Pennies from Burger Heaven

by Marcy McKay

  The Amens yell, “A-MEN.”

  He grins. “After our Lord and Savior, all my strength comes from my lovely wife, Angela. For ten years now, her unwavering faith has astounded me. She’s the most Godly woman I know.”

  The Amens go berserko over that one.

  Mr. Jesus slips his arm around his wife’s side and she blushes bright pink. He sort of nudges her to the center with him. Her head hangs down, all shy. He grins a full-lip smile, but no teeth show. He watches her with so much love that I have to look away, like staring into the sun too long. I wish Mama was here to see what real love should look like.

  He says, “Let’s see if we can get her to sing us a song.”

  She shakes her head no, but he nods her on and the Amens go bonkers in whooping and hollering.

  Mr. Jesus steps away and the guitar starts to play a slower song, soft and easy. She doesn’t have much choice, so she moves to the front and starts singing. I’ve heard this tune before. It’s about grace being so amazing.

  My heart yanks as Miz Jesus sings, ’cause it’s like angels hum from her mouth. Listening to the beautiful words, it’s just what I hope for Mama today … that she was lost, but now she’s found.

  The whole room hangs onto the preacher lady. The Amens clap, cry and hum along. Mama would’ve already walked out by now, not caring if she missed a meal. Still, I’m glad I got to see this in person. I’m not used to seeing husbands and wives together, but I like it. Plus, her singing makes me feel a little better, a little less sad. I bet Miz Jesus carries a pink purse to match her outfit and cooks spaghetti for her family every night. I hope they’ve got a dog, too.

  Besides, my Diablo problems are over. These preachers are loaded. They ride around in a limo with a chauffeur. They give away cash for a living. I’ve seen it on TV, and breathe for maybe the first time since Mama.

  After Miz Jesus finishes her song, she steps back to the sidelines, blushing at our applause. That’s where she mainly stays during their show, too. Her eyes zero in on her husband so much that you just feel her strongness. He’s the talky one and she sticks to the shadows. They’ve both got their jobs, but Mama seems more like him and I’m more like her.

  Mr. Jesus gives us his talk and holds his Bible to his heart, pointing at us. Most of it makes no sense, but my ears perk up when he says, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy, but the Lord says, I have come that they may have life and have it to the full.”

  I swear Corn Dog’s five jumps in my pocket at that. His watery blue eyes pierce through me more. His soul talks to mine, and he’s so hurt. My icy foot has thawed and pounds worse. Why’d I have to pick someone I know to roll? What was I thinking?

  After the service, the Head Dope calls us in the same order each meal: handicapped, families with kids, couples, the ladies, the men always go last. They’re more interested in monkey pie than apple pie. Mama has gotten into trouble for being too nice to the fellas here, but we’ve got to drum up business somehow.

  The Amens crowd around Mr. and Miz Jesus to pray over ’em, while everyone else lines up ready for lunch. They act like just being near those preachers will make miracles fall from the sky.

  Usually, I’d make fun of their goopiness, but there’s nothing funny about owing Diablo one grand.

  Turdmouth says to me, “Well, look who is high on Jesus.”

  “Shut up. I’m doing it ’cause I need to talk to ’em about Mama.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you later. The line’s moving.” I don’t want him to see me beg.

  “Whatever. More food for me.” He walks through the dining hall door without a goodbye.

  I turn back and stare at the lines for each preacher. I want hers ’cause I’m used to moms, but his is a tiny bit shorter, so I go to Mr. Jesus. The closer I get to him, the more his man perfume smothers me. It’s a woodsy stink, like he lives in a forest with too many trees. She smells like rose petals. I see why they’re both so popular—nice looking, good hair and they act like you’re their best friend. No wonder folks cough up forty-nine bucks a month to help ’em save the world. I would if I could.

  Maybe.

