What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “You’ve got quite a job,” Zoie said, addressing Hank.

  Hank sighed. “It’s a lot of hard work, but it doesn’t tax the brain. I get to sleep nights, unlike my buddy Jahi here. He’s the one who has to deal with the fundraising and political BS.”

  “Hank may not be political, but he does sinful things with a peach cobbler,” Jahi said, placing a hand on Hank’s shoulder, without looking his way.

  Hank beamed as if he had received a medal. “You all staying for dinner? Tonight it’s baked chicken, collards, sweet potatoes, and peach cobbler.”

  Zoie’s nose couldn’t distinguish the chicken from the sweet potatoes or cobbler. The blended aroma reminded her of old days at her grandmother’s house at Thanksgiving: the combined food fragrances stirred emotions that said, “You’re safe and loved.”

  “Thanks. Maybe another time,” Zoie said.

  “Not tonight,” Jahi answered.

  Hank was about to explain the intricacies of preparing large quantities of food when Jahi got a call. Jahi excused himself and moved to the far corner of the kitchen, away from the clanging of pots and the radio’s blare.

  “First time visiting Mahali Salaam?” Hank asked, making small talk in Jahi’s absence.

  “Yes, it’s my first time to this shelter or any shelter, for that matter,” Zoie answered. “I’m overwhelmed. The amount of work. The organization. Mostly volunteers, you said?”

  “Did I say that?” Hank asked, his square face looking puzzled. “Maybe Jahi said it. But if he told you that, it’s true. You can count on Jahi.” Hank fumbled with the strings of his apron. He was clearly more at home with his stove than with chitchat with “political types.”

  Jahi finished his call and joined Hank and Zoie closer to the kitchen’s main action. Hank seemed relieved to turn Zoie back over to his boss.

  “Zoie, I’ve got a situation,” Jahi said with a frown. “I have to go. I’ve arranged for Tarik to finish your tour.”

  “Oh. Maybe I should come back another time?” she said, though she had set aside her entire afternoon for this tour.

  “Really, Tarik will take care of you. I might even be back before you leave,” Jahi said.

  Zoie really didn’t want to abort the tour. Ray had already inquired several times as to whether she had scheduled the visit. He seemed particularly interested in Mahali. She knew that when she returned to the office, he’d ask questions: Did you see this? Did you see that? Information was her power, and she wanted to be able to answer Ray’s questions in earnest. She would stay. But Jahi left without her confirmation.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Man in the Navy Skullcap

  Jahi’s entering the police station brought little attention. He’d been there on a number of occasions to rescue homeless pickups but hadn’t been there in recent years. The police were unequipped to deal with these vagrants, half of them out of their minds, driven further into madness by club-wielding threats.

  At the day officer’s desk, a hassled uniform-type worked the phone and thumbed the pages of an oversized logbook. Before a word could pass Jahi’s lips, the desk officer raised a single finger, signaling him to wait.

  It seemed to Jahi that he had been standing there for an eternity before the officer set down the receiver and once more looked up at him with squinting eyes. “Now what can I do for you?” The officer’s tone had been cordial and businesslike.

  “I’m Jahi Khalfani. Here to see Officer Gleason.”

  The desk clerk pointed his pencil to a uniformed threesome huddled near a soda machine across the room. “Hey, Mike. You have a visitor!”

  Until then Jahi hadn’t connected the caller’s name or voice with this face. Gleason was a friendly face from the past. Five years had passed since the unforgettable winter with its two weeks of near-zero temperatures, a cold spell atypical for DC. Those winter weeks yielded three corpses, street people who’d failed to heed the warning to seek shelter. As each body was discovered, the police summoned someone from Mahali to the morgue to help identify the victims. Jahi volunteered himself for the sad duty. In those days he knew the Mahali regulars by sight. He’d also been curious for a glimpse of death by freezing. It was amazing to see how one’s rich brown skin turned the color of wet cement when chilled to that degree. But seeing just one was enough. That crazy winter they scrambled to get the homeless off the streets. Gleason had been there. Jahi knew him as one of the good guys.

