Clean Sweep

by E. B. Lee

  “It’s just so wrong,” said Carli. She looked straight into Grant’s eyes and felt again the sharp sting of losing her brother, and the equal sting of losing her faith.

  “Come, let’s check on Wilson. Then we’ll look for Vera and Sarah. Clearly, you are chomping at the bit to do more.”

  “You said it. Let’s get something done.”

  It soon became evident that Grant was looking for more than people. Every plant-filled atrium seemed to catch his attention. “Making fun of me?” Carli finally asked.

  “Not at all. Vera lives near a good one, only a block away,” he said with a smirk. “Aquaman Harry doesn’t live near an atrium. But maybe he’ll relocate if it’s planted right.” Grant continued his evaluation. “Wilson might not behave well enough, don’t know. Cedric would have to stash his cans, and Sarah probably won’t want to check her bags anywhere. So ...,” said Grant, looking at Carli, “Canada and his sleeping buds are the option I like best.”

  “Great,” said Carli. “Just great. Thanks.”

  Aside from atrium talk, visits were quiet. By Grant’s account, The Sweep was moving them too damned well, and he was pretty certain they weren’t going in. A double-check at drop-in proved him right.

  “No Wilson,” said Carli, looking across the room.

  “No Cedric,” said Grant.

  “And no Vera.” Both of them saw Lenny sitting in a chair along a wall. Grant approached.

  “When I saw you at the men’s shelter, you said you were thinking about heading home,” said Grant.

  “What for?” asked Lenny.

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t need anybody telling me what to do,” said Lenny. “Not you, my mother, my aunt, no one. Just leave me alone. I’m taking care of myself. Nobody else can do this. Just me.”

  Grant nodded and left him sitting. Carli had learned early that Grant chose carefully his moments to hold and moments to fold. For now, the streets had another.

  The city’s Sweeps meant wandering souls and messed up communiqués. The next week, Outreach was noticeably more somber as a result. Raw morning air, overcast skies, and the feel of an approaching storm didn’t help. To avoid being placed inside, one had to be clever, and the ones Carli knew were. Wilson abandoned his park again, Cedric dipped into a colder alcove, and Sarah vanished, pigeon hook and all. Grant dismissed himself quickly to search for Harry and Grudge. He said his intel told him they had moved from their backup location and were temporarily housed in some hellhole of a vacant building, inhabited by birds, and with no steam grate nearby. Yes, Lenny had started a mess.

  Carli found herself veering from her direct route home. On a hunch, she climbed the steps to the main branch of the library. With rows of arching windows rising high above the books, the main reading room had often seemed an idyllic place to set up an easel and paint. The light was enticing. Even with tables full of people, the room was wide-open and spacious. Carli and Kristin had discovered the room years ago, when they were caught in a sudden downpour. Soaking wet, they had splashed inside and stayed for hours.

  Today, Carli walked on one large floor tile to the next, the entire length of the reading room and back. All the while, she inhaled the scent of scholarly paper that still oozed from the walls, despite the influx of keypads. Of course, she looked to the ceiling of painted sky and clouds, and was momentarily swept away by inner thoughts. Then she descended to the sanctuary set aside for periodicals. It was a masterpiece. Murals covered the room’s walls in tribute to New York publishing houses: Charles Scribner’s Sons, Harper & Brothers, McGraw Hill, and many others. They were all here, the buildings where it all occurred. Carli sat and slowly moved her gaze from one painting to the next, one building to another, one story to the next. How lucky she was to live in New York. She caught sight of the man dozing in a tall yellow armchair, reading light shining beside him. Canada had found soft upholstery to curl heat around his back. Even better, it was in a public building with free access to running water, toilet, drinking fountain, and enough pipe-clanking heat to open his pores to the warmth of civilization, if not civility. As Canada slept, his newspaper slid to the edge of his lap. Without warning, pity crept in. His wife had stopped loving him; look where he ended up. How could Carli feel anything different? Canada awakened with a start and looked at her through glassy eyes. She gave him a minute to scatter the cobwebs.

  “How are you doing?” she asked softly.

