The Truth about Us

by Janet Gurtler

  She says “child” and it makes me want to act like one. I want to yell and stomp my feet and have a temper tantrum. I’ve got so much anger inside and nowhere to put it, and I shiver, even though the office is warm and it’s hotter than normal outside. A small fan whirrs on Stella’s desk, but it barely stirs up the air.

  My dad stands, pulls his fancy car keys from his pocket, and jangles them on his finger. “I’m heading to Houston today, but I’ll see if Allie will pick you up.” He glances at Stella. “She’ll be done around six?”

  Stella raises an eyebrow. “Day staff and volunteers usually clock out at two or three. She won’t be needed for the dinner service.”

  I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  “You’re sure? That’s not even a full day.”

  “We don’t want to burn our volunteers out,” she tells him. “She can stay late some days if she wants to, but it’s not an obligation.”

  He makes a sound in his throat. It’s not directed at her, but she sits up a little straighter in her seat. “Allie can’t make it at that time,” he says to me. “She’s working.” My sister has a summer job with an engineering firm. She needs work experience to go along with her university degree, but she doesn’t have to do her work for free.

  “I’ll take the bus,” I tell him and lift my chin. Pretend it doesn’t make me nervous to be taking a bus from this part of town. I can’t even remember the last time I used public transportation.

  He jangles his keys and glances at Stella, and I can almost read his thoughts. He doesn’t want me taking a bus from this neighborhood either, but he doesn’t want to tell her that.

  “She’ll be fine,” Stella says. “We can have someone walk her to the bus stop if you want.”

  That might be even worse. Dad nods and presses his lips tight. He stares out the door and briefly squeezes my shoulder. I pull away, and he frowns and spins, walking out of the room without a good-bye.

  The air in the office lightens. Some of the chill leaves my skin, and the warmth of the building seeps in. I wrinkle my nose. It smells moldy. Stale. I imagine Nance. At home. Still asleep. With nothing pressing planned for her day except maybe shopping. For clothes and boys. I frown. Angry to be stuck here. Knowing I don’t belong.

  Stella leans back in her chair. “So,” she says. “You’re here because you’re dad’s making you work?”

  I shrug instead of answering.

  She laughs as if this pleases her. “Maybe we’ll grow on you, sourpuss. Come on. I’ll give you the tour,” she says.

  • • •

  Stella takes me from her office into a room with three exits. “Lockers are right there,” she says, gesturing, and then she points at a basket of locks. “Use one of those to put away any valuables you bring.” A tiny ripple of fear sticks in my gut. Locks mean people steal. What else do they do?

  Signs are posted on a billboard over the basket. Thanks for volunteering.

  Women’s Outreach Program, Wednesday Nights at 7 p.m. in the Arts and Crafts Room.

  Stella shows me where to sign in and out and points to the kitchen, which goes off in the direction ahead. “We’ll go there last. That’s where you’ll be working.”

  I follow her slowly, my shoulders scrunched up tight, trying not to touch anything or breathe too deeply because of the musty smell. She leads me down another narrow hallway. “Volunteers sort donations over there,” she says. I see piles of T-shirts and plastic containers full of socks.

  “Our guests can get clothes and necessities here once a week. We serve lunch and dinner every day of the week, and we offer overnight shelter in emergency situations.”

  We walk past bins of deodorant and soap and a room filled with racks of boots and jackets. They’re out of style. “They pay for this stuff?” I ask, my eyes wide.

  “No.” She turns to me. “It’s a shelter, hon. It’s free. They’re donations. You’ll learn. Anyway, serving in the dining room is where we need your help, so don’t worry too much right now.”

  At the back of the building there’s a loading dock. “This was a warehouse?” I ask.

  Stella nods, but my gaze goes to someone walking toward us, pushing a cart. The cart is loaded up with potted plants. I perk up as I recognize them. The dock door opens, and the cart is pushed outside into the sunny midmorning air.

  “What are they doing with those plants?” I ask.