  They both peek at each other from time to time and grin. I want somebody to love me like that someday. I wish Mama had someone like that now. Someone to treat her right. Someone to take us out of Paradise forever, and it doesn’t even have to be California. I wonder how my daddy treated her when they were together. I don’t know. She won’t say.

  At my turn, Mr. Jesus looks startled to see me. His emerald eyes study me like a book full of extra hard words. He’s gawking so bad I have to look away. He seems to remember he’s staring and stops, then flashes his movie-star smile brighter than ever. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

  I breathe in, then push it out, “My mama. She went missing last night and I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Have you tried the authorities?”

  “No way.”

  “And why not?”

  “’Cause they’re no help. They hassle people like me, but let the gangs roam free. Drugs run these streets.”

  “That is a problem. No doubt.” He watches me too hard again. “Would you like me to pray for her safe return then?”

  “Yeah. Her name is Corrine Daniels. I also need a thousand bucks to repay a debt of hers. I’m in big trouble if I don’t get it.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “So big prayers are needed.” He takes my hand and wraps our fingers together like shoelaces, then bows his head. “Let us pray.”

  I don’t even hear what he says ’cause I can’t get over how strong his hands are, but I still try to whisper to his brain, cash, cash, cash.

  When the preacher is done, his emerald eyes shine misty. He squeezes my palms tighter. “Good luck, Copper.”

  He’s let go of me, but I still feel connected to him. He really is good at this God stuff, but he’s not doing his job and grabbing his wallet for me.

  We’re just staring at each other, so I give him a hint. “Thanks for the prayer. That’s great you give away so much cash on your show. I’ve seen you do it lots.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What exactly do folks do to get it?”

  “I’m glad you’re a fan, but the Lord helps those who help themselves. You’ll come up with a solution to your dilemma.”

  My ears fume all kinds of mad. He gave me nothing but a lousy prayer, and a lame one at that. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think they’d help. I can’t believe I thought there might really be some sort of being up there—my own private Warrior Angel to save me from Diablo. Kicking ass and conquering Satan like that angel book says.

  “Perv.”

  I should’ve known it’s all a scam. Mr. Jesus might be a ginger like me and Sugar, but he gives redheads a bad name. I command myself not to cry around him. I’ll find something else for me and Mama.

  I will.

  Heading toward the dining room, I don’t look at the other fools waiting to get duped by him.

  “Excuse me.” Miz Jesus steps in front of me, her rose-petal scent dancing all around us. Even with her fake red hair, she’s so beautiful. Perfect skin—no wind burns, no scars and teeth way better than Cher’s. I hope their kids look like her and not him. Her hazel eyes sparkle as she says, “I couldn’t help but overhear you with my husband.”

  “Um, yeah?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Copper Daniels.”

  “When’s your money due?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  Miz Jesus smiles. “We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord, for we walk by faith, not by sight.”

  “Huh?”

  “That means, have faith in God’s will for you.” She glances back to her lousy husband who watches us like a hawk. “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  I’ve got no clue what she�
�s talking about, but she hugs me extra tight. Not only does she smell like roses, but her hands are soft as flower petals, too. They’re not small though. They’re as big as his. Still, I bet she’s the one who reads bedtime stories to their kids every night.

  She slips something in my coat’s far-side pocket and says extra loud, “God has more blessings for you, so please come back to this afternoon’s service for them.”

  The prayer ends and still no cash.

  She gives me one more quick squeeze, then turns on her high heels and clicks across the floor back to her drooling fans. Mr. Jesus and her exchange perfect smiles, then they each pray over more Nobodies.

  I failed. Bummed, I head to the cafeteria door, then peek in my pocket.

  It’s a crisp, brand new one-hundred-dollar bill.

  CHAPTER 10

  I’m saved. I almost float from the room on my happiness. Nobody’s ever given me that much cash, not even Mama, and I didn’t have to do one thing for it. Maybe there’s something to this prayer stuff after all. Still, something pesters the back of my brain as I head to my table for lunch. The thought fidgets around like a rat in a dark corner, but darts away before I can catch it.

