Good Man, Dalton

by Karen McQuestion

  Diego took out a bottle and traded it for his money. “Here you go, sir.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I sit for a minute?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Since he’d just given them two dollars, they decided he was okay. He heard their story and how they coped. This water business provided them with enough money to eat and even sometimes extra for things like toiletries. But they wanted something better. They knew how middle-class America lived, and they wanted it for themselves. A safe apartment, a fridge full of food, a bed to sleep in, and dinner together every evening at their very own kitchen table. “That’s not asking for too much, is it?” Lauren asked softly.

  “No, it’s not too much to ask. But most people work full-time to get those things.”

  “I would work full-time,” Diego said, resting his hand on his girlfriend’s knee. “I totally would. I’d work more than full-time if they’d let me.” Lauren nodded in agreement.

  “So—and I’m not saying this to be a smart-ass; I really want to know—what’s stopping you?”

  He shrugged. “Who would hire me? Lots of people are looking for jobs. Why would they pick me? Look at me. I don’t have the right clothes. I need a haircut. I have no home address to put on an application, only an email. I have a record for shoplifting. Believe me, I was screwed in life before I even got here.”

  Twenty feet away, two guys who looked like college students threw a Frisbee back and forth. One guy tossed it so it spiraled above his friend’s head. The other guy leaped into the air like he had springs for feet. He snatched it, hanging in midair for a split second, with only space around him, the sky above and the grass below. It was a sight to behold.

  “Great catch,” Lauren said, shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand.

  Dalton had one last question for Diego, and it was the question that had started his two-week homeless experiment. “What would help? What would turn things around for you so you could get off the streets and into the life you want?”

  He gazed off in the distance. Just when Dalton thought he wasn’t going to answer, he narrowed his eyes and said, “I need someone and something I can count on to pull me through.”

  Dalton picked at a blade of grass. “Like at a shelter? Consistent rules you can count on?”

  “No, no.” His brow furrowed. “Not like a shelter at all. Shelters are just places to put people. They don’t differentiate. The crazy ones get mixed in with the ones who just need some help, a hand up.”

  “So you’d like a different kind of shelter? Or some kind of program that’s set up just for you?”

  “I don’t want someone telling me what to do,” Diego said. He gestured, indicating himself and Lauren. “We’re not stupid. We know what we want, and we know how we screwed up in the past. We own it. The help we need is in going forward.”

  “Right. I think I get it.”

  He wasn’t done, though, and now he leaned toward Dalton, his finger wagging. “The problem with the shelters and the programs is that everything is compartmentalized. You got one set of people running the food program and one group doing the addiction counseling and other people that help you look for housing. They try to put a human face on it. They call us guests or clients.” He finger-quoted the two words. “But it’s all a farce. No one knows you, and no one has enough time, and if you stop showing up, no one’s going to wonder what happened to you. They just move on to the next sad person.”

  A woman holding a little boy’s hand stopped in front of them, two dollars held out to Diego. He handed her a bottle. “Here you go, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She gestured to her child. “Can my son take some ice?”

  “Of course.”

  The little boy, maybe four years old, surveyed the ice as if trying to decide, then plunged his hand in and pulled out a fistful. “Whoa!” he said, water dripping off his arm.

  “Pretty cold, huh?” Diego laughed.

  The woman thanked them, and they walked off, the boy still clutching his handful of ice. The whole scene struck Dalton as being so normal. A couple sitting on a blanket selling water in the park, interacting with a customer in a friendly way. Except for their appearance, they were just like other kids he’d met in college.

  With a jolt, he realized that although he’d prided himself on being compassionate, he’d thought on some level that the homeless were not quite as smart as other people. Hearing Diego use words like compartmentalized and differentiate made him realize how mistaken he’d been. Diego had expressed what was wrong with the system in a concise and informed way and given Dalton more insight than all the articles he’d read.

  Diego was right in that one size didn’t fit all. Social workers and those who worked in the shelters and programs for the homeless were, from what he saw, well meaning and hardworking. But the problem was overwhelming, and each client had different problems, some of them not readily apparent. They tried. Most of them did the best they could with the resources they had.

  Even with all the good they did, there were failures too. Folks they tried to help went back to a life of drugs or crime, despite their best efforts. No wonder there was so much burnout in the field.

  As the afternoon wore on, Diego and Lauren sold all their water inventory. “You did well,” Dalton commented.

  “We usually do,” Lauren said. “We used to have a shopping cart, and we’d go to the bus stops where the tourists were waiting in line. Standing in the sun makes people hot and thirsty. One day we made three hundred bucks. We kept restocking and going back. It was crazy.”

  “You don’t do that anymore?”

  “Nah,” she said. “Someone stole our cart when we were sleeping. Diego woke up and took off after him, but when he caught up to the guy, the jerk’s friend knocked him down and punched him, like, eight times. Gave him a black eye.”

  “I totally could have taken both of them if I’d been more awake,” Diego said, as if this story were an affront to his manhood. “They caught me off guard.”

