The Rivers Run Dry (36 page)

“I gotta go to church?” Felicia asked.

“You
get
to attend chapel every single day,” Cynthia corrected.

“What'd I tell you,” Felicia said.

“You'll have AA and NA meetings twice daily. I'll explain more later. If we don't hurry, you'll miss dinner.”

Cynthia pushed against a set of double doors, banging them open to reveal an old gymnasium. Varnished oak floor, wooden rail around the upper perimeter of the room. Folding tables and chairs filled with men and women and children. A line formed at the cafeteria window, at the other end of the room.

“I need to get back to the front desk,” she said. “The food trays are stacked next to the service window. Eat as much as you want. We have chapel after dinner.” She stuck out her hand. “Felicia, we're glad you're here.”

We watched Cynthia Youngblood walk away.

“She seems nice,” I said.

“Just wait.” Felicia walked to the cafeteria line, picking up a brown plastic tray. “Watch what happens when I screw up. You'll see what these people are really like.”

“You've already screwed up. And she knows it.”

She scowled, turning her back to me. We stood behind a Hispanic man whose baseball cap advertised a radio station. I picked up a tray, glancing at my watch. Officer Lowell would be back in about forty-five minutes. I heard the Hispanic man ask for extra food, then Felicia stepped forward, lifting her tray. The server stood behind a red heat lamp, half of the face in shadows, and steam rose from the aluminum bins.

“Good evening, young lady,” she said. “Would you care for spaghetti with meatballs, or without? The meatballs are simply delicious. And homemade.”

Felicia took everything—spaghetti, meatballs, garlic bread, green beans—and she said thanks. I pushed my tray forward, thinking this couldn't be happening. I had to be dreaming again. I lifted my tray.

“Raleigh Ann?” my mother said.

Her black hair was harnessed by a net, and the steam from the food laid a scrim of perspiration on her porcelain skin.

“Mom,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

Behind her, swinging doors opened and a large black man, his arms like anvils, carried a bin of meatballs. He set it down on the steam tray.

“Comin' through, Nadine!” he said.

“Pardon me, Rufus.” My mother stepped to the side, a long slotted spoon in one hand as the man exchanged containers.

“That oughta hold you awhile,” he said. “Let me know if you get low again.”

“Thank you, Rufus. I'd like you to meet my daughter Raleigh Ann.” She pointed the slotted spoon at me. “Raleigh Ann, this is Rufus. He's our cook.”

Rufus, holding the empty bin, lifted his head in acknowledgement. “How ya doin?” He backed through the swinging doors.

My mother smiled. “Did Aunt Charlotte tell you I was here? I've been waiting to tell you myself but I never see you anymore.”

“How long—” I began.

“I decided all these homeless people needed some help so I packed up all the canned goods and drove them down here. And I felt so much better.” She waved the spoon. “Give and give and give, you'll always feel better. The next time I came down they asked if I wanted to serve dinner. And, well, here I am!” She cocked her head like a bird. “Is something wrong? Is that why you're here?”

“No, nothing's wrong. I brought a friend. She needs some help.”

“
That'
s why you've been so busy! Raleigh Ann, I am so proud of you. Your father is smiling down from heaven right this minute.” Her eyes glistened. “Would like some spaghetti? Rufus makes the meatballs himself. They're delicious.”

“You've eaten them?”

She waved the spoon. “When in Rome . . .”

I accepted three meatballs, two heaps of spaghetti, bread, and a large Coke from the fountain and carried my tray to where Felicia was sitting. She'd chosen an isolated table, across the room, the duffel bag by her feet. She was already sopping up sauce with the bread when I sat down. I tore open the clear bag of plastic utensils. No knife.

“You bring people in here a lot, huh,” she said.

“Nope. You're the first.”

“Then how do you know that lady?” She nodded toward the food line.

I twirled the spaghetti. “She's my mother.”

She leaned back, trying to get a better look. “You don't look nothing like her.”

I cut a meatball with my fork. “I take after my father, I hear.”

I took a bite of the meatball. It was delicious. Rufus might have apprenticed with Danato Lutini.

“What d'you mean, you hear?” she said.

“My mother remarried, her husband adopted me. He's my dad.”

“He's nice to you, huh?”

“Who?”

“Your new dad.”

“He was the nicest man I've ever known.”

“
Was
—something happened to him?”

I put down my fork. I didn't want to talk about my father. I didn't want to talk at all. I glanced over at my mother and tried to decide if she was really functioning, or just suffering some bout of mania. Her singing words rang in my ears.
Give and give and give . . .
“My father was murdered,” I said. “We still don't know who did it.”

Felicia's green eyes took on a gauzy hue. I went back to my meal, glancing up periodically to watch my mother. She smiled at everybody, her high cheekbones flushed with joy. When I finally glanced over at Felicia, she was still staring at me.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Thank you.”

I watched Rufus come through the double doors again, this time to help pull down a gate similar to the one that secured the front desk. The heat lamps clicked off, my mother's shape fell into shadow.

“When your dad died,” Felicia said, “I bet you wanted to die too.”

I looked over at her, and nodded.

My mother was staying for chapel and raved about the singing, about the spirit-filled worship among street people. “Nothing better than finding God among the broken. Raleigh, you will feel your spirit open right up.”

But I begged off, saying I would come tomorrow night, that I'd made plans for tonight. After I introduced Felicia and left the two of them at the chapel door, I walked outside.

