“It’s okay, honey.” She lifted the girl and set her in the chair. Mark gave her an encouraging smile. He’d always been good with the children that came to have their portraits taken. The girl scooted as far from Mark as she could. The woman stood beside the chair and looked at her watch before tugging on the straps of her purse. It looked heavy.
He saw that all the other chairs were taken. The woman should sit beside her child. He stood, waving towards the chair. “Here, you can have my seat, ma’am.” Mark shoved his hands in his pockets as he stepped away. His heart raced, and he tried to shake off his nerves. It was just a mom and her kid. Nothing scary about that. Except that he had only spoken to a handful of people in the last year, and most of them had been interrogating him.
“Oh no, that’s all right. I don’t mind standing.” She plunged her hand into the depths of her purse, but one strap came off her arm, upending the bag. The contents tumbled out onto the floor. “Shoot!” Mark gaped at the pile of miscellaneous items. He was sure that MacGyver could build a whole car with the contents of that purse. Bending to pick up the items, the flustered woman knocked the handle of her suitcase, and it tipped, resulting in more angry words from the mother. The little girl began to cry. “Olivia, hon, it’s fine. Don’t cry.” Her voice shook.
Mark bent, retrieving a lipstick, a medication bottle, and some change that had rolled under the chair. He then righted the suitcase. “Here.” He handed over the items. “Please. Take my seat. It’s okay.”
“Oh, bless you.” The woman gave in and dropped onto the chair. “You have no idea what a bad day this has been.” She fanned her face and chuckled. “No, make that a bad week. Our flights have been canceled and delayed due to bad weather.”
Mark nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve had some rough days recently. It’s no fun. I hope things go better for you.” His stomach rumbled and he wished he would have thought to buy some food before checking in. There was no time now. Oh, well. He would live.
The woman grinned at him. “You hungry?”
He cleared his throat, embarrassed that she’d heard. “Uh, just a little.”
Reaching into another pocket of the purse, she pulled out a chocolate bar. “Here. I know it’s not much, but take it.”
Mark hesitated, and she leaned forward, pressing it into his hand. “I’m not supposed to eat the stuff and I have another for Olivia.”
“Thank you. I appreciate this.” He brought the bar up to his nose, even through the wrapper, he could smell the aroma. Heaven.
The woman raised an eyebrow and Mark couldn’t help letting a small smile quirk his mouth. “It’s the first one I’ve had in a really long time.”
She waved to him, then sighed when the flight was called. “Have a good day.”
The plane circled O’Hare for thirty minutes in a holding pattern due to rain and sleet. Traffic on the highways below crawled along, the headlights snaking around the airport and branching in towards the city. Looking south, he saw the Sears Tower, its lights hazy, but reaching high into the twilight sky. His throat tightened. It wasn’t the most beautiful skyscraper in the city, the Hancock was more elegant, but the Sears Tower represented Chicago. It jutted up out of the prairie, bold and broad, soaring head and shoulders above the surrounding buildings. Mark craned his head as the plane banked and he lost sight of the building. How could anyone think to destroy something like that? He sat back with a sigh. How could anyone think that he’d wanted to destroy it?
Mark stood on the moving sidewalk inside the terminal. Normally, he disdained them, preferring to walk, but he was drained. As the belt carried him through the terminal, it suddenly occurred to him that nobody knew he was coming home. In Charleston, he hadn’t had time to call his parents, and they lived four hours north of Chicago, just outside of Madison. In this weather, no way would they be able to come down to see him.
He stepped out of the airport, the blast of cold damp air cutting right through the thin shirt he wore. Nobody had thought to provide a coat for him. In the south, it was still warm, but in Chicago, winter was just beginning to flex her muscles.
The cab should be warm enough and when he got home, he could dig out his winter gear. After asking for an address, the cabbie glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Dude? You crazy? Where’s your coat?”
Mark shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking when I got on the plane. Forgot it.” He tried to suppress a shiver, but the chill swept his body.
The man shook his head, but he reached down and turned the heat on high.
