Sendoff for a Snitch (11 page)

“True, that,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t be gone for too long and that I could find some food that the kids would like that didn’t need to be cooked.

Pulling on the warm down jacket and unfolding the rain poncho, I said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I wondered if McDonalds would be open. I could maybe get each of them a hamburger or something. But I should check into that on the way back, so if I could get any, they’d be warm.

Even if I could find a store that was open and had food, money would be a problem. In the few short months since I’d been released from prison, the cost of the basic foods I depended upon—peanut butter, tuna fish, ramen noodles—seemed to have gone up and up.

But the kids needed to be fed.

Snug in the down jacket covered by the rain poncho, I headed across town where I hoped to find a grocery store open.

No such luck. Every place was dark and quiet. Where had everyone gone? The only sounds I could hear were the drilling of the rain onto hard surfaces and the rush of water from downspouts and in the streets. A dank smell filled the air, like the odor of cut flowers that had been left too long in a vase.

The Best Deals for Your Dollar store had been almost out of food yesterday when I was there, and if I thought about it, I had to admit that I hadn’t really expected to find anyplace open.

The emergency shelter at the high school might be my best bet. It was a good walk, but if I went the long way around, I could make it on high roads. They had to have food, if they were letting people stay there. Maybe they were letting people take some home.

In the waning daylight, the school gave off an eerie glow that I could see from a few blocks away. They were getting lights somehow.

As I got closer, I heard a steady hum that became a roar as I got close. Emergency generators mounted on the backs of military-style trucks.

Several soldiers in fatigues hurried across the parking lot. More sat in the truck cabs, and a few stood out of the rain, leaning against the wall just under the canopy by the school entrance. Were they National Guard?

Uneasy, I almost turned around then and there.

But why should they care if I came in? Emergency services were available to all citizens, even if they were convicts on parole. Besides, how would they even know that? I had every intention of behaving responsibly.

As I approached the door, one of the lounging soldiers stood erect and eyed me. He had a sidearm, so he was probably an officer. “What are you looking for?”

My throat closed. I told myself he was just asking a question, not challenging me. I licked my dry lips and said, “Food.”

“Hot meal being served in the cafeteria,” he said. “Past the registration table and straight down the hallway. If you’re just here for that, you don’t have to register.”

I had to remind myself to breathe before I could say anything. “Thanks.” After the big breakfast, I wasn’t that hungry, but under the circumstances, I knew better than to turn down a meal. And maybe I’d be able to pocket something for the kids.

The scene inside the school was chaos, with children shouting, people rushing in all directions, and a man with a bullhorn trying to make announcements. The bullhorn wasn’t working.

I went past a table at the entrance, where harried workers were trying to take down the names of the masses of people who were milling round. I glanced through an open door as I passed by. Row after row of cots lined the gym floor.

Babies cried and mothers tried to keep toddlers entertained enough to prevent them from running amok.

I continued to the cafeteria, where a line of hungry people snaked around the walls. This might be my only chance for a hot meal for who knows how long. And then, if I managed to scrounge up anything else, I could save it for the kids. I joined the line. It moved surprisingly quickly along.

The woman in front of me, with three school-age children hugging her sides, greeted the volunteer who was handing polystyrene plates and plastic forks. “Y’all working here instead of at the church?”

Another young man behind the serving line beamed at her. “Yep. We’ve moved the soup kitchen up here for now. The church kitchen isn’t flooded, but it’s got no power. And they need groups who know what they’re doing if they’re going to feed all these people.” His gaze swept over the ever-lengthening line.

“Well, I must say, y’all know how to run a soup kitchen. I always say, best meal of the month is when y’all running it.”

The young man’s smile broadened. “We try.”

The line moved forward, and he handed me a plate, fork, and napkin.

Some of the people were being picky about the food, refusing some of what they were offered. Years of prison chow had left me less than fussy, and I didn’t turn down anything. I got a slab of meatloaf, a mound of mashed potatoes, a spoonful of creamed corn, some kind of greens—it looked like kale—and two slices of white bread. I picked up a very welcome cup of coffee from the assortment of drinks at the end of the line and made my way to a table.

I made a sandwich out of the bread and meatloaf, wrapped it in the napkin, and shoved it in my pocket. The kids could split that. Mashed potatoes, corn, and kale weren’t going to travel as easily, so I ate them. The coffee probably wasn’t all that great, but I’d been so long without any it tasted like a gourmet blend.

