by C. B. Stagg
My towel, around my shoulders just seconds before, had fallen across the toes of the man’s brown leather boots, leaving me completely bare from the waist up, water still dripping from my beard.
“Ahh, man, it’s not… ” Then I stopped, squared my shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. I was six feet tall, but this guy was at least two heads taller. His bulky arms folded over his chest like a club bouncer and could barely cover it. Dressed in what looked to be an official university polo and pressed khaki pants, I wondered if he might be security, but I hoped to hell he wasn’t. I’d seen him around. He was hard to miss, the man was a brick wall. Impenetrable. “Well, sir, I’m not gonna lie. This is exactly what it looks like.”
I could hear the theme song from “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” playing in my head and it took everything in me to keep from cracking a smile at the absurdity of the whole thing. After a few long minutes, the brick wall spoke.
“Follow me.” Two words and he turned and walked toward the stairwell, confident I would do as he commanded. I’d planned to at least stop and grab my rucksack, but as we neared the door to the stairs, I saw it was already waiting for me there. So I swung it over my shoulder and followed the man to meet my fate. I knew I was in the clear when he started whistling the theme song from “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.”
For a large man, he was agile. Sure, four flights of stairs were nothing, going down, but for a man his size, I expected him to be more out of breath. When we reached the bottom floor, I expected to take the double doors into the main part of the library. That would place us a few feet away from the large circulation desk, where ‘the wall’ would then call campus police and I’d either be ticketed or just thrown out. Campus police didn’t have lockup, did they?
But instead of leading me out into the library, we turned the opposite direction, ducking through a small, nondescript door I hadn’t ever noticed before. The space was stupid small, but it didn’t help that ‘the wall’ stood right in the center.
“That right there makes out into a bed.” He started barking information about what appeared to be a small apartment. “Through that door, you’ll find a toilet, shower, and an ancient, stackable washer and dryer. They worked, last I checked, but I’ve never been able to figure out what those were ever used for here.” I wondered how he knew they worked, but he didn’t seem the type to answer questions. It was strange, really. I was trained to read people, anticipate their every move, but this I did not see coming.
He took my bag from me, placing it in a floor-to-ceiling cabinet. “This here’s your closet and your pantry.” That’s when I noticed a microwave sitting on a shelf within the closet.
“Food service stores the vending machine snacks that have almost expired in here. Help yourself, though I’d steer clear of the cherry pies unless you’ve got good dental coverage. That’s one snack that probably actually expires before the date on the package.” He chuckled at his own joke while I looked around for Dick Clark and the Candid Camera crew. That show was still on, right?
“Sir, just curious, but why did you bring me here?” Valid question, though it could have been executed in a more masculine way. I was starting to get antsy, both from being in such a small space with ‘The Hulk,’ and because I was slowly realizing all the combat training in the world couldn't have prepared me to take this guy on in the event his switch flipped.
“This used to be the employee break room, but when we remodeled a few years ago we built a bigger one, so this room just sits here.” Oh. Well. That answers… nothing.
“I don’t—”
He chuckled again.
“Sorry, just realized you have no idea who I am. I’m Lillie Lowe’s husband.” His bright, toothy grin completely transformed his imposing character into someone I’d sit and watch a game with over a beer.
“Oh, wow, it’s nice to meet you.” And since his introduction calmed the ninjas kicking and chopping my insides, I offered my hand. “Your wife is a miracle worker. She saved my ass this semester!”
The low timbre of his voice made his laugh smooth and rich, reminding me of a chocolate waterfall. “She had me keep an eye out for you. She was afraid you didn’t have a place to live.”
I ducked my head as heat spread up my neck and over my cheeks. Knowing I was homeless, stowing away in the nooks and crannies of the library, was one thing. But having to admit it to a perfect, albeit well-meaning, stranger brought me to a whole new level of pathetic.