“Thanks.” Mark hunched into the seat, and soon, the warmth of the cab soaked into him. They got caught in the same traffic that had been visible from the plane, and it wasn’t long before he began blinking, each time, his eyes staying shut longer. He hoped the cabbie was honest, because he was beat. He’d tried to doze on the flight, but was so keyed up, he couldn’t relax.
“Here you go.”
Mark started and sat forward so fast, he bumped his head on the roof of the car. “What?” He rubbed his head and looked out the window. They were in front of his building. He was home.
The cab pulled away, and Mark hurried up the steps to the front door, keys in hand. It was so familiar. Huddled against the cold, he fumbled for the key on his chain, and tried to slip it into the lock, but it wouldn’t fit. That was strange. Was it the wrong key? The one for the storage closet in the basement looked a lot like the door key. He tried the other one. Neither opened the door.
He sat on the brick ledge bordering the entryway. Once a unit had been burglarized and the front lock had been changed. Mark ran his finger down the list of names beside the buzzers. His neighbor would buzz him in if he was home. There were some new names on the list and it took him a moment to realize that one of them was in his apartment. He wiped a drop of water off the name plate. It had to be wrong. That was his apartment. He scanned the other names, found one he recognized, and buzzed it. Nothing. He tried again. And again.
Shaking from cold and rage, he slammed the heel of his hand against the panel, hitting several buttons at one time. A voice came over the speaker. “Hello?”
Mark leaned in. “Hey! I’m trying to get into my apartment, but my key’s not working.”
“What apartment?”
“303. My name’s Mark Taylor.”
The speaker hissed with static, and he pushed the button again.
“Get lost before I call the cops!”
Mark staggered backwards, the hatred in the voice hitting him like a blow. He managed the first couple of steps, but missed the next. Flailing, he tumbled onto the sidewalk into a pile of dirty slush. The sudden stop jolted up his spine, but he hardly felt it. The slush soaked into his pants, and his hands stung from the pavement and the cold. He winced as he stood and looked down at his knee. The material was torn and his shirt was dotted with black greasy stains. He tried to swipe some of the dirt off, but it just smeared so he gave up. Wrapping his arms around him, he shivered.
Right upstairs, someone was sitting his loft. His shoulders sagged, and he swore as a shudder swept him. Bitter disappointment rose in his throat. He’d come home, only it wasn’t his home anymore. Why hadn’t he thought ahead?
Who could be living in his loft? What about his furniture and clothes? Were they in storage? Craning his head, he found his window and sure enough, light shone in it. Damn it! Mark turned, hoping he’d see his Jeep where he usually parked it on the street. It was gone. What had he expected? That everything would be just as it had been when he’d left?
The rain turned to sleet as he trudged along the street, flinching as cars whizzed past, splashing slush on him. Both hands were firmly tucked under the opposite arm, and he shivered non-stop. What should he do? He could get another cab and go to a hotel for the night, but then what? His money wouldn’t last a week if he did that. Even a cheap hotel would put a serious dent in his finances. There was a diner down on the corner. He used to eat at least three meals a week there. Seeking wa
rmth, food, and a place to gather his thoughts, he entered and took a seat at a booth. His teeth chattered so hard that when the waitress came, he couldn’t speak.
The young woman looked him up and down as she narrowed her eyes. “Hey, buddy, this isn’t a shelter. If you need one, you gotta go down to St. Paul’s around the corner.” She pointed with her pen over her shoulder.
Mark blinked. She looked vaguely familiar. “No. I, uh, I came for dinner…but, I fell.” He took the napkin and tried to blot the front of his shirt. He couldn’t look at her.
“You got money to pay for your food? I need to see it before I can take your order.”
If he hadn’t been so cold, he was sure that his face would have been burning. Pulling out his wallet, he withdrew a twenty and held it up.
Her face broke into a smile. “Oh, okay. My name’s Brittany, and I’ll be your waitress. Sorry, about, you know…” She flicked her wrist. “It’s just we get so many that come in here, especially on days like this.” Launching into the special for the evening, she stopped and cocked her head. “I’ve seen you before.”
