by Neta Jackson
Brygitta whacked him with the newspaper. “So? I can start looking right now on the bus, and you have to wait till you get to your computer.”
Kat ignored both of them. Newspaper jobs or Internet searches might land her anywhere in the city! No, she was going to concentrate on the neighborhood near the church, even if she had to go door to door.
Both Olivia and Nick had an afternoon class on Tuesday, so Kat and Brygitta headed back to the apartment on an earlier bus. “By the way, looked like you and Edesa were hitting it off at the picnic. What were you talking about?”
Kat shrugged. “Oh, just getting acquainted. But I did find out she’s got a master’s degree in public health! And bam, I got this neat idea. Maybe the two of us could teach a class on nutrition at SouledOut—advertise it around the neighborhood.”
“Really? What did she think about that?”
Good question. Kat wasn’t sure. Edesa had made some comment about nutrition not being very high on the food priority list. “Uh, well, we didn’t really get to talk about it. Oh! Here’s our stop.”
Swinging off at Foster and Broadway, Kat pulled her friend toward Sheridan Road. “Hey. Let’s pick up some groceries before we get the El. We need more eggs and a green pepper. My turn to cook supper and I’m going to make a frittata.”
Brygitta shrugged. “I guess. But maybe we should grocery shop on Sunday when we’re at SouledOut. There’s a Dominick’s right there in the shopping center.”
“Thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest,” Kat teased.
“Huh. You should talk. You only started going to church a couple years ago.”
Kat draped an arm around Brygitta’s shoulders and laughed as they headed toward the big chain store. “Yeah, but you’ve been going since you were in the womb, so you should know better.”
As they crossed Sheridan, Kat playfully pushed Brygitta toward the front doors on the north corner, stuffing the envelope with their food money into her pocket. “Look, you go on, get some eggs and stuff—oh, some mushrooms too! And maybe a couple cans of tuna and a couple loaves of whole-wheat bread for lunches. I’ll come meet you in a few minutes.”
Brygitta stuck both fists on her hips. “Kat! No way. You’re not going Dumpster-diving again.”
Kat laughed. “I just want to look. You never know.” She trotted off down the street and around to the back of the store before Brygitta could protest any more. No one seemed to be around. Lifting the lid on one of the Dumpsters, she squinted into the depths. Flattened cardboard, broken glass, old boards, paper trash . . . but no food. Strange. She moved to the next one and lifted the lid. Same thing. Just trash. No food.
“Iffen you lookin’ fer somethin’ ta eat”—Kat jumped. Where was that voice coming from?—“change-over ain’t till Thursday midnight. Purty good pickin’s Wednesday night an’ Thursday.”
Kat peered around the second Dumpster. A street bum—well, he looked like someone who lived on the street to her—in grease-stained trousers, dirty gym shoes with no socks, a wool sweater that had seen better days pulled over a shirt of indeterminate color, and a gray knit hat pulled down to his eyebrows, sat on a piece of cardboard, his back against the brick wall of the big store.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” Kat felt slightly embarrassed to have a homeless man who looked as if he could use a good meal telling her when “the pickin’s” would be good. She started to leave and then remembered the apple she had in her backpack, left over from her lunch. Slinging the pack off her back, she unzipped it and dug around until she found the apple. “Here.” She held it out. “Would you like this?”
The man’s eyes, sagging under folds of pale skin, glittered, and his mouth broke into a grin, showing a mouth full of gaps and bad teeth. He nodded, took the apple, and arranged his bite to take advantage of the teeth he did have.
Feeling awkward, she nodded at him and backed away.
But what the old man had said stuck in Kat’s mind all the next day. If he was old. Hard to tell. But he looked like he’d been out on the street for eons. She wondered what he’d look like if he got cleaned up, shaved, his teeth fixed . . .
When she met her housemates at The Chip for a late lunch, she told them she needed to study in the library until late, so go on home without her, she’d come later. When they parted ways, Olivia worried about her taking the bus and El alone. But Kat just waved them off. “I’ll be home before dark, Livie. I promise.” She started for the library, then turned and yelled, “Nick, it’s your turn to cook! Save some supper for me!”
