Breaking Free

by Jennifer Slattery

  “What do you mean? Hanging around where?”

  “In his car, just sitting there. Like he was waiting for someone or something.”

  Or watching her house.

  Trent crossed the living room to the sliding glass door and watched the traffic below. A thick blanket of clouds covered the Seattle skyline, making it appear much later than it was. A man in a black hoodie stood on the corner, head jerking back and forth, hands shoved in his pocket. Moments later a woman approached with long, scraggly hair that fell over her face and draped across her back in thick, matted clumps.

  “You ready to go?”

  He turned to see Ethan standing in the middle of the room with a guitar bag draped over his shoulder. A duffel stuffed with bagged lunches sat on the breakfast bar next to a 24-pack of water.

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  Cruising the streets on the outskirts of Pike Place Market for a bunch of homeless folks so that they could invite them to hang out down at Victor Steinbrueck Park wasn’t his idea of a great time, but he didn’t have anything better to do.

  “Mind grabbing the grub?” Ethan hoisted the water with his free hand and balanced it against his hip.

  “No problem.”

  Trent grabbed the food bag, sending an unappetizing mixture of bologna and tuna drifting to his nostrils. He followed Ethan out of the apartment, down the hall, and toward the stairwell. A lady in pink shorts and a floral blouse exited her apartment. She walked a few steps ahead, a chubby-cheeked boy clutching her hand.

  Ethan paused to flash them both a smile. “Think it’ll rain today?”

  The woman bristled and twined her car keys between her fingers. “Maybe.”

  The kid stared at Ethan’s guitar, his freckled face twitching on the verge of a smile. His bright blue eyes swept across Ethan’s torn jeans. “You guys in a band?”

  Ethan laughed. “In some ways.”

  The kid’s eyes widened. “Cool! Where do you play?”

  “On the corner of Western Avenue and Virginia.” He looked at the woman. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  The woman frowned and placed a protective arm around her son’s shoulder. Ethan and Trent exchanged glances, Ethan’s eyes holding a mischievous twinkle. Heat rose in Trent’s cheeks. He stared at the ground, lips flattened. The woman picked up her pace and Trent slowed his, while Ethan lingered between them, clearly oblivious to their discomfort. Once they made it to street level, the woman put her hand on the back of the kid’s head and pushed him toward a blue four-door parked along the curb.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Ethan grinned. “I’m thinking they’re not coming.”

  Trent frowned and followed Ethan to his van. Tools and fast food wrappers cluttered the floor and passenger seat. Loosely rolled carpet and used carpet padding filled the back. He climbed in, careful not to step on the ketchup packets and hamburger wrappers piled on the floor.

  Ethan slid behind the steering wheel. “And we’re set.”

  “So, why don’t you do church at the warehouse or something?”

  “You ever heard the story about the paralytic?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  “It’s from Mark 2.” Ethan eased onto the road. “Jesus was at this house in Capernaum, and when everyone heard about it, they packed the place. Like elbow to elbow. Next thing they knew, dirt started falling on their heads. They looked up to see four guys digging through the roof. Then, a man was lowered down on a mat.”

  He turned right and continued west. “The man’s friends knew he couldn’t get to Jesus on his own, so they helped him.” They drove past a brick apartment complex with barred windows and took another right. “These men and women down at the market are crippled by alcoholism, drug abuse, prostitution, you name it. And they can’t get to Jesus. It’s our job to bring Jesus to them.

  “Some of the fellas from work and a bunch of guys from our recovery meetings are going to meet us down at the market.” He pulled behind a brown station wagon and continued to 3rd Street, where he made another left. “Pulling others out of the gutter helps them stay sober.” His eyes intensified as he looked at Trent. “Reminds us why we’re fighting this thing.”

  Trent grabbed his cell from his back pocket and checked his missed alerts. Alice hadn’t called. Neither had the boys. He scrolled through his contacts until he found her number and hovered his finger over the call button. After offering a silent prayer, he returned his phone to his pocket.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ethan pulled into a parking lot under the freeway that skirts the waterfront and grabbed his guitar.

