jeep waved her hand. “I raised you since you were in ninth grade. This is home.” Then she looked at Babs. “Mags didn’t trust her instincts. That’s a lesson we all learn sooner or later. I want you to know she gets food and shelter, but she has to make it on her own. No point in crippling initiative.”
“You never have.” Babs smiled and while she thought Jeep right she also thought perhaps a bit of coddling might not be out of order.
Babs then addressed Mags, “I could pay you for your time.”
“Never,” Mags quickly responded. “Aunt Jeep gave me her old Chevy 454 truck. I have a part-time job Tuesdays and Thursdays. And I hope to start school in the summer. I’ll be a plus, not a minus.”
“I have no doubt,” Babs sincerely replied.
Jeep held up her forefinger. “I’ll speak to my priest at Trinity Episcopal. You speak to yours. A shot of church people delivering cartons of food will help, too, if we can get the media interested. We’ve got a lot to do. When do you want to go to the houses?”
“How about this weekend when the children will be home? The dogs will be more effective then.”
“Yes,” Baxter said enthusiastically.
As they walked her to the front door, Babs smiled. “Thank you for taking the time, Jeep. It’s wonderful to see you, to be back at the ranch. This place has so many happy memories for me. You, Dot, Mom, and Dad sitting on the porch. Enrique and I riding the horses. Weren’t those lovely days?”
“They were. They were. Let’s make some new memories.”
“Indeed.” Babs leaned down and kissed Jeep on the cheek.
“I’ll encourage you with what I used to tell my copilot, Laura, when we’d crawl into the cockpit: ‘Tits to the wind!’ ”
CHAPTER FIVE
On Saturday, March 19, Jeep, Mags, King, and Baxter met Babs at 232 Spring Street. Clear, crisp, light winds washed over Reno.
The three women disembarked from two vehicles, the two dogs on leashes.
“All things being equal, it doesn’t look too run-down,” Jeep observed.
“Not yet, which is exactly why I still have some hope for this area.” Snug in an Austrian boiled-wool jacket and a long wool skirt, Babs led them to the door.
She knocked. “Mr. Veigh, it’s Babs Gallagher.”
They heard footsteps, the door opened a crack.
Donald Veigh couldn’t imagine what three women and two dogs wanted from him but as one of the women was quite beautiful he invited them in.
“Hello.” Baxter waved his tail.
Donald bent over to pat his head.
“No food smells,” King noted.
“Ladies, I don’t have anywhere for you to sit.”
“That’s fine. This is Jeep Reed and Mags, her great-niece. We’ve stopped by to let you know we’re hoping to get services restored and see if we can’t interest some companies in hiring.”
This surprised him. “I can’t pay for anything and I don’t think anyone else can, either.”
“We know that.” Jeep smiled. “We think if some employment can be found, those utilities will work out something along with the banks, so you all don’t lose your shelter.”
Bowled over by their generosity, he asked, “What can I do?”
“Do you have a cellphone?” Babs asked.
“I do.”
“If you give me your number I can call you and keep you informed. This isn’t going to happen overnight but the three of us will push hard.”
As Donald looked at this unlikely trio, Mags gave a megawatt smile. “Never underestimate the power of a woman.”
He smiled back. “Not me.”
“We know the people in these houses won’t trust us. We’re going to knock on doors and try to talk to them. Do they know you?” Babs asked.
“Some do.”
“Would you take us to them?” Jeep asked.
“All right. Let me get my coat.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned wearing an old flannel-lined barn jacket.
Together the four of them walked house to house. Mostly women answered the doors, and when children saw the dogs they rushed forward despite their mothers’ entreaties. Many of the houses’ occupants had either lost their money gambling or worked in the casinos and lost their jobs in the severe economic downturn—gambling had been hard hit. Most people don’t gamble if they’re broke or close to it.
As they worked their way down Spring Street, the women began to understand how very many people had sought shelter in these homes.
One place had two brothers living there, their ages hard to tell—somewhere between forty-five and sixty. They did not appear to be in the best of health. Fearful and highly suspicious, the only reason the women managed to get into their house was that King opened the door, which had a handle lock.
“These are my people!” A medium-sized keeshond faced off the two dogs and three women.
“We’re here to visit,” the imposing King said.
“Tookie, that’s enough,” commanded Mike, who was swathed in layers of old sweaters.
Tookie sat down, shut up, and cast a baleful eye at King and Baxter.
“Who the hell are you?” asked skinny Milton, the elder brother, his face covered with gray stubble.
“I could ask the same of you.” Jeep fired right back.
The two dogs stood on either side of Jeep, just in case.
