Clean Sweep

by E. B. Lee

  “Felt safe, I guess,” said Sister Anna. “She started visiting a while ago, maybe five months. Lucy didn’t have the dogs then, and she came for meals. We have a soup kitchen. Grant said Lucy occasionally used a drop-in center to sleep, and he tried to get her into a women’s shelter. That was before she got the dogs. Once she had Lila and Terrance, she couldn’t go inside anywhere.”

  Carli nodded.

  “It was somewhat reassuring knowing where she was,” said Sister Anna. “It felt like we could keep an eye on her. Unfortunately, the police knew where to find her, too. They chased her out a few times. We’re not a licensed shelter.”

  “Any idea why she was outside in the first place? Or where she came from?”

  “No idea. Grant says they each have a story and they tell it when they’re ready. You know,” Sister Anna said, looking straight at Carli, “we run a pretty big soup kitchen here at St. Mary’s. Six days a week. Thanksgiving is always busy, and we can use extra hands if you’d like to help.”

  “Me? Oh, no. I only came for Lucy’s dogs,” said Carli. “I don’t want to see them destroyed. Do you think anyone at St. Mary’s wants them?”

  “Sorry, my building won’t allow them. I’ll ask around, though,” said Sister Anna.

  The smell of a hot winter’s meal cooking in the kitchen followed Carli to the entryway as Sister Anna walked her to the door. Back outside, at the bottom of the steps, Carli adjusted her scarf and turned for another look at Lucy’s archway. As she did, a flash of gray barely caught her eye. She turned her head around not knowing exactly where it was, but knowing it was somewhere in the thick cluster of shrubs leaning into the archway. After a careful scan, she saw it again, barely visible. Carli pulled aside several overgrown branches to slide amidst the tangled mass of shrubs. When she finally saw what it was, she froze. She had seen it before. In fact, she had fixed her eyes upon it several times in the corner of Lucy’s tent when she and Grant did CPR. It seemed odd that Lucy’s street-worn backpack was left behind when there was no other trace of her having ever been here. Was it left by accident? Or was its errant disposal done on purpose? Maybe, thought Carli, suddenly uncomfortable with her find, it had been left intentionally for someone else to pick up. Maybe even the person who had poisoned her. Carli stared at the pack, as though awaiting an answer. Then she lifted it by a single hand strap and brought it through the shrubs to the sidewalk. She walked swiftly away, knowing what she was doing – taking evidence – was no doubt illegal.

  As Carli neared the pound, a chaotic mixture of barks rang into the streets. The odor of dogs and antiseptic filled her nostrils the moment she stepped into the cinderblock construction. Workers in yellow lab coats ferried dogs to examination rooms, playrooms, and meet-and-greet cubicles. Carli was directed to a cubicle where a young man in yellow brought Lila and Terrance back into her life. Carli hardly recognized them with their coats washed and groomed.

  “These two came in early yesterday?” she asked. “From Animal Control?”

  “Yes. Lila and Terrance. Funny names. Look like a full-bred Yorkie and part Scotty. The gray one, that is; Terrance.” The man set them on the floor, and the dogs ventured a few steps toward Carli before a quick retreat to the corner. It was a replay of their inquisitive steps from the tent. For a split second, she thought they looked more cute than homely, a positive step toward finding a home.

  “They were tagged by a local vet,” said the man, “but the owner’s address and phone number were made up.”

  Carli wasn’t surprised. It was one of the few things in the last forty-eight hours that made sense. Half an hour later, she exited the pound, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She had placed the former street dogs on hold in her name. In two weeks, she could collect them, if they weren’t claimed by someone else first. Worst case, she thought, she could find them a new family herself. At least they would live.

