What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “Then there are the ones who want to stay on the street, right?” Zoie asked.

  “Yes, that too. But they want that because the alternatives, like institutionalization, are too gruesome.”

  “Don’t you ever feel helpless or frustrated? As if all you’re doing is for naught?”

  Jahi shook his head and gave a quick laugh. “I’d be lying if I said no, but then I think about the once-in-a-blue-moon case like Stan’s. And the ones who could’ve died if we hadn’t pulled them in from the bitter cold. As little as it may seem, I know I’m making a difference.”

  “It’s not a little difference. It’s huge,” Zoie said. She wasn’t in the habit of throwing out empty compliments. She knew that she probably could have gone further in business had she cultivated that habit. Clients needed to be schmoozed, and schmoozing was something that she wasn’t good at. Jahi’s commitment genuinely impressed her. How many people who were passionate about helping others did she know? All of her male acquaintances were passionate men, all right—passionate about one thing: making money. She remembered how Elliot’s face would light up after he’d pulled off a big deal. He would be happy for his clients and even happier for the subsequent commission.

  “Counselor, you have something on your mind. Spit it out.”

  “Jahi, remember the charity dinner?” she asked, her finger making smudge circles on the table’s smooth surface.

  “The dinner. How could I forget?” he said, grimacing.

  “Before the accident you were about to tell me how you started the Shelter.”

  “Was I?” said Jahi, adjusting himself in the seat. “You have a good memory. Much about that night is a blur to me.” He took a deep breath as if he had to reach deep for the story. Maybe he was tired of telling it. “I’ll give you the short version.”

  “Okay.” She sank back in her seat, keeping her hands clasped on the table, ready to listen.

  “Well, after the Gulf War…you do remember that one, right?”

  “Don’t be silly. It wasn’t that long ago. CNN’s live coverage of our soldiers in action.”

  “Gee, you put a strange twist on things. I never thought of the war as a TV event. I was definitely on the wrong side of that transmission.”

  “Where?”

  “In the US Marines. Semper Fi and all that good stuff. Can’t you see me with the uniform and an almost-skinned head?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I decided I wasn’t going to make a career out of the war thing. So I returned home, not knowing quite what to do with myself.”

  “I see.” She smiled, trying to picture him without his mystical dreads—Sampson without his hair. Jahi was as non-establishment as you could get. The military image didn’t fit.

  He frowned. “It’s a wonder that Hank didn’t tell you.”

  “Is Hank your biographer?”

  “No. Hank and I served together. He was my unit’s cook.”

  “So that’s how you got into the Shelter business—playing off Hank’s skills with the hungry masses.”

  “Counselor, you make it sound like a plan. This thing just happened. But first I had to experience what it was to be homeless. Not on purpose, of course.”

  “You were homeless?” said Zoie, sitting up straight.

  “Yeah. I left the service and had a two-bit part-time job. I was in school and staying with my aunt. And then she died. I tried to hang on to her place. Next thing I knew, they had repoed my ride—a nice red convertible,” he said, shaking his head.

  Zoie snickered.

  “How is homelessness funny?” he asked with feigned indignation.

  “I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m still trying to picture you without dreads, in this bright red car. Somehow the vision isn’t working.”

  He shrugged. “People change. I sure did.”

  “If you say so. But I want to hear the rest of your story.”

  “Anyway, I stayed with friends and other family until I wore out my welcome. My credit was so bad that no landlord dealing ‘on the books’ would deal with me. And the ones dealing ‘off the books’ wanted upfront cash that I didn’t have.”

  “Goodness,” she said.

  “Then I started sleeping at the place where I worked,” he continued. “Actually, I was attending UDC and worked part time so I could take classes.”

  “Did they know you were staying there? The place where you worked, I mean?”

  “My boss found the box where I kept my blanket, pillow, and some clothes. He let me stay. Anthony Rupe was his name, a decent guy. He died a few years ago.”

  “Then you had a place to stay, so technically you weren’t homeless.”

  “Counselor, a couch in a storage room where you have to hide your belongings from the other employees hardly qualifies as a home.” His eyes widened as he spoke.

  “Right,” she answered, feeling stupid for making the insensitive remark.

  “I was one of the working poor. Granted, my situation was different from most Mahali residents. I did the ‘under the stars’ thing for about a week. It’s not nice.”

  “I expect not.” She frowned.

  Jahi in no way seemed meek or needy. Even without the dreads, Zoie was having difficulty thinking of him as not being in control, as being someone who’d lost his way, like the men whom she’d seen on route to the café. Like her homeless acquaintances near her office.

  “Then I got involved with a group at UDC,” he continued. “We were organized and ready to change the world. We started doing things to help the homeless. We started small, doing things like collecting clothes and food drives. A lot of the group dropped off over the years.”

  “But you stuck with it?”

  “That’s it. There’s nothing like not knowing where to rest your hat or where your next meal is coming from. If anyone ever tries to convince you that it’s liberating to be penniless or that it’s a romantic adventure to sleep under the stars, you tell them to come see me.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when Stan returned with two tall iced coffees and Jahi’s pie.

