Shadows Gray

Chapter Nine



I leave my clothes spinning and tumbling around and walk back out in the sunshine for the shelter and soup kitchen, which is only a block away. I admire my parking job again as I walk by the Blue Beast. It’s a warm day and my plaid woolen skirt itches my thighs, and I realize the last time I wore the skirt I had worn it with winter tights. A woolen skirt is not the smartest thing to be wearing in late summer but I haven’t washed my clothes in nearly two weeks and it’s the only clean thing I had to put on this morning. Besides, I think it dresses up my plain white cotton blouse nicely, although I suspect Meli will find something wrong with it and purse her lips and sigh when she sees me.

The shelter and soup kitchen is a place I know quite well, though I haven’t dropped by in quite a while. When we first arrived here we spent long hours here, eating a free meal, sometimes serving to help out, and playing Checkers with other people who were down on their luck as well. Prue spiced up the lunches, bullying her way into the kitchen, and Dad and Matthias and Harry would make friends as they sat on the hard plastic chairs, sipping coffee and telling stories. Israel was the only one who never spent too much time in this place, instead he spent his time around other parts of town, looking for houses cheap enough to rent or merely squat in for a time, and trying to make connections with doctors who might give him a job or teach him the practice of medicine.

I swing open the large, doublewide glass doors and the familiar smell of potatoes, hot steam, chicken, boiled vegetables, and cleaning supplies hits my nose. The long tables are clean and empty, the chairs all pushed in neatly. It is only late morning and the only people here will be Jim, the director, and all his volunteers, getting ready to serve the lunch crowd. Jim is a heavy set, jovial man, with a large nose, pink cheeks and frizzy, wiry, white hair. He is upbeat and comical and nothing ever gets him down. He was threatened with a knife once long ago, from a homeless man who was high and angry, and Jim still goes each weekend to visit him in prison, bringing him leftovers from the soup kitchen wrapped in foil. I hear they are now good friends.

I spot Jim now, moving in the back of the kitchen at a speed that is surprising for a man his bulk. He claps his workers on their backs and spurs them on as he makes his rounds, checking the food, the ovens, and the dishwashing station. As he slings a white dishtowel over his shoulder, he spots me and shouts merrily.

“Sonnet Gray! Is that you? Are you on the schedule today? It must be our lucky day!” he beams and steps out of the kitchen towards me, where I am waiting and smiling by the salad bar.

“No, I’m not on the schedule but I’ll help out if you like,” I embrace him fondly. “I’m doing my laundry and wanted to stop by and say hello. How are things?” I pop a carrot in my mouth from the salad bar and he shakes his finger at me playfully.

“Now, now, that carrot is going to cost you two hours of manual labor, young lady! Suit up! You know where the aprons are.” Jim shoos me towards the kitchen and I obey, grabbing a long white apron as I pass them on their hooks. I have worn my Budweiser cap this morning, so I can skip the hairnet, which is a plus.

“Any new regulars?” I ask, busying myself by pulling out huge stacks of white plates and setting them on the counter. “Say, a girl about my age, blond hair, my eyes, red dress?”

Jim is counting plates for a moment and does not answer. “We need bowls too. Clam chowder today,” he responds. “Umm, blond hair, blue eyes, huh? Well, we’ve been busy lately, lots of newbies. It’s been a good summer for camping and hiking and hitchhiking, so we’ve had a run of those types. Been so busy actually, I haven’t had time to meet everyone. But I guess if she’s real regular I’d know her alright. If she’s only been here once or twice, she’d have gotten lost in the shuffle. Might ask around.”

“That’s what I’ll do, thanks, Jim. Serving at noon straight up?”

He nods, absentmindedly, going back to counting stacks of dishes. The kitchen moves with efficiency, bustling and moving along with its tasks like clockwork. All of Jim’s volunteers are well trained and hustle quickly, baking the chicken, stirring the peas, mashing the instant potatoes, and whisking the gravy. This room, this teamwork, these smells, will be one of the things I remember most about my time in the twenty first century.

After the dishes are pulled and stacked in convenient rows where the customers can easily access them, I start slicing small squares of chocolate cake and plating them. The rows multiply fast and before I know it I have enough tiny white plates of dessert to feed an army and it’s noon straight up and Jim is propping open the front doors. I lick the frosting off my fingertips and when I catch Jim narrowing his eyes at me for this health code offense, I wash my hands and take my place in line with the other volunteers prepared to dish food and offer small talk. Before I get too busy though, I remember my clothes in the washer across the street and I take a couple minutes to rush across and switch them to the dryer.

