by E. B. Lee
Two days after Christmas, Carli finally found Grant at St. Mary’s. She gave him her decision to try Outreach for one part-day a week. “I knew I could count on you,” he said. “That they could count on you.” He scratched a few words on a napkin and said, “Go to this address and complete the paperwork. Meet me here, at Lucy’s church, as you call it, next Wednesday at eleven. We’ll have you making visits in no time.”
Carli asked about his holidays.
“Holidays? Quiet. Always quiet, which is good.”
Early the next day, Carli visited Mercy Gonzalez, a social worker and Outreach Manager at Four Bridges. A half flight of stairs, running alongside the front of the building, led from street level to the basement level door. A remnant of police tape hung limply from the metal handrail. Carli stepped past and admired the brickwork around the 1930s entry before she swung open the door and descended the final four steps. In front of her was a room filled with people, sitting one person to a chair in crooked rows.
Grant had made it sound so simple, meeting two women. Instinct told her she was making a mistake as she looked at the people around her. These were people’s lives she was about to enter. Not brands. Not campaigns. Not a simple serving to someone in a lunch line. Why had she felt so invincible, let alone the least bit qualified to help? Because Grant had said she could do it? Because she had reached out to Harry on the street? What was she thinking? Carli stared across the room and caught the flash of a waving hand. She focused more closely. It was Leo from the op-ed table ... reaching out ... to her! Marvin sat one seat to his left. Carli slowly lifted her hand in return and felt surprisingly more capable. Worst case, she thought, it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few more questions. Carli proceeded through the room of chairs to step into Mercy’s office, but not until she gave a light tap to Leo and Marvin’s shoulders, and they, in turn, did the same to her.
Mercy was a slight woman, wearing an updo with product, and a vibrant red, yellow, and black large-print blouse. Mercy’s shimmering red lipstick played beautifully off the rest of her attire. Eyeglasses hanging from a gold chain around her neck were big, bright, and green. Mercy had style and clearly wasn’t shy. Not about her self-image, and, as Carli had learned from life experience, likely not about life either. In contrast to this bold exterior, Mercy exuded the warmest, most gentle welcome as she stood, extended her right hand to shake, and placed her left hand on top of Carli’s as she did. All Mercy said was, “Carli, so nice to meet you,” but her words and handshake combined to immediately bring Mercy into Carli’s confidences.
“Please, sit,” said Mercy. “And tell me what’s on your mind.”
“You know this is new to me,” said Carli. “And it hadn’t crossed my mind to join Outreach. So, I need to know if the two women I’ll be seeing are ever violent,” said Carli. “I don’t know how any of this works.”
“Vera? Sarah? Not a chance,” said Mercy. “No worries there. We wouldn’t have you reach out to them if they were.”
“Are they anything like Bruce?”
Mercy knew Bruce. “No, not at all.”
Carli felt better. “Last, I need to know why someone is poisoning street people,” said Carli.
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s what Grant told the police. When Lucy died, he said they should check for poison.”
“I see,” said Mercy. “I don’t know about poisoning. Not with Lucy. Not with anyone else. I’ll have to ask him.”
“No one’s been poisoned? Grant was mighty adamant about it.”
“Not that I know of, but I’ll double-check.” Then, Mercy said, “I don’t know how well you know Grant. I don’t expect very well yet. Our other employees and volunteers go out as teams. We try to keep tabs on just under a hundred street sleepers. Grant checks on more than anyone, and he’s done a whole lot of good work. Unbelievably good work. He prefers to reach out on his own, and we give him leeway because he’s so successful at connecting and persuading them to come inside for help. His methods aren’t typical. Sometimes they are ... well, a bit baffling, to put it mildly, but I trust him. Just like I trust his judgment in asking you to help.” Mercy stared straight at Carli. “Anything else?”
