Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

2

The Reverend and I were out on our second Popsicle Patrol of the night when Jim Morrison climbed into our van.

That Friday evening was one of the crappiest nights in recent memory. It was November, and it was cold, and it was raining—the kind of rain that creates a gray night chiseled from gray stone, shadowed by gray mist, filled with gray people and their gray dreams; a dismal night following a string of dateless, nameless, empty dismal days. The forecast had called for snow, but instead we got rain. At least snow would have been a fresh coat of paint, something to cover the candy wrappers, empty cigarette packs, broken liquor bottles, losing lottery tickets, beer cans, and used condoms that decorated the sidewalks of the neighborhood; a whitewash to hide the ugliness and despair of the tainted world underneath.

Can you tell I was not in the best of moods? But then, I don’t think anyone was feeling particularly chipper that night, despite the soft and cheerful classical music coming through the speakers, one in each of the four corners of the main floor. (I think it was something by Aaron Copland because listening to it made me feel like I was standing in the middle of a wheat field on a sunny day, and that only made me feel depressed.) The shelter was about a third full—there were twenty-five, maybe thirty people, not counting the staff—and the evening had already seen its first “episode”: a young guy named Joe (I didn’t know his last name, people who come here rarely have them) had kind of flipped out earlier and took off into the dreary night, upsetting everyone who’d been eating at the table with him. The Reverend (the man who runs this shelter) spent a little while getting everyone settled down, then sent one of the regulars, Martha, out to find Mr. Joe Something-or-Other. Neither one of them had come back yet, and I suspected the Reverend was getting worried.

The Cedar Hill Open Shelter is located just the other side of the East Main Street Bridge, in an area known locally as “Coffin County.” It’s called that because there used to be a casket factory in the area that burned down in the late sixties and took a good portion of the surrounding businesses with it, and ever since then the whole area has gone down the tubes. Most of the serious crime you read about in The Ally happens in Coffin County. It’s not pretty, it’s not popular, and it’s definitely not safe, especially if you’re homeless.

As hard as it may be to believe, there’s not all that many homeless people in Cedar Hill. If pressed to come up with a number, the Reverend would probably tell you that our good town has about fifty homeless folks (give or take; not bad for a community of fifty-odd thousand), most of whom you’ll find here on any given night, which explains how he knows all of them by name.

The shelter is in the remains of what used to be a hotel that was hastily and badly reconstructed after the fire; the lobby and basement were left practically unscathed, but the upper floors were a complete loss, so down they came, and up went a makeshift roof (mostly plywood, corrugated tin, and sealant) that on nights like this amplified the sound of the rain until you thought every pebble in the known universe was dropping down on it; luckily, the lobby’s high ceiling and insulation had remained intact after the fire, so that—combined with the soft classical music the Reverend always has playing—turned what might have been a deafening noise into only an annoying one. When it became evident that “Olde Town East” (as Coffin County used to be called) was not going to recover from the disaster, the city decided its efforts at a face-lift were better employed elsewhere. As a result of the Reverend’s good timing in getting the city to donate this building, the Cedar Hill Open Shelter was the only one in the state (maybe even the whole country) to have Italian marble tile on its floors and a ballroom ceiling with a chandelier hanging from it. Makes for some interesting expressions on peoples’ faces when they come through that door for the first time.

The shelter has one hundred beds on the main floor, with thirty more in the basement adjacent to the men’s and women’s showers and locker rooms. (Aside from storage, the basement was used by the hotel’s employees, many of whom worked two jobs and came to work at the hotel after finishing their shifts at one of the steel mills or canneries—those too now long gone.) A third of the main floor is covered with folding tables and chairs—the dining area—and the Reverend’s office, which is a pretty decent size and doubles as his bedroom, is past the swinging doors on the right; go straight through the kitchen, turn left, you’re there.