In less than an hour we have served the line of people and although I have greeted several by name as they are regulars and know me, I haven’t served so much as a pea or a pat of butter to my little sister. When everyone is seated and eating, that’s our cue as volunteers to make ourselves a plate of food and join them. I pile mine up with salad and then ladle clam chowder into a bowl. I grab a roll and carry my tray over to an empty seat by two of my favorite people, Margery and Ed, both volunteers. Margery is the sweetest, nicest person you will ever meet, with a high pitched voice and a tendency to wear a lot of costume jewelry. Her husband, Ed, is bald up top but with a long, gray beard and mustache, several tattoos and he is a good 75 pounds overweight, all of it centered in his belly. She looks like someone who attends PTA meetings for fun; he looks like he is in a biker gang. Together they are sweet as pie and if anyone has seen Rose, it’d be these two: they seem to know everyone. I ask the same question I had asked Jim earlier and wait for their answers as I blow on my chowder.

“Oh yes, I’ve seen her!” Margery chirps, nodding vigorously. “Remember, Ed? She was in here last week, or maybe it was two weeks ago. And I saw her again down by the river when Jim and I took the leftovers to feed the homeless out there. She didn’t want any though, little thing looked at me like I was crazy and like she’d never seen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before. Strangest thing. I wondered if she was on some pills or something, she looked real confused or lost.”

You don’t know the half of it, I think. Aloud I say, “Do you think she was living out there, by the river?”

“Well, I don’t know, honey, could be. It’s been a lovely summer so the city has had its fair share of homeless, especially down there where the camping’s good. They’re clearing out now though, the nights are getting colder already.” As if her words were a premonition, Margery pulls her cardigan closer around her shoulders. Ed wraps his arm around her and rubs her arm, never pausing in his chicken eating.

“Was she alone? Did it seem like she had friends or anyone with her?” I prod.

“No, no, I don’t think so. There were a lot of people there that day, and here in the soup kitchen that time I saw her here, too. But I got the impression she was alone.”

“Did you see her, Ed?” I turn my attention to him. It seems as though I’ve gotten all the information I can out of Margery and it’s doubtful her husband will be any more helpful, but I have to try.

Ed gnaws on his chicken wing bone before responding. “Nah, darlin’, I remember her real vaguely but I didn’t notice any more than Margery did. You say she’s your sister?”

“Yes, and it’s very important that I find her,” I sigh. “Will you do me a favor? If you ever see again, will you tell her that her sister, Sonnet, and her dad are looking for her? That we’re here and she can find us through Jim?”

“Sure thing, honey,” Margery says, standing and clearing all of our plates. “Come on now, let’s get that dessert served. I am craving some chocolate!”

Rather than make everyone line up again and be served in order, Jim likes the volunteers to serve them their cake and coffee at their tables. It also makes for more chitchat, which is almost as important to some as the food. I can fit 12 small plates of cake on my platter, if I overlap the scalloped edges of the plates a bit, and once it’s balanced on my shoulder, I grab a pot of coffee to bring with me and head over to the table in the back. There’s no one seated there that I know, but I smile and act like I do anyway and serve everyone their cake. The last man that I pour coffee for is dressed in a suit and has one of those Humphrey Bogart type hats on the back of his chair. He is in his thirties he looks like, but it’s an older version of thirty somehow. He looks as though he has done too much living in those years, his eyes are deep and sad looking, with circles under them, and his hair is prematurely turning gray around his temples. He is very thin, painfully so, and his body trembles when I ask him if he’d like another piece of cake. He turns his sad looking eyes on me. He shakes his head, wordlessly dismissing me. But as he reaches for his coffee cup and brings it shakily to his lips, I see something on his left forearm where his sleeves have been rolled up: a five digit number tattoo with a triangle beneath. I know this mark, for Matthias and Harry have it as well, though their numbers are different. It’s a gift from the Nazis at Auschwitz and now I understand the source of some of this young man’s sorrow and trembling. Has he only just left there? I wonder. I reach down and grasp his hand, the one that is not holding his cup, and he looks up at me again, this time in surprise.

“ Wilkommen aus America. Alles gut hier. Ich verspreche.” He doesn’t even blink.

Finally he snaps alert and whispers softly, “Sprechen Sie Deutch?”

My German is somewhat broken, I am not precisely fluent, but I can speak it well enough.