Carli had decided ahead of time to finally reveal the truth. Deceiving another person, especially Mercy, would put Carli over the edge. Of course, Mercy’s welcome manner made it easier. If Mercy sent her away on account of it, Carli would move on without regret.
“Before we discuss any more details,” Carli started, “I have something to share. It’s about my name ... and it’s a bit embarrassing.”
Mercy looked interested.
Carli explained her name change for the Church Run and the soup kitchen. Mercy listened intently and then said, “I see. Mind me asking who you really are? Confidentially, of course.”
Carli hesitated. “Tessie Whitmore. I’m Tessie Whitmore.”
“I see. And I understand,” said Mercy. “I thought you looked familiar. It must have been from your pictures in the news.”
Carli nodded; her point taken.
Mercy took in a deep breath as she looked toward the ceiling. “Anonymity isn’t something unusual when it comes to donations and charity. Maybe not so common when talking about volunteers and donated time. You’re not the first person to come in here under an alias, however. Not likely to be the last either. Hell, a few of our clients have three names. IDs to match.” Mercy let out a staccato laugh. “But that’s a different story,” said Mercy, more calmly. “You’re not getting paid, so we don’t have to worry about the legalities of payroll. And, as I said, plenty of people give one thing or another anonymously. Why don’t you give me a name, address, and contact person. Just fill out the forms as Carli. I’ll know who you are. And I’ll keep it confidential.”
It sounded easy. Kristin’s name and number went into the system as an emergency contact.
“Well, welcome aboard. If you have any troubles with anything, get in touch. Any day. Any night. This is my card.”
Carli took the card and prepared to leave, thankful to have such a good ally.
“And by the way,” said Mercy. “Congratulations on your company’s buy-out.”
Carli looked up.
“For the record,” said Mercy, “and full disclosure ... When I saw it in the news, I marked you down as someone to chase down for a donation. We’re always looking for funds. But, don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone. Just want you to know I like seeing people succeed.”
Nine
Carli was as ready as she would be. She gave Lila and Terrance extra treats and headed to the street for her first day of Outreach, intent on saving two women. Despite the many unknowns, she felt certain of success. From a distance, she spotted Grant’s backside, along with the stern-looking faces of two New York City police officers. Before she reached Grant outside St. Mary’s, the police dispersed.
“Was that about Lucy again?” she asked.
“No,” said Grant. “Something different. They’re looking for leads.”
“What happened?”
“A homeless man was mugged. Gave him a big gash, and nearly cracked his skull, but he’s conscious. A lousy New Year’s gift, huh?”
Carli couldn’t believe it. It had made the news, but she hadn’t caught the full story. “Do they know who did it?”
Grant looked straight ahead. “No.” Looking at Carli, he added, “I talked with him in the hospital. His name’s Lenny. He says he doesn’t know who did it. These people get victimized pretty regularly. Usually, it’s kids. The police already talked to me yesterday. They stopped by looking for anything new. One thing about being out here, Carli, you learn a lot … about everything.
“Anyway, welcome to Outreach,” he said. Grant extended a cup of coffee. “Take this. It’ll warm you. Our first stop today is Penn Station.” Grant glanced at Carli’s hat, coat, and shoes and said, “Glad you dressed sensibly.”
Together they crossed the street.
“Nervous?
” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“But you couldn’t say no, could you?”
“No ... I couldn’t.” Her voice quieted.
“You have it in you. Like it or not. The passion.”
Carli shook her head. Someday she might tell him about Henry.
“If it makes you feel better, I’m nervous too,” he said. His words stopped her short. “Yeah, I never had a partner before.” His grin erupted into a full smile. “Much as you are going to hate this notion,” said Grant, “you are not going to solve the city’s problems in one day. For now, and the next couple of weeks, it’s introductions only. We’ll meet some of the men I keep tabs on, so you get a feel for what goes on out here and learn what’s available to them. After that, I’ll introduce you to the two women. So, watch and follow my lead. All we’re doing is meeting people. We’ll both know when you’re ready to take on the women. And when they’re ready to consider letting you into their lives.”