During the holidays you’ll see more unfamiliar faces and crowded conditions because of transients on their way to Zanesville or Dayton or Columbus, bigger places where there might be actual jobs or more sympathetic welfare workers. The shelter turns no one away, but you’d damned well better behave yourself while you’re here—the Reverend might look harmless enough at first, but when you get close to him it’s easy to see that this is a guy who, if he didn’t actually invent the whup-ass can opener, can handily produce one at a moment’s notice. (Opinions are divided as to who the Reverend more resembles: Jesus Christ, Rasputin, or Charles Manson. Trust me when I tell you that he can be very scary when he wants to.)

Almost no one does anything to piss off the Reverend. The business earlier that night with Joe was a rarity—even those folks who come in here so upset you think they’ll crumble to pieces right in front of you and take anyone in the vicinity with them know that you don’t ruin things for the rest of the guests. That’s what the Reverend calls everyone, “guests,” and treats them with all the courtesy and respect you’d expect from someone who uses that word. Still, the business with Joe was enough to set everyone’s nerves on edge a bit. It wasn’t even ten-thirty yet, so the regular guests who weren’t already here would be wandering in by midnight. Of the two dozen or so guests who were here, I only recognized a few.

We had four new faces tonight, a young mother (who couldn’t have been older than twenty-three), her two children (a boy, five or six; a girl, three years old tops), and their dog (a sad-ass Beagle with an even sadder face who was so still and quiet I almost forget he was there a few times until I nearly tripped over him). It breaks my heart to see a mother and her kids in a place like this. The Thanksgiving/Christmas period’s always the worst, and the most depressing. At least for me.

“That’s about all the excitement I can stand for one night,” said Ethel, the old black woman who mans the front door. She’s a volunteer from one of the churches—St. Francis—and sits here every weeknight from seven p.m. until eleven, greeting folks as they come in, handing out all manner of pamphlets, answering questions, and you-bet’cha happy to take any donations; she’s got a shiny tin can at the edge of her folding card table marked in black letters for just such a purpose.

I smiled at her as I cleared away some more of the empty plastic plates left on the various tables. “But you gotta admit, there aren’t many places like this that offer a free floor show with dinner.” “Mind your humor there; it’s not very Christian to make light of others’ woes.” “Then how come you grinned when I said that?” “That was not a grin. I…had me some gas.” “Uh-huh.”

“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” She winked at me, then looked out at the guests. “I don’t mind doin’ the Lord’s work, not at all, and Heaven knows these poor people need all the help they can get, but I swear, sometimes....” She squinted her eyes at nothing, trying to find the right way to express what she was thinking without sounding uncharitable.

“Sometimes,” I said. Then winked back at her. “We can leave it at that and it’ll be our little secret.”

She laughed as she dumped the contents of the DONATIONS can onto the table and began counting up the coins. “Oh, bless me, will wonders never cease? It looks like we might’ve took in a small fortune tonight. Why there must be all of—” She counted out a row of dimes, then a few nickels and pennies. “—three dollars and sixteen cents here! Might put us in a higher tax bracket.”

“I’m sorry it isn’t more,” I said, digging into my pocket and coming up with thirty-three cents, which I promptly handed over. If you’ve got spare change, it goes into Ethel’s til or. She. Will. Get. You.

“Always remember, Sam,” she said to me as she took the change, “what the Good Book says: ‘What we give to the poor is what we take with us when we die.’” “Then I’m screwed to the wall.” Her eyes grew wide at my language. I looked down at my feet. “I’m sorry.” “I’m going to chalk that up to your being tired and let it go, Samuel.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Both Ethel and the Reverend (who’ve looked out for my own good as long as I’ve been here) call me “Samuel” when they’re irked at me about something. I prefer “Sam.” “Samuel” always sounded to me like the noise someone makes trying to clear their sinuses.

Ethel picked up her purse and took out a five-dollar bill and some change, adding it to the til. “I have one rule for myself, Sam—I will not, absolutely not hand the Reverend less than twenty dollars at the end of each week.”

“How often do you have to make up the difference?”

She shrugged. “That’s my and the Good Lord’s business, you needn’t bother yourself worryin’ over it.” Then she gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Maybe we’ll soon have enough saved up to get the basement wall fixed.”

