Virgin (11 page)

As often as
he'd seen it, Dan never tired of that smile. He'd enjoyed it in all its
permutations, and sometimes he'd catch a hint of sadness there, a deeply hidden
hurt that clouded her eyes in unguarded moments. But only for a moment.

Sister Carrie
was the sun and the Lower East Side her world; she shone on it daily.

But for all her
gentle, giving girlish exterior, she was tough inside. Especially when it came
to her beliefs, whether religious or dietary. No meat was served at the
shelter--"We won't be killing one of God's creatures to feed another, at
least not as long as I'm in the kitchen"--- which was just as well because
the food dollars stretched considerably further with the Sister Carrie menu.

And Dan, who'd always been pretty much of a beer-and-a-burger man
himself, had to admit that he'd got out of the meat habit under her tutelage
and no longer missed it. At least not too much.

"Sorry I'm
late," he said. "What needs to be done?"

"Our
guests should be getting low on bread by now."

She always
called them "our guests," and Dan never failed to be charmed by it.

"Consider
it done."

She smiled that
smile and turned back to the stove. Shaking off the lingering aftereffect, Dan
gathered up half a dozen loaves and carried them out to the shelter area.

A different mix
of odors greeted him in the Big Room. Split-pea and fresh-baked bread aromas
layered the air, spiced with the sting of cigarette smoke and the pungency of
unwashed bodies swathed in unwashed clothes.

Dan squeezed
past Hilda Larsen's doubly ample middle-aged rump and dumped the loaves on one
of the long tables lined up against the inner wall as the serving area.

"Good
afternoon, Father," she said, smiling as she stirred the soup with her
long, curved ladle.

"Hello,
Hilda. You look ravishing as usual today."

"Oh,
Father Dan," she said, blushing.

Thank God for
volunteers like Hilda, Dan thought as he picked up the bread knife and began
cutting the loaves into inch-thick slices.

A small army of
good-hearted folks donated enough hours here at the shelter to qualify as
part-time employees. Most of them were women with working husbands and empty
nests who'd transferred the nurturing drive from their now grown and
independent children to the habitue's of Loaves and Fishes. Dan realized that
the kitchen filled a
void in their lives and
that they probably got as much as they gave, but that didn't make him any less
appreciative. Loaves and Fishes would never have got off the ground without
them.

"Could
youse hand me wunna dose, Fadda?"

Dan looked up.
A thin, bearded man in his forties with red-rimmed eyes and a withered right
arm held a bowl of soup in his good hand. His breath stank of cheap wine.

"Sure
thing, Lefty."

Dan perched a
good thick slice on the edge of the bowl.

"Tanks a
lot, Fadda. Yer a prince."

Looked as if
Lefty had got into the Mad Dog early today. Dan watched him weave toward one of
the tables, praying he wouldn't drop the bowl. He didn't.

"Hey,
Pilot," said the next man in line.

Rider in his
suede jacket. At least it had been suede in the sixties; now the small sections
visible through the decades of accumulated grime were as smooth and shiny as
dressed leather. Probably an expensive jacket in its day, with short fringes on
the pockets and a long fringe on each sleeve; only a couple of sleeve fringes left
now, gone with the lining and the original buttons. But no way would Rider give
up that coat. He'd tell anyone who'd listen about the days he'd worn it back
and forth cross country on his Harley, tripping on acid the whole way. But
Rider had taken a few too many trips. His Harley was long gone and most of his
mind along with it.

"How's it
going, Rider?" Dan said, dropping a heavy slice on his tray.

Rider always
called him Pilot. Because Rider slurred his words as much as anyone else, Dan
had asked him once if that was Pilot with an
o
or an
a-t-e.
Rider
hadn't the vaguest idea what Dan was talking about.

"Good,
Pilot. Got a new lead on my Harley. Should have it back by the end of the
week."

"Great."

"Yep. Then
it's so long."

Rider's quest for his last bike, stolen sometime during the
early eighties, lent a trace structure to his
otherwise aimless day-to-day existence. Rider was the shelter's Galahad.

The rest of the
regulars filed by with a few newer faces sprinkled in; a couple of those new
faces might become regulars, the rest would drift on. The locals, the
never-miss-a-meal regulars were all there, some in their twenties, some in
their sixties, most of indeterminate age somewhere between. Some called
themselves John and Jim and Marta and Thelma, but many had street names:
Stoney, Indian, Preacher, Pilgrim, Lefty, Dandy, Poppy, Bigfoot, One-Thumb
George, and the inimitable Dirty Harry.

They all got
one bowl of soup and one thick slice of Sister Carrie's famous bread. After
they finished they could have seconds if there was anything left over after
everyone had firsts. Off to his left, Dan heard scuffling and a shout as the
seconds line formed.

"Oh,
Father," Hilda said, leaning over the counter to look. "I think it's
Dandy and Indian again."

"I'll take
care of it."

Dan ducked
under the table and got to the trouble spot just as Dandy was picking himself
up off the floor and crouching to charge Indian. Dan grabbed him by the back of
his jacket collar.

"Whoa, Dandy! Hang on a sec."