“We’re here to see if we can get work for people on Spring Street,” Babs said smoothly.
“I live here, too,” Donald added. “Just up the block.”
“Oh.” The shorter brother, Mike, grunted. “Don’t recognize you.”
“ ’Cause you don’t have your glasses on Mike,” Milton said.
Unrolled sleeping bags lay in front of the fireplace. A couple of wooden crates passed for chairs. That was it.
“Our jobs program may well take us some time but if y
ou have special skills, please tell us,” Mags chipped in.
“Welders. We used to be welders,” Mike said with pride. “We could weld in our sleep. We worked with Aaron Wentworth. His kid’s the one making all the noise about”—Mike shrugged—“stuff.”
Milton added, “Aaron’s a good guy. Least that’s how I remember him.”
Warming up to the dogs, Tookie piped up, “Mike has epilepsy. I tell him and Milton when he’s going to have an attack.”
“That’s important.” Baxter praised Tookie.
“Sometimes they don’t eat but they always feed me. I’d give them my food but they wouldn’t eat it.”
“Humans are so fussy,” King said, recognizing how much the two old men loved Tookie.
The brothers’ reticence wore off. They rarely talked to women, but soon the stories poured out. With effort, the foursome left, but not before Jeep gave them fifty dollars, since it sounded like Mike had bronchitis.
“For meds,” was all she said.
House after house bore the same story: cold, sparse furniture, camp stoves, and firewood.
The dogs worked their magic.
Not everyone was friendly. At some houses, people ran out the back doors. Jeep figured those were illegal immigrants. She had no answer for this problem, but she didn’t think anyone should go cold and hungry, no matter where they came from.
Finally they reached 141 Spring Street.
The little tricycle girl recognized Babs. “Doggies!” she exclaimed after opening the front door.
Her mother hurried out from the kitchen.
“Tomato soup.” King inhaled.
“I met your daughter a few days ago.” Babs held out her hand and the pretty young woman shook it. She introduced herself as Irene.
Once again, they repeated why they were there and Donald, who didn’t know this block very well, told Irene where he lived.
Nobody mentioned how Irene, she gave no last name, was making ends meet—literally.
A fleeting look of hope passed over the young woman’s face at the prospect of employment. She said she could read and write and she had worked as a greeter in a casino but had gotten laid off. As a single mother she couldn’t take work without help for CeCe, the little girl. Jeep, again, gave money.
Finally, after they’d canvassed three blocks, Babs drove Donald back to his house, thanking him and paying him for his time.
He gratefully accepted the money.
Afterward, Babs met up with Jeep and Mags in a small parking lot on Sixth Street.
“What do you think?” Babs asked Jeep and Mags.
“We should start small,” Jeep said. “Stick to the three blocks we’ve canvassed. The first thing is to feed them. Then what we’ve got to do is get those services turned back on. This won’t be easy.”
“Between us and our friends, we can work on food,” said Babs. “The utilities will take combined effort and not a small amount of pressure. It will take time. I hate to think of those people still cold.”
“After seeing what I’ve just seen, I understand why you couldn’t walk away from this,” Jeep said. “Now I can’t, either.”
“Or me,” Mags echoed.
“I go wherever you go,” Baxter added.
“Me, too.” King’s deep voice rumbled.
For the rest of the day Jeep and Mags called on people they thought might help. They were gratified at the response of the various priests, pastors, and preachers. None of them were sure as to how to best approach the utilities, but all promised to deliver food cartons.
As they drove under the entrance to Wings Ranch, the crossbar at the top of the high entrance gate bearing the propeller of a P-47 and a small sprig of evergreen, Jeep, Mags, and the dogs were exhausted.
Once inside, Mags warmed up the casserole that Carlotta, Jeep’s daughter-in-law, had left for them. Jeep fed the dogs.
“I don’t know why I’m so tired,” Jeep complained.
“I am, too. Talking to so many people wears you out.”
“But you had to talk to people when you worked on Wall Street.” Jeep poured warm broth on King’s kibble and then Baxter’s, the two dishes placed at opposite ends of the large kitchen.
“Phone or email. I preferred the phone, though. Got a better sense of the person on the other end of the line. But this, in and out of the truck, driving from church to church … Lucky we have cellphones so you could call ahead.” Mags inhaled Carlotta’s cooking. “Smells good.”
“Carlotta is just the best cook, I wonder that I’m not fat as a tick.”
“You never sit still.” Mags set the table.
“Better to wear out than rust out. You know, Saturday is the best day to visit the clergy because they’re working on their sermons.”
“Never thought of that.” Mags folded a linen napkin. “I can’t imagine giving a speech a week.”