“Be still my heart,” I said.

Ethel was referring to the east wall in the men’s shower room. For the last several weeks, more and more of the tile and grouting had fallen out, and the cement foundation on that side was starting to crumble. Because of an unusually damp autumn, and with the almost non-stop rain of the past week or so, the soil behind the weakening cement started oozing through the gaps, slowly transforming everything into a muddy wall that was pushing out what tile still held its ground (it didn’t help matters that there was a leak in one of the pipes running into the showers). I’d been down there with the Reverend earlier that day, piling bags of sand, wooden crates filled with canned food, and even a couple of pieces of old furniture against it. It was a fight we were going to lose unless one of the contractors the Reverend had been guilt-tripping since spring threw up their hands in surrender and donated the time, manpower, and materials to repair it. I didn’t think Ethel’s twenty dollars a week was going to help much, regardless of how often she’d been making up the difference—something I suspected she really couldn’t afford to do.

I was thinking out loud as I watched Ethel slide the money into a brown envelope with the rest of the week’s donations. “I worry that if something isn’t done soon, that whole side’s going to cave in and we’ll have a helluva mess down there.”

Ethel shook her head. “My, my—the mouth on you this evening!”

“I’m sorry—again.” I rubbed my eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping too well the past couple of nights.”

“Which means most of the week, unless I miss my guess—don’t bother denying it, either. I could pack for a month’s vacation in the Caribbean with those bags under your eyes. Still taking your medication like the doctor prescribed?” Meaning my anti-depressants.

“Yes.”

“Still going to your weekly appointments?” Meaning Dr. Ellis, the psychiatrist who prescribes my anti-depressants.

“They’re twice a week—and, yes, I’m still going.”

She tilted her head to the side, puzzling. “Hmm. How about your diet? Your appetite been okay, Sam? Been eating regular?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m not particularly worried about anything, I haven’t been drinking too much caffeine or anything like that...I have no idea why I can’t sleep.”

“Bad dreams, maybe?”

Before I could answer, a voice behind me and said, “Terrible, just terrible,” loudly enough to make me jump, nearly dropping the stack of plates I’d gathered.

“Hello, Timmy,” said Ethel.

“Terrible, just terrible.”

I did a spin-dip-balance-and-catch routine with the plates that Buster Keaton would have been proud of, then set everything on Ethel’s table in case Timmy or someone else decided to test my reflexes again. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I said to him, and was immediately sorry for the way I said it because Timmy got this look in his eyes like he was going to start crying. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry, Timmy. I’m not mad or anything, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Forgive me?”

Timmy is one of the more-or-less permanent residents here. The Reverend never makes anyone leave if they don’t want to or have no place else to go. The city council gives him no end of grief about this come the yearly budget meetings, but like every other city body and official in Cedar Hill, they don’t push it too far; it’s all for show, to save face. I don’t know what it is about the Reverend that makes them always back down, but I’m grateful for it, as are the permanent residents like Timmy.

Timmy is something of a walking, talking question mark to all of us. Nobody but the Reverend knows his last name, his story, or even if he’s from Cedar Hill. He never says anything more than “Terrible, just terrible,” to anyone else. But he’s courteous, and quiet, and clean.

He also sees things.

I found out from the Reverend that Timmy suffers from gradual and irreversible macular degeneration. The result is, you see things that aren’t there. In Timmy’s case, these visual hallucinations are pretty harmless: waiters, dancing animals, buildings that have been gone for thirty years, stuff like that. Timmy talks to the Reverend and only to the Reverend. The rest of us make do with Terrible, just terrible—but you’d be surprised how much he can convey with just those three words.

“We still friends?” I asked him. I didn’t want to make him cry; he was the closest thing I had to an older brother.

Timmy wiped his eyes, then pulled in a deep breath and patted my arm, smiling. “Terrible, just terrible.” Said in the same tone as, Don’t ask me dumb questions.

I pressed one of my hands over his and nodded my head.