  “Good. Good,” he said. It was exactly what Carli expected him to answer.

  “But I’ve got to move on. Grant here?”

  “No, he went looking for Harry and Grudge. He’s been looking for you, too.”

  Canada nodded and then squinted for a better look at a table clock. “Oh boy, ... way past time.” He started to pull himself together and added, “They need me.” With a squirrelly wink, he touched his hand to his pack and said, “They don’t call me D. Jones for nothing.”

  Carli raised her brow.

  “D’s short for Dow.”

  Carli said, “Of course.”

  “Yup. I’ve got my family down there,” said Canada. “They’re so slick, but they come out looking for it. I can see the need in their eyes. I help them, they help me. They leave and I watch how fast they walk, and just imagine how they try to make that elevator climb faster than gravity allows so they can slip into that stall and get what they need.” Carli said nothing. “If I didn’t help them, someone else would. That would be a dirty shame; a loss of business and goodwill.”

  Carli contemplated Canada’s employment and family wrapped in one. Surely, he slept with pockets full of cash, just the ticket for a shelter robbery or worse. Traces of drugs also closed options to a steady shelter or steady job.

  “Say, how are you holding up with The Sweep?” she asked.

  Canada clunked his bag onto the chair, a resigned look emerging on his face. It was back ... the complexity in his eyes. In a flash of a second, Carli saw pain, surrender, and a hint of lost hope. Then she detected something else. Something she had missed before. Denial. “I took a couple of subways. Spending some hours here. I’m okay.”

  “Sure,” she said, staring at his eyes. “Sure.” With a pat on her arm, Canada rambled off. She smelled the scent of banana in his bag and wondered if it was food or drug cover.

  Carli turned full circle for another look at the room. Her eyes stopped on the painting of The New York Herald’s office, late 1800s, near Herald Square. Money had certainly been spent on its construction, as it had been for many city buildings of that era. Artistic details and fine craftmanship had not been spared. Within the walls of this glamorous building, news had been captured and stories put into words for an entire city to read. Carli felt infused with its magnificence and power, until she suddenly realized that certain people had likely always been on the streets, perhaps even in front of the very building that caught her gaze. Just as they were right outside her magnificent library. Rough times were nothing new. Someone would always be out.

  As soon as Carli arrived home, she phoned the one and only Elena Rossi at the fabulous Galleria Elena Lucia Rossi. Elena was one of those very soft-spoken people you literally had to strain your ears to hear, but she had very quietly become a prominent gallery head, mostly by putting together a plethora of highly-regarded and intriguing shows. She had a certain knack, owing mostly to an insatiable curiosity, a very open mind, and a willingness to take risks. Carli was ecstatic Elena had made room for “The First Showing of Tessie Whitmore’s Landscapes and Waterscapes.” What had intrigued Elena most about Tessie’s proposed exhibit was it would be the first time that Tessie Whitmore, of TSW Inc. fame, was mounting a show of her own creative works. Elena was certain it would garner interest from all those who knew TSW for its advertising prominence. Elena, herself, couldn’t wait to see it. Carli was grateful for her confidence and support.

  “Hello, my darling,” said Elena. “My mind has been absolutely spinning with ideas for you, but you first. What
’s new?”

  Carli gave a hint of her first completed waterscape, the calmest of calm ocean pieces. Elena said, “I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but this is killing me. Please, send a photo.”

  Then Carli gave updates on timing and progress. Together they discussed details of the exhibition space, signage, lighting, and opening day buzz. When shop talk was complete, Elena and Carli hit upon the subject of Outreach. Elena knew a couple of people who volunteered with Outreach in her neighborhood. Elena was impressed, but not surprised, by Carli’s compassion to help. Carli suddenly felt part of a bigger mission, transcending the bounds of her helping two Manhattan street women. The grip of Outreach had bigger meaning, didn’t it? Yes, Elena also had a certain knack for inspiring.