  Jahi approached the three men. Gleason, the tallest, hovered over the others like a giraffe conversing with ostriches.

  “Long time no see,” Jahi said, extending his hand to Gleason.

  “Khalfani, thanks for coming,” said Gleason, greeting him with a smile as he completed the handshake. “Sorry for the rush.”

  The two uniformed types who had been chatting with Gleason moved away.

  A tall man himself, Jahi was unaccustomed to looking up at anyone. Gleason towered over him by more than a couple of inches. The officer’s pale-brown eyes fixed on him from a face framed by light-brown hair. His milk-white complexion was heavily freckled. It was a complexion that reminded Jahi of his paler relatives.

  “So what you got? Where’s this guy?” Jahi asked.

  “He’s in the holding room. I didn’t want to put him in a cell. He’s already freaked.”

  Jahi followed Gleason down a short hall. Behind a one-way glass wall, a man was seated at a small table, with his slightly lifted head pressed to the wall. He was watching something on the ceiling. A halo of ragged dreads framed his face like a lion’s mane. He could’ve been fortyish or older, but then it was difficult to tell. Life on the street aged people.

  “Who is he?” Jahi asked, staring through the glass, trying to remember whether he had seen this one before.

  “I was hoping you could tell me. There’s nothing to identify him.”

  “What does he say when you ask him?”

  “‘None of your damn business,’ followed by a string of profanity. We picked him up on Thirteenth Street, next to the Metro. He attacked two young punks. Bit them both. Had one in a crotch-lock that would’ve made the WWF proud.”

  “Yikes,” Jahi replied with a frown.

  Gleason scratched his head. “They might have deserved it. Could’ve been trying to steal from him. He was probably defending his property.”

  “Two against one, huh?”

  “Yep, but I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side in any fight.”

  The man behind the glass picked at his hair and then waved his hands as if he were swatting flies. He was talking to himself, but they didn’t turn on the room’s speakers.

  “So what’s he in for?” Jahi asked.

  “Nothing at the moment. The kids didn’t press charges.”

  “Then why is he here?”

  “He’s very agitated. We’ve been holding him for his protection and the public’s.”

  “I see. So you want me to take him?”

  “Right. Let him cool off at the Shelter for the night,” Gleason said with a shrug. “Otherwise, we’ll have to book him. And you know what that means.”

  Jahi weighed the merits of complying with Gleason’s request. The man’s fate, should he be kept in jail overnight, was dim. Taking him was the right political move, a way to maintain good relations with this particular officer. Having another law-enforcement type on one’s side was always wise. One never knew when such a relationship would come in handy.

  “Who’s he talking to?” Jahi asked.

  Behind the glass the man was in full conversation mode, gesturing to an invisible companion.

  “I heard him refer to someone named ‘Coach.’ I figure he’s off his meds, if he ever was taking any to begin with.”

  “You know I can’t force him to come with me,” Jahi said, his thick eyebrows raised.

  “At least talk to him. See what you can do.”

  When Jahi and Gleason walked into the small room, the man’s solo conversation and scratching stopped. Head hal
f-bowed, the man’s eyes tracked them as they settled in the two chairs in front of the table. Jahi felt that there was something familiar about the man. Jahi leaned forward, trying to look into his eyes, but the man shifted away.

  “Do I know you?” Jahi asked in a low tone.

  “Tell us your name, buddy. Maybe we can help you,” Gleason chimed in.

  “Did you check his prints?” Jahi asked.

  At the mention of prints, the man winced.

  “No. Remember, we didn’t book him. I’m trying to slide this one under the radar. You know, I want to keep the paperwork down.”

  “Understood,” Jahi said.

  “So you’ll take him?”

  “Yeah, I can take him, but only if he wants to go. You or I can’t force him.”

  “Buddy, Mr. Khalfani here is going to take you to a shelter.”

  “No!” the man screamed.

  “At least he’s talking to us,” Jahi said.

  “Yeah, remember the Exorcist?”

  Jahi smirked. “You know, maybe he needs more than a bed. How about a hospital?”

  “You mean the loony bin,” Gleason replied.