Mark nodded, not returning the smile. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been here.” His body shuddered, and he rubbed water off his face as it ran from his hair into his eyes. “I used to live down the street.”
“Ah, so you’re back to visit the old neighborhood.” Brittany smiled. “Did you move close by?” She jabbed her pen at him and said, “I sure hope so, because you’re going to freeze your tush off on the way home.”
Like a Mack truck, it hit Mark. He was homeless. His stomach twisted and the ache swelled, filling him. For a long moment, he couldn’t answer but finally managed to mumble, “No. It’s not that close. I’m looking for a new place.”
Brittany sighed. “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?” She slipped her order pad into her apron pocket. “Look, St. Paul’s has a soup kitchen tonight. It’s not far, and you can sleep there.”
Mark sat straight. “I have money.” He lifted his chin.
“I know, but, I hope you don’t mind me being nosy, but I bet you don’t have much, do ya?”
He tried to hold her gaze but then turned away, shrugging. “I have enough for a meal.”
“Yeah, but St. Paul’s has a good one, and you could save your money. I know they call it a soup kitchen, but it’s really more than soup. It’s a regular meal.” Her voice had become soft and encouraging. “I mean, if you want, you can eat here. God knows, my boss would shoot me if he knew I was sending a paying customer away, but I’d feel guilty taking your money. Do me a favor, and go to the shelter tonight.”
Exhausted in body and spirit, he gave in. He just didn’t have the energy to fight. Mark slid out of the booth, stood and nodded at Brittany. Without a word, he exited.
He knew where St. Paul’s was and Brittany’s ‘just around the corner’ was in reality, a good half-mile away. The few minutes of respite in the diner made it feel even colder outside, and it took him almost twenty minutes to walk to the church.
***
“Good lord! You’re half frozen.” The woman, stout and with tight gray curls, shook her head then motioned for Mark to follow as she headed across the lobby of the church to a door labeled ‘Basement’. “I just don’t think I’ll ever understand what you people are thinking, running around in this weather improperly dressed.” She opened the door, then looked back to see that he was still behind her.
He should have just bought his dinner at the diner. Saving a few bucks wasn’t worth this. If he hadn’t been so cold and miserable, he would have marched right back out, but his shivering had grown fierce and constant. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth.
“John, grab a blanket for this guy, would you?” the woman asked a young man sweeping the floor as they entered.
“Sure.” The kid leaned the broom against a table and jogged to the far side of the room where Mark saw stacks of sheets and blankets on a table. Between Mark’s spot and that table were approximately three dozen cots. “Here you go, Mister.”
He took it. “Thanks.” At least the kid didn’t have that tone in his voice. Mark tossed the blanket over his shoulders and pulled it tight, clutching both ends in his hands.
While he ate some kind of baked pasta casserole and bread, his shivering gradually subsided. Soon, he became so drowsy that even as he swallowed the last bite, he nodded off for a second. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head to clear it, unable to stifle a yawn. His feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each as he crossed to throw his paper plate and cup in the garbage. All he wanted was sleep, and at the moment, he wasn’t picky about where that sleep would take place.
Some other men had lined up for linens, so Mark joined them. Someone complained when he saw that Mark received another blanket, but the stout lady shut him down with a look. “The rules are out by sun-up, which at this time of year, is around seven. Bathrooms are that way.” She pointed down the hall, then took in Mark’s ragged appearance, her mouth pursed. “Do you need some personal items? Like a toothbrush, deodorant, that kind of thing? We have some personal care packages stashed away. Would you like one?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hadn’t thought about those things. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Well, at least you’re polite. I’ll be back in just a minute. You can make up your cot while you’re waiting.”
Mark pulled off his shoes and socks. His feet were pale and wrinkled from being wet, and he hoped his socks and shoes would dry during the night. He stretched out on the cot, intending to only lie down until the lady returned with the care package, but the next thing he knew, it was morning. It was time to rise and shine.
