Perfecting For Love - A Standalone Novel (A Doctors Romance Love Story) (Burbank Brothers, Book #3)

by Naomi Niles

  Sean had searched the building for Juan and finally found him, collapsed alongside the staircase. He shielded him from the flames with his jacket and passed along his respirator as he had run down the stairs. Juan, also hospitalized, was being treated for smoke inhalation, but Sean’s injuries were more serious.

  He had sustained second degree burns over his back and third degree on his arms, having removed his fire clothing to protect Juan. The fire had consumed the oxygen in the building, leaving Sean’s unprotected lungs filled with carbon monoxide. He lay in the ICU in St. Mary’s and the guys from the station were visiting in small shifts. I had been assured that he would recover, but for the shorter term, he was susceptible to infection and needed to be kept under observation. I was torn between wanting to sit in vigil at his bedside and using his hospitalization as proof to my dad that there was nothing between Sean and myself. It was torture.

  My dad, having seen the danger in my being at the scene of a fire, decided my career as a firefighting reporter was done. He wouldn’t back down on that—and believe me when I say I used every technique I had in my bag. He was adamant.

  I made the most of what I’d witnessed that night, and in true, journalistic style, stretched it into a series. I followed up on Juan, and on his mother. She knew her neighbors and by the time everything was said and done, I’d spun quite a nice series, if I say so myself. Even though Dad heard quite a few compliments on my work, he was firm: I was not permitted on any more firetrucks.

  That didn’t, however, preclude my being a bystander.

  Dad was used to protecting me. I couldn’t blame him for that. However, he forgot that his daughter could be every bit as stubborn as he. After all… I was his daughter.

  * * *

  I entered a new chapter of my life. I called St. Mary’s daily until they told me that Sean was no longer a patient there, so I knew he was on the mend. I didn’t dare go by the station, and it wouldn’t have done any good regardless because I knew it would be some time before he was healed enough to return to work. I knew he would be in financial straits as even if he were totally unable to work, his benefits would be roughly four hundred dollars a week. That was nothing in New York City. Once he went back to work, even at minimum of hours, that would drop by half. I ached to reach out and help him, but I knew if Dad caught me, it would mean the end of his job entirely and he’d be off limits to me by his sheer inability to stay in the City.

  Once my firefighter series had petered out, I knew it was time to have a talk with John Warner. He was waiting for me.

  “So? What now, kid?” He was leaning back in his old, wooden desk chair, the seat of which had long been polished by the fabric of his pants. The ever-present cigar was clutched in his mouth. I pondered whether his lips would ever again be capable of closing entirely – or, whether, like orthodontics, the cigar had re-shaped his mouth. “You did a damned fine job on that series – drove circulation up by five percent. You’re not lookin’ for a raise, are you?” his voice was filled with suspicion as he sat forward suddenly and peered at me over the stacks of unread papers upon his desk.

  “No, no raise. I do have a proposal for you, though. I think I found my niche, Mr. Warner.” I always used his last name as it was not only respectful, but generally derived a better outcome.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “I’d like to write human-interest stories on a regular basis. There is more to be written on the firefighters, but also the police, ambulance drivers, medical professionals in general, people who run homeless shelters, you get the idea.”

  “You don’t have a dad who happens to be a cop and an ambulance driver, do you?”

  I laughed: a symbol of cheer in the dismal world that I wanted to explore. “No, only the one dad, but it did teach me that there’s a way to get to the real stories that turn hearts into mush. I look at it as the opposite pole to the Internet and its unprincipled, socially-correct world that’s impossible to maintain.” I knew this would get to him – if there was anything John Warner hated, it was the Internet. It had turned pimply-faced eight-year-olds in South Korea into blogging reporters and on-the-scene, live eyes. It had seriously dented the idea of the true journalistic ideals that had kept the profession sanctified over the centuries.

  He responded just as I’d hoped he would. “Think you can get to the grit?” he stared at me, and had this been my first time at the John Warner circus, I might have been intimidated.

  “I know I can,” I affirmed. There was nothing wishy-washy about me when I had my mind made up.

  He considered me a few seconds and then nodded. “Go for it.” With that, he motioned me out and returned to his papers.

  I gave Martha a grin as I glided out of the office. I had all the enthusiasm of the child who had been excused from school to clean up the candy store.

  Chapter 14

  After my brush with disaster at the fire, I decided that the police department was probably not the best move for my next assignment. I decided to begin the next series at the homeless shelters around the city. These were easy to find and although there certainly was an element of danger to be found there, it was less than being shot at in a drive-by in gang territory.

  I spent a few days at the library researching anything that pre-dated the Internet in print. I wanted to know all the regulations that covered the shelters and how they had come to be. New York City had long had a segment of its population that simply had run out of luck and had nowhere to go.

  It took a Danish immigrant to begin documenting the city’s homeless, at that time restricted to what was known as the Bowery – hence the first Bowery Mission. Then came The Great Depression and the Hoovervilles, which appeared to fill Central Park. The Bowery claimed the long-term reputation – although many people, primarily men, ended up in the police stations for the night. Therefore, the people in shelters were a mixed bag. Some were simply down on their luck, while others had criminal pasts, and yet others weren’t entirely sane. It was not a preferred place to be. Which is exactly why I decided to spend the night in one.