  “Careful, Gleason,” Jahi warned. “He’s not doing much talking, but he hears and understands what’s going on—up to a point.”

  “Well, nix the hospital idea. I’m not going through the admissions’ ordeal.” Gleason turned to the man, again. “Buddy, here’s your choice: either you go with Mr. Khalfani to the Shelter and get a bed and a meal, or we’ll have to lock you up. Do you understand?”

  The man winced again, indicating an understanding that something unpleasant was about to happen to him. After a few long seconds, he asked, “Where are my things? Where’s my hat?”

  “Guess that means he’s agreed to go,” Gleason said, directing his remarks to Jahi.

  “He wore a hat?” Jahi asked.

  “A navy or black skullcap. Guess it got lost in the shuffle. Why? Does a hat ring a bell?”

  Jahi put it together. No wonder the guy seemed so familiar. The night he saw him, his lion’s mane was hidden beneath the cap—a cap pulled down nearly to his eyebrows. It had been at the Shelter about a month ago.

  Jahi shrugged. “Not sure. Just wondering. I took the Metro to get here. I have another stop to make before returning to the Shelter. I’ll send one of my staff over right away with the van to pick him up.”

  Gleason turned to the man. “See, buddy. You’ll get your things. Go to the Shelter. Everything will be fine.”

  The man’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “ Oh, God, where are you?”

  Chapter 13

  A Rose by Any Other Name

  Zoie and Tarik were back in the Shelter’s reception hall when Jahi returned.

  “Good, I caught you,” Jahi said, smiling as he strode over to where they stood by the high counter desk. In Jahi’s presence the younger man’s lanky body stood taller and straighter. He was quick with answers to Jahi’s inquiries about the tour. Ever the gentleman, Tarik turned to Zoie to say goodbye.

  “Thank you for being my stand-in guide,” she said, extending her hand to him, only to have his limp handshake in return. He was a nice-looking kid, even if the handshake was a disappointment. She made a mental note.

  “An impressive young man,” Zoie told Jahi, after Tarik had left. “Is he a volunteer?”

  “Oh, no. We pay him. Surely not what he’s worth, though,” Jahi explained. “Don’t let his youth fool you. He’s wise beyond his years and quite reliable. Especially lately. He’s my right hand. I lean on him a lot. With a little more schooling in people skills, he could run this place.”

  Jahi’s dark eyes threatened to capture hers if she looked into them any longer. She turned from his gaze. She had a million questions about the Shelter but had forgotten them all.

  “Did the rest of the tour go to your satisfaction?” he asked.

  “Yes. Tarik was a wonderful guide. You have quite an operation here.”

  “Counselor, this is not like you. You must still have questions.” His seriousness had returned.

  She blushed at his reference to her inquisitor mode.

  “Are you in a hurry?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s go around the corner to a coffee shop I know. We can talk there.”

  Jahi’s version of “around the corner” turned out to be a three-block walk in the hot late-afternoon sun. In route he seemed to know everyone, or at least they knew him. “Hey, Brother Jahi,” various people would say. There was an old man with a slow, stiff walk, a mother with a pile of laundry and a gaggle of children, and a truck driver unloading soda in front of a small grocery store. From what Zoie could make out, Jahi was a local celebrity.

  She noticed the number of men lining the streets. They gathered close to the building to capture the shade. Some were sitting on folding chairs; some were standing. They were men just hanging around as if they had no place to go and no jobs, just the street in all this heat. But these men were not homeless.

  The walk, which might have been considered short, if not for the heat, brought Zoie and Jahi to a “hole in the wall” type of place. The white lettering on the faded green awning read Sunrise Café—named as such, as Jahi explained, because it opened at 6:00 a.m., a tradition started before Starbucks hit the scene, in nearby neighborhoods.

  Under the protection of the café’s awning, a serious game of chess was in progress. With arms pressed against the rickety table, the two street strategists looked up long enough to acknowledge Jahi and Zoie, before sinking back into intense concentration. Zoie removed her sunglasses as she entered, letting her eyes adjust.