  He threw a bunch of water bottles into a plastic bag and stepped out. “You got the sandwiches?”

  “Sure.”

  Ethan made a visual sweep of the lot then turned toward a man in a torn flannel shirt sitting against a cement pillar in the far corner. The man looked up, raised a hand, and nodded.

  “Good ol’ Kenneth. Never missed a worship service yet.”

  Trent moved the bag to his other shoulder and followed Ethan across the asphalt.

  “Hey, there, buddy.” Ethan wrapped Kenneth in a hug.

  Trent stepped backward. The stench of body odor and urine was overpowering.

  Ethan motioned to Trent. “Kenneth, this is my friend Trent.”

  Trent stepped forward and reached out his hand. Blackened fingers closed around his.

  “Trent here’s been coming to our recovery meetings. He’s been sober eight weeks now, ain’t that right?” Ethan slapped Trent on the back.

  He looked at a torn backpack stuffed to overflowing on the curb. A half-eaten burger and a pile of squished fries that looked like they’d been dug out of a trash can lay on a soiled napkin.

  “Good for you, bro.” Kenneth grinned, revealing a row of black, broken teeth.

  Trent grimaced as the man’s warm, sour-smelling breath flooded his face. He angled his head to the side and forced a smile.

  Ethan reached into his bag and pulled out a water bottle. He handed it to Kenneth. “You hungry? We got tuna and bologna.”

  The man licked his lips, a trail of saliva clinging to the corners of his mouth. “Ooh, eee, there ain’t nothing like your tuna sandwiches. Thanks, my friend. Might as well save this for later.” He wrapped the napkin around the burger and fries and tucked it into his backpack.

  A woman with black hair tangled in thick clumps joined them.

  Ethan grinned. “Hey there, Shilo.”

  She rubbed her shoulder, twitching as her dark eyes focused on the bag of waters.

  “You clean?” Ethan handed her a bottle.

  Averting his gaze, she grabbed it, unscrewed the top, gulped half of it down, and wiped her mouth.

  Ethan studied her while she devoured a fingernail.

  He nudged Trent. “Shall we go? The others will be waiting.”

  His face heated as the four of them made their way across the parking lot and down the sidewalk toward Steinbrueck Park, with it’s tall cedar totem pole and bay views. A handful of locals lying on blankets reading, a couple of college-aged guys tossing a Frisbee, and a few foreigners with selfie sticks shared the park with the city’s ever-present homeless population. Tourists in jeans and T-shirts wrinkled their noses and moved aside as Trent and his newfound “friends” approached.

  Trent focused on the concrete in front of him and pretended not to notice the sideways glances. He wasn’t sure what hurt more, to be associated with the homeless or his awareness of how similar he and Kenneth truly were. The only difference between them was that Ethan had offered him a place to stay and an invitation to a recovery meeting.

  “Great!” Ethan said. “Joe brought his bongos.”

  Trent glanced up to see a man with long dreadlocks sitting cross-legged on the ground maybe 100 feet from the Tree of Life sculpture, which always looked more like a whale tail to Trent. Street folks had gathered around—a woman with thin hair, a man with a large black backpack, and an old man hunched over. O
thers sat or lay on the grass and benches.

  Trent froze and stared at Cutters, across from the park, remembering the night he took Alice there. She’d been so incredibly beautiful that night, so . . . hopeful. She’d been trying so hard to save their marriage, asking him to go to a marriage conference, to counseling. To fight for their love. As he should have. If only he would have.

  “So,” Ethan set his guitar down by Joe, “what do you say we go fishing?”

  “What?” Trent looked at the bay.

  Ethan laughed. “Not that kind of fish. You and I are going to go catch us some men.” He gazed toward the waterfront. “It’s probably too late to head down by the grain pier. Those folks are probably packed up and gone by now.” Early morning, one could often find a handful of men and women camped along the Elliott Bay bike trail. Some slept in makeshift tents, which were made from plastic tarps stretched over tree branches. Others slept on park benches or on the ground, a handful lucky enough to have blankets or sleeping bags.

