by E. B. Lee
Advance Praise for Clean Sweep
“Lee's account of homeless life on the street in New York City is compassionate, brutally honest, and unsentimental ... Lee reminds readers of serious fiction that there’s hope for those whom society has rejected, as long as we work for it.”
—Booklife
“A bleak but engaging tale that deftly spotlights a serious issue in America … Lee’s story is unsurprisingly grim … also absorbing and convincing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Author E. B. Lee tells the stories of the homeless characters with incredible warmth and compassion, never forgetting that these are human beings with pasts—and futures.”
—IndieReader
“Tackling important, societal concerns in a well-written, finely-paced style, this novel provides a satisfying and engrossing read ... While set in New York City, the story could take place anywhere in the country ... Author E.B. Lee writes in a straightforward way that’s vivid and authentic.”
—BlueInk
“Clean Sweep is a heartrending novel … about how families don’t have to be based on genetic bonds.”
—Clarion Reviews
“Insightful and engrossing, I felt attached to each character … the plot twist in this novel … will catch you off guard in the best way possible. Those interested in serious fiction would appreciate this book and the many topics it explores …”
—Manhattan Book Review
“A serious book that focuses on the very important topic of homelessness in a way that is engaging and compassionate. This is a very worthwhile read.”
—Love Reading
Clean Sweep
A Novel
E. B. Lee
Clean Sweep A Novel
Copyright © 2021 by Evelyn B. Lee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. www.eblee.me
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lee, E. B., 1957- author.
Title: Clean sweep : a novel / E. B. Lee.
Description: First edition. | Pinehurst, NC, USA : Little Brown Dog Press, [2021]
Identifiers: ISBN: 978-1-7364560-1-9 (softcover) | 978-1-7364560-2-6 (hardcover) | 978-1-7364560-0-2 (eBook) | LCCN: 2021907825
Subjects: LCSH: Homeless persons--New York (State)--New York--Fiction. | Homelessness--New York (State)--New York--Fiction. | Mentally ill homeless persons--New York (State)--New York-- Fiction. | Social work with the homeless--Fiction. | Urban poor--Fiction. | Compassion-- Fiction. | Faith-based human services--Fiction. | Christian life--Fiction. | Art--Social aspects-- Fiction. | Vulnerability (Personality trait)--Fiction. | Communication--Social aspects--Fiction. | Social psychology--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / City Life. | SOCIAL SCIENCE / Poverty & Homelessness. | FICTION / Christian / Contemporary.
Classification: LCC: PS3612.E22358 C54 2021 | DDC: 813/.6--dc23
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021907825
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Editing: Stephen Parolini, www.noveldoctor.com; Mary-Theresa Hussey, www.goodstorieswelltold.com; Louise Stahl, proofreading.
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design
Cover photograph © Olga Kaya/iStock; borchee/iStock
Publishing Services: Little Brown Dog Press, Pinehurst, NC, USA www.littlebrowndogpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, incidents, and organizations portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For Chick
You are my rock and my love.
Thank you for sharing a lifetime with me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discussion Questions
One
Carli Morris pulled a brown paper bag close to her chest as she walked the next city block. Ice pellets rattled to the ground, propelled by wind that rose into gusts, then settled. Carli turned sideways, hoping to shield her face, but stings of ice continued to bite, and every so often she hit a wall of wind so strong she walked in place. She spotted, in the distance, the electronic clock at First United Bank. It didn’t matter that it glowed a bright red 3:01 or that she had fought the weather almost all night. The only thing that mattered was finding cardboard homes and delivering food to the bodies sleeping inside them.
When Carli came to a long cardboard box lying sideways on the Midtown Manhattan sidewalk, she called loudly, “Church Run. I have sandwiches.” In truth, it wasn’t one box, but several, sutured together so neatly they appeared seamless, like a plain pine casket. Sidled under the overhang of First United Bank, it cleverly escaped the icy assault. Carli waited, her shopping bag rippling in the wind, then called again, “Anyone there?” She knew the answer but needed a reply.
At last, the box jiggled. It tilted back and forth. Then it became still, and a man’s voice mumbled through its corrugated walls. “Church Run?”
“Yes.” Carli shifted her gaze to the end with the voice.
A bare hand shot through the seam in the side and headed toward her ankle. It stopped just short, waiting until Carli placed two packaged meals into its palm. The hand closed around them and disappeared through the slit. Seconds later, the corrugated voice came through the storm. “Thanks. Thanks a lot,” it said. “Got another?”
Carli swallowed hard. “Sorry. Two apiece, but chowder and coffee are at the vans.”
“Chowder?”
“Yes.”
