by Irene Hannon
“It’s Luis’s story to tell.”
“Okay. I can accept that. We all have our secrets.” She speared a piece of carrot. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything you can tell me about his background.”
She froze. “Is this about his green card again?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” She ate another bite of stir-fry. Took a sip of water. Focused on the boats in the harbor.
He could almost hear the gears whirring in her brain.
Since pushing wasn’t apt to help his cause, he ate his sandwich and waited.
He was a quarter through his club, and she’d put a significant dent in her own lunch, before she spoke again.
“I’ve been hearing positive comments about you.”
The non sequitur threw him for a minute—but BJ struck him as intelligent, clear-thinking, and focused. Her comment must have a connection to their previous line of discussion.
Best to go with the flow.
“From who?”
“Tracy Hunter, for one. You would have known her as Tracy Campbell.”
“From the cranberry farm, right? We went to high school together. How do you know her?”
“We both lived in Phoenix for a while. Her first husband was from there, and I was in town for an extended period to oversee a major project for my firm. Not this firm.” She motioned toward her truck. “The one I worked for in LA.”
So BJ was a big-city girl.
That raised some interesting questions.
But she didn’t give him a chance to ask any of them.
“Eleanor Cooper also thinks well of you.”
Eric tried without success to place the woman. “The name is familiar, but otherwise I’m drawing a blank.”
“She said you might not remember her. She’s eighty-eight and moved back to Hope Harbor twenty-some years ago.”
A vague image of the older woman materialized in his mind. “Okay. It’s coming back. I do recall seeing her around town on occasion.”
BJ creased the napkin in her lap. “She wanted me to tell you she was sorry about what happened with your job and was praying for you.”
“I appreciate that.”
Except he knew someone who needed the woman’s prayers more than he did. Someone he wanted insights about—if BJ ever got this conversation back on track.
As if she’d read his mind, she moistened her lips—a major distraction he did his best to ignore—and brought her digression full circle. “I mention all this for two reasons. First, I want to apologize for being a bit . . . irritable . . . with you. Had I known about the job situation, I would have cut you some slack. Second, hearing people I respect praise you tells me your concern for Luis is genuine and that I should be able to trust you to keep our conversation confidential.”
“It is, and you may.”
“So what would you like to know?”
He chose his words with care. Getting the info he needed without giving away the reason for his concern required finesse. “Why did he emigrate, and how did he end up in this tiny town?”
BJ poked at her stir-fry, faint creases marring her forehead. “Let me preface this by saying that Father Murphy at St. Francis—better known around town as Father Kevin, as you probably know—told me most of this when he came to me four months ago and asked if I’d be willing to give Luis a job. John had just signed the contract for the Seabird Inn project, so the timing of the request couldn’t have been more perfect.”
“You agreed to hire him without ever meeting him?”
“After I heard his story, yes. He also came with strong credentials and experience, as well as an excellent recommendation from his boss in San Antonio.”
“How long has he been in the US?”
“Ten months, the first six in Texas.”
“So he crossed the border from Mexico?”
“No.” BJ closed the top on her plastic container, a fourth of her lunch uneaten. “Do you know anything about Cuban emigration?”
“Not specifically—but there are stories about Hispanic emigration all over the media.”
“That’s a whole different ball game, as I learned from Father Kevin. Unlike other immigrants from Latin countries, once Cubans set foot on American soil, they’re protected as refugees. They get green cards, have access to government benefits, and within a year can become permanent legal residents.”
Translation? They had an easy in.
But if things were rosy for Cubans in the US, why had Luis been seeking a permanent escape last night?
“You seem confused.” BJ took a sip of water.
“Processing.” He wrapped up what was left of his sandwich and tucked it back in the bag to finish later. “So Luis jumped to the front of the line and waltzed into the US. No sweat.”
“I didn’t say that.” BJ rested a hand on the back of the bench and angled toward him. “Getting in was easy. Getting here wasn’t.”
This must be the story he was seeking.
Eric tuned out everything around him—the squawk of the gulls, the clang of boat bells, the chatter of passing tourists—and gave the woman beside him his full attention. “Tell me.”
“The first thing you should know is that Luis is a physician.”
Shock reverberated through him.
The carpenter who lived in the third-rate apartment was a doctor?
“Your ears aren’t playing tricks on you.” BJ set her water bottle beside her. “And I had the same reaction.”
“But . . . why isn’t he practicing medicine?”
“Easier said than done. I’ll get to that in a minute. Let’s start in Cuba. The country has two currencies, one for locals, one for tourists. Residents are paid in the local currency, which has little value. As a doctor, Luis earned the American equivalent of twenty-five dollars a week.”
Eric tried to wrap his mind around that number. “Twenty-five dollars?”
“Yes. His wife, Elena, was a teacher. She made less. Luis drove a taxi in his free time to keep food on the table. He and Elena wanted a family, but they also wanted to raise their children in a land of political freedom and economic opportunity. America offered both. They planned their escape for years.”