  Immediately after the call, Carli stepped into her studio. It had nagged at her for weeks that she still hadn’t gotten it right. Today, she finally saw what she had been missing. In the midst of the library, she caught, in Canada’s eyes, that tiniest flicker of denial. It had an odd sparkle to it. A false sparkle. It was the full definition of denial – a mask and a coping mechanism that was giving Canada time to adjust to his distressing situation. It was also preventing him from tackling his pain and moving on. As she put her pencils down, she knew she had finally done it. They were ever-so-slight—the changes in shape and light—but they put denial in place.

  Carli reached the base of the steps at St. Mary’s and shielded her face from the mid-morning sun just in time to watch Grant leap over the same five steps to meet her.

  “Ready?” he asked. “Let’s go!”

  He moved full throttle, despite averaging three hours of sleep a night the past three days. His commitment to finding his clan astonished her.

  “I’m used to it,” he said, in answer to Carli’s questioning look. To be sure, Carli thought, he looked none the worse for wear. “We’re doing the park first. Sarah’s up there somewhere. I can feel it, but I haven’t spotted her.” He spoke quickly and decisively. “You look for Sarah. I’ll look for Harry, in case he’s poking around in there too.” When they entered the lower end of the park, he finished his directive. “Meet me here in twenty minutes. No need to do anything. Just tell me if you find her … and where.”

  The February sun felt surprisingly warm. Empty park benches did not. God only knew where Sarah was or what The Sweep was doing to her already-shattered life. It must have been the reason Grant kept moving. And the reason Carli felt a twinge of panic.

  “No sight of her,” Carli reported.

  “Figures. I lost a bunch of the guys, too.” He gave a quick glance, distracted by thoughts, and said, “Say, look, I need to pick up the pace, catch a couple of subways, run into a few fringe spots. You might not want to come. Actually, I need to go alone. Well, you could come, but … no, better not.”

  Grant’s words tumbled out quickly. Faster than ever, in fact. Carli was happy to give him space. Seeing him this way was frightening. Then he said, “Let’s check with Mercy first.”

  Carli said, “Let’s go.” It would give Mercy a first-hand account of Grant’s unusually frenzied behavior, and it might give them both a chance to ask about the poison.

  Half walking and half jogging, they covered twenty city blocks in less than seven minutes, far faster than usual. Mercy barely hung up the phone when Grant barged into her office and asked, “Any luck with Lenny?”

  Mercy smiled. “Hello to you, too.”

  Grant seemed annoyed by the reply. Mercy said, “Any luck with Lenny, you ask? Are you kidding? Of course. He’s one angry young man, with a lot of petty crimes behind him, but I see something that looks promising. I spoke with his aunt. I’m hoping she stops in soon, while he’s still here. It might be what starts to bring him back.” Looking at Carli, Mercy said, “Sometimes, seeing someone they know does that. It reaches them. Starts to bring them awake to the possibilities.”

  Carli said, “Makes sense. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “You should know I found Wilson,” said Grant. “He made them take him in. Probably only wanted the heat. Instead, they slapped him with another ‘public consumption.’ No doubt got a detox referral as well. So, you might not see him for a while.”

  Carli wondered when Wilson would hit rock bottom. It was a dire thing to wish for, but something had to steer him toward help. Carli turned to Mercy. “Sarah hasn’t been here, has she?”

  Mercy opened her mouth to answer, but Grant interrupted. “Sarah’ll never come here,” he said. His voice sounded both angry and impatient. “But you two go ahead and talk it over for as long as you like. I’m going to Clinton and the West Side. Lots to check. See you next week.”

  Carli and Mercy watched Grant sprint out of drop-in, barely minutes after arriving. Then, Carli looked at Mercy with raised eyebrows. Mercy nodded slowly.

  “So, what was that?” asked Carli.

  “Not sure. I’ve seen him like this a few times. I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Mercy. Carli would be keeping an eye on him as well.

  Heading home, Carli took a detour, hoping to find Cedric, to ask how he was doing. Nothing big, but she was curious. When she found no one home, it was oddly disappointing. Turning a corner, she happened upon Vera. It was time to show some courage.

  “Vera!” Carli shouted. Vera spun around. “How are you doing?”

  Vera looked uninterested in talking, but, surprisingly, said, “I just saw me a movie.” Carli was happy to hear it. And happy to see Vera wearing pants under her long brown skirt. It was a definite upgrade from navy-blue anklets.