A volunteer carried a tray of desserts around, handing out pieces of apple pie and squares of cake.

I took a big square of cake and another napkin. The frosting might come off, but I could bring that to the kids, too.

The crowd kept coming, and they needed the space at the tables. I finished up, threw my trash away, and drifted out to the hallway to see if I could find out anything useful.

The line for showers in the gym locker rooms was impossibly long and not moving. The first aide station was packed. I skipped them. At the end of the hallway, another line was moving along pretty well. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was for, but I stepped close to the woman manning the table to try to figure it out.

Food bank distribution. Just what I needed.

I got in the line. When I got to the head of the line, the woman didn’t even look up. “Name?” she asked.

My chest tightened. What kind of trouble could I get into here, especially if Mr. Ramirez found out I’d been taking any kind of emergency assistance? He thought parolees should be paying their own way.

“Jason Dempsey,” I murmured, hoping she wouldn’t ask how to spell it or anything. I figured it sounded close enough to Jesse Damon that if I got caught in the ruse, I could use the excuse of the noise level for the misinterpretation of the name.

She didn’t bat an eyelash. “How many in the family?” she asked.

“Four.”

“How many children under the age of two?”

“None.”

“Under the age of five?”

I thought for a minute. Brianna was six. “None.”

“Under the age of ten?”

“Two.”

“Race?”

I blinked. Why did she want to know that? Kelly’s complexion was dusky, and she had that magnificent mane of thick, dark hair that I loved. Was she some kind of racial mixture? Or even Native American? And if she was, then of course the kids would be. It had never occurred to me to ask.

The woman glanced up. “We just need it for our statistics. Won’t make any difference in what you get.”

“White,” I stammered.

“Anyone over the age of 65 in the family?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You have any way to cook food?”

“Not right now.”

She made a few check marks on her paper and selected a yellow card from an array of various colors in front of her. “Take this two doors down and hand it to the person at the door. They’ll help you get what you need.”

I took the card. Some people were going into the first room. It was piled high with food, but I went to the second door like I’d been told.

That room, too, was piled high with food. The guy at the door glanced at the card, handed me a few plastic bags, and said, “You can have four bags of food. Nothing in this room needs to be cooked, although some of it, you might rather have heated up if you get the chance.”

A few other people were examining packages stacked on the counters and tables.

Since I had to carry everything a fair distance, I started with the boxed food. Cereal, raisins, crackers. I took three jars of peanut butter and found a canned ham, which would be a real treat. I tried to think about what the kids should be eating and what they might like. A five-pound block of sliced yellow cheese. Powdered milk. A cardboard canister of fruit-flavored drink mix, which probably had no nutritional values, but they’d like it. Canned items would be heavy, but I took a few cans of tuna and fruit cocktail. And a big can of canned government surplus cooked pork. I got a plastic bottle of barbeque sauce to put on that and then took a jar of mustard and one of mayonnaise.

There didn’t seem to be any bread, which was too bad, but beggars can’t be choosers. I was grateful for what I could get. The kids wouldn’t go hungry for a while, anyhow.

My bags were pretty full. I tucked a few individual serving packages of beef jerky, string cheese, and cracker sandwiches wherever I could fit them.

The meals we could fix wouldn’t be ideal, but they’d do. I thanked the guy at the door and went back out into the hallway. I knew the kids would be anxious, especially if Kelly was still in bed, so I wanted to get back as quickly as I could.

I tried to arrange the bags so they were balanced and I could carry them under the poncho to keep them dry. Then I flipped up the poncho’s hood and stepped out the front door.

Behind me, someone yelled, “Stop! Thief!”

Who would steal anything in an emergency like this? And what would they steal?

The sleepy-looking soldiers snapped awake. They surrounded me, and a big blond one grabbed me by the arm.

Chapter 10

I
stood still for a second, then backed up a couple of steps so my back was to the wall.

A petite female soldier stepped up in front of me, her eyes glinting gray underneath her fatigue cover. Her nametag read “Smyth,” and she had sergeant’s chevrons on her sleeves. Gesturing toward the bags I was carrying, she asked, “What you got there?”

“Stuff from the food bank,” I said.