  Instead of heading immediately home, Carli steered her car out of Manhattan toward the water to look across at Hart Island. It wasn’t easy driving; Manhattan driving rarely was. But she had to see it. The place where all the lost bodies went. Where Lucy would go if no one claimed her. Carli drove from Manhattan to the Bronx, exited at Orchard Beach, and crossed the lone bridge to City Island. Still in her SUV, she peered through the wrought iron gate to the island’s quaint cemetery, and looked past personal headstones and elaborately carved markers to view Hart Island across the inlet. All she saw there were scrub trees and crumbling buildings, but not a single headstone. The day had been strangely exhausting. A long inhale, followed by a long exhale, proved just the right medicine. She repeated the remedy fifteen times. That’s how many days it would be before Lucy would ride the ferry to Hart, unless Carli could find her a way out of it. Surely, a person deserved better than to be forgotten.

  Three

  The Church Run sat on Carli like sandbags holding back a rising tide. On several occasions, she lifted paintbrushes in her studio only to sit and stare at her half-completed work. Her goal had been fourteen pieces for a one-person show. It wasn’t a big thing to ask of herself; it only required some self-discipline, which was usually no challenge. Elena Lucia Rossi, a prominent curator, offered to show them in her gallery in less than a year’s time. But, for the past week, Lucy kept pushing Carli back into her past, forcing her into recollections of Henry, and slowing progress.

  In a neighborhood of large families, she and Henry had been an odd twosome, and he had always watched after her. When the neighborhood kids picked teams for streetball, dodgeball, kick-the-can, or bike races, he always chose her. Maybe not first, but not last either. When she couldn’t keep up with the older kids, he always looked over his shoulder to check on her. It was comforting. Of course, he teased her too. Made fun of her braces all one summer, even in front of the other kids, but he always gave a light-hearted flick of his hand to her shoulder after. It was a good family and a good community. Between these and their extended family at St. Pius Church, they had all learned that there were times to look out for oneself, and there were times to care for others. With her working years behind her, Carli knew it was her turn to give back. She considered Sister Anna’s offer. Helping at St. Mary’s soup kitchen made much more sense than a second Church Run. Why, at her age, she wondered, was she still trying to figure things out?

  The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Carli returned to Lucy’s church as a first-time volunteer in the soup kitchen. Gretchen, a fourteen-year veteran of St. Mary’s volunteer serving crew, met Carli at the door. Once in the kitchen, they lined up fifty soup bowls and padded sandwiches with several pieces of bologna and cheese.

  “Any questions, just ask. I’ve done it all,” said Gretchen.

  Carli kept assembling sandwiches and looked over the mustard and mayonnaise in donated deli packs. When bread ran out, Gretchen said, “Grab the croissants in the fridge. They’re from Louie’s Bakery. The Special Goods volunteers gather them up, along with about fifteen hundred pounds of extra food across the city, and deliver here and elsewhere. Nice having restaurants and corporations on our side. Special events sometimes have extras too.”

  Carli retrieved the croissants.

  “It’s often a hodgepodge, but it’s food,” said Gretchen.

  Carli made sandwiches in automated fashion. Merrill poured apple juice and water into pitchers, her dangling earrings clinking in harmony with ice in the pitchers. Arnez separated cakes and pies into individual servings. Dorothy stacked plates and trays. When sandwich space was full, Carli scanned the room. She saw stainless steel counters and ceiling tiles, some marked with brown water lines from the steam cast upward from boiling pots of soup. Fold-up chairs, to seat about a hundred, lined the fold-up tables decorated with plastic floral centerpieces.

  At eleven fifteen, Carli stood patiently between Gretchen and Arnez. Her job was to restock as sandwiches ran low. A mother/daughter team was first to arrive. They knew the routine well. Knew to ask for crackers with their soup. Gretchen obli
ged. Sister Anna knew everyone by name. “Any word on your exams?” she asked Lanna, the older of the duo. Both heads shook a negative response.

  “In a few minutes, we’ll be going strong. Better fill more bowls.” Sister Anna’s advisory was right on target. Men and women, both young and old, came neatly dressed and not, along with scattered teens, a few with canes, and one in a wheelchair. All came for a good meal. Many looked for conversation and company. Others remained deep within themselves or mumbled to unseen companions. A communal newspaper at a crowded table caused skirmishes until the visitors established a readership queue. At a middle table, diners engaged in lively banter. Its members spewed mixed reviews of everything from million-dollar sports contracts to fashion heels. It was like a living op-ed table. Their voices quieted only to sip or slurp their soup and swallow pieces of bologna and cheese.