  The cool coffee was just what she needed. She sipped slowly as they chatted about how he had been able to set up the corporation that runs the Shelter and about his ongoing battles with the city and the community. He had a lot of irons in the fire. Other groups around the city expected his assistance. He had to maintain multiple quid pro quo relationships to support his cause. The politics of coalitions kept him on the go.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Zoie said, so taken with his discourse that she had forgotten her follow-up questions about Mahali. “Where are you from?”

  “DC.”

  “I mean your family.”

  “DC by way of the Carolinas. I changed my name after I returned from the Gulf.”

  “And what was your ‘slave name’? Is that what you call it?”

  “You mean the name that was a legacy of the master. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

  Promising was something she’d made a habit of not doing. Promises were easily broken, not taken seriously. But this wasn’t serious. She just wanted to know his name, the one before he researched his new one in the Swahili name book. Curiosity had the best of her. The only way she was going to find out his other name was to promise.

  He waited for her answer.

  “Okay, I promise,” she said, raising her hand above the table, in an oath-like fashion.

  “Oswald Smoot.”

  Zoie took a sip of her drink. She felt the cold beverage head for her nostrils. She put a napkin to her face and managed to control the gross physical result of her nosiness. She coughed, sputtered, and turned red with embarrassment.

  “Are you okay?” he asked rather calmly, considering that his name was the brunt of her amusement. “I’m sorry that my name choked you.”

  It was the charity dinner deja vu. With napkin covering her nose and mouth, she shook her head. Summoning what
little dignity remained, she repeated the name in disbelief. “Oswald Smoot.” It sounded even funnier than the first time. She fought to restrain her giggles. “No way!”

  Seeming not offended, though not smiling, Jahi leaned on the table and folded his hands. “Counselor, it’s actually Oswald Smoot the third. I tried to warn you. That’s exactly why I don’t tell most people. That’s exactly why I changed it.”

  “Oh my goodness,” she blurted, still trying to control herself.

  “Before my mother passed, she apologized for labeling me like that. She even congratulated me for changing it.” He smiled.

  Thank God he’s not angry.

  “Yeah, old Oswald the third has been retired,” he continued.

  “I’m so sorry. Please, no more.” Tears of laughter rolled down Zoie’s cheek. She dabbed them with the napkin that had saved her from complete embarrassment. Then she took several deep breaths and fanned her face. “Well, I like the name you chose,” she said in a lame effort to repair the damage.

  “It’s a world of difference from…”

  “No, don’t say it!” Even in her embarrassment, she knew that if she heard the name again, it would trigger another round of laughter. She sniffed, patted the tears from her face once more, and wiped her nose.

  “Yeah, the original Smoot was a big-time plantation owner on the Eastern Shore. Don’t ask me how my folks ended up in North Carolina. Sold down there, I guess. Don’t ask me where the Oswald came from. But if it’s easier for you to accept, know that prior to the name change, my friends called me Ossie.”

  “Oh, like Ossie Davis. That’s not bad.”

  “Counselor, there’s one thing I know about you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I know how to make you laugh.”

  Chapter 14

  Equal-Opportunity Harassment

  At the Sunrise Café, neutral territory, Zoie felt relaxed in Jahi’s presence. Some of her professional guard seemed to be melting away. She still needed to follow up on the Foundation’s business. But before she could ask her questions about the Shelter, another phone call beckoned him away.

  Jahi didn’t explain his new emergency, nor did he explain the earlier call that had pulled him away during the tour. He did stay with her outside the café until a cab came to take her back to her office.

  “Counselor, I regret that our meetings are always interrupted,” he said. “I would like to see you again.” He couldn’t contain a smile. “Maybe for some more iced coffee? Doesn’t have to be at the Sunrise. You pick the place.”

  “Would I be meeting you as the Crayton Foundation’s representative?” she asked with a coy smile.

  He laughed. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  She hesitated, but in a moment of weakness, she agreed. She wanted to see him again. The electricity between them couldn’t be denied. As thoughts of a potential conflict of interest wafted through her mind, she shrugged them off. It’s only to chat, she told herself. I’ll deal with conflict matters later if things go any further.

  “What about a movie?” she proposed boldly.

  He raised an eyebrow as if the thought of a movie was an outlandish concept. “You mean a movie…in a theater…with other people?”

  “Uh-huh. Not a private showing. What would you say to Star Wars: Attack of the Clones? The Uptown on Connecticut is having a Star Wars reprise. I missed out on the Attack of the Clones. Those movies just aren’t the same on the small screen.”

  Jahi rubbed his chin as he considered her proposal. “Counselor, you’re full of surprises. Okay, with iced coffee afterward. I guess that will work.”

  They agreed to set the date for the coming weekend, before The Uptown ended its showings.

  Visiting the Shelter had been worthwhile. On the ride back to her office, Zoie couldn’t decide what part of the afternoon had been more fascinating, the Shelter itself or her chat with its director. Certainly the revelation of Jahi’s former name topped the bill. The café scene where she had lost her cool played over and over in her head, and that name still tickled her funny bone.