Well, she did have a lot of homework and the library was as good a place as any. She spent the afternoon translating a passage from a Spanish novel and working on a take-home midterm, then finally headed for the bus at six o’clock. The air was a good ten degrees warmer than yesterday, maybe in the sixties, and Kat got off the bus a couple of stops before Broadway, feeling like stretching her legs with a good walk. The wind off the lake half a mile ahead ruffled her hair, and she loosened the clip that usually held it at the back of her neck and shook it out, frizzy waves falling past her shoulders and lifting in the breeze. Ah, felt good.
Crossing Sheridan Road, she headed directly for the back of the Dominick’s store, though she slowed her pace. She wasn’t sure she wanted to run into the same homeless guy again. But all she saw were two big semis backed up to the loading docks and men going in and out, pushing dollies piled high with boxes. Drat. The place was too busy. Maybe she should wait awhile . . . or come back? No, too far to come back. She’d wait awhile, see what happened.
Walking north on Sheridan to kill time, she saw a paved path leading to a park beyond some high-rise apartment buildings. Wandering through the park, she followed the path through an underpass beneath Lake Shore Drive and came out on one of Chicago’s many beaches. And there was the majestic lake, its surface ruffled with whitecaps by the constant wind. Kat grinned, shaking her hair in the wind.
But she shouldn’t stay too long. Walking quickly back to the store, she saw first one truck pull out of the alley into the street, and right on its tailgate another one. Maybe the coast was clear. Grinning, she headed once more for the back of the store.
But even before she got to the Dumpsters, Kat saw a slight figure standing on a wooden crate, holding open the lid of the far Dumpster and leaning over the side, head hidden. She hesitated . . . but it was obviously a girl or woman, not the old guy. And there was another Dumpster. She was not going to leave without seeing what “the pickin’s” were today.
Kat walked quietly up to the closest Dumpster, set down her backpack, and lifted the lid. Gold mine! Plastic-wrapped six-packs of snack yogurts, sell-by date only yesterday . . . a box with tomatoes and green peppers, slightly bruised or overripe . . . a whole box of cauliflower, just a tad brown on the florets . . . a bag of apples, condition unknown. Grinning, Kat dragged out the box, added some of the yogurts, a few heads of cauliflower, and the bag of apples. Squatting down, she unzipped her backpack to stuff as much in as it would hold. She’d carry the rest in the—
“You! What are you doing, stealing food other folks need?!”
Kat was so startled, she nearly lost her balance. But she quickly stood up to face her challenger—and realized she was face-to-face with the young woman she’d seen in the foyer of the three-flat, the same woman in the photo of the apartment upstairs.
Avis Douglass’s daughter.
Kat steadied herself. “I . . . I’m not stealing. They just throw this stuff away.” And why are you here helping yourself, if it’s stealing? she wanted to add.
The young woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re that girl I saw in my mom’s building. Moving in, you said. Which means you aren’t living in the street like some. I bet you’ve got money. Why don’t you just . . . just go in the store and buy what you want, and leave this stuff for folks that really need it?” She flipped a hand toward the store.
Kat’s mind raced. What was this about? The young woman had on a pair of jeans, a hoodie with
the hood loosely covering her raven-black tresses, and scuffed gym shoes. A bit disheveled, but she was still an attractive young woman, with smooth honey-brown skin and long strands of tightly coiled waves straggling out of the hood around her face.
“And you’re Mrs. Douglass’s daughter. I saw your picture in her apartment.”
The woman tensed, her eyes suddenly fearful.
Kat picked up the box and held it out. “Are you saying you need this? Take it. And here . . .” She set the box down, dumped the food out of her backpack into the box, and straightened. “It’s yours.”
Kat’s words hung in the air as the young woman stared at the box for a long moment. Then she darted forward, grabbed the bag of apples and a six-pack of yogurt, and stuffed them into an already-bulging black plastic trash bag she was carrying. Starting toward the street, she suddenly stopped and turned back. “Don’t tell my mother you saw me here.”
“But I don’t even—”
“Promise me!”
Kat hesitated, and the woman seemed to panic. “Promise me!”