  From time to time, a desolate soul shuffled in and put an “X” on the sign-in sheet. That’s what the man with the multi-colored parka did. Ignoring a few stares, he circled several tables before choosing one in the far corner, where he deposited two large duffle bags on chairs and pounded a brown leather backpack off his shoulders to the tabletop. The combined load took up space for five.

  He favored his right leg and hunched to protect it, weaving through tables to the food line. With a broad aqua-colored band across his parka’s rose and mauve backside, Carli was quick to name him “Aquaman.” She watched as he collected his lunch seriously, taking the maximum allowed of each item.

  Half an hour to the end of lunch, Grant bounded through the door with his Police cap, rusty-brown suede jacket, and an air of confidence, or was it ownership? Rubbing his hands together for warmth, his silver ring sent light reflecting across the room. He stood in line and nodded to several at the tables. He didn’t hesitate at the silverware bin. He was a regular.

  “A little of this,” he said, taking soup. “Gretchen, how are you today? And one of these.” He added crackers. “And … let’s see …” Grant cocked his head slightly to inspect a sandwich. “Wonderful.” He placed a bologna and cheese on his plate.

  After adding condiments, he looked at Carli. “I was hoping to see you here one of these days. I have a confession.” A slight smile eased up his face. Carli waited. “I don’t remember your name,” said Grant.

  Carli tensed, unsure how to answer. The truth is she had lied. To everyone at the Church Run, and here at St. Mary’s, she was Carli Morris. To everyone else in her life, her name was Tessie Whitmore. When she volunteered for the Church Run, Tessie was afraid to give her real name. Afraid that street people might do something bad if they knew who she was or learned where she lived. She felt vulnerable. She had even considered wearing a wig since her picture had appeared in newspapers and magazines, thanks to the extraordinary sale of her company. Now, she felt like a cheat, on the brink of total exposure.

  “I thought I heard you say it was Carli. That right?” asked Grant.

  Carli said, “Yes.” The lie grew.

  “Say, did you do anything about the dogs?” he asked.

  “I’m getting them next week.” Her words were assertive; her inner commitment was not.

  Grant leaned toward Carli. “Here’s a tip. Lila likes chicken better than beef.” Then he softly tapped Carli’s arm and said, “Gotta run. Don’t want my sandwich to get cold.”

  Carli released a half laugh, and Grant glided into the maze of tables. She watched him take a stand in the middle of Aquaman’s cargo chairs. Putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, Grant maintained balance while wedging his tray close to the old man’s. After moving a duffle to the floor, with no objection from its owner, Grant sat down. For the next five minutes they dined and talked. Then, Aquaman put the remains of his meal into his backpack, gathered his duffle bags, checked all three bags several times each, and bumped his way past tables and chairs and out to the street.

  Immediately, Grant rose. With tray in hand, he joined three men intent on dessert two tables over. As the three finished, Grant moved again. His next host was the woman in her wheelchair. Several times during this visit, Grant’s laugh boomed above all else, causing Carli to pause and look.

  Mid-afternoon, Carli surveyed the remaining visitors. Their hunger was settled, and they embarked on the social aspects of group dining. It didn’t matter that they were at a soup kitchen.

  Following clean-up, Sister Anna walked Carli to the door. “She would be very grateful to you. Lucy, that is,” said Sister Anna. “She loved them like the world, and they deserve a home.”

  Carli breathed in deeply. “I’m having second thoughts about keeping them. I might try to find them another home. But one way or another, they’ll be in good hands.”

  Having a pair of city dogs seemed challenging. Letting them outside wouldn’t be as easy as opening a door. She would either have to make dedicated time for it or hire a dog walker. Wasn’t her life supposed to be less complicated now? Carli wasn’t sure she was up for it, but she kept hearing Henry and her parents asking, “Didn’t we raise you to help others? What happened to you?” They were the same questions she was quietly asking herself lately.