  It was late afternoon, and the Washington sun was still blazing when Zoie exited the cab, near her office building. She took a slow walk, stopping at a boutique stationary store to buy a birthday card for her dear friend, Tina. Then she purchased an ice-cream cup from a street vendor before entering the building.

  Ray had been right about one thing: she did need to see the Shelter’s mode of operation to become its useful advocate. Certain things about the Shelter hadn’t clicked from reading the reports—like the fact that it only housed the homeless for the night. Safe shelter was a temporary thing. The lives of the homeless were fragile and unstable. Never again would she look at her lifesavers, Simon and his profane friend, in quite the same light. When she saw them again, she would urge them to go to Mahali, now that she had real connections there. She scanned both sides of K Street, thinking she might spot them. They hadn’t been in any of their usual places that morning, and they weren’t there now.

  As Zoie neared her office, the business aspects of her visit to the Shelter came rushing back. Several things about the place still disturbed her. Jahi, with his funny name; Stan, the man; and her own giddiness had distracted her. Her concerns about the Shelter were not about what she’d seen there but more about what she hadn’t seen.

  For one thing, the women’s wing was off limits. “I can’t take you there without Sister Te’s permission,” Tarik told her. “Men aren’t allowed inside.”

  “I’m not a man,” she reminded him.

  “But, Ms. Taylor, you need a female escort. And currently no female escorts are available.”

  How did he know that no one was available? Zoie wondered. She didn’t see him check.

  Then there was the missing van. Tarik took her out back, to the loading dock, which was in a courtyard off the back alley. There she saw two vans, and neither looked that new. She could have sworn that Mahali’s annual report listed the recent purchase of a used van, a $22,000 line item, meant to replace one of two unreliable vehicles. In the same report, she recalled something about the installation of a new security system, one featuring panic buttons in each room. At the time she read it, the panic buttons sounded important—not because of the $19,000 price tag but because it added protection for the Shelter’s residents, especially the women. She asked Tarik about the system, but he seemed clueless. She made a mental to note to follow-up with Jahi.

  Perhaps she was confused. Perhaps these items were proposed improvements, things for the future. Perhaps her mind had wandered while going through those reports. After all, she read about those things during her first days on the job, in the days when she was still navigating the office space—when she was still mapping her way to the pantry and to the restroom. She might be wrong about what the reports said, but she was rarely wrong about such things. She had a knack for detail, a brain that noticed bits that others missed. It was a skill that served her well in contract law. However, rechecking the report would ease her mind.

  Back at the Foundation’s office, Zoie found Regina with her bag draped on her shoulder, preparing to depart.

  “Hey, Regina.”

  “You came back,” her young assistant said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know,” Zoie said, sounding weary.

  “You should’ve gone home. Everyone else does after a field trip.”

  “Well, good for them. I still have work to do.”

  Regina set her trashcan at the entrance to her cubicle for the cleaning crew. “How was the Shelter? Did you see him?”

  “If you mean Mr. Khalfani, of course I saw him.”

  “Can I go next time?” Regina asked in a begging tone reminiscent of Nikki.

  “I don’t know that there’ll be a next time.”

  “So that’s not a no—it’s a maybe?”

  Zoie wagged her finger to say no. Regina took the hint and moved to finish her tasks. Zoie watched as Regina effic
iently put her phone on forward, arranged her papers into neat piles, and turned off her desk light. Regina was in a hurry.

  However, Zoie wanted those Mahali reports. Her mind would churn about those questionable items until she checked her facts. Having not mastered the Foundation’s filing system, she needed Regina’s help to locate the folders. She followed her assistant to the elevator. She certainly understood the need for a parent to leave work on time. If DC childcare establishments operated as they did in New York, the cost of overtime care was prohibitive.

  “Zoie, gotta go.” The elevator wasn’t coming, so Regina decided to take the stairs. It was only six flights.

  “Please, just one last favor before you escape,” Zoie pleaded.

  “Okay, make it quick.”

  “I need to look at the Mahali Salaam files again.”

  Regina looked at her watch. “Listen, Zoie, is it all right if I get them for you tomorrow?”

  “I can get them myself. Just point me in the right direction,” Zoie said.

  “Gee,” Regina said, thinking for a minute. “I’m pretty sure Ray has those files.”

  “Why would he have them?”

  “Ray? He’s the interim account manager for Mahali Salaam and several other grantees.”

  Zoie wondered why she didn’t know that. Before, when she’d read the file, she hadn’t paid attention to the account manager’s name. Still new, she might not have thought to look for an account manager. Or maybe it was that the account manager’s name was missing altogether.

  “I didn’t think Ray handled any accounts.”

  “He didn’t, well, not until a year ago. When Carmen Silva left, he took over some of her accounts.”

  “Carmen Silva. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name.”

  “Probably not. She’s before your time. She only lasted six months,” Regina said. One of her hands was pressed against the exit to the stairway.

  “Six months. That was fast.”