“Sure,” said Carli. “No problem.” Watching would be fine.
Carli and Grant slipped quickly down the city blocks until Grant flashed his hand to the side and said, “We have to make a detour. It looks like Wilson.” They made a beeline to a pocket park where a man with a brown bag barely held himself stable on a battered picnic table. Grant slowed, to come upon him gently.
“Wilson. It’s me, Grant.” He let the words sink in and slowed his approach even more. “Wilson, how are you?”
Wilson looked drowsily upward, coddling his brown bag. “Oh, Grant. Why you always asking me that?”
Wilson’s salt and pepper stubble looked relatively cared for compared to his coat and clothes, which had missed many trips to the laundry and were covered with food waste. His overcoat was fully buttoned. Unfortunately, its two top buttons were missing, leaving plenty of bare skin exposed. In his one hundred proof state, Wilson, a large-framed man, looked tiny.
“Wilson, this is Carli. She’s volunteering with Four Bridges. You’ll be seeing her with me sometimes.”
Wilson opened his eyes a bit more.
“Okay?” asked Grant.
Wilson nodded.
“Did you go in yesterday?” asked Grant.
“Yeah, I’ve been in.”
“Safe harbor or drop-in?”
“Both.”
Grant huffed a deep breath out. Wilson looked away, trying to hide his lie.
“Ernesto can’t keep you in his deli, and it’s too cold to stay here all day,” said Grant. “Get yourself to the day center. And maybe get yourself a new coat too.”
Wilson gave his coat a slow once over and came up looking confused. “What do I need that for? Took me a long time to get this one. Besides, it’s got good pockets, inside and all.”
Grant shot Carli a quick glance, then gently grasped Wilson’s lapel with his bare hands. “Looks like about an inch, maybe inch and a half.” Reaching under his own coat, Grant fished out a quarter from his pants pocket and placed it against one of Wilson’s remaining buttons. “Perfect fit,” said Grant. “I’ll see what I can find.” He offered the quarter to Wilson. “Here, take this for your food collection and get inside, my friend. They’ll get you a special order of heat.”
Wilson was smiling like a child. The coat was still his. He slowly raised himself from the picnic table, assessing his ability to stand, and began a side-to-side rock toward the park gate. Mid-stride, Wilson suddenly changed course to head toward the back of the park. Grant lightly grabbed Carli by the arm. “You probably want to keep facing the street.”
A few minutes later, Carli heard Wilson rustling toward them through uncut autumn ragweed. “It’s not like I like to do that,” said Wilson, “but some people’s getting more particular about their toilets. Gotta keep my ticket for the big stuff.”
Carli remained silent. She had smelled it, of course, on hydrants, walls, park fences, subways, and more. With over a hundred toilets, easy, in Wilson’s favorite block alone, he had given her a quick lesson, using the only toilet available to him.
Unfazed, Grant responded. “There’re toilets at the drop-in. Showers too. Get a hot meal and get inside. You know where to go, right?”
Wilson knew where to go.
“I’ll check on him later,” said Grant, resuming course with Carli. “I’ve been trying to get him to rehab for almost a year. The social worker you met at the drop-in center – Mercy – she’s been talking with him too. He keeps refusing. He tries self-detox. Tries AA. Then he leaves. Tries again with support. Between you and me, I think he only does it for the three hots and a bed because then he leaves, time and again. They don’t call it failure. No, it’s relapse. But trust me, it feels like failure, until it turns to guilt. Then it feels like impossible, and finally, ‘screw it’ – acceptance. Denial works to a point. When I don’t see him for a while, I figure he’s in the hospital. Unfortunately, it’s likely only a matter of time.”
“What’s his story?” asked Carli.