“O-kay, I promise. Just tell me your name. I’m—”
But the woman turned and fled.
Chapter 25
The nine-year-old slumped in the chair in Avis’s office the next day, arms crossed defiantly across his rumpled T-shirt. She watched him for a few moments, not saying anything. Shaggy brown hair that needed a haircut—a wash wouldn’t hurt either. Pasty skin. Tall for his age, thick in the neck and shoulders. They’ll snatch this kid up for football in high school and not give two cents whether he’s got passing grades or whether he’s learned to get along with other people.
“Derrick. Tell me about your family.”
His pale eyes jerked up. This was obviously not what he expected when he’d been called into the principal’s office. The eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why you wanna know?”
“Just getting to know you. Who lives at your house?”
“Just . . . my mom and dad. He drives a truck so he ain’t around too much. An’ me and my brother.”
“Is your brother older or younger?”
“Older. What’s it to you?”
Avis decided to ignore the surly tone. “So what kind of things does your family like to do together?”
The boy shifted uncomfortably. The arms uncrossed, and he sat on his hands. “I dunno. Watch TV, I guess.” Avis said nothing. He shrugged. “My mom works late, so mostly it’s just me an’ my brother.”
“So your brother takes care of you?”
Derrick scowled. “S’posed to. But he an’ his friends are always pushin’ me around. So mostly I just stay outta their way.”
Avis’s spirit sagged. What she had on her hands was a neglected kid with absentee parents and a bully big brother.
“Tell me about your friends.”
Another shrug. “My dad don’t want me to play with the kids in my neighborhood. Says there’s too many gooks an’ spics an’ nig—uh, blacks.”
Avis pressed her lips together. I’ll bet. So much for calling in the parents. She forced herself to keep her voice friendly. “Do you like Sammy Blumenthal in your class?”
A sneer lifted one side of his mouth. “That beanie-boy? Why would I like him?”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause he’s a wuss. All ya gotta do is look at ’im an’ he goes cryin’ to the teacher.”
“But I understand you do more than just look at him.”
The boy hunched and stared at the floor.
Avis watched him sadly. No wonder Derrick picked on other kids. The proverbial pecking order.
Finally she got up from her chair, walked around her desk, and pulled up a second chair next to Derrick. He cringed slightly away from her. She didn’t touch him, just sat close. “Derrick, would you like to carry the flag into the auditorium and lead the Pledge of Allegiance when we have our final assembly in a couple weeks?”
Now he stared at her, mouth open. Then the eyes narrowed again. “You messin’ with me?”
“No. What do you think?”
Was that a smile at the corners of his mouth? “Well, yeah.
Sure. That’d be cool.”
“Just one thing. Sammy Blumenthal will be carrying the Illinois flag at the same time. I need to see that you two can get along if this is going to work. If I hear otherwise”—she shrugged—“I’ll need to get someone else.”
The boy’s pasty face seemed to brighten. “Okay. No problem.”
“Good.” She stood up. “I’ll walk you back to Mrs. Baxter’s class.” And tell Jodi to get Sammy Blumenthal into her office on the sly so she could ask him.
Estelle Bentley’s bosom heaved as she chuckled. “Avis Douglass, you sure do have an odd way of dealing with school bullies. Puttin’ the bully an’ the bull-ee on flag duty together. Now that takes the cake!”
Her husband, Harry, wagged his shaved head. “Wish we could do somethin’ like that with rival gang kids. Woo-eee.” He whistled through his teeth.
Jodi Baxter appeared in the archway of the living room carrying a tray with a coffeepot, a pitcher of iced tea, mugs, glasses, milk, and sugar. “Some like it hot, some like it cold,” she sing-songed.
“And nobody likes it in the pot, nine days old.” Denny Baxter took the tray from his wife and set it on the sturdy wooden coffee table. “When Jodi starts reciting Mother Goose, I know it’s time for a looong summer vacation. Harry, you want coffee?”