“If you follow the ecclesiastical calendar you won’t run out of topics. The big question is whether they can deliver a sermon without being boring.”
“Ever notice how preachers and politicians get this singsong cadence to their voices? Most seem so fake,” Mags noted shrewdly.
“I turn right off when I hear that.” Jeep changed the subject. “Here we are about to eat a wonderful meal and I keep thinking about those people who don’t have enough to eat. I bet half the time they do eat the food isn’t even hot.”
Mags dished out the chicken casserole and sat down. “I know. I feel bad and I shouldn’t. I didn’t do it.”
“In a way, we did. We’ve allowed individual responsibility to be subsumed by government. I mean, I hate it, but that’s the way things have drifted since the thirties, I guess. Those people on Spring Street lost their jobs. I doubt many of them are well educated. Most Americans don’t even see what you and I saw today, except maybe on TV. But things seem far away on TV. Maybe that’s another reason that personal responsibility has eroded.”
Mags savored Carlotta’s dish. “I feel guilty eating this, but what good does it do for me to go hungry?”
“Doesn’t. You have to keep your strength up. The war taught me that. Remember when you first came back here right after Thanksgiving and I told you I wanted to cultivate some of my land, grow food, and sell locally? If you’re well fed, you can think, you have energy and hope. What are the basics of life? Food, water, clothing, and shelter. No one in our country should be denied those things, but I don’t think it’s the government’s job to provide it. Therein I differ from many. It’s our job! The churches, the businesses, we can take care of our own. Just think, if every church pledged to feed even one hundred people in its parish, or district, wouldn’t that go a long way? Every time you rely on government, the money sticks to hands as it’s passed along.”
“I’d like not to believe you but I don’t know anymore. The sight of those children, some of them didn’t have enough clothes but they were as clean as possible. I can’t imagine how those mothers struggle.”
“We’ll do what we can. Anything is better than nothing.”
Mags changed the subject. “How about the red Angus cattle Enrique is looking at in Wyoming?”
“He loves them.” Jeep smiled.
They chatted, finished up, washed the dishes, and retired to the living room to watch the news.
Patrick Wentworth, a local politician running for Congress, was being interviewed by a reporter. Behind him, Cracktown looked desolate and dangerous.
“There was a murder here on Wednesday. The police haven’t one suspect. This is intolerable. Reno deserves better.” Patrick’s voice vibrated with righteous wrath.
“Dammit to hell.” Jeep cursed.
“The authorities believe it may be a gangland murder,” the TV reporter said.
“Where’s the suspect?” said Patrick. “This is about drugs. Drugs fuel violence. Look at Mexico. Will Reno turn into another Juárez?”
“Now there’s a big leap of reason.” Mags tucked her feet up under her. Baxter jumped onto the s
ofa.
Patrick Wentworth roared on until the three-minute segment was over.
“Boy, they sure gave him a free pass,” Jeep said.
“I hope this doesn’t hurt Pete. He and Lonnie were called to that scene.”
“I remember, you told me. What worries me, apart from the fact that I hope Mr. Clean doesn’t name the officers, is that Cracktown isn’t all that far from Spring Street.”
“Violence?” Mags’s eyebrows arched upward at the question.
“That, and how long before this lame-brained politico starts pointing the finger at all abandoned areas? You get the idea?”
“I do.”
“It’s endless campaigning. Have you noticed? If this bozo gets elected to Congress, he has two years. He’ll pretty much get his office established and he’ll be running for the next two years. It’s destructive to all of us.”
“Raising the money alone for a campaign is exhausting.”
“How come you aren’t out with Pete tonight, to shift gears?”
“He had to work today. We’re going to dinner tomorrow. Sometimes I think about all the terrible stuff he sees. I couldn’t do it.”
“That reminds me of something Danny said after the war. He felt no guilt because he was a fighter pilot. The fellows I knew who were infantrymen or on destroyers felt no guilt, but the bombers felt guilt. Danny would mention that sometimes. He always said he was glad he didn’t have to drop bombs. He saw his enemy. The thought of killing civilians upset him. Pete sees a different kind of destruction. It appears individual but it’s always tied to larger issues. At least Pete isn’t killing large numbers of people.”
“He just has to find the bodies that others have killed,” Mags replied.
CHAPTER SIX
Running cleared her mind and awakened all her senses. Mags had gotten into the habit back in Manhattan, running at five or five-thirty in the morning with Baxter. Then at night after work, walking the little guy two more miles kept both their minds and bodies sharp.
Gliding along Dixie Lane on a Sunday morning, heading south, the creek to her left, she breathed in the frigid air at 31°F. Baxter and King loped along, little puffs of steam coming from their mouths.
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