  Looking back, I see Corn Dog stands talking to Mr. Jesus, without any green hurl chunks in his beard. They’re not looking my way, but I bet he’s tattling on me. That must be my problem, so I stuff the dollar bill in my pocket. I’ll hide it and Corn Dog’s five under my shoe sock later.

  The dining hall has several rows of long tables and folding chairs, enough to seat a hundred people. It’s what I picture a school cafeteria looking like, but we don’t go through a food line first. Our plates are always waiting for us after chunch, so we won’t be piggies and bust into fights. Once, I saw a lady stab a guy with her fork ’cause his tacos had cheese, but hers didn’t. The menu on the wall says:

  Breakfast

  Scrambled Eggs with a side of love

  Lunch

  Faith Fajitas

  Dinner

  Humble Burgers

  “Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

  Matthew 4:4

  The room looks naked with the Valentine’s decorations gone, but everything looks better since I’m filthy, stinking rich. The fajitas smell olé-licious and the next open chair is with a table of strangers who don’t even stink as much as usual. Man, I hope Miz Jesus scores the rest of my cash at tonight’s service.

  She said, “God has more blessings for you …”

  Maybe God doesn’t hate the poor after all. Or, at least not me.

  That other thought still rats around my mind some more, but I don’t let it spoil my appetite. The guacamole tastes like a green dream and the meat’s not tough at all. Plus, I still smell the rosiness of Miz Jesus all around me.

  Then …

  Mr. Jesus. He bursts into plain sight of my thinking. He’s the thought pestering me. That preacher called me Copper. His wife asked my name, but he said it first like he already knew me.

  My chair skids back, as I rush to catch him for a shakedown. Turdmouth stares at me mid-bite from his seat nearby, but I ignore him and fire toward the door.

  Chunch is empty. Nothing but a bunch of folding chairs in here.

  Their limo at the loading dock. Hurrying back through dining hall. Corn Dog’s watery blue eyes watch me. He doesn’t talk, but his stare says so much. I limp faster, my heart drumming the whole way.

  No limo. They’re gone. I keep finding more questions than answers everywhere I go. That never happens on CSI. They wrap up their mysteries in under an hour.

  A kitchen worker gives me a plastic shopping bag to cover my foot. By the time I get back to my seat, my food is gone. Someone ate it, though everyone keeps their heads down while they shovel in more grub, and there wasn’t enough to serve seconds today. The ache in my stomach is almost more than I can stand. It wants to blow all my new cash on food.

  “You know better than that.” Turdmouth hands me the other half of his fajita.

  I stuff it into my mouth. He lectures me down the hallway to the waiting room. When we get there, I tie the bag around my damp foot. I feel sort of bad for not telling him I’ve got over a hundred bucks in my good sock, but I can’t get burned again. This cash will be a stink bomb for Diablo, but he deserves it.

  Turdmouth says, “What about another shoe?”

  “I’ve got bigger problems first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Look.” I show him No-Brains’ business card and tell about the parts from today that aren’t ugly. It isn’t much. I definitely leave out about Mama stealing from Diablo, Eddie Loco threatening to trick me out and falling out of windows.

  Turdmouth says, “So, what does that detective have to do with all this?”

  “I think he’s in love with Mama.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It happens all the time.”

  “What about your mom’s missing jacket?”

  “It’s a bad sign. She loves that thing.” There’s not much lunch in my gut, but it kinks up thinking what it might mean.

  He says, “We need to talk to Salt and Pepper.” Turdmouth starts for the door.

  I stop him. “What’s this we stuff?”

  “It’s not safe for you out there alone. What if you lose another shoe?”

  Just remembering what really happened with Spook and Eddie Loco makes my bruises hurt worse. They’re aching bad enough as is, but I lie, “I can handle it. Let’s meet back here for dinner.”

  “No way. Pops will kick my ass if something happens to you. I’m not getting in trouble over you and that’s final.” He doesn’t even wait for me and marches ahead through the door.