Harry and Estelle Bentley had shown up at the front door of the Baxters’ two-flat at the same time as Avis and Peter Wednesday evening and settled into the comfy living room. Seated in an overstuffed chair, Avis drank in the familiar room. Plants in the bay windows overlooking the street, no curtains. A well-used but still serviceable sofa with matching chair, a recliner, and a hassock provided seats for the six of them. At Yada Yada meetings, they had to import dining room chairs.
“Thanks for coming,” Jodi said, curling up with her iced tea on one end of the couch next to Harry and Estelle. “Pastor canceled Bible study tonight—obviously, I guess, since Pastor Clark had been teaching it—but I think some people are gathering at the church to pray anyway. But Pastor said to go ahead and meet tonight to plan the funeral. It’s all part of the same thing.”
“Well, prayin’ sounds to me like a good way to start.” Estelle didn’t wait on ceremony but launched into a heartfelt prayer of praise. “Jesus! Mmmm, Lord! Sometimes we don’t understand why things happen the way they do, don’t understand why things happen when they do. We don’t understand why You took one of our saints home just now. But one thing we do know. You are a good God! Your love is never failing. You have poured out Your love an’ grace an’ mercy in many ways on SouledOut Community Church, an’ we’re gonna trust You now to show us the way ahead. So we thank You, Jesus! We thank You!”
Avis joined in the praise, realizing she needed to get her own focus straight if she was going to hear from the Holy Spirit about this funeral service. Not focus on her laundry list of problems. Not on her daily sadness that Rochelle still hadn’t contacted her again. Not on the big decision facing her and Peter. Just focus on Jesus . . .
Denny Baxter, not one to pray aloud during a free-for-all praise time, finally cleared his throat and brought the prayer time to a close, asking God’s guidance in their discussion tonight and His blessing on the funeral service itself, “. . . that You would be glorified in everything we do and say. Amen.”
Jodi—true to form, thought Avis—had written down some areas to consider: music, obituary, sharing time, eulogy, repast. “You forgot resolutions from other churches,” Estelle put in.
Jodi tucked her long bob behind one ear. “How do we get those?”
“Humph. Just let other churches ’round the city an’ people who knew Pastor Clark know about his passin’ and invite them to send a resolution in his memory. It’ll happen. Then we assign someone to read ’em.”
“Uh, well, could you do that part, Estelle? Let people know, and
then read them at the funeral?”
Avis smiled to herself. Jodi was quick on the uptake: make a suggestion, and you were likely to end up doing it.
“Why don’t we call it a memorial service instead of a funeral?” Denny asked.
“Make that a home-going celebration,” Estelle countered.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Like that.”
The phone rang. Denny went to answer. When he came back, he stood in the archway, hands in his jeans pockets, a perplexed look on his face.
“What?” the other five chorused together.
“That was Pastor Cobbs. He’s been going through Pastor Clark’s papers at the office, and he found his will—and he does have a brother in Washington State—plus some general instructions. He, uh, doesn’t want money spent on a fancy casket. Said to bury him in a pine box, give everything after paying his bills to set up a scholarship to help send SouledOut kids to college.”
Avis blinked back sudden tears. Sending kids to college—a lot better use of money than spending thousands on a fancy casket just going into the ground. Bless that man.
“A pine box you say?” Harry scratched the grizzled horseshoe beard that rimmed his jaw, which, combined with his shaved dome, always made Avis think the ex-cop’s hair was on upside down. “What’s that mean? Anybody know where to get a pine box?”
They all looked at each other. Finally Denny spoke. “Well, maybe Josh and I could build one or something. But we’ve only got two days. I’m going to have to take time off work. Could probably use you, Harry.”
Estelle crossed her arms. “Humph. Ain’t gonna let that saint of God lie in a plain wooden box. If you’re gonna make him a casket, I’ll sew somethin’ to line it with.”
Harry grinned. “That’s my girl.”
After tossing ideas around for another half an hour, the final assignments were made. Denny, Josh, and Harry would work on a casket. Estelle would make a lining, plus gather resolutions to be read during the service. Pastor Cobbs, of course, would give the eulogy. Peter, who’d been fairly quiet all evening, said he’d work on the obituary and get a printed program made. Jodi volunteered to gather a team of women to provide a repast after the service. “And a team of men to do the cleanup,” she said, winking.