Since Luis’s wife wasn’t part of his life in Hope Harbor, Eric was already getting a sense where this story was heading.
“They saved as much as they could for close to a decade but never managed to accrue the kind of money needed for a safer overland trip through South America. Luis’s father-in-law has been in poor health for years and needed their financial support—as well as scarce medications only available on the black market. That ate up a lot of their savings. Time was running out for having children, so in the end they chose the only other option.”
“Boat?” He’d read a few stories about Cuban refugees arriving by sea.
“That would be a generous term. Father Kevin told me it was a patched-together craft of plastic foam and metal rods wrapped in tarp, powered by an engine adapted from a lawn mower. The trip is ninety miles across open ocean filled with sharks, strong currents, and oppressive heat . . . and they had no navigational tools.”
Eric tried to imagine being desperate enough to undertake such a risky journey.
Couldn’t.
“The trip should have taken two or three days. It took eighteen. A storm came up. They got lost. Ran out of provisions. Three of the people on the boat died and were thrown overboard. Elena was one of them.” BJ’s voice broke, and she took another drink of water.
Eric felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.
How did a person survive that kind of trauma for one day, let alone ten months?
A full minute passed before BJ picked up the story again. “Once they landed near Key West, Luis was processed and got on a bus for San Antonio. A Cuban he knew worked for a construction company there and had promised to help him get a job if he ever escaped.”
“Why didn’t he stay there?”
“He
was uncomfortable. As you might imagine, due to their favored status, Cubans aren’t all that popular with other immigrants. There can be lots of friction—even though Luis didn’t take any of the government aid available. He talked to his priest, and Father Chaviano contacted Father Kevin. The two of them had met at a retreat and kept in touch. Father Kevin told me the story, I offered Luis a job, he came . . . and now you know as much as I do.”
Although his mind was struggling to absorb all BJ had told him, there were some obvious gaps.
“But if Luis is a doctor, why choose a hammer over a scalpel?”
“I wondered about that too—especially after I learned he was the director of emergency services for a large hospital in his previous life. But I did some research and discovered there are huge hurdles for Cuban doctors who emigrate. They can’t prove they’re doctors, because Cuba won’t release transcripts for defectors. They have language issues, making test-taking difficult. The accreditation exams themselves are expensive and require months of prep. Plus, resident spots at hospitals tend to go to younger doctors.”
“Wow.” His mind was reeling.
“Yeah. And on top of everything, defectors are viewed as traitors, so Luis can never go home.”
No wonder the man had been standing on the cliff last night.
BJ twisted her wrist. “I need to get back to work. I’m already late. But for the record, Luis is a skilled carpenter. His father was a builder, and he worked with him from the age of eight or nine until he went to medical school. Your dad’s project is in capable hands.”
He waved the reassurance aside. “I’m not worried about that.”
“Good to know.” She rose. “Thanks for working on his motorbike.”
He stood too. “It’s a paltry gesture after all he’s been through.”
“Simple acts of kindness can have a far-reaching impact, though. And I know he appreciates the help. The bike’s been giving him problems from day one—and it’s his only transportation. He rides it to our job sites rain or shine.”
“Given the climate here, that must mean he often arrives wet.”
“His heavy-duty slicker keeps him pretty dry—but I wish he could afford a car.”
And a better place to live.
But he kept that to himself. There was no way to reveal he’d been there without explaining why.
“Maybe once he gets settled here he’ll be able to put some money aside for things like that.”
“Not if he continues to work for me. Your dad’s job requires a full-time crew, but most of my projects are smaller. I’m still building my business. My guys have always filled in with odd jobs when I don’t need them—but I don’t know how much success Luis will have rounding up work once we finish at your dad’s. He doesn’t know many people in town.”
Another worry that must plague the man.
“About the bike—I may not have it finished by tonight. Tell Luis I’ll give him a lift home if it’s not ready.”
“I can take him.”
“Let’s compromise. I’ll do chauffeur duty tonight, you can pick him up Monday morning.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She edged away. “See you around.”
He watched her stride away, then sat back on the bench, setting the remains of his lunch beside him. His appetite was gone.
The tale BJ had shared was the saddest story he’d ever heard.
And it wasn’t likely to get any better, given how life had played out up to this point for Luis.
But it didn’t have to have a dark end. There had to be a way to improve his situation. The problem just needed some time and attention.
As it happened, he had plenty of both to offer at the moment.
Besides, last night on the cliff, he’d promised God that if the man took his hand and stepped back from the edge, he wouldn’t let go.
And Luis wasn’t the only one who kept his promises.
7
“Sorry for the delay, BJ, but an urgent request for assistance took priority. We’re ready for you now.”
At the summons from Michael Hunter, BJ’s palms began to sweat.
This was it.