  * * *

  I allowed a few days to get ready for my “investigative fact-finding” as I referred to my next series when calling into the office. They had no clue what was on the way, but John Warner seemed conservatively impressed enough to let me do as I wished. I quit bathing, letting my hair become oily. I didn’t brush it and worked up a good sweat a few times a day to add to the authenticity. This was December in New York City, and sweating came at a price. I chose to work out in the bay of my firehouse. I found an old sweatshirt and jeans that had non-designer holes in them, working out and rolling around in whatever greasy coating still remained on the concrete floor. I methodically shagged the ends of my strawberry-blonde hair, formerly waist-length and now somewhere down the middle of my back in an irregular fringe. I found a store that specialized in actors’ makeup, and although I meticulously removed all my make-up, I gave myself some dark circles below my eyes. I was already fairly thin and found a backpack at a Goodwill. Underwear that was ill-fitting and suitably worn, and a crumpled Dodgers cap completed my outfit. I couldn’t carry my phone and certainly no money, so this was truly to be an adventure of guts.

  The day had arrived. I’d been staking out my mission of choice for a few days, observing the regulars and overhearing what was asked of them as they entered. Everyone was frisked and some appeared totally out of it. I had decided that I would be mute – saving myself the laborious task of explaining everything. I carried a pencil and a torn flap from a cardboard box and wrote my communications there, careful to misspell words. Just before I left the station, I knew Dad would have a fit if he caught me doing this.

  I sat outside the mission on a bench for some time. It was approaching the time they opened the doors, and like crows gathering on a phone wire, the homeless began to appear from between building shadows. Some looked like everyone else you saw on the busy sidewalks during the day. They tended to look nervous, their eyes
darting around as if they were about to be robbed, or worse. Some herded children, particularly the women. I guessed many of these were abused women. I knew the shelter wouldn’t permit children – they’d be sent to a special facility, which meant mother and children would be separated. That could cause a woman the terror of deciding whether to allow her children to be handed over to strangers, or to try and protect them on the street this cold, December night. Although I wasn’t a mother, I could identify with that torturous decision. Not only did the mission provide a cot out of the cold, but hot food. No mother could deny her child food, or they would be removed from her permanently by child protective services.

  Others were regulars; you could tell by the way they confidently approached the mission, knowing exactly what to say and how to behave. Some carried a bundle of personal belongings; all were frisked at the entrance. A pleasant-faced man in a cleric’s collar welcomed them at the door. He bent occasionally to hear their story, but for the most part, he just waved them through.

  There were those few who were obviously mentally troubled. Their behavior was either paranoid or they stared salaciously at the females entering. There were probably sex offenders in their midst, but without identification, there was no way they could be traced.

  It was a sorting house of those who belonged nowhere and were uncountable, as well as unaccountable. I suspected that crimes here went unreported, not simply because the victims were undesirables, but because moving the perpetrator to a jail would be an improvement in circumstances. The jails had to be reserved for those who posed greater and more frequent threats – as well as those with pockets deep enough to support the system. These people did not qualify.

  I stood up and mixed in with a small group of older women. When the man at the door asked my name, I pulled out my cardboard and simply wrote “MUTE.” This seemed to appease him as he waved me through.

  The doorway was the entry to hell. The smell of urine (and more than just mine) was mixed with that of feces, vomit, tobacco, and the sweat of bodies that hadn’t known soap for perhaps months. I had no idea how they escaped all sorts of vermin, but this particular mission didn’t seem too concerned. They were simply doing their righteous best to bring in the children of God. You had to give them credit for that, at least.

  A woman with a pinafore and a tired look on her face stood inside the doorway. She repeated, “Women to the left, men to the right. Bathing is provided and cots won’t be assigned until after dinner and the evening service.” Again, the newbies looked around, trying to decide what the most popular option was so they could blend in and not draw undue attention. As directed, I filed to the left with the other women. While there was one, central dining room, apparently they were assigned different tables. I supposed this was how they began the behavioral persuasion to eliminate coupling or more serious, uninvited abuse.

  The tables were long, banquet-style with Styrofoam plates and plastic silver. Each table held a centerpiece of a basket of bread and some sort of religious icon; a statue of Jesus, a cross, or perhaps a ceramic set of hands in prayer. Many of these items were chipped or appeared to have been glued back together. Their symbolism, however, was still sacred.

  Next to me was a heavyset black woman and she wheezed as she waited for the blessing and the beginning of the meal. “Hello,” I ventured.

  Her head turned minimally and she considered me with large, suspicious eyes. Her hands drew toward herself, folding beneath the table. I sensed there was something she was hiding between her corpulent body and the fabric that strained over it. She said, “I thought you was mute,” pointing to my cardboard writing pad.

  I smiled and nodded. “I am with certain people,” I said in a soft voice and she seemed to identify with this. She smiled in return.

  “Why you want ta fool ‘em?” she asked next.

  “I’m here to help,” I told her. “I want to bring some attention to the shelters in the city and maybe get some extra help for people who have to stay here.”