  Stella points to a building outside. “That’s our greenhouse over there. Donated by a longtime patron. Wilf MacDonald. He paid for the greenhouse in his wife’s name. She volunteered here for years, but she passed on a while ago. He’s with us now.”

  “There’s a greenhouse?”

  “You like plants?” Stella asks, staring at me, her hands on her hips. Noticing too many things.

  I shrug again.

  “You can check the place out on your own after the lunch service if you like. Wilf will be around somewhere. He locks the place up. You’ll need to talk to him if you want to help out.”

  “They’re just plants,” I say and bite my lip.

  Stella starts walking again, explaining a couple of other rooms and what happens in them, and then we find ourselves back on the main floor, in the volunteer center.

  “Okay,” she says, leading me through the kitchen to the dining room. “I’ll introduce you to Sunny. She’s in charge of the servers. Where’s Sunny?” Stella asks a white-haired man when we walk into the dining room. He’s got a stack of place mats draped over an arm. “Wilf, this is Jess. She’s a new server. She’s going to be here all summer.”

  “Lucky you,” he says. “Sunny’s in the supply room. A huge shipment of plastic cutlery came in, and she’s not happy about it.” He glances at me. “We have our own cutlery, and Sunny hates environmental irresponsibility. Here.” He divides a stack of place mats and hands half to me. “Put these out on the tables. Four per table.”

  I glance down at the stack in my hands. The place mats look homemade. Stamped with a company logo. Stade Golf Course Valentine Classic.

  I frown at them.

  “What are you frowning about?” Wilf asks.

  “It’s July. These are Valentine’s place mats.”

  “This ain’t the Ritz, Chickadee,” Wilf says.

  “Some of them are wrinkly and torn.” I hold them up to show him.

  “They’re clean. Suck it up,” he says.

  I swallow a retort. I wasn’t brought up to get snarky with old men. Of course, I wasn’t brought up to do a lot of the things I’ve been doing lately.

  “Be nice,” Stella says to him. “This is her first day. She’s never been in a place like this before. I don’t think you have much choice, being here? Punishment for your sins?” she asks.

  I bite my lip harder and feel their judgment. The poor little rich girl.

  The old guy stares at me. “She looks too young and fancy to get into trouble. What were your sins?” he asks.

  I straighten my shoulders and stand taller. No way I’m going to tell this guy I got drunk, bought a ten-thousand-dollar dress, and flashed my boobs. “What are yours?” I ask instead.

  Stella chuckles. “I’ll leave you two to work this out. Wilf, introduce her to Sunny. She’ll show you the ropes,” she adds for me. She shows me a long enough rope and I might try to hang myself with it.

  “Not worth it, Mess,” the old guy says as if he read my mind. He winks.

  “Jess,” I tell him.

  “That’s what I said.” He points at his ear and smiles a crooked old-man smile and starts to whistle. “Go on then. Start putting out those fancy place mats.”

  Stella laughs and turns and flows back to the kitchen. For a big woman, she moves with lightness and grace.

  Wilf and I work silently, putting down place mats, and then he grunts out instructions for setting out the plates and glasses. We se
t those out, and when we’re done, a tall black girl walks through the kitchen into the dining room. She’s not too much older than me, and she’s skinny. She actually makes me look big.

  She’s holding a bin. “Damn plastic stuff,” she mumbles. She walks by, and I peer inside the bin and see rows of plastic cutlery wrapped in napkins and tied with ribbons. “You must be Jess?”

  I nod.

  “Sunny,” she says. “You ever served before?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. No.”

  She looks me up and down. My pants are expensive and my top is designer. I definitely don’t shop at Target for clothes. “Yeah. You’ve never needed a part-time job, I’m guessing.”

  I stand straighter and lift my chin. “I’m here and I’m working. So. Yeah. I guess I do.”

  “Not the paid kind though.”

  I don’t have a ready argument, and Sunny mumbles something under her breath. I don’t hear her and decide it’s for the best. We obviously have an understanding. We don’t like each other.

  “You want us to put out this plastic cutlery?” Wilf interrupts.