Ethel finished getting all her things together, and was just about to head back to the Reverend’s office when he came barreling through the swinging doors like a man with a

pissed-off pit bull snapping at his butt. The Reverend is not known for displays of panic, but one look at the expression on his face and all three of us knew something bad had happened.

As if he knew what we were thinking (which wouldn’t surprise me), the Reverend came to a sudden stop, looked up, and tried to smile like nothing was wrong.

“That man couldn’t lie if his life depended on it,” said Ethel.

“What do you suppose it is?” I asked.

Timmy said, “Terrible, just…terrible.”

It was the way he said that last “terrible” that made me and Ethel look at him. Timmy sounded genuinely scared. I patted his shoulder and told him everything would be all right.

The Reverend took a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a quick puff before starting toward us again, slower this time, smiling like someone had just stuck a gun in his back and told him to act natural.

“Some night, eh?” he said.

“Oh, will you can it with the easygoing routine?” said Ethel. “Ain’t none of us blind, we saw you do that Jesse Owens through the doors. What’s wrong?”

“I…” The Reverend looked into Ethel’s eyes and shrugged. “I honestly can’t say—and, no, I don’t mean that I won’t say; I honestly don’t know what’s wrong.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Martha come back yet?”

“No,” said Ethel. “And neither has Joe. What was troubling him, anyway?”

The Reverend walked closer to the front door and stood there a moment, staring out at the freezing rain. “It’s a bad night, Ethel. Nights like this, they make some people think too much. If you think too much, you start remembering things, and some of those things are best left forgotten.”

“You get that from a fortune cookie?”

The Reverend turned to face her. “Beg pardon?”

Ethel sighed. “I asked you what I thought was a fairly direct question, and what do I get for an answer?—gobbledygook that sounds like something from an Igmar Bergman movie.”

“You know Bergman?”

Ethel stood up a little straighter, as if trying to decide whether or not she should be offended. “Yes, I know Bergman movies. I also like Kurosawa and Fellini and think The Three Stooges are very funny. And you’re changing the subject. I asked you what was wrong with Joe?”

“He’s dealing with some bad memories.”

Ethel finished getting ready to leave, handing the Reverend the money envelope. “You can’t save the world, Reverend. Only that part of it that comes through these doors and chooses to stay.” He took the money from her and grinned. “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.” “You’d look terrible in my wardrobe, you’re an Autumn.” He shook the envelope. “Ah…sounds like…let me guess…twenty dollars?” “Learn to juggle while blindfolded and you could take that act on the road.” The Reverend laughed. “Oh, Ethel…what would I do without you?”

“Don’t you be sweet-talking me, mister. I’m immune to your charms.”

“No you’re not.”

Ethel smiled; her smile is a wonderful thing to behold. “No, I’m not, but we can’t have you thinking you’re special or anything like that, now, can we?” She kissed his cheek, smiled at me and Timmy, and was just going out the door at the same time Sheriff Ted Jackson was coming in. The sheriff stood aside and held the door open for her.

“Evenin’, Sheriff,” said Ethel. “There some kind of trouble?”

“Only my troubled heart—why won’t you run off with me, Ethel, why?”

She laughed and smacked his arm. “Ted, one of these days I’m gonna take you up on that, and then what’ll you do?”

“Rejoice. Sing. Dance in the street.”

Ethel shook her head. “You men. What goes on in those heads of yours?”

“Sweet dreams of holding you in my arms, Ethel,” said Jackson. As Ethel walked away toward her car, Jackson called out: “Don’t leave me! I’ll crumble. I love you. Come back!”

I looked at Timmy. “Wow. Two floor shows tonight.”

Timmy snorted a mischievous laugh and said, in a conspiratorial tone, “Terrible, just terrible.”

Jackson came inside, closing the door behind him. “You know, some night that woman is going to haul off and knock my teeth down my throat. And I’ll probably deserve it.”

“I keep a camera at the ready for that very day,” replied the Reverend. He shook Jackson’s hand. “Thanks for coming, Ted.”