  The Sunrise Café was a narrow establishment in which ten simultaneous customers would have constituted a crowd. Five faux leather booths lined one side of the place, and a long wooden counter stretched across the other. It was a definite neighborhood throwback, worn but clean. In contrast to the bright afternoon sun, the place was dark. Its only lighting emanated from the picture window and its opened door, both in the restaurant’s front. With no air conditioning, Zoie wondered whether the restaurant’s proprietor had paid the electric bill. But the hum of the large overhead fan and a radio announcing itself as Cool Jazz 105 were indications that he had.

  Zoie and Jahi were the only customers. Zoie looked around, her face not hiding her skepticism about the place.

  “Don’t let its looks deceive you,” Jahi said. “The food here is pretty good. We’re just here in the off hours.”

  “It’s your neighborhood. You’re in the lead,” Zoie answered.

  They sat in the middle booth, away from the opened door, but where there was still enough light to read the plastic-covered menus, which they pulled from behind the napkin holder.

  A small man with a nicely trimmed beard, white apron, and a towel thrown over his shoulder emerged from somewhere in the back. Judging by his smooth face and weathered hands, both of which contrasted with each other, Zoie thought he could have been anywhere from forty to sixty.

  “Jahi, my man! Where you been?” said the man, greeting them with both delight and a rasp in his voice, signs that marked him as someone who’d spent many years in smoke-filled rooms. He whipped out a hand to grasp Jahi’s.

  “Zoie, meet Stan. Stan’s the man. He runs this place.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Stan,” Zoie said, exchanging a handshake across the table. Unlike Tarik’s soft touch, Stan’s hand was both rough and solid.

  “Glad to meet you too, pretty lady.”

  Zoie blushed. It was the second time that day she had felt a warm flush on her cheeks.

  “Brother Jahi, you’ve been hidin’ out on me. I know you’re busy and all, but you could take time to come see an old friend.”

  Jahi offered a half-guilty shrug. “Stan, you know how it is. Mahali keeps me busy. And lately there’s been all that other stuff.”

  “Helter, skelter, shelter. I know how much work that place is. But sometimes work is an excuse for n
ot living your life,” Stan chided. “Everybody’s got to eat and shoot the breeze once in a while.”

  “True enough,” Jahi said, taking in his friend’s scolding with pouty lips, while he focused on the gray laminate table.

  “Miss, I hope you can talk some sense into this brother. I know he’s getting to be a big shot and all, but you ought to make him take a break sometime.”

  Zoie, puzzled, responded wide eyed. Obviously, Stan had confused her relationship with Jahi as something more than it was. She wanted to correct him, to tell him that they were only business associates, when a clandestine wink from Jahi, the signal to be silent, caught her attention.

  “Now that I’ve said my piece, what can I get you folks?” Stan said.

  They both ordered ice coffee, and Jahi order blueberry pie.

  Zoie waited until Stan had moved toward the back and then whispered, “I thought that you were going to go back to the Shelter to eat some of Hank’s peach cobbler.”

  “Are you keeping tabs on my calorie count, Counselor? Two pieces of pie in one day. Somehow I’ll manage.” He patted his upper abdomen. She imagined his abs to be as flat as an ironing board.

  “You see Stan?” said Jahi, gesturing toward his friend, who was behind the counter. “He’s one of our success stories.”

  “I had a feeling that he either lived or worked at the Shelter.”

  “Very good, Counselor. Yeah, Stan was on the street for about seven years. Then one day he decided to pull it together.”

  “He’s quite a character,” she said, scanning the rest of the restaurant’s décor, which comprised pictures of roosters and chickens, and those pictures were mixed in with African prints. “Does he own this place?”

  “No, he doesn’t own it, but he might as well. He does almost everything, except sign the checks. I got him this gig a few years ago. He would sleep at the Shelter and then work here during the day. The owner relies on him completely. Gave Stan a room in the back. It’s small, but it’s a place of his own.”

  “That’s a great story.”

  “Yeah, Stan’s one in a million.” Jahi sighed again. “His kind of rescue doesn’t happen often. A lot of our residents are mentally ill or addicts. They need more than a job. Without medication, rehabilitation, or someone to watch out for them, their chances of transitioning into permanent, stable housing are slim.”