Based on the verdict of the Helping Hands board members awaiting her presentation, the proposal that was near and dear to her heart was either going to soar—or crash and burn.
Please, God, let it soar . . . in memory of Gram.
Gripping her small portfolio, she followed Michael into St. Francis’s conference room. Many of the faces around the table were familiar—and most were smiling, despite the early hour on this Saturday morning.
She hoped that was a positive omen.
After Michael introduced her, she accepted a water and took the seat he indicated at one end of the long table.
“I know I speak for the entire board when I say your teaser piqued our interest, BJ. Helping seniors has been an important part of this organization’s mission since our two clergymen here got the group rolling. We’re open to any ideas that will allow us to better serve them.” Michael leaned back in his chair, posture open and relaxed. “The floor is yours.”
Tamping down her nerves, she folded her hands on top of the portfolio, thanked everyone for their interest, and plunged in. “As most of you know, I’ve been a Helping Hands volunteer for about a year. Many of the people I assist are seniors who are having trouble keeping up with day-to-day chores—things like housecleaning, cooking, shopping, grass cutting. Eventually, that burden can force them to sell their home and move into a retirement center.”
Her knuckles whitened, and she took a deep breath. “That’s what happened to my grandmother. Not only did the house become too much for her, but she grew lonely after health issues restricted her mobility. Friends came by and called, but for the most part, she spent her days alone. In the end, she moved to a retirement center, hoping it would provide the companionship and social interaction she missed. I’m sure many of you have faced similar situations with family members.”
Several board members nodded.
“In my grandmother’s case, the move didn’t work out as she’d hoped. She missed her home—and the feeling of being useful, of having a purpose in life. Plus, she missed being part of a neighborhood where all ages and stages of life were represented. All her neighbors at the retirement center were in failing health. Just taking up space, she used to say, while they waited to pass on. She withered away, and in less than two years she died.”
Pressure built in her throat, and BJ took a swig of water, praying her voice would remain steady.
“I know my grandmother would have lived longer if she’d been able to stay in her home—with a companion. Someone to share meals with, to take her to the grocery store or out for a cup of coffee, to help her coordinate upkeep on the house.” She opened the portfolio and extracted a small stack of handouts. “I’ll leave these with you to review, but essentially I’m proposing that Helping Hands establish a companion program.”
One of the board members furrowed his brow as the handouts were passed around. “Aren’t there already similar programs out there?”
“Yes—and they’re expensive. According to my research, on average home companions charge twenty dollars an hour.”
The board member adjusted his glasses. “Wouldn’t insurance or government assistance help with that cost for those with limited incomes?”
“Some help is available—but even with financial aid, very few people could afford 24/7 coverage. My idea is to create mutually beneficial relationships. To pair seniors with companions who would live with them and offer assistance that would be delineated on a case-by-case basis. In exchange, the companion would receive room and board.”
“You mean . . . they wouldn’t be paid?”
“No.”
The man gaped at her. “Who would possibly be interested in such an arrangement?”
She’d expected that question. “College students, for one—and Coos Bay could be an excellent source of candidates. There’s also a culinary
school there. Single people who have a job might also welcome a homey atmosphere and free room and board in exchange for companionship. Older people aren’t the only ones who get tired of solitary meals. I believe the pool of candidates could be quite large.”
“It’s an interesting idea, BJ.” Reverend Baker rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Very innovative.”
“I agree.” Michael took a handout and paged through it. “It appears you’ve done your homework. Why don’t you give us all a chance to review the material? Once we’ve done that, I’ll get back to you with a verdict—or we might reconvene if there are questions that need further discussion. Sound reasonable?”
“Yes.” BJ zipped her portfolio closed.
“As far as you know, has this ever been tried anywhere?” Another question from the crank.
He could be a problem.
“Not that I could find in terms of an official program.” She did her best to maintain a pleasant, professional tone. “However, I expect people have worked out similar arrangements on their own. But that takes a great deal of effort—and carries a bit more risk for both parties. The beauty of this is that Helping Hands would screen both the older residents and the candidates and do all the coordination. I’m not certain how many residents might be interested in a program like this, but I don’t think we’d be dealing with an unwieldy number.”
“Anna Williams set up something along these lines last summer.” Reverend Baker tapped a finger on the table. “It worked out splendidly.”
“She might have gotten lucky.” More negatives from the grump. “And I heard that arrangement was only for a week or two. This is much more complicated.”
The doom monger seemed determined to quash the idea before he even read her proposal.
How had such a wet blanket gotten on the Helping Hands board?
“It might be best if we defer further discussion until we’ve all reviewed the material. I have a feeling many of the questions and concerns being raised are addressed.” Michael leaned forward. “Is there anything else you’d like to add, BJ?”
“Just a request that you all give this careful, prayerful consideration. I know it will require administrative time, and there will be minor costs involved. But it could make a huge difference in the quality of life for some of our seniors.”