The temperature had dropped several degrees, the wind was gone, and the clutch of men on the sidewalk had broken into two groups. At the curb I saw an older model, red-and-white Chevy Blazer, idling in the load/unload zone.

“How'd it go?” Lowell asked as I climbed in.

“Maybe we could do dinner another time.”

“Yeah, that's cool,” he said.

But the disappointment in his voice made me wince.

“Sorry, I'm a little beat—”

“How about a drink? One drink then I take you home. How about it?”

He reminded me of a puppy, freshly bathed. His brown hair was still damp, combed to one side, divided by a straight part. I could smell his shampoo, and the menthol in his shaving cream.

“Sure,” I said. “I can do that.”

He drove around the corner, parking on South Washington, and we walked down the sidewalk toward the Central Tavern. But he was strolling, walking so slowly that I found myself pausing between steps to keep from getting ahead of him. We took a table in back of the tavern, beside a wooden stage painted black, and both of us positioned our chairs for a clear view of the entrance, another habit of law enforcement, so we were sitting side by side rather than facing each other. The cocktail waitress walked over, giving us a curious expression.

“Waiting for someone important?” she asked.

“No,” Lowell said. “Bourbon and soda.”

I ordered a Coke, no crushed ice.

“That's it?” Lowell said. “You don't want a real drink?”

“That is a real drink.”

The waitress walked back to the bar. The tavern had the anticipatory feel of early evening, and I watched the waitress hook the heel of her boot into the brass rail.

“Who's the girl you took to the shelter?” Lowell asked.

“A former source.”

“Is that part of being an agent?”

“We don't issue tickets and send people on their way.” The words were out of my mouth before I could catch them. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“What did you mean?”

Whenever people appeared out of context, my mind struggled to catch up, as if I were meeting the person for the first time. Tonight, my mother's appearance as kitchen help in a homeless shelter had startled me, and now Lowell-as-civilian was having a similar effect. The severe trooper attitude was gone; he was almost amiable. And he didn't seem quite so imposing either. I decided he must wear a bulletproof vest under his uniform, giving him a beefier appearance on the job. He was actually lean.

“What I meant to say,” I started over, “was, sometimes you can really help the people you meet on the job. I would think ticketing people and watching them drive away would get frustrating, especially if you want to help.”

“You're right,” he said. “It does.”

The waitress set down our drinks, then walked away.

“Cheers.” He lifted his glass.

But before I could take a sip, my cell phone went off. “Here's another part of the job, it's 24-7. Excuse me a minute?”

I took the phone outside, standing on the sidewalk. Traffic moved down First Avenue between the lights.

It was Jack.

“She's in the shelter,” I said. “She's not happy about it, but she's in.”

“Will she stay?”

I recalled the expression on Felicia's face as my mother described the wonders of chapel. Felicia had flinched when the phrase “glory of God” escaped my mother's lips. But the two of them were a good match. My mother thrived on evangelical challenges; Felicia needed parental guidance.

“She's got good people around her,” I said.

“Harmon, thank you,” he said.

I paused. So many old appearances were changing into some-thing new tonight. My mother, Lowell. And here was Jack, sounding genuinely grateful.

“You're welcome,” I said, taken aback.

“I owe you. Anything you need, just let me know.”

I told him about my car, how Officer Lowell found the broken-down Barney Mobile on I-90 and drove us to the shelter. Although he'd come back to drive me home, I was concerned about the tow truck. “Lowell tagged the car on the side of the road and reported it to the State Patrol. But if McLeod finds out I had a civilian in my car, that this had nothing to do with work—”

“I'll take care of it tonight,” he interrupted. “Don't sweat it.”

I closed the phone and walked back inside. Lowell had a forlorn expression on his face, as though I had ditched him. To make up for it, I made a show of turning off my phone, although I only set it to vibrate instead of ring. The guy just wanted ten minutes of my undivided attention.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Super.” I sipped my Coke. “What else do you want to know about the Bureau?”

He asked several questions, but talked more than he listened. I didn't mind. I was talked out and sipped my Coke, hoping to finish it before the ice melted and made it watery. Lowell started telling me all his reasons for becoming a cop and why he wanted to become a special agent. My attention drifted. Finishing my drink, I nodded and watched a skinny kid in black jeans climb up on stage. The jeans were so tight they seemed glued down to his ankles, and his T-shirt, also black, revealed love handles. He wore a belt for no obvious reason except that it was riveted with silver spikes. Standing on stage, adjusting the microphone stand, he moved across the dark surface like a black spider. When he crossed under the spotlight, his belt seemed to explode with light. Then it was dark again. But I could still see silver lights streaming like lasers. Maybe he was a spider. Spider boy, weaving his web of silver lights. I grinned.

Lowell stopped. “Did I say something funny?”

“No, no. That kid, up on stage, his pants . . . his belt . . . lights are shooting out . . .” My lips felt swollen.

Lowell went right on talking, saying something about police work, how grinding it was. Or grounding. Did he say grimy? My eyes drifted toward the bar. The rows of liquor bottles were bobbing up and down, floating at sea, and the waitress combed her hand through her long hair, lights flying off her gold rings. I felt a sudden wave of nausea, my mouth filling with saliva.

The meatballs.

Food poisoning.

“I don't feel—” I began.

Lowell waited. “You don't feel . . . what?”

“Home.” The word took so much effort. “I want to go . . . home.”

He stood, dropping several bills on the table, the paper floating through the air. Lowell came around from behind and pulled out my chair. I tried to stand.

“Here, let me help you,” he said, taking my elbow. “I'll get you to the car.”