“If what he says is true, and I believe most of it, he and his wife both worked, but then she died in some horrible freak accident. Painful and abrupt. Then he lost his only son in a military accident. After that, he couldn’t keep it together enough to work. The rest just followed. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he doesn’t. Our job isn’t learning all the whys of his life or anyone else’s. It’s fine, of course, if they want to share, but a lot usually stays bottled up. Our biggest hurdle is making a strong enough connection that they trust us and see the value of shelter, medical help, and other services. Often, it happens only when they’re as far down as a person can go. Desperate. Once they’re inside, and safe from the elements, they can usually get food easier, and social workers can direct them to more professionals and resources to get to the heart of how they ended up on the streets. It’s always a long road. And it’s different for each one out here.” Grant stood for a moment. “One of the best things we can do is show them they aren’t being forgotten; that they are not alone, and that there are still plenty of people who want to help.”
“Compassion,” said Carli.
“Exactly. Compassion. Not pity,” he said. Grant resumed walking. “What I find works best with Wilson is ... well, seeing him in the early afternoon, if I find him, and then sitting with him for about fifteen minutes, just letting him know I care about him. He likes to talk about food. Oddly enough, he also brings up perfume from time to time. Unfortunately, he’s in a pretty big fog a lot of the time, and that’s a barrier.”
“Is either of my two women like this?” asked Carli.
“Vera? Sarah? No. Neither is doing substances.”
Carli nodded. “Good to know.”
“Some days, Wilson jingles a cup in the Thirties and Forties to raise cash. Thirty-Third Street is his favorite. There’s a deli there – Ernesto’s – that doesn’t mind him being outside their door. When he’s really bad, we take him to our drop-in if we can. You’ll see that soon enough. When I say ‘we,’ I mean me; or others from Four Bridges if they see him first. There are two others reaching out to him. Some nights, he goes to a safe haven shelter. They’re easier to get into than a more permanent shelter. Less paperwork involved. Fewer questions asked. Substance issues are no barrier to entry. Often, he’s too disruptive to stay in another shelter anyway. Maybe a couple of new buttons will help get him inside.
“Buttons?”
“Sometimes it’s the smallest connection that tips the scale. Wilson’s the one who has to decide to change, though. Remember that.”
Grant swung open the door to Penn Station with a hefty tug. “Next stop: Cedric’s place. There’s no guarantee he’s here, but odds are good this time of day. Transit tries not to chase him out, but the place has to be neat, and he can’t go sleeping on the benches. Cedric’s usually good about it.”
Carli trailed Grant through the maze of a station. In between intercom announcements she got the rundown. “Cedric is my latest success story. It took about a year and a half to get him
under a roof, but he finally tried it, a men’s shelter not too far from here. By day he’s a can man. Spends all day collecting and redeeming cans. He doesn’t want to look into any of the other options yet. For that year and a half, he wouldn’t go inside because he couldn’t take his cans into the shelter. Sometimes he can’t redeem them and has to keep them overnight. He could go up to the redemption center, but he doesn’t want to. He found a place where he can leave his cans overnight if needed, but he won’t tell me where it is. He’s very secretive about it. I just have to find out if he’s been bussed anywhere. That would definitely put him back outside. By his choice.”
“Bussed?” asked Carli.
“Yeah. Sometimes the police or the station sweep up all our people they can find, and they get bussed over to Queens or Ward’s. Once there, they don’t track the people through the assessment centers. They can end up anywhere. It’s lousy.”
“Ward’s Island? Near Hart’s and Lucy?” asked Carli.
“Exactly.”
Grant stepped off the escalator and said, “He has his vices. Booze, definitely. Pot as well. According to Cedric, he tried crack once and has no plans to try it again. He didn’t say why not. Basically, Cedric pieces life together a nickel at a time. His willingness to work this hard tells me he has potential.” Grant pointed out Cedric with a quick lift of his chin. “Over there on the bench.” Carli saw Cedric sitting upright, bagel in hand.