  “We have to use it sometime. Did you explain to her how this works?” She nods her head to me, as if she can’t be bothered to remember or say my name out loud.

  “I did. Why? Are you mad because I’m stepping on your toes?” Wilf asks.

  “My feet are bigger than yours, Wilf. Worry about your own toes,” she tells him.

  “I’m too much of a gentleman to point out your flaws,” he says. “Big feet being only one of them.”

  I decide then that I might like the old guy better than I thought. Wilf and Sunny argue for a moment, and I look around, swallow, and take deep breaths.

  “I have a million pages of paperwork to catch up on,” Sunny finally says and glances at the clock on the wall and then back at me. “Please try to get up to speed quickly.”

  I want to point out that, in theory, I’m a volunteer. No one even seems to want me here. Not even me.

  “Don’t worry. She hates everybody, not just you,” Wilf says when she leaves the dining room. I hide a smile as we lay out plastic cutlery packages and he explains more about how the lunch service works. Go to the doorman, escort guests to a table. Repeat until the section is full. Pick up their meals, deliver them to tables. Clean up when they’re done, set up new place settings, return to door for new guests.

  “Most days in summer, we don’t get huge crowds for lunch. The two of us can handle it. Dinner is another story.” He frowns at me. “We’re done setting up, and our guests won’t be here for another hour.” He glances around, as if he’s looking for something for me to do. I feel kind of stupid and useless and wish I could go home. Even home is more comfortable than this place.

  I lean against the table I finished setting. “I saw the marigolds and geraniums,” I say to fill up the awkward silence.

  He cocks his head to the side. “The what?”

  “Plants. Going to the greenhouse.” I wonder if he’s always so grouchy.

  “How do you know what plants are going to the greenhouse?” he asks.

  “I saw them on the cart. When I was in the warehouse with Stella, she said they were going to the greenhouse. I recognized them. I used to like plants, okay?” I tell him.

  “You mean the kind of plants you kids smoke these days,” he grumbles.

  “You growing something you don’t want me to see?” I ask.

  He glares at me. “Isn’t it weird? A kid your age, interested in plants?”

  “Probably not as weird as a guy your age.”

  He stares at me for a long moment and then he laughs.

  It relaxes the knot in my stomach. I was kind of holding my breath, pretending to be cocky. This whole place makes me jumpy. And here I am, stuck in the middle of it, smack-talking an old man.

  “I had a garden at home,” I tell him, trying to be more polite. “My mom and I did. Well. We used to. We used to have vegetables and herbs. Flowers too.”

  “You lose your mom?” he asks gruffly but not unkindly. “That why you’re here?”

  I stare at him and then down at my feet. “Not really.”

  “You shoot somebody?” he asks.

  I look up then but shake my head.

  “Rob a bank?”

  I try not to grin. “Nothing that exciting, trust me. Maybe I just wanted to volunteer.”

  “And maybe I’m Santa Claus.”

  For the first time all day, I laugh out loud.

  He crosses his arms and studies me with narrowed eyes. “Fine. You can come to the greenhouse,” he says as if I asked. “But don’t knock anything over. And there’s someone in there right now, working on my shelves. One collapsed and almost killed some azaleas. They were Rhea’s. So be careful.”

  “Rhea was your wife?” I ask.

  “Rhea was my everything.” He turns and starts walking, and I follow. He’s a slow plodder, but I stay behind him. We don’t talk, but I wonder why this grumpy old guy has a greenhouse at a shelter. I’m not about to ask, but I wonder.

  The greenhouse is sort of shaped like an old barn. It’s opaque with plastic and steel siding. The door is open, and I follow Wilf inside and pause and then breathe it in. The smell nourishes me. Moist air fills my lungs. I’ve forgotten how much the scents of greenery soothe me. It reminds me of different times. Simpler times.

  “Nice,” I tell him, looking around at rows of plants on tabletops and plants stacked on the floor. I realize I’ve missed the satisfaction of nurturing plants.