  “Grab the water,” Ethan said.

  He led Trent down the street toward Pike Place with its brick road, farmers market, and artisan stalls. Here, they wove around market shoppers and past the fish company, which was thronged by tourists watching the fishmongers toss massive fish. More tourists formed a long line outside of Beecher’s Handmade Cheese, one of Trent’s favorite Pike Place stores. One year he and Alice bought a gift basket for her parents—Flagship cheese paired with a fruit nut crostini. Then Trent had purchased a package for themselves, which they enjoyed that evening while watching the sun set on their back porch.

  Oh, Alice, how I miss you.

  Shaking the memories aside and the painful emotions they evoked, he followed Ethan up a steep hill, zigzagging through streets and alleys on their way to 3rd Avenue.

  Half a block down a group of rough looking teenagers gathered on concrete stairs cutting between two buildings. A kid with brown, greasy hair and a goatee jumped up when they approached. He shoved a small cardboard box in front of them.

  “Got any change?”

  The rest of the teens straightened, watching Ethan and Trent closely.

  “No, but I’ve got water.” Ethan handed each of them a bottle. “And bologna.” He gave Trent a jerk of his head. Trent distributed the sandwiches.

  “Nasty!” A kid with earrings lining both ears threw his sandwich on the ground. The others looked at the sandwich, then at Ethan.

  The kid with the goatee’s grin only widened. “Yeah, I’m not a bologna man, either. How about tuna?”

  All eyes turned back to the kid with the earrings. He frowned, grabbed his water, and unscrewed the lid. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he emptied the bottle.

  Ethan took another step forward. “We’re having a little praise jam down by the fishmonger’s shop, if you’re interested.”

  The kid snorted. “And why would we want to hang out with a bunch of religious fanatics? No thanks.”

  Ethan shrugged. “If you change your mind.”

  He and Trent continued to walk through the market streets, stopping to talk to the homeless along the way. Most of them declined Ethan’s offer, a few came along, almost all of them took the food.

  After 30 minutes of “fishing,” Ethan glanced at his watch. “We’ll need to head back soon.” He stopped to watch a legless man sitting on a pile of newspapers turning soda can pop-tops into necklaces. “We got one more stop, then we’ll head back.”

  Trent followed him down the street to a back alley where a man with thick wiry hair sat cross-legged with his back pressed against a brick wall. He clutched a bottle-shaped paper bag in his hand. A German shepherd lay panting beside him.

  “Good morning, Reagan. You coming to our meeting today?” Ethan squatted to pour a puddle of water on the ground. The dog lapped it up.

  “Nah.” The man brought the paper bag to his mouth and took a long gulp. Drops of liquid seeped from his lips and dribbled onto his gray beard. Dark, empty eyes landed on Trent’s.

  He shivered and looked away as the memory of himself sleeping in his car, covered in dried sweat and filth, resurfaced. If it wasn’t for the grace of God, this could be him. Even now, he barely held on. He reached into his back pocket and felt his wallet, with the picture of Alice tucked within.

  Lord Jesus, have mercy. Don’t let me end up like this, sleeping on the streets, alone.

  CHAPTER 46

  Trent’s off day couldn’t have come soon enough. It’d been a crazy-busy week of long days filled with hard labor. He’d pulled three 12-hour shifts since he and Ethan’s little worship session down at Pike’s Place. But no amount of work had been able to get Reagan’s hollowed eyes out of Trent’s mind, and the stark reminder that Trent was but one day away from becoming that man. Had been him, in fact.

  Resting his leg on the coffee table, he reached for his toes. His hamstrings burned as tense muscles stretched.

  Ethan laughed, plopping onto the couch across from him. “Tad sore, are we?”

  “Laying carpet’s much more demanding than staring at a computer all day.”

  But the growing wad in his wallet made it well worth it. At the rate things were going, he’d be able to pay Jay off in three months, and then he could start chipping away at his other debt. Maybe even call one of those debt consolidation companies. Once he did that, he’d show up at Alice’s apartment with a bouquet of flowers and a ring and ask her to marry him all over again.