  At dinnertime, they told him about a soup kitchen nearby where the food wasn’t all that bad. “The people who run it are so nice,” Lauren said.

  They weren’t going, because they said they had other plans. Other plans? Dalton was curious but didn’t ask. “Thanks for letting me hang out with you this afternoon,” he said. “Would you mind giving me your email address? If I come across any job opportunities, I’ll let you know.” Diego jotted it down and handed it to him, and then Dalton was on his way, off to have his very first meal in a soup kitchen. This experience was turning out to be different from what he’d expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t boring.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Greta had finished a call to her mom and was plugging her phone into the charger when there was a loud rapping on her bedroom door. The unexpectedness of it made her jump. The clock read just past eleven o’clock, and she had only the small bedside lamp on, which made it all the more eerie. “Yes?” she called out.

  “It’s Katrina.”

  She crossed the room and opened the door, hoping the lack of light helped her appearance. Her pajamas were comfortable but worn, and her freshly washed face revealed blotchy skin and dark under-eye circles. Katrina had a manila envelope clutched to her chest and a funny look on her face. Greta asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “Can I come in?” she whispered.

  “Of course.” Greta let her in, then closed the door quietly behind her.

  “I just wanted to let you know that Vance and I are leaving.”

  “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “That’s the great part,” she said, and then a sudden grin broke out like she couldn’t help herself. “We don’t know yet. All we know is that we’re heading to the airport and flying far, far away.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Never, if we can help it.” She thrust the envelope into Greta’s hands. “We’re leaving you in charge.”

  “I don’t get it.” Greta wasn
’t playing dumb; she really didn’t get it. “Does Cece know about this?”

  “No one knows but our attorney. And you, of course. Vance and I, we can’t thank you enough, Greta. There was only the one loophole, and it didn’t look like that was ever going to happen. We thought we were stuck in this job forever. Then little Greta Hansen from Wisconsin comes along with her Jesus sandals and knockoff purse, and the next thing we know, Cece’s saying you’re her favorite and her very best friend.” Her eyes widened. “And I’m like, yes! Thank God that woman in the restaurant made a video. It’s already out there going viral.”

  As Katrina spelled it out, the pieces came together for Greta. She put a hand to her forehead and said, “Oh, I get it. I’m the best friend replacement. Which means you’re now released from your contract.”

  “That’s right! We are free. Our attorney said this satisfies the clause in the contract.” She grabbed Greta’s shoulders and pulled her in for a hug. “If I live to be a hundred, I can honestly say I’ll never forget you, Greta Hansen. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Vance and I will be watching to see how this all plays out from wherever we are.”

  She was crushing Greta. They were a sandwich with the manila envelope in the middle. Greta said, “Are you going to tell Cece before you go?”

  Katrina pulled away before answering. “We thought about waiting a day or two so we could tell her ourselves and get her used to the idea, but honestly, Greta? We’re afraid she’ll try to talk us out of it, and that would make it even harder. This way will be like pulling off a Band-Aid. Painful, but over quickly.” She glanced at the floor. “We really do love Cece and don’t want to hurt her. We just need to live our own lives, you know?”

  “I know, but she’s going to be so upset.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s unavoidable. But we have a letter for her in the envelope that explains everything. You can give it to her tomorrow. The keys to our apartment are in there too. It also has the next few weeks’ schedule and everything else you need. Vance and I covered every detail, so you’ll be able to take over for us.”

  A wave of panic came over Greta. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, sounding assured, but Greta wasn’t convinced. Really, how much did Katrina know about her? They’d known each other for such a short time. Katrina had no idea how long it took Greta to catch on to things that had more than two steps. Another problem? She was a big-time daydreamer. Sometimes she got so lost in thought that she drove past her exit on the expressway. How could someone so spacey be trusted to take over Firstborn Daughter, Inc.?

  “You’ll do fine,” Katrina repeated. “Just read through the information in the envelope. I’m not sure exactly where we’ll be, but you can try texting us if you have a question. And Nanny can help in a pinch. That woman’s a saint. Seriously, a saint, and she knows everything about this family. I don’t know what they pay her, but it’s not enough.”

  An unfamiliar ping came from behind Katrina. “Just a minute.” She took her cell phone out of her back pocket and stared at the screen. “It’s Vance. He got us a cab, and he’s wondering what’s taking me so long. I have to go.”

  “No, no, wait!” Greta grabbed her arm. “I can’t be in charge. I don’t even know what’s happening tomorrow.”

  “It’s okay, Greta, no one expects perfection. Besides, tomorrow’s easy. Cece has a formal dinner, a fund-raiser for one of her debutante friends. It’s called the Forgotten Man Ball. It’s supposed to be this thing where the high-society ladies bring some guy they want to thank, someone who normally wouldn’t go to one of these affairs. You know, like the family house manager or the doorman. We set it up so she’ll be taking Michael.”

  “The driver?”