  “What did you see?” she asked.

  “One of those kiddy films,” said Vera. “It was nice and peaceful. I like to see all the little ones and their families who go to watch it, too. Just don’t like the scary parts. It’s too much for the real little ones.”

  Carli knew a movie was a great excuse to find heat but let the subject slide, asking, “Where are you headed?”

  “Home,” said Vera.

  “Home?” Carli exploded with hope.

  “You know, my spot.”

  “Is that really your home?” asked Carli.

  Vera straightened up, puckered her lips, and glared. Carli had pushed too hard, without a proper foundation. Vera gave her a few more moments to feel the guilt before giving the lecture.

  “I had my good life,” said Vera. “Fifty years with the same man.” She nodded and said, “That’s gone now. All I have now is checks and vouchers and a landlord who made it tough. Medical costs go up, and I don’t feel like going to some strange place with a bunch of weepy old ladies.”

  “What about your arthritis? And your eyes? Don’t you want help?” asked Carli. “You know, we even have doctors. They can come right to you.”

  “No,” said Vera. “That’s exactly what I don’t want. Doctors don’t know a thing. If they did, my husband would still be with me.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Carli.

  “It’s a long story. Too long for today.”

  As Carli listened, she recalled Mercy’s words from day one. Yes, Carli wanted to whack Vera over the head and knock a different kind of sense into her. Instead, Carli ended the conversation, saying, “Movies, huh? That sounds like a good idea.” For now, she would let her concerns go, to build a bit of trust.

  When Carli entered her workspace, she felt as though the studio was magically opening unseen arms to give her a hug and sanctuary from the troubled world of Outreach. She couldn’t wait to step up to her easel and squeeze masses of oily pigments from their tubes.

  She started with a mix of blues and greens, a dab of white, and a smaller dab of midnight black. She lifted a thick, short-bristled brush and started mixing. It was her third seascape. The waves were erupting exactly as she wanted. They were powerful, fierce, seemingly defiant; nothing could contain them. Murky green brushstrokes created hints of sand dragged up from the seafloor to tumble ahead part and parcel with the racing water. Sea spray shot upward. She glared at the watery scene. In her mi
nd, Carli heard the explosive clash of the three waves slamming together, breaking apart, and releasing their energy in a forward, reckless rush. She forced this energy onto her canvas. She felt a fine salty mist filling pockets of air and smelled remnants of seaweed, shells, and disintegrating sea life infused in its mist. She sent the feel of this nearly sheer maritime haze floating above her waves. Finally, she fought to combine mystery, danger, and allure into a single tangled brushstroke of intermingled colors, to draw a person’s inquisitive eyes, like a magnet drew metal, smack into the heart of the watery clamor, where a person instinctively knew he should never go. Finally, she was painting again! It was exhilarating. When Carli set down her brushes for the last time, she collapsed on her bed, with a dog on either side of her. Whatever happened with Outreach, she felt secure again with her painting.

  On a sun-filled afternoon, which felt marvelously spring-like, Carli took a needed break from her painting and followed her whims from one street to the next, enjoying the stream of displays in window-glass storefronts. It was like viewing a world of make-believe. Molded mannequins waved at her and struck a myriad of poses, all in the latest fashions—seductive dresses, dinner jackets, and fashionably-torn jeans. Modernistic, straight-lined mannequins, crafted from colored Lucite, posed as though hailing taxis, but their real purpose was to share flashes of glimmering accessories – jewelry, handbags, and scarves. In instant after instant, these, and others, mentally whisked her off the streets into their made-up lives.

  Displays, she thought, silently laughing, were one part each of advertising, marketing, and dream machine. When she turned away from a garish display of houndstooth, with the characteristically-patterned fabric fashioned into jackets, boots, pants, shorts, coats, and leggings, she found herself smack in the middle of Vera’s neighborhood. Carli was drawn to a sidewalk cart by the very distinct scent of fresh hot pretzels. It was somewhat sweet, somewhat smoky; almost popcorn-scented, but it hinted of dough, and burned dough at that.