  Four

  A week later, Carli finished her second day on the soup line knowing Lucy could head to Hart Island in a matter of days. She was about to leave the building, but the open door to the St. Mary’s chapel beckoned her in. The room was empty. She walked two-thirds up the center aisle and sat in a pew. She rested her head on folded hands. It felt good to sit alone; lunch had been busy. The talkative op-ed table had shown again and had given rave reviews of a new show on Broadway, all edited from what they had read or heard secondhand, or simply believed out-of-hand. The mother/daughter duo had also come for lunch. Aquaman hadn’t shown. Neither had Grant.

  Over the years, Carli had given. Offertory after offertory. Even as a child, she had placed quarters from her hard-earned allowance into the wicker basket. Dutifully she had sung as she gave: Dona Nobis Pacem – Grant Us Peace. At St. Anthony’s Church, in her college town, she also gave, and truly believed she was making a difference. She now sat within earshot of the St. Mary’s soup kitchen and realized a billion offerings would not fill the gap of need. What gnawed at her most: they couldn’t help Lucy find a way home. A reluctant prison labor force would bury her, and Lucy would be erased from humankind’s memory. Carli felt helpless.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat startled her. Carli turned to see Grant standing inside the doorway. “Did I scare you?” he asked.

  “A bit. Why are you sneaking up on people?”

  “Can’t sneak up on anyone with this cold.”

  “Did you get some of the chicken soup?”

  “Hah! The cure-all. Yes, but I couldn’t taste a drop.”

  Carli asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “Oh, not long. Just sharing a little space. Comes in handy. Space, that is. Ask an astronaut. Gives ’em a job and everything.” Standing at the corner of Carli’s pew, he said, “Coffee?”

  “Huh?”

  “Join me. There’s a great little place around the corner.”

  Carli jumped at the chance to finally ask him questions. God knew she had many.

  “Tell me about Lucy,” said Carli.

  “She had quite an impact on you, didn’t she?”

  “I’ve never seen a person die, and I’m wondering why she was here, in a tent.”

  “Why she was here is a mystery,” said Grant. “Often is, until they open up a bit. Lucy was a good one. Really sweet, but paralyzed. Mentally, that is. I couldn’t get her to move out of that archway. She was stuck. I worked damned hard at it. Must have stopped by her tent at least fifty times a month, but I couldn’t get to her. She claimed she had no family and no place to go. Said something once about a car. My guess is she lived in one until it wouldn’t run anymore or gas cost too much.”

  Grant opened the door to Gloria’s and the welcoming scent of fresh coffee. “I almost got her to a shelter once. Sister Anna wa
s going to keep the dogs one day, two days, a couple of weeks, undercover, of course. At the last minute, Lucy refused.” Grant shrugged. “It’s like that a lot. At least she got you to take her dogs. Or, maybe, we should call them her witnesses.”

  “I don’t have them yet, but what do you mean by witnesses?” asked Carli.

  “I’m convinced now that someone poisoned her. Just like the other three. No doubt in my mind. Some scum is out there, trying to send a message, and I aim to find him.”

  Carli bristled. “How do you know?”

  “Just do. I’ve seen it before. They’re still checking surveillance. Wish to God I had stayed with her. I can’t stand watching my friends die.”

  After a long silence, Carli asked, “Do you think she lied? About not having family?”

  “She could have,” said Grant. “But what if she did? Missing Persons will have to find them.”

  A few sips of coffee helped Carli mull over his answer. “Tell me more about your work.”

  “Mobile Outreach?” asked Grant. “That’s easy. Social Services runs it as a citywide program. A bunch of nonprofits hook into the funding and set up Outreach crews in different neighborhoods. I happen to work through Four Bridges, a couple of blocks from here. It has a drop-in center, a couple of social workers, and offers services that help with the first steps off the streets. About five hours a day, or night – my choice – I track down people who are out here and talk. Tell them about beds, medical help, and such. Mostly, I try to connect with them any way I can so they’ll listen and try moving back inside. Sometimes it takes hundreds of contacts. They have to want it. Once inside somewhere, other help follows when they’re ready. I’ve been with Four Bridges about three years now. NYPD has another Outreach program, with nurses and everything. Of course, the city also cleans things up sometimes.”