“Truth is, sir, I’d have reenlisted if for nothing more than three square meals a day and a roof over my head, but that wasn’t an option.” I could have gone further, told him the whole truth, but my story was just that. Mine. And it was really all I had.
“You know, pride can be a pretty strong barrier between two people, son. If you’ll swallow a little of that and let us help you, I think your situation will start to improve.” The man spoke from the heart and oddly, I felt like he shrank in size. He wasn’t intimidating anymore. He was one of the good guys. Maybe he was the exact friend I needed.
He crossed the room, running a finger over the surfaces, checking for dust. There was none. “We all hit rough patches and I don’t know what you’ve gone through to land you here today, but see this as a second chance.” I knew every word he spoke was true and came from a good place, but it didn’t make accepting charity any easier.
“Well, Mr. Lowe,” I tipped my head up to meet his kind eyes. “I thank you for all of this, but I won’t take advantage. I’ll figure something out soon.”
He was already shuffling out of the room, waving away my words. “No worries on my end. You clearly know how this building works, so just stay invisible, keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be fine. But it does look like you could use some meat on those bones of yours. I left some information on the counter about a free meal program we have on campus. It’s a good distance from here, but it’s worth it, I promise!”
“Thank you, Mr. Lowe.” I called after him.
“Mr. Lowe is my father. Please, just call me Chance.”
Chapter 6
Jillian
“HELLO?” I knocked on the front doors of the Community Cafe once again, but after standing in the ninety-eight degree heat in jeans and a cute cropped school tee, I was starting to get annoyed. No answer, and looking through the tinted glass doors would have required pushing my face up against it, so that wasn’t happening. After a few more minutes, I walked around the building, looking for signs of life.
The oven-hot air in back stank of cooked garbage and week-old milk. A perfect recipe for nausea. The heavy metal door sat slightly ajar, so after a few deep breaths through my mouth, I ventured in. “Hello, I’m here to volunteer?”
I knew I was in the right place the moment I opened the door. Sparkling white tile gleamed, reflecting the sun, and the aroma of fresh cooked meat made me wish I’d had more than a SlimFast for lunch. My stomach growled in agreement. I took a tentative step inside, but given the clientele, I was hesitant to walk further and catch someone off guard. I didn’t think I could handle being stabbed and mugged by some vagrant, along with everything else I was currently dealing with.
“Come on back, I’m in the kitchen!” The male voice was pleasant enough, but turning the corner, I collided with a mountain of a man. He towered over me at 7 feet tall and wore a Cheshire cat grin. He obviously spent a lot of time in the gym. His arms were massive and his rippling skin was black as night, all the way up to his shiny bald head. I saw the giant knife in his hand and suddenly every gory Freddy Krueger movie that terrified me as a child flashed before my eyes. Oh crap! Now what? I felt like running for the hills.
“Jillian?” I about came out of my boots at Mrs. Lowe’s voice suddenly materializing behind me. All the air I hadn’t realized I was holding in my lungs whooshed out in one long breath and my legs almost liquefied. She was sneaky, that one.
“This is my husband, Chance.” She turned her attention to the man, who was now ru
nning a towel up and down the large knife. “Chance, this is Jillian Walker. She’ll be volunteering with us here on Friday nights for… a while.” I exhaled. Man, was I glad I hadn’t run. That would have been hard to explain.
“Mr. Lowe, nice to meet you.” I craned my head and found myself staring into two gleaming eyes peering down at me. I felt like a field mouse under the gaze of a hawk. By reflex I stuck out my hand, just like my father taught me.
But mid-reach I changed my mind. His hands were covered in bright yellow gloves that were slick with a substance I didn't want to think about. I deflected my hand and swept a loose strand of hair out of my eyes instead. Better safe than sorry until I learned the proper protocol for greeting new help. I needed to get up to speed… we’d had the same woman working in our kitchen since before I was born.