  “That’s the one. I’m not going to lie to you, I wasn’t looking forward to this Forgotten Man Ball thing. Dinner and then dancing, all of it very formal. I thought it sounded completely lame, and to make it even worse, Michael is a pain in the ass. Vance and I were scheduled to go as a pair, but now we’re off the hook.” She practically sang the last few words. “You’ll have to go as a single, but I think it will be fine. You probably won’t have to mess with paparazzi or getting mobbed by fans. It’s a private event, so you only have to worry about the exposure you and Cece will get from the car to the banquet hall and then back again.”

  So many words flew in Greta’s direction that only a few registered in her brain. “I don’t get it,” she said, feeling her anxiety level rising. “This is way beyond me. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

  “It’s all in the envelope,” Katrina repeated. “Vance and I are sorry to leave you hanging like this, but Cece has taken a liking to you, and I can tell you’ll do great. We’re giving you the baton; just run with it.”

  “The baton?”

  “Metaphorically speaking.” She smiled. “Just breathe, okay? Take it day by day, hour by hour. Read all the information, and if you still don’t understand something, ask Nanny or shoot us a text.” The phone in her hand pinged again, and when she glanced at the screen, her face lit up with joy. Greta had seen hundreds of images of her on social media but had never seen her smile that big. “I’m sorry, Greta, but I have to go.”

  The thing was, she didn’t sound sorry at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At the soup kitchen, Dalton had a more than adequate meal, which turned out not to be soup at all but a kind of stew ladled over rice, served with canned peaches and a cold cup of water. The joy of eating at a table with other people made up for the long wait in line.

  All too soon, it was over, and he was on the streets again.

  If there were a guidebook for being homeless in New York, sleeping under a bridge would be listed as a must-do, so of course he had to do just that. It wasn’t hard to find one. There were lots of bridges in the city. He located one in Central Park and settled down in an unoccupied spot on one end for his night’s sleep. The concrete above him was almost like a ceiling, or so he tried to tell himself. He was still more exposed than he wanted to be, but with his money and harmonica in his pocket and his ReadyHelp device hanging around his neck, there wasn’t much to steal. True, there was a chance of being randomly attacked, but he was a pretty big guy and wasn’t too worried. His last concern—getting picked up by the police for whatever and getting jailed for a night—sounded less like a problem and more like checking into the Comfort Inn.

  He looped his arm through the strap of his backpack and positioned it to be a pillow. Comfortable? Not really. But he remembered all the stories he’d heard from folks who’d had their possessions stolen while they slept. There was no way he was letting that happen.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Greta tossed and turned all night, worrying about how she was supposed to take over Katrina’s and Vance’s jobs, positions they’d had and refined over the course of years. She’d read over everything in the envelope multiple times. They’d been thorough, listing schedules and contact information, along with little personal notes telling her the best way to prod Cece along when she dug her heels in and didn’t want to do something. They made her sound like an overtired toddler rather than an adult woman living a life she didn’t choose.

  Katrina and Vance did the film editing themselves, but only because they preferred to have control. A note in the envelope said a woman named Nina who was part of the camera crew could do the editing for her. Vance had written: Be very specific about what you want, though, because Nina tends to add her own embellishments. What did he mean by embellishments? Greta had no idea.

  Greta yearned to call her mom, but even though it was an hour earlier in Wisconsin, she knew her mother would already be sound asleep. She pulled out her own Vanderhaven contract, seeing what would happen if she up and quit. Every cell in her body wanted to shake off this responsibility and go home to her family. The contract didn’t spell out the repercussions for leaving before the end of the summer, but she knew they co
uldn’t be good.

  After about fifteen minutes, she made a decision. She would stay. For one thing, she’d signed a contract, but even if that weren’t the case, quitting when things got hard wasn’t the way she operated. It would be humiliating to go home now.

  Besides, how could she leave Cece? She’d just lost Katrina and Vance. Greta didn’t want to abandon her during a crisis.

  Luckily, the next day was Saturday with nothing scheduled during the day, so that gave her time to figure things out. Saturday evening, as Katrina had mentioned, was the Forgotten Man Ball. Greta read in the notes that the event was organized by one of Cece’s fellow debutantes. She vaguely remembered hearing that Cece had been a debutante, but she was a little shaky on what the position entailed, so she googled to find out more and came across an article mentioning Cece by name. At seventeen, Cece had been one of forty-six young women to come out that season at the International Debutante Ball held at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. There was a photo of Cece wearing a white strapless gown and long white gloves. She looked stunning, like a movie star from the 1930s. The article said the point of the ball was to make connections, something that apparently worked, because here it was six years later, and Cece was invited to the Forgotten Man Ball, hosted by someone named Leah Ann Miller. Or maybe it was Leah Ann who’d made the connection, seeing as how she was getting the very famous Cece Vanderhaven to come to her shindig.

  All this thinking and googling and worrying kept Greta from sleeping much, so when she caught sight of the morning sun peeking through the edges of the window blinds, it was both good and bad. Bad because she hadn’t slept much, but good because she could give up on trying and just start her day. After showering and getting dressed, she headed downstairs, taking the envelope with her. In the kitchen, she found Nanny and Brenna eating breakfast.