He found the care package stashed behind his shoes and cleaned up in the bathroom. After a cold breakfast, Mark headed out. The shelter gave each person a bag lunch to take with them, but he munched on the apple as soon as he reached the street. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten one and savored the tart sweetness as it burst over his tongue.
He walked his old neighborhood, recalling names of people who lived in adjacent buildings. Did Mrs. Scott still live in the old house on the corner? The older woman walked everywhere with her cute pug, Sparky, at her side. The sleet stopped and the sun shone in a deep blue sky despite the frigid temperatures. A blast of cold air tore at him and he huddled into the old navy pea coat he had found under his cot. The stout little lady must have put it there for him while he was sleeping. The wool had a dank musty odor, but kept him warm.
First thing he needed to do was call his parents. He headed for a mini-mart that he remembered had a phone. After buying some water, gum and a bag of peanuts, Mark asked for change. Outside, he lifted the receiver, but hesitated-what if they thought he was guilty of the things he was accused of? He didn’t think they would believe it, but he had to see their faces. He had to know for sure. Reluctantly, he set the receiver back on the hook.
He rode the EL out to the Greyhound station and bought a ticket to Madison. Getting from the bus station in Madison to the little town where his parents lived ten miles outside of the Wisconsin state capital would be a challenge, but if it came down to it, he could always walk.
Mark boarded the bus and opened the bag lunch. The fast food restaurants he’d seen outside the bus terminal tempted him with the tantalizing aroma of French fries and hamburgers, but he stiffened his resolve and bypassed them. Every penny counted and he had the bag lunch. As it was, the bus ticket had set him back almost forty dollars.
The turkey sandwich was dry, but not bad, and he washed it down with a gulp of water. A granola bar rounded out the meager meal. Taking another sip of the water, he reasoned that he’d survive the three hours to Madison easily.
The bus made a few stops on the way towards the Wisconsin border. At one, a young guy took the seat beside Mark. The buzz cut and his politeness as he asked Mark if the seat was taken, had Mark guessing he was a new basic training grad even before the guy mentioned it. He told Mark he was on his way
home on his first leave before starting A school at Great Lakes Naval Base.
Mark smiled and nodded, hoping the kid wouldn’t talk the whole way, but he didn’t have to worry; the second the bus began moving, the sailor fell asleep.
In a way, Mark envied the guy. Fatigue burned his eyes, but, there was too much on his mind, too many things had happened in too short a time, for him to relax. The feeling haunted him that if he closed his eyes, he’d wake up back in the cell.
Resting his head against the window, he watched the flat Illinois farmland slide by. Ragged rows of corn stretched on either side of the highway, the shriveled tan leaves flapping in the wind.
Dairy farms, dotted with cows huddled in the corner of the pastures, grass worn down to bare patches from last summer’s grazing, alternated with the jarring rawness of new housing developments. It was as if a stray wind had dumped the seeds for subdivisions, leaving them to sprout up randomly across the landscape.
Mark yawned. His childhood had been spent in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere too, but at least there had been a whole village with a town hall, a main street and even a movie theater. Summers had flown by, the memories melding together into a warm golden haze of playing baseball on an empty lot, and then heading to the Dairy Maid to get ice cream afterwards. As soon as dinner was over, they all met up again for one more game of ball before it was too dark to see. Then they would catch lightening bugs or play kick the can. Mark smiled. Sometimes they’d put the poor bugs in the can before playing, and when it was kicked, the bugs had shot out like a shower of living sparks. It had been a great place to grow up.
When was the last time he had been home? He shifted in the seat, his cheek resting on the ice cold pane of glass. It felt good in the overheated bus. His dad’s sixtieth birthday was the last time he could remember. That was the June before the terrorist attacks. Mark recalled sitting on his parents’ front porch and watching the neighborhood flicker at dusk as the bugs flashed yellow up and down the street. Childish laughter had echoed from the backyard of some house as a new crop of children carried on the summertime traditions.
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