Saturday Morning (25 page)

She should be out enjoying the lovely weather and the Saturday Market that everyone raved about, but Clarice felt like that fog that so often drifted in at night had taken up residence in her brain. And was not drifting on. She stared at the computer screen without seeing it.

How had he gotten away with everything? How could she have been such a fool? She’d asked herself these questions every day in the week she’d been at J House. “Herbert, you must be so disappointed in me. Losing all that you worked so hard to earn, all because of a charming smile and enough compliments to paint a two-story building. Why didn’t I listen to Nadia?”

If someone came upon her talking to herself, her explanation that she was talking to her dead husband wouldn’t do much to defend her case.
Sometimes I think I am going round the bend. Mary, Holy Mother, I know you haven’t deserted me. Please, I need some saintly help right about now.
Clarice stared at her rings, rings that she thought had been her saving grace. But when she took them in to be appraised, so she’d know she had some kind of money to start over with, she’d learned the final depth of Gregor’s perfidy. The diamonds were cubic zirconium. He must have had the excellent copies made of her rings when he so kindly took them in to be cleaned and their mountings checked. All three rings had a total value of about a thousand dollars, not the
thirty to forty thousand they’d been worth several years ago. Her beloved fur coat was worth about three. She sniffed and dabbed at the tears that persisted, in spite of the good people who had taken her in. She’d sure proved out the adage that there is no fool like an old fool. No matter how much Roger tried to convince her that Gregor had been a master con artist and had fleeced other lambs as well, she beat herself blue and purple with blame—and shame.

“All right, old fool, forget your maudlin weeping and get the job done that you can do.”

“Talking to yourself again, eh?” Roger propped a hip on the clean and bare credenza behind her. Gone too were the stacks on the desk.

“I just can’t … ”

Roger raised a hand, traffic cop style. “I thought we agreed that I would worry on Gregor and you would be kinder to Clarice.”

“That’s easier said than done,” she mumbled to her now tapping fingers.

“I’ll ignore that. Has Mr. Kent sent any response to that last letter we received from Blakely Associates?”

“Not via e-mail. And Celia has been answering the phones. She’d have left a message on Hope’s desk.” Clarice turned so she could see him better. Roger looked rumpled, as though he’d just gotten out of bed. “Back’s bad again?”

“Must be a change comin’ in the weather. Hard to believe I’m saying things like that. Always thought Peter’s complaint about his trick knee was all made up.”

“You tried a chiropractor?”

“Uh-huh. He helps keep me vertical. Some days are just bad.”

“Couldn’t have anything to do with the hours you spent on the roof yesterday, could it?” Clarice pasted an innocent look on her face, or at least she hoped it was innocent.

“Shouldn’t leak any longer, and when the winter rains hit, we’ll be
real glad of that. Whole building is held together with bubble gum and duct tape.” He flinched as he pushed away from the wall. “If Julia comes by, tell her I’m in the laundry room.”

“Washing?”

“No, fixing the dryer. Need it to last another week at least.”

Clarice already knew he meant six months to a year. A new dryer was one of the items on the donations list. Or else scheduled to be replaced after the next fund-raiser.

Lord, I’d buy them a dryer if we could get back some of my money. A brand-new one, no hand-me-down that’d need fixing in a month or two.
That thought alone was enough to clear the way for the doldrums to attack again. Hard work had been her antidote up to now, and must be again. The more physical the better.

A child burst through the front door. “I got to go.”

Clarice pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. “And don’t forget to flush.”

Shame we never had children, Herbert. I would have made a good grandma. But then perhaps that’s one of the reasons I am here. I can grandma some of these little ones.

The door flew open again. Young Alphi, who had been living in the shelter with his mother for a month or more, raced to a skidding stop at her desk. “Where’s Hope?”

From the look on his face, Clarice thought perhaps Roger might be of more use to him. “She’s out on the grounds somewhere, but Roger is in the laundry room. Go get him.” She pulled the walkie-talkie from the drawer. Now if only she could remember how to use it. Was it push to talk or push to listen? She pushed the button and spoke. “Hope, you’re needed in here.”

Some static blasted her ear, then Hope’s voice. “Emergency?”

“Alphi came racing in. I sent him for Roger.”

“Be right there.”

Roger and the boy rushed by her desk. “Call 911 and tell them we need a uniform or two.”

Clarice had learned already that meant “No one hurt yet, but we need help.” She dialed 911 and at the answer said, “This is Clarice at J House, and we need a uniform or two. I take it no sirens.”

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. The Market is still in full swing, and one of our children came rushing in, and he and Roger raced out. That’s all I know.”

“Tell Roger or Hope the cars are on their way.”

“Thanks.” Clarice hung up the phone.
Lord, protect the innocent. Send peace to quell the violence.

“What’s happening?” Hope had come in through the side door and now stood at the desk.