The state-of-the-art kitchen was a dream, but looked like it belonged in an stately home, rather than this sad little soup kitchen. And it was enormous. I couldn’t help thinking how all these lovely amenities were being wasted on those too lazy to work. However, a delicious aroma hung in the air like a mist. There were pots bubbling, something baking, and a freshly cut salad in huge, clear plastic tubs covered in Saran wrap. Mr. Lowe stirred something in a metal pot, then slid the two salad tubs into the massive refrigerator, one-handed and with ease.
“Chance has everything just about ready, but you can go put your purse in the office, right there,” she gestured toward a little room off to the left with her hand, “then put on one of the aprons in there and meet me in the dining room. It’s that way.” She headed in the opposite direction and I went in search of an apron, knowing it would be nothing like the one I’d donned last Halloween for my ‘oh, so scandalous’ French maid costume.
The dining area was spacious and looked exactly like this mom-and-pop diner back home called Pig’s Feet. It was a place my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in, but they had incredible meat pies and sometimes our housekeeper would sneak me one.
The floor was maroon and white checkered tile, just as clean and beautiful as the kitchen, and the walls were covered in what appeared to be old fence boards. The tables were all shapes, sizes, and colors—and not one chair matched another—but the chaos of it all only added to the charm and appeal of the place.
Preparing for the dinner rush was my assigned duty. Mr. Lowe stayed in the kitchen, while his wife and I rolled silverware, filled ice machines, brought out package after package of plastic cups and Styrofoam plates, and even brewed my very first batch of tea in a four-gallon, stainless steel dispenser. After filling more salt and peppershakers than seemed necessary for a week, much less one evening meal, Mrs. Lowe opened the doors and started inviting the poor people in.
For the first several minutes, I stood next to Mrs. Lowe like a lemming and watched as she smiled and shook hands with a variety of people. The group—old and young, black and white—was as eclectic as the furniture they’d be eating on.
“What do I do now?” I whispered. I’d donned my newly claimed neon green apron with the turquoise pocket and tied my hair up in the most severe bun I could handle, as to avoid the dreaded hairnet. I was there, I was cute, and I was ready to get the night over with.
“Today, just watch how we do things. Next week, expect to play a much larger role.” I stood off to the side and watched Lillie Lowe behave as if she were hosting a state dinner, as I busied my mind with what circumstances brought all these people to the cafe. It was interesting, really, how she seemed to know everyone’s name, even the children. And boy, were there a lot of children. Chance knew them all too, and they made small talk as they worked their way toward the buffet-style serving line.
The chalkboard menu, in large loopy letters, boasted the day’s fare: barbecued chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a green salad. The food appeared like magic, in big troughs. Chance made quick work of stocking the heated buffet table, and once the line got going it was all hands on deck.
“Jill?” Chance was hollering over his shoulder as he scraped the last of the gravy from a large, cylindrical bucket-type container.
“It’s Jillian, please. Call me Jillian.” I harbored a deep hatred for the name Jill, way down in my gut, and I always would.
“My apologies, Miss Jillian. Could you be a dear and take this back to the sink? If you’re feeling especially energetic, you could run some hot water into it. It’ll sure make it easier for you to clean later.”
Easier for me to clean? My first inclination was to snap back with a snide comment about him washing his own damn giant gravy bucket. But I bit back the words, hid my disgust with a smile, and did what Chance Lowe asked of me.
When I returned, he was laughing at something a young boy was saying. When the child joined his family at one of the tables, I was taught where to find the replacement tubs of food in an upright warming oven right by the kitchen door. “When I call out a food, it means I’m running low. Go grab a replacement, we can switch the empty one for the full, and we’ll never even miss a beat.” That was the most I’d heard him say all night.
Chance’s accent was as smooth as the whipped butter I’d set out to pair with the fresh baked rolls, but its origin was unmistakable. “Are you from New Orleans, Mr. Lowe?”
A chuckle rolled from his throat like thunder announcing a summer storm. “Naw, hon… just outside though. Is it that obvious?” I nodded and, for the first time in ages, I smiled and it wrinkled my eyes.