  There’s a man on a ladder in the middle of the greenhouse, fixing a shelf, with his back to us. A little boy stands at the bottom of the ladder, watching. Wilf walks over and pats his head and kneels down to his level. “How are ya, big guy?”

  The little boy stands taller and giggles and holds out his hand. He’s got it wrapped tightly around a plastic blue train.

  The man on the ladder turns and looks down at me. My heart stops.

  It’s not a man at all. It’s him.

  Flynn.

  chapter five

  My face burns.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  Wilf frowns and then looks at me. “What’s up with you kids these days? In my time, we treated nice-looking young ladies with respect,” he says to Flynn gruffly. “Flynn, this is Jess. She volunteers here.”

  I say a silent thank-you to him for calling me nice-looking and glance back at Flynn.

  “Since when?” he asks.

  “Since now. How about, ‘hello, nice to meet you’?” Wilf says to prompt both of us. “Is that so hard?”

  “We’ve already met,” Flynn says.

  My cheeks stay on fire as he climbs down the ladder.

  “The shelf is fixed,” he says to Wilf. “Slumming?” he adds to me as he jumps to the floor. He folds up the ladder and then leans it against a counter lined with plants.

  The little boy stares back and forth.

  I try to think of something light and witty to save the moment, but my mind is blank. Instead, I panic. “What’d you do to get stuck working at this place?” I say, channeling my inner Nance.

  “What’d I do?” He stares at me and then his lips turn up. “I didn’t have the right daddy, I guess. I’m here to have lunch. With my little brother. I’m not a volunteer.”

  My stomach drops. Fail. Epic fail. But he’s working?

  “You’re having lunch here?” I ask as he ruffles the hair on his brother’s head.

  “Yup. We do a few times a week.”

  “Excuse me, when did you two meet?” Wilf interrupts.

  Flynn turns his back on me. “My friend gave her a ride home the other night. She lives in Tuxedo. We’re a little far from her homeland.”

  I bite my lip and frown, hoping he doesn’t tell Wilf the wh
ole story.

  “We don’t judge around here,” Wilf says to him as he sticks his finger in the dirt of a nearby pot. “And we don’t make assumptions because of where people live.” He narrows his eyes at Flynn. “You should know that.”

  “Yeah, well, Tuxedo’s not really my hood.” He looks back at me and then reaches his hand out, and the little boy takes it and looks up at him and then at me.

  “My name’s Kyle. I’m Flynn’s brother,” the little boy announces, clearly not big on being left out of this conversation. He’s watching me with wide eyes. “This is Thomas.” He holds his blue train up. “My train.”

  “Hi, Kyle,” I say softly. “Nice train.”

  Flynn pulls him closer with a hand protectively on his shoulder as if I’m going to corrupt the little kid or something. I notice a silver bracelet on Flynn’s wrist. It looks like one of those medic alerts, but I can’t make out what it says.

  “Thomas is my favorite engine,” Kyle announces to me.

  I smile at him, thankful for the diversion. Little kids have always cracked me up. There are lots of them in our neighborhood. I like talking to them.

  “Who’s your favorite engine?” Kyle asks me.

  “There you go, getting to the point of what’s important,” Flynn says to his brother. “But girls like her don’t know about Thomas the Tank Engine,” he tells him.

  Girls like me?

  “Just so happens I like Mavis the best,” I tell the little boy and narrow my eyes at his big brother. “I loved Thomas the Tank Engine when I was a kid too. And the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I wasn’t a doll kind of girl.”

  “See,” Wilf says as picks up a bottle and sprays a plant with water. “No judging.” He wipes down the leaf with a cloth.

  “Exactly,” I say and reach out to the nearest plant and stroke the leaf.

  Kyle rolls his eyes. “Girl engines aren’t nearly as good as boys.”

  “Not so sure about that,” I tell him.

  “Boys rule. Girls drool.”

  I laugh. “That’s what you think now. But wait.” I take a big breath and look at his brother, still having a hard time believing he’s here to eat. As a guest. I don’t know what to say.