Carli slid her way to a second makeshift home; a pair of tattered blankets draped atop its cardboard frame. A shopping cart filled with scrap metal and wood stood nearby, gathering ice. Two bulging black plastic bags flanked its front wheels. Jim Hampton, her partner for the overnight mission, was already talking with the owner. “You need toiletries or anything?” he asked.
“What?”
“Toiletries.”
“What?”
“You know, like a razor and soap.”
“Oh!” said the voice. Something connected. “Yeah, I need a hood. You got anything with a hood? Like one of those sweatshirts?”
“Check the vans, and get some chowder.”
“Sure. Okay … sure.” The man sounded reluctant. Carli wasn’t surprised. Surely, he heard the wind and the ice.
Carli and Jim veered across the street to two white church vans parked at the curb. They were high-mileage, late-model loaners from Samaritan Baptist Church that ran by the grace of God. God’s grace was exactly what they needed. Nearly a dozen street people, men and women, were huddled alongside the vans. Carli couldn’t help but wonder how everyone would make it through to spring. This was
the second winter storm, and it was only November.
“Did you get around the block?” Tom asked. He and Irene had just scouted northward.
“Four across the street and three on the side,” said Carli.
“We found a bunch too.”
Carli saw four figures approaching. One limped. Two came as a pair. The last wore no overcoat. Shivers raced along Carli’s arms, and her back arched reflexively, as though trying to invoke warmth for them both.
When Tom and Irene flung open the doors of the lead van, an older woman burst to the front of the crowd. She snatched a puffy, down-filled parka, squeezed it, tugged it, and inspected its zipper.
“Try it on,” said Irene. Her teeth chattered as she spoke.
The woman pulled it closer but wanted no fitting. She left without a word, garment in hand.
“Say, any large hats there?”
The raspy voice came from a man whose body was so conspicuously arched it looked like he might fall forward. Moving in jerky steps, he used his forearms and elbows well and pushed his way in behind the departing woman. Others objected, but he pressed his point: he needed a hat. Several missing teeth and a bandage on one ear distinguished the man from the rest, but he reeked of a standard street odor – urine and sweat. Tom handed him a package of size twenty-eight briefs and a rain poncho to cover his many layers of clothes. Then Tom said, “Let’s find you a hat.”
Five hours earlier, the vans’ shelves had been stuffed full of coats, sweaters, pants, and more, sorted from mounds of clothing donated to the church. Now they were nearly bare. Pastor Miller, clergyman of First Neighbor’s Church, led the night’s mission. He looked at Carli and said, “Someone will be left out tonight, I’m afraid.” Carli nodded, then circled to the second van where she lugged out a fifty-gallon cooler, removed her gloves to handle the cups, and prepared to serve the last of the chowder.
A wind gust splattered the first ladleful across her bare hand. Within a minute, her fingers throbbed from the cold. To Carli’s dismay, equally bare hands, or hands with tattered half-gloves, reached for her chowder. She passed the word: “Get gloves in the other van.” Many nodded.
Most visitors came for food and then left silently. A few struck up brief conversations. One man looked like a burly northern lumberjack, but the burl was, no doubt, layered clothing piled around too-small briefs and an extra-lean body. Chowder soon froze to the hairs of his gray-speckled beard. He wore a calf-length trench coat over a red and black plaid jacket, a bright orange cap, and thanks be to God, thick winter gloves.
“Beautiful,” he said, as Jim handed him coffee. “Beautiful.”
The man’s demeanor was positive, and his character surprisingly boisterous – qualities unmatched by the majority of the others. Secretly, Carli nicknamed him “Canada.”
“Reminds me of my old job,” the man said.
“Oh yeah?” asked Jim, straining to hear over the wind.
“Sure. Worked local trucking for eighteen years. There’s nothing like hot coffee to get you on the road.”
“I bet,” said Jim. “Must have made a lot of deliveries.”
“You bet I did.” Canada sipped his coffee.
“You like it?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, ’til I got laid off.”
“Oh, man ...”
“Left me no better than if I had been an independent all those years. Except, I never wanted to own my truck; it’s a hassle.”
“I’m sure,” said Jim.
“Well, what are you gonna do?” asked Canada. “Others have it worse. And who knows, maybe we’ll have a white Christmas for a change.”
“Who knows?” said Jim. “Who knows? At least you’re not driving in this stuff.”
Canada raised his cup, as though to say, “Cheers,” and moved along.
When all were served, Carli tossed the ladle and extra cups into the van. Cold chowder nearly glued her fingers together, and her pants and coat smelled like a cannery. Half her hair, wet from melted ice, clung seaweed-like to the left side of her face, and half drooped limply behind, periodically releasing ice water inside her collar. With no sleep for nearly twenty-four hours, and her back tightening like a tourniquet from leaning over the chowder vat, she yearned for the night to end. She gave the gathering one last look and caught the sound of another voice. “Hold that chowder! One more man coming.” Carli wanted to ignore the request, but the man called again. “Hold that chowder.” There was urgency in his voice.