Dandy whirled,
snarling. The fire in his eyes cooled immediately when he saw who he faced. He
shrugged to settle his jacket back on his shoulders and straightened his tie.
Dandy had earned his name from his taste in fourth-hand attire. He always
managed to pick the brightest colors from the donated clothing. His latest
get-up consisted of an orange shirt, a green-and-white striped tie, a plaid
sports jacket, and lime-green golf pants. All frayed, all dirty, but worn with
the air of someone who considered his life a fashion statement.

"Lucky for
Indian you came along."

"What
happened?"

"He pushed
me out of my place in line."

Dan glanced at
Indian, who faced straight ahead, ignoring the two of them. Dan knew he'd get
nothing out of Indian,
who wasn't Indian at
all--unless that kinky hair and ebony skin were
West
Indian. Indian never
spoke, never smiled, never frowned. Apparently someone had called him a
cigar-store Indian years ago and the name had stuck.

"You were
cutting into the line, weren't you. Dandy."

"No
way."

"Dandy."
Dan knew Dandy didn't like to wait in line, especially with those he considered
his sartorial inferiors. "This wouldn't be the first time."

"I didn't
cut. I axed. I axed him if he minded if I got ahead of him. He didn't say no so
I--"

Dan jerked his
thumb over his shoulder. "End of the line, Dandy."

"Hey,
Father--"

"We've got
plenty today. You won't miss out."

"But I got
places to go."

Dan said
nothing further. He stared Dandy down until he shrugged and headed for the end
of the line.

Like dealing
with eight-year-olds, he thought as he headed back to the serving area.

But juvenile
behavior was only one side of them, and that was the least of their problems. A
fair number of them were mentally ill--paranoids, borderline personalities, and
outright schizophrenics--and many had drug and alcohol problems. Multiple
substance abuse was common. Some combined the problems: chronic brain syndromes
from long-term drug and/or alcohol abuse, or mental illness compounded by
substance abuse.

For most of
them it was a no-win situation. And Senator Crenshaw's concentration camps
would do nothing for them.

Dan had
finished slicing the bread and the ones who wanted seconds had passed through
when he heard a chorus of voices saying, "Hello, Sister Carrie," and
"Good afternoon, Sister Carrie," and "Thanks for the great meal,
Sister Carrie."

He glanced up and there she was, wiping her hands as she surveyed
the diners. "Did everyone have enough?" she said.

They answered
almost as a group: "Oh, yes, Sister Carrie."

Dan watched her
walk out through the Big Room and slip among her guests, an almost ethereal
presence, speaking to them, touching them: a hand on a shoulder here, a pat on
a head there, a whispered word for old friends, a handshake and a smile for the
new faces. He envied her ability to make everyone of them feel special, to know
they mattered.

"Was it
good?" she said when she reached the far end of the Big Room. They cheered
and applauded, and that made her smile. And the light she shed on the room made
the applause double in volume.

Hilda was
tsking and shaking her head. "Look at them! They're ga-ga over her."
But there was wonder rather than disapproval in her voice. "What a
politician she'd have made."

Dan could only
nod, eternally amazed at Carrie's talent for making people love her.

Still smiling,
she curtsied and returned to the kitchen. As the room's illumination seemed to
dim by half, the guests began to clear their places and shuffle out to the
street or line up for the bathroom.

Dan was wiping
away the bread crumbs when he heard cries of, "Word up, Doc" and
"How's it go, Doctor Joe?" He looked up and saw a short, white-coated
Hispanic strolling toward him.

"Things
slow at the clinic?" Dan said.

"I
wish."

Dr. Joe
Martinez's dark eyes twinkled as he picked up a leftover piece of bread, tore
it, and shoved the right-hand half into his mouth. He had mocha skin, dark
curly hair, and a body-builder's frame.

"Want some
soup?" Dan asked.

"Carrie
make it?"

"Of
course."

"Then
that's my answer."

"What?"

"Of
course."

"Right."
Dan got him a bowl and a spoon and slid them across the table.

Joe stared down
at the steaming green but didn't reach for the spoon.

"Something
wrong?" Dan said.

Joe continued
staring at the soup.
"Three new
HIV conversions this morning."

"Jesus!"

"Jesus had
nothing to do with it."

"I know,
but . . . anybody we know?"

Finally Joe
looked up from the soup. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Sure,
sure, and I appreciate that, but we've got close quarters here. Know what I'm
saying?"

"Sure I
do. But you can't catch AIDS sitting next to someone. It doesn't jump plate to
plate."

"No
kidding. But it does jump vein to needle and needle to vein, and not a few of
our guests have been known to shoot up when mood and opportunity permit."

Joe shook his
head. "Can't tell you, Fitz."

"I don't
want names. Don't tell me
who,
just tell me
how many
HIV
positives in and out of here."

Dan wasn't
looking to ostracize anyone, but it certainly would be useful to know who was
positive. A lot of St. Joe's guests regularly fell or got into fights. It was a
common occurrence for one of them to stagger in hurt and bleeding-- amazing how
much blood could pour out of a minor scalp cut--and either he or Carrie would
clean them up. He wasn't so worried about himself, but Carrie . . .

"I don't
have to look at any faces to tell you that you've got HIV positives here. The
homeless population is loaded with them."

Dan knew that.
He just wished he knew
who.

"So when
do I put on the rubber gloves?"