  She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together in disapproval. “This here one of the best… don’t you be messin’ with that, you hear?”

  “Which one is the worst?” I asked her, curious, and at the same time letting her believe I would be moving on.

  “Down on 42nd. They call themself “Catholic Relief.” Don’t never go there, though. You’ll be sorry.

  “Why? What’s so bad there?”

  “You ain’t heard bout them priests and young boys?” she leaned back, her posture indicating that certainly I wasn’t much in the way of knowing what was going on.

  “Oh, that? That was in the churches, and only a few, isolated cases. That’s not going on there,” I reasoned.

  “Hmmmmm…” she returned. “Iffen you says so.” The blessing had begun and she earnestly joined in the prayer.

  I could see that she didn’t want to talk anymore and quite honestly, the longer I talked, the greater I risked being found out. It wasn’t worth it. I watched the rest of the people at my table, all of whom were women. I had decided that my role would be better served if I simply listened and didn’t say anything. It was obvious that my perspective would stand out like a sore thumb. I needed to absorb the atmosphere: the words and expressions of people who had so little hope for their future. I needed to become the fly on the wall. It was more difficult for me than I had imagined. I was raised to voice my opinion and stand up and speak out when things appeared wrong or immoral. This was an altogether different world.

  People were there, barely surviving. They couldn’t care less about the current trends in consumer electronics, what they would wear next Thursday, or whether they should reschedule their beauty shop appointments. They lived day to day. If they didn’t find shelter in the night, there was a very good likelihood they wouldn’t wake up the next morning. And yet, even in that supposedly protective place, there was risk and danger. Even if they got a decent night’s sleep in the warm room and a full belly before they left, they would be thrown out again into the streets the next day. They would still suffer from whatever ailed them; still feel lonely and unloved; still struggle to stay warm during the day until they could return. Perhaps even more dismal was the thought that there was absolutely no sign of how they could affect a change in their lives. This may be as good as it ever got. To me, who had everything that she needed, a father who backed her up consistently and others whom she could turn to when in times of difficulty, the concept of survival was unknown. I had to respect those people for that.

  The woman across the table was eyeing me; her face seemed weighted by the woes of the world. She was dressed in many layers: a pair of men’s jeans topped by two blouses over a turtleneck, and then an additional sweater over the top of that. A heavy coat was folded back over her chair. I wondered if the layers were meant to keep her warm or if they were simply meant to keep them. She had nowhere to store unneeded clothing but on her body. Perhaps she even used her coat as a blanket or pillow on nights when she didn’t make it into the shelter. I smiled gently at her and she instantly looked away. It didn’t pay to make friends there. There was little trust to be found. The spirit of pulling together in times of great need had long been lost. This was a world where you took anything you could get your hands on, and if you didn’t, you may not survive.

  It seemed impossible that in a country as rich as the United States there could be so many who were left behind. I didn’t doubt that many of those who surrounded me had been far more influential and contributive at some point in their former lives. There was an intelligence in some of their eyes that could not be overlooked. I knew that among them was most likely a professional; perhaps an attorney or a physician who had lived a good life and become addicted to drugs. They had most likely lost their practice, their license, and their ability to keep their addiction fed. Addictions were like that; they stole logic and reason from your brain. The longer I sat and observed people, the more I counted my own blessings.

  I felt a bit guil
ty for taking a meal. There was no way I could avoid it; after all, that’s why we were all there. I had decided, however, I wouldn’t take a bed from anyone. When the meal was concluded, I followed the others into the worship services. The ranges of emotion were evident. Some were there because they truly were hopeful that God would still reach a hand down to help them. Others were simply there because it was mandatory. I thought of myself. I was there to spy on the others. The entire idea, no matter how I justified it, made me ill. As soon as the service concluded, I made my way to the front door. The woman who watched the front door looked at me quizzically. I picked up my cardboard sign and quickly printed out “I’m ok. Leaving.” She nodded and asked no further questions. I guessed that my actions were not all that unusual, given the many needs of the people who slept within.

  I walked a few blocks until I was out of sight of the mission and then hailed a taxi. I slipped off my shoe and my sock and pulled out two, twenty-dollar bills I had hidden there. I gave the cabbie my address and we soon had arrived. I paid him and went to the door, unlocking it with the key that I had hidden beneath my mailbox.

  I stood for a while just inside the door, my back leaning against it as I contemplated what I was going to do next. I wanted to go upstairs and write while the facts and the images were fresh in my mind. On the other hand, good reports needed perspective, and I was highly emotional at this point. I had just stood up straight and was ready to flip off the lights, when there was a knock at the door. I tensed, wondering if somehow someone had inadvertently followed me and I had been found out. There was no peephole in the door. When I opened it, I would be exposed to the world at large. Yes, I could go upstairs and ignore the knock. Whomever it was would probably just go away. Then again, it could be someone like my dad. If I didn’t answer the door to him, he would do whatever it took to get inside. I leaned over and picked up a two-by-four left from construction. It would serve to defend myself until I could slam the door once again. Planting my foot inside the door, I cautiously unlocked it and opened it. There stood Sean.