Jackson shrugged. “My social calendar suddenly cleared up.”

We all knew that Jackson’s wife had left him after she miscarried. She’s living down in Oregon with her sister now. Jackson was elected Sheriff last year, after having served as a deputy for something like six years. The new title and new uniform and new power hadn’t changed him at all; he still looked like he was waiting for someone to come out of the shadows and take it all away from him. He and the Reverend both have a tense, lonely way about them, which is I guess what drew them together as friends. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what they had in common, but I guess that doesn’t really matter when there’s someone you can always depend on for company and small talk over a cup of coffee or a sandwich or a smoke.

They stood there chatting about Jackson’s new responsibilities, the upcoming City Council budget meetings, the weather, and just when I was about to interrupt and ask what was going on, Jackson said, “So how long you need me here?” The Reverend checked his watch. “An hour, two at the most.” “What’s going on?” I asked. “Popsicle Patrol,” said the Reverend. “You need to go warm up the van.”

I looked out at the freezing rain—which was coming down even harder than before—and nodded my head. “I was wondering if we were going to do that tonight.” And I had been. I said good-bye to Timmy and was making my way toward the back when a little voice behind me said: “Mister, the tape won’t play.”

She stood there in all her three-year-old radiance, mussed hair, a smudge on one of her cheeks, hands on hips, one foot impatiently tapping, lower lip sticking out in what I’d bet was a well-practiced pout. I wanted to wrap her up and take her home with me.

“Is the tape broken?” I said, kneeling down so we could see eye to eye.

She tsk’d, rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Noooooo, it’s not broken. It just won’t play. They’re not the same thing, y’know.”

I looked toward the “lounge”—an area near one of the corners with three chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a television set—and saw the girl’s mother, brother, and dog staring at us. The dog in particular seemed irritated that the tape wasn’t doing its part to share in the duties of entertaining the kids. I told the little girl I’d see what I could do, and she grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the TV.

As soon as I knelt down in front of it I saw the problem. “It’s not the tape, honey—the VCR has to be set on Channel 3 or it doesn’t come through the TV.”

“Well, did you set it?”

“Missy!” said her mother. Then, to me: “Sorry. She really wants to watch the tape and she gets…a little impatient.”

“That’s okay.” I set the VCR and cued up the tape. This was a good one: A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The Reverend had taped a bunch of holiday specials and movies for folks to watch, to make their holidays here less depressing.

“My name’s Beth,” said the woman. “This is Melissa—”

“—Missy,” said the little girl.”

“Missy…excuse me. This is Kyle, and that bundle of fur on the floor is Lump”

Lump’s face was buried between his paws, but he managed to raise up one ear in greeting.

Missy walked over toward me, pointing. “What happened to your ear, Mister?”

“Melissa!” snapped Beth.

“It’s okay,” I said, touching the knot of scar tissue that clung to the side of my skull. I looked at Missy, trying to decide just how much of the truth to tell her. “Well, you see, Missy, I don’t have much of an ear left, so I can only hear out of the other one.”

Once again, she tsk’d at me, shaking her head. “I know you only got one ear, I see that. I mean, what happened to your ear?” “You mean why isn’t it there anymore?” “Uh-huh.” “I got hit in the head.”

“Huh? You mean you can get…not-hearing and lose your ear from being hit in the head?”

I nodded. “If you get knocked out and land in the snow like I did.”

“Wow…you musta got hit real hard.”

“Yep. I was out for about five hours.” I hoped she wouldn’t quiz me further; I don’t lie well.

Beth saved me by mussing Kyle’s hair and making him groan. She told Missy that was enough, stop bothering the nice man, then looked at me. “We’re on our way to Indiana. We’re going to…stay with my folks for a while.”

“Gramma and Grampa told us we could come stay with them because our Daddy’s dead,” said Kyle matter-of-factly, as if he understood all about death and had accepted it and was wise beyond his years; which, in a way, I guess he was: bad wisdom is still wisdom.