“Ein bisschen. Aber mein Portugiese ist besser oder vielleicht Italienisch.” I offer to speak in either Italian or Portuguese hoping to find some common ground.

To my horror, his eyes fill up with tears. Now I’ve done it, gone and traumatized some almost murdered Jewish man, who is obviously Lost and by the looks of everyone at this table, alone. I feel the need to apologize, although for what exactly I am not sure. Surprisingly, he doesn’t let go of my hand, but only looks at me.

“Sono Italiano” he whispers over a swallowed sob, revealing his birth nationality.

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” I ask, switching to Italian, his language, which I am better at anyway. I pull up a chair up and sit down. Still, he holds my hand.

He shakes his head, wordlessly.

“Do you want to come with me? I have some people I think you’d like to meet. Our home isn’t fancy, but it’s a place to stay and I think you’ll find you have a lot in common with all of us there. What do you say? I’m Sonnet, by the way.” I awkwardly turn our hand holding session into a form of a handshake.

“Bar,” the man replies slowly. Has it been a while since anyone has asked for his name? “And I would like that, yes. I think so.”

“Alright then, Bar, I’m going to run across the street and get my laundry and then I’ll come back in and get you. Does that sound agreeable?”

Bar simply nods. I clean off the empty cake plates and cups, return them to the kitchen where a second round of volunteers have already begun washing, and walk out through the heavy glass doors. I don’t bother folding my dry clothes, but carelessly toss them into my baskets where they will wrinkle freely, and push the baskets into the backseat of the Blue Beast. I’m not keen on anyone seeing my driving firsthand, but I figure someone from over seventy years ago won’t be in the position to judge. I suppose it’s possible he would have had a car back then, but I can almost promise he hasn’t driven it lately.

When I get back, Bar is right where I left him, sitting in almost a dejected fashion in his chair, his back ramrod straight and proud, but his head lowered in a way that appears submissive. The inconsistency of his pose is incongruous. I tell Jim to keep a look out for Rose, reminding him of her hair color and her eyes that look like mine, and also tell him I am taking Bar home with me. He doesn’t look too pleased with this turn of events.

“Now, Sonnet, I am always one to embrace everyone, you know that. But even I don’t invite strangers home to my house the day I meet them. That’s not smart thinking. Why don’t you let me find a place for him to stay? He’ll be fine here, there’s room and a bed and everything.”

“He’ll be fine with me too, I promise. I want him to meet Matthias and Harry, and I’ll be plenty safe; you know how many people live in my house. If he’s a crazy ax murdering psycho you can be sure to tell me you told me so.”

“Not funny. I still think this is a very bad idea, Sonnet. You call me the minute you get home, you hear?”

“Yes, Jim, I hear,” I hug him tightly. “And I will.” Drat. That’ll mean a trip across to Gladys’ to use her phone. She’ll keep me all night, plying me with expired cookies, powdered lemonade, and pictures of her grandchildren. If anyone’s going to kidnap me for all eternity, it’s Gladys, not Bar.

When I collect Bar he is as quiet as ever. Silent as we leave the soup kitchen. Silent as we walk to the Blue Beast. Silent as I unlock the passenger side and open the door for him. Silent still as I get in myself and turn the key. Thank goodness for small favors, the van in front of me has moved and it’s an easy thing to pull away from the curb and onto the street.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, glancing sideways at my passenger. He sits nervously and stares straight ahead.

“Today. Just today,” he answers, tonelessly.

“I’ve been here two years. My family is Lost too. You’ll be safe with us.”

I don’t know what I was expecting as far as a reaction, but more silence wasn’t it. We drive on.

“My family was Lost as well,” he finally answers, softly. “But we didn’t travel last together. We were too far away from each other at the camp. I pray they traveled somewhere though, even if it is not with me. As long as they got out. That’s all that matters.”

“Yes,” I say, just as softly. I can barely hear myself. “Yes, that’s what matters.” Suddenly what has happened with Rose seems less important. I am not the only one to have lost someone they loved. And I have had fourteen years at least to come to grips with never seeing my sister again. This poor man has had one night and has lost his whole family. I know already that we will be his substitute; a pitiful one at best, but we will be his new family. For this is what the Lost do when we can do nothing else – we take each other in and understand one another. And so the circle continues: loss and the dawn of a new day, the holding of hands in a soup kitchen, the lies we tell everyone else. Oh, this is Bar, my cousin, I will say to Penny or to Micki or to Gladys. He’s with us now.