  I sigh and follow behind my babysitter.

  While we walk to the Plasma Center, Turdmouth slows his pace to match my shuffles. The wind flaps the plastic bag on my foot. We pass a man in black coveralls, pushing not just one shopping cart, but two. He’s got ’em hooked together with a stretchy rope, so he drives one ahead of him and the other trails after him. He must be doing pretty good if he’s got two carts. I want to check out his stuff, but Turdmouth pulls my thoughts away.

  He says, “Do you think that Burger Heaven lady lied about seeing your mom last night?”

  “I don’t think so, ’cause she brought it up before I ever mentioned Mama’s missing.”

  “Hmmm, okay … and you’re sure you didn’t say your name to that preacher?”

  “Positive … I think.”

  “See? That’s why you need me.”

  “Whatever.”

  I’m already sick of him and scan the crowd for Mama again (without her jacket). In my mind, Eddie Loco’s devil horns keep poking at me. My insides scream just thinking about him wanting my monkey pie, and Diablo’s deadline. What will I do without her or that cash? The sun moves farther to the right and the sky clouds up more. The clock back at the shelter flashed 1:33 a while ago. It gives me about forty-three more hours for a miracle.

  By the time we reach the Plasma Center, my toes have iced up again. I tried to ignore it, but the constant throbbing makes that hard.

  It’s a big, dirty white building with no windows, so the world can’t see the pimp factory inside. They buy your body juices, then turn around and sell ’em somewhere else. That’s how the world works. Preachers sell God, whores sell sex and Diablo sells drugs.

  Most folks leave straight from here with their cash to get drunk or high, but Mama pretty much always buys us bologna.

  Ride the bologna pony, Eddie Loco said as he reached to unbutton my jeans.

  I’d rather die a bazillion deaths than have him touch me again. Mama broke her own rule and trusted somebody other than herself. We’re fine when it’s just us home at the Warrior Angel together. The problems start with her buying from Diablo … in that motel bed … her sneaking away. It’s other folks tripping her up. I won’t make that same mistake twice.

  Turdmouth opens the glass door
for me, but I’m not falling for his trick. “No way.”

  “What?”

  “You walked me here. You got to play hero, but I don’t need your help talking to Salt and Pepper. I don’t need you butting in anymore. In fact, I don’t need you at all.” I stomp inside, but feel his Hershey-Bar brown eyes following me every step of the way.

  I can’t help but breathe in the strong, medicine smell inside. About two dozen folks sit in the chairs lined against the walls and watch the giant TV mounted up front. It’s some kissy-face soap opera. Me and Mama like Whodunits better. There are Coke machines on one side of the TV and gumball machines on the other. The reception desk sits behind a glass window in the middle of the room.

  I don’t need Turdmouth Tucker. I found Bird and her two boys all by myself. She sits curled in the far corner, shaking extra hard with her backwards skunk hair. Her scrawny face looks like a shriveled apple and her teeth are eaten up way worse than Mama’s. She needs a fix bad.

  Salt and Pepper stand beside her, bored and fidgety. Salt is six. He’s got a white daddy, but his fair hair isn’t fake like Bird’s. Pepper just turned four and his daddy is black. He’s got a monster ’fro. Both boys’ bellies pooch out like they’re fat, but that’s their hungry.

  Bird’s boyfriends were different colors, but Mama says they were both yellow inside—cowards and losers. I hate Bird. She’s a bad mom and friend, but I love her boys like I love Cloud 9 Specials.

  My stomach growls as I make my way over. Pepper sees me and rushes this way. Salt catches on and follows him. They both throw their scraggly arms around me. “Copper!”

  “Hey, guys.” I hug ’em extra tight since I’ve had no Mama love since yesterday.

  Pepper says, “What happened to you?”

  “A grizzly bear tried to eat me.”

  “Nuh-uh. Where’s your shoe?”