“I don’t know, but Roger asked for backup, so I called 911.”

“Good. Who … ?”

“Alphi. That’s all I know.”

“Hmm. I’ll call you if we need more help.” She touched the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. Dressed in khaki shorts and a scoop-neck red T-shirt, she looked about as fierce as a Lhasa apso, but even sweet dogs have teeth.

Curiosity ate on her like a yellow jacket starving for protein, but Clarice forced herself to get back to work. The quarterly reports were already a month overdue, and if the grant application wasn’t turned in soon, Hope would not get all the funds she was entitled to.

Running a nonprofit wasn’t a whole lot different from running a hopefully for-profit business. Both had paperwork that could sink the Bay Bridge.

While she typed, Clarice kept one ear tuned to whatever was going on outside. No sirens, no gunshots, no screaming.

When Alphi and Roger finally strolled through the door giving each other high-fives, she blew out a sigh of relief with a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“What was it?”

“Pickpockets, and I saw them.” Alphi pumped the air, then glanced up at Roger, who gave the needed approbation.

“He did at that. We shadowed them, and the cops caught them. Two young punks working as a team. They failed to explain in a satisfactory manner how they happened to have four watches, two pocket computers, three wallets—two with rather substantial amounts of money—a diamond tennis bracelet, and a diamond crusted lipstick case. Definitely not the normal paraphernalia of teen hoods.”

“Don’t forget the credit cards.”

“Right. That would have been the long-term scam.” Roger thumped Alphi on the shoulder. “Nothing better to catch a pickpocket than a reformed pickpocket.”

“I was good.”

Clarice kept her mouth closed, but only by a whisker.
This child had been a pickpocket? This sweet child with the choirboys voice?

“Not been for my friend Roger here, I’d a been stuck in juvie.” He shook his head. “Who knows how long.”

Clarice caught the look of love Roger showered on the boy.
Folks say Hope runs this place, but I’m thinking Roger is the backbone.

“Wish a certain pickpocket I knew could be caught as easily.”

“I’m working on it, Clarice. Now don’t you go giving up. Remember, God says He is the vindicator of widows and orphans. It’s not smart to invoke the wrath of the almighty God.”

Clarice glanced up at the clock. One p.m. She planned on attending four o’clock mass at Saints Peter and Paul, on the other side of Washington Square. Today’s weather was perfect for the walk.

If only she had money to stop by the Italian bakery and bring back macaroons for everyone. Perhaps selling her coat was the only option. Although Roger kept telling her to be patient.

After mass, she thanked the priest for his homily and headed back toward the shelter. Dusk softened the outlines of buildings, and dampness not quite dense enough to be fog hazed the streetlights. She buttoned her coat, as much for safety’s sake as the chill. Interesting that her fur coat, Gucci bag, and matching shoes would brand her as wealthy, yet she had only five dollars left to her name.

Herbert, what would you suggest? You always had a good head on your shoulders. What kind of work can I do that would make enough money for me to live on? You know I don’t ask for a lot, all that at the end, that wasn’t me. You just wanted to give me all the things you thought I wanted. And I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. But now everything is gone, and I need to depend on my wits again. Yes, I know, take stock. You were always taking stock, counting what you had and looking ahead.

She stopped to look in the windows of a store. She could work retail, a nice dress shop, perhaps. Not a big store like Saks, but a small, intimate shop where one could know the customers and call them when something special came in they would like. She waited for the light to change. Of course, she could work in a bakery or even a restaurant, but could her feet take that kind of punishment? An office, like she was doing now, would be the best, but who would hire a sixty-seven-year-old woman?

She started up Union to Casa de Jesus. Yes, indeed, the house of Jesus, and His arms encircled everyone who came there. With the new programs Julia was starting, a good office worker was needed all the more. Especially one who could organize things as she could. That brought up another thought.
How to do what I do best without stepping on Celia’s toes? Her pointed remarks lately were about as subtle as her pointed shoes. I know—take time to build a friendship and get us working together as a team. It’s just that I get so involved and barrel ahead. I know, Herbert, I’ll do better, really I will.

Back to living arrangements. Was living in the shelter a bad thing? No, other than it took a bed from someone who needed it worse. And they’d had to turn away a young woman who needed a bed.

Herbert, if you tell me to eat crow and go back to stay with Nadia, I will, but if I can do more good here, then just let me know. But I don’t want to cost someone else something for me to stay. Got that? And you know something else? I really need a haircut. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the thing I took for granted.

The view was even more incredible than she remembered.

“Andy, where are you?”

“Up here,” she called down. She stood leaning against one of several stacks of still-full moving boxes, looking out the bank of living room windows at a freighter passing under the Golden Gate Bridge. She was enthralled by the way the fog licked the tops of the towers and then devoured the remainder of the span.