As soon as he said “dead”, Beth shot me a look that was equal parts fear and pleading, and that’s all it took for me to know the rest of the story: Daddy wasn’t dead, Daddy was some white-trash asshole who’d decided he’d enough responsibility for one lifetime, and so took the car (or, more likely, the truck), all the money, and however much beer he could fit in the cooler and abandoned his family—odds are in an apartment from which they were about to be evicted anyway, leaving her to fend not only for herself but two kids and a dog. I wondered how Daddy had “died”, and if Beth had taken care to cover her tracks so he couldn’t suddenly resurrect himself from the dead once they were Indiana.

All of this I saw in her eyes for that brief moment; I nodded my head in understanding, and was rewarded with one of the most luminous smiles of gratitude I’d ever seen. These kids had nothing to worry about, not with this woman as their mother. I felt sorry for anyone stupid enough to try and pull anything on them. If Daddy did suddenly come back from the dead and show up in Indiana, my guess was he wouldn’t be out of that grave for long.

I pointed to the VCR, triumphant. Missy and Kyle applauded my efforts. I took a bow, then said: “Would you guys like some popcorn and sodas to snack on?”

I expected both of them to shout yes, but instead they looked at their mother, who shrugged and looked at me. “Can I have some too?”

“You were here in time for dinner, right?”

“Oh, uh…yes, we were. I just…the kids don’t get treats too often and….”

“I’ll make extra,” I said. “And don’t worry—we keep plenty on hand.” Which we did, at the Reverend’s insistence. Don’t ask me why, but somehow eating popcorn and sipping a soda while watching a good movie or a cartoon seems to make everyone happy, at least for a while. A mouthful of popcorn and you’re a kid again, at the movies with all the other kids, having a good time and enjoying the hell out of life, not at the end of your rope in a homeless shelter right before Thanksgiving and wondering where’d you’d be come Christmas morning. I guess for a lot of the people who come through here, the smell of popcorn is the smell of childhood, and that can make things easier, if only for a little while.

I made two bags (one butter, one plain), popped open three Pepsis, and put a couple of ham-and-cheese sandwiches on the tray, as well. (I didn’t remember seeing them at any of the tables during dinner.) I even found a can of dog food, which I put in a bowl for Lump, who seemed to have a higher opinion of me after I set it in front of him.

Everyone thanked me, then snuggled together under a blanket on the couch, watching Charlie Brown and munching away.

“Ahem?”

I turned to see the Reverend standing right behind me. He looked at Beth and her children, then at Lump, then at me, raising his left eyebrow like that actor who used to play Mr. Spock on Star Trek.

“I know, I know,” I said, moving past him toward the rear doors. “What was I supposed to do, ignore them?”

He fell into step beside me. “No, you were supposed to do exactly what you did. It just seemed to me that you were basking in the moment a little too long…you knight in shining overalls, you.”

“They weren’t here for dinner, were they?”

“They were, but they were sleeping and I wasn’t about to wake them. You did good, Sam.”

“Your praise is everything to me.”

The Reverend grinned. “Could you maybe be a little less sincere?”

“I could give it a whirl, but it costs extra.” We smiled at each other, then the Reverend moved toward the kitchen to stock up on hot coffee and sandwiches while I made my way out back to get the van started for Popsicle Patrol.

As I was closing the door behind me, I took one last look inside; Timmy was sitting down in one of the chairs in the lounge, Lump’s face seemed permanently fused to the bowl, Beth and her kids were munching happily away (on both the popcorn and the sandwiches, which they shared with Timmy), and the other guests were either settling into their cots, playing cards, or chatting quietly. Sheriff Jackson was sitting at Ethel’s table, reading a paperback novel. Everything was quiet, warm, pleasant enough, and safe. It made me feel good, knowing that I’d helped make this a good, clean, decent place for folks who weren’t as fortunate as me. I wanted to freeze this moment in my mind so I could take it out again sometime and look at it when I was feeling blue.

They were all fine; they were all safe.

I try very hard to remember that now; how safe it all seemed.