  To think, he’d almost lost contact with her forever. If Ed hadn’t told him where she was staying. Minus the diner. He could always find her there, along with Mr. Smooth Talker. Though he hadn’t seen the guy in a while. Did that mean they’d broken up? The idea encouraged him.

  “You think you’ll get your job back?” Ethan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You said your boss told you to take time off. That makes it sound like the job’s still there, if you want it.”

  “I don’t know. It’s been so long. I’m sure they’ve found someone to replace me by now.”

  “You never know. Remember, there’s always hope.”

  Trent frowned. “Do you really believe that? I mean, I see all those photos of your wife and kids.” He motioned toward the bookshelf. “At what point do you give up? When do you quit praying for a miracle?”

  Ethan stood and disappeared into his bedroom. He returned with a thick spiral notebook and tossed it onto the table. “Never.” He locked eyes with Trent. “You never give up. You never stop praying.”

  Trent grabbed the notebook, flipped it open, and read the dates printed upon page after page.

  December 5, 2010. Took my last drink today. Lord, help me be strong, for Tracy. Bring her back to me. Show me how to get her back.

  January 23, 2011. Tried to call Tracy today. I got her answering machine. Lord, please soften her heart. Help her and the boys to forgive me.

  June 13, 2011. Watched the boys play basketball. Prayed for them while I sat in the stands. And for Tracy. She looked so sad. I tried to talk to her after the game, but she wouldn’t listen. Lord, take away her anger and heal our marriage.

  Trent read prayer after prayer. September 9, 2012; February 15, 2013; Mother’s Day 2014, Father’s Day 2015.

  He closed the tablet and set it back on the coffee table. Years of prayers, years of hope. He wasn’t sure he could hang on that long.

  “Why’d you let me stay here?”

  Ethan set his soda down. “When I saw you at the food bank that day, hair sticking up all over the place, bags under your eyes, dressed in slacks and a country club shirt, I knew you’d just hit bottom. I knew if you stayed there long, you’d give up. I had to help you to your feet before that happened.”

  Trent leaned his head against the cushions. He was discouraged, but not defeated. Not yet.

  But he was close.

  A knock sounded—probably someone from Grace-filled Recovery. Ethan stood, strode across the room, and opened the door.

  “Can I h
elp you?”

  An older woman in cotton shorts and a baggy shirt that had a giant smiley face on the front stood in the hallway.

  “Does Trent Goddard live here?”

  He stood and crossed the room. Ethan moved aside.

  “I’m Trent.”

  “This is for you.” The woman handed him a manila envelope and left.

  Trent’s name was written in Alice’s handwriting across the front. Ethan placed a hand on his back and guided him to the couch.

  “Do you want me to open it?”

  He shook his head. The room narrowed as his peripheral vision darkened. He tore off the corner of the envelope, slid his finger along the flap, and pulled out typed documents. The image of the official King County stamp stared back at him.

  He dropped his head in his hands, the papers falling to the floor.

  Ethan wrapped an arm around his shoulders, prayers of intercession pouring out, but Trent didn’t listen. A million things raced through his mind, instantly halted by one driving thought. He wouldn’t let her leave. No matter what it took, he had to get her back.

  “I’m not going to let this happen.”

  Ethan’s eyes widened. “Don’t do anything stupid, man.”

  Tuesday morning, Alice tried to focus on her job, but she kept glancing out the diner windows.

  “You all right?”

  She jumped at Melba’s voice and gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure I’m blowing this all out of proportion.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to play it safe, though. Isn’t that right, Frank?” She raised her voice to the cook.

  “Huh?”

  “I was saying, Alice is doing the right thing in how she’s handling Mr. Pretty Boy.”

  “You know that’s right. And I’m ready. Just waiting for a reason to practice my right hook.”

  Melba crossed her arms. “And add assault charges to your record? I don’t think so. Besides, Mr. Wilson’s got it handled.”

  Alice followed Melba’s line of vision to the diner entrance where her boss stood, chest puffed out, eyes trained on the parking lot.