“Miss Jillian!” I was being summoned to the buffet line from my place, where I was restocking napkins, straws, and cup lids. “Grab you a plate, honey. Looks like we’re gonna have a lot leftover.”
I glanced into the stainless steel containers, each still at least half-full of the Southern food that must have taken hours to prepare, and shook my head.
“No thank you, Mr., uhh, Chance. I think I’ll pass tonight.” The wrinkles on his forehead said he took my rejection personally. I turned back to my task, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
“Hey Chance, I’ll take some. It smells so good I think I gained three pounds just sniffing the air on the way in here.”
I was too poised to whip around and get a look at who that voice belonged to, so I let my mind imagine someone big, strong. A cop maybe, based on the authoritative tone. It was deep, masculine. It was something I wanted to hear again. But, it also belonged to a poor person. And I belonged to Gareth.
“Bennett, so glad you could make it! Help yourself.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Chance step aside, allowing the man access to the heated table. And only after he’d found a seat and Mrs. Lowe had sat down beside him, did I allow my eyes to drink him in. I recognized him as the man who was leaving her office just as I was entering a few days before.
“Um, Chance?” I’d moved to the serving side of the table where the man was starting to disassemble things, and spoke under my breath. “Who is that man Mrs. Lowe is sitting with?”
“Oh, that’s Bennett.”
“And, he’s a student?” Chance nodded, continuing to wipe things down. He motioned for me to consolidate the half-empty food containers, but I kept my eye on the man and Mrs. Lowe, noticing their relaxed demeanor and easy banter. I was envious. I don’t think I’d ever been that comfortable with anyone in my life.
As tacky as they were, I’d never been so grateful for Styrofoam plates and plastic cutlery in my life. Washing just the dishes used to cook and serve took longer than the cafe was even open for business. “Don’t you have any other employees, besides you and Mrs. Lowe?” It was barbaric for anyone to assume two people could manage this on their own, even with a volunteer here and there. I threw my apron into a bin to be washed, Chance handed me my purse, and we made our way back to the dining room and to the front doors.
“No, ma’am. This is a non-profit organization. Lillie and I started this cafe after our son did a project in school about homeless shelters and the lack of hot food. This is something we did as a family.” Where wa
s their son, then? Shouldn’t he at least be here helping? Opening the door, he ushered me out in front of him.
“So, you aren’t paid to be here? I mean, why? Why would anyone work this hard for nothing?” He locked the door behind him, slipping the key into his pocket.
“You know, at first, we did it for our son, to show him the value of giving back to a community that had given so much to him. But, now he’s gone, so I guess we do it in his memory.” We’d been walking, but stopped when we reached an old beater pickup truck.
“So, you lost your son?” Mrs. Lowe had been my academic advisor for over a year, but I didn’t know her. I hadn’t met her husband until tonight and I had no idea she even had a son. Maybe that says something about me.
“Yeah, he died in Kuwait, about eighteen months ago.” My heart squeezed and the automatic words of sympathy caught in my throat.
I will never forget the sound coming from my throat the day I got the news my best friend had been killed. I will never forget the heart-seizing, gut-wrenching pain that came with the knowledge we’d never sneak off to the creek together, or fly halfway across the river on the rope swing before falling in. I will never forget losing the one person in the world I could actually be myself around without the fear of judgment.
“My best friend died over there.”
He nodded, placing his hand on my shoulder. That was the first time I’d said it aloud and the first time anyone had shown me sympathy for my loss. I worried I may let my mask slip, which wouldn’t be acceptable behavior for a woman of my station.
“Well, anyway,” I waved away any hint of emotion that might seep out and slipped right back into the role of my mother’s daughter. “I can understand keeping the cafe running in memory of your son, but I’m concerned all these lazy vagrants, dirty drifters, and good-for-nothing bums are taking advantage of your kindness.” Chance smiled as he folded himself into the small truck cab.