“Step right up,” she said. “Pull up a seat.”
The new arrival laughed. The warmth of it caught Carli off guard. She stopped the ladle to look into his eyes. They were gray and surprisingly lively. Shoulder-length dark hair curled out from a baseball cap emblazoned with white letters that spelled “Police.” Carli assumed it was a fake. She knew official issue read “NYPD.” Canada punched the man amicably on the shoulder. Most other greetings she had seen had been secret-society-like nods, muttering, or near-wordless shouts. Carli suspected him a street fake – an imposter taking advantage of handouts to turn a quick profit. When she’d started with the mission, she hadn’t expected people would take advantage of the homeless. But on this first night, the city had proven, once again, it had everything.
Carli addressed the new arrival with a quick, “How are you?” and expected an equally curt reply. He looked first at Carli’s face, and then at her hands, as he answered, “Fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking. How about you?”
She stared, certain he was a scammer. Something like, “Okay, but the weather could be better,” or, “Not bad,” would have been typical. “Fine” was an odd answer, given the icy circumstances. Yet, that’s precisely what she replied, along with, “Thank you for asking.”
The man laughed again. She stared him down, and the strange man stared back, nearly smirking. He looked oddly familiar.
Carli quickly ladled soup. His hands reached to grasp the cup before it blew away, and, for a moment, they held it together. It was long enough for her to notice his silver and turquoise ring and gloveless hands, not cracked like the others on the street. Carli tensed. Was he staring deeply or blankly? Was he drugged? Damned soup. Finally, he lifted the chowder.
“Much obliged. Pleasure to meet you,” he said. Carli said nothing, but the man said, “Hope to see you again. The name’s Grant.” Then he paced smoothly through the crowd, extending an occasional pat to a shoulder. Carli’s hands dropped to her sides. The further he drifted, the safer she felt. With a shake of her head, she shook him from her mind. But as she snapped shut the last latch to the chowder pot, his voice rippled toward her.
“By the way ...,” he began. Carli turned to see his denim jeans and rusty-brown suede jacket. “It’s cold out. Get some gloves from the van.” A smile began to rise on his lips. His own hands remained uncovered. Before she could respond, Grant was already walking away. He had no new clothes, no toiletries; only a steady hand on his soup.
Carli caught the eyes of Pastor Miller, who said, “Time to move on.” Carli gladly slammed shut the van’s back doors. Five hours of serving chowder and sandwiches to life’s unfortunates had left her mind numb. There had been no time to think or sort facts. The strange man’s figure faded into the darkness. She slid her eyes to the building in front of her, across the cardboard boxes embraced by its alcoves, up past the lighted windows displaying all-night businesspeople still at work and janitors pushing carts. She squeezed shut her eyes to the harsh spray of ice and prayed, simply, “Please, God … help them. And give me the strength to keep helping others.” Carli kept her eyes closed several more moments, realizing she hadn’t prayed in earnest in decades.
Two stops later, the last of three hundred sandwiches had vanished into the paws of the night. Even a full-length dusty-rose designer down coat had found a body to cover. Thank God. The van doors clanked loudly as Pastor Miller closed them and crossed past Carli to the driver’s side. “We have to check on Lucy,” he said, retrieving the crumpled itinerary from the
van’s dashboard. “She lives in a tent by St. Mary’s Church, a couple of blocks east. It says here, she worries about her dogs.”
“Dogs?” asked Carli.
“That’s what it says. Lila and Terrance.”
All night the itinerary had directed them. What surprised Carli most was it had actual names of people and known addresses, roofless though they were. How had she missed this during her thirty years in Manhattan? Of course, she had seen them, but why the hell hadn’t she thought to ask their names? Or recognized they had self-assigned street-beds? Where had she been all these years?
Carli knew the answer. She’d been tackling Madison Avenue’s advertising world with a vengeance. After thirty years, she’d built her privately-owned firm, TSW Inc., into a prized agency, allowing her to sell it off for more money than she’d ever dreamed of and retire early. None of it would have happened without long hours, laser focus, and 100 percent commitment to work. What she gave up in return was life outside of work. She had friends, or at least work friends, but she felt a spiritual void, having lived for years wearing blinders. It was the polar opposite of her Catholic upbringing in her middle-class neighborhood. This first night volunteering with the Church Run was a tentative step toward reawakening a vital part of her soul. It was also a chance to scope out possible beneficiaries of her financial good fortune. The work of the Church Runs had intrigued her. Now, in the midst of one, she found the sheer need for them devastating.