“You mind if we take a look?”

They were going to look even if I objected. I said, “No,” and handed them to two other soldiers standing next to her.

“Keep your hands where we can see them,” she said.

If I let my hands hang by my sides, they would be half-hidden by the rain poncho. I raised them and put them behind my head, fingers interlaced.

“You got any weapons?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You mind if I have one of the men pat you down?”

I did, but again, I saw no point in objecting. “No, ma’am.”

She nodded to a soldier standing off to the side. He avoided my eyes as he reached under the poncho and ran his hands over my pockets, sticking his hand in one and pulling out my wallet and keychain with its solitary key to my now-flooded apartment. He flipped open the wallet, examining the two ID cards and the pathetic few dollars. He glanced at the sergeant, then shoved them back in my pocket. “One of the ID cards is a prison ID, but he don’t got nothing we got to worry about.”

It was a thoroughly unprofessional search. I could have had a gun shoved down by my groin, or a hunting knife in my boot, and he wouldn’t have found it. But then, soldiers weren’t usually in the business of frisking suspects.

“Don’t see nothing but food in these bags,” said the guy who’d taken the bags. He pulled out a few boxes of cereal, handed them to another soldier, and rummaged through what was left in the bag.

“Me neither,” the other agreed, peering into the bags.

I looked over at the doorway, where yet another soldier had escorted someone out of the school building. I recognized him as Diffy, the forklift driver from second shift at work. What kind of beef did he have with me?

A small crowd had gathered, staring.

The sergeant turned to face him. “You’re the one who says this man is a thief?”

Diffy smirked. “Yeah. He’s a criminal on parole. And he’s a child molester.”

She looked backed toward me.

How much should I tell her? They had seen the prison ID, so Diffy’s claims couldn’t be a total surprise to them. “I am on parole,” I said, “but I sure as hell ain’t no child molester.”

“Yes, he is.” Diffy nodded his head. “You can look him up on the sex offender registry online.”

I glared at him. “You do that. You won’t find me on it.”

The woman leaned back on her boot heels and looked back at Diffy. “And I suppose you’ve looked him up?”

“Well, not me, personally,” Diffy stammered. “I mean, I don’t got a computer. But lots of the guys at work have. And he’s there.”

She shook her head. “Even if you’re right about that—and I don’t see how you can be sure if you haven’t looked it up yourself—so what?”

Diffy set his chin. “Sex offenders aren’t supposed to be near schools. And for sure we don’t need the likes of him staying here. There’s kids all over.”

“Looks to me like he was leaving. Until we stopped him.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be here at all.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Who put you in charge of who can be here and who can’t?”

He shrugged. “Common sense say we don’t need him here.”

“And what has all that to do with him being a thief?”

“His type’ll steal anything they can get their hands on. I know. I work with him.”

I refrained from answering him. I’d never stolen anything, at work or anywhere else. From him or anybody else.

The sergeant sighed. “What do you think he stole?”

“Look in those bags.”

“We have.”

“Well, what’s he got?”

“Food.”

“Then he’s stealing food.”

“It’s kind of hard to steal from a food bank. They give the food away.”

“To people who need it.”

“And what makes you think this guy doesn’t need it?”

“That’s an awful lot of food for one person.”

She took a step back. “Maybe he’s getting it for more than one person. And why is it any of your business, anyhow?”

“He’s stealing from the people who really need it. Families with kids.”

She just shook her head. “Why don’t you just go back inside?” she said. “Let the people who are in charge make the decisions about who gets what.”

The soldier who had searched me took him by the arm. “Come on, buddy.” They went back inside the building.

She turned back to me. “You can put your hands down,” she said.

I lowered my hands.

“Is all that for just you?”

“No. I’m taking it back to my girlfriend’s place. She’s got two kids. And no electric, so we can’t cook anything for them.”

“Well, take your bags and get this food home to them.”

I picked up the bags.

The crowd started to drift away toward the entrance.

“What are you on parole for, anyhow?” one of the soldiers asked.

The crowd paused to listen.

Reluctantly, I answered, “Murder.”

When I got back to the house, I piled the bags on the kitchen table. The light that shone through the kitchen windows was dim, but it was enough to see by.

“Sort it out and decide what we should fix next,” I told the kids.

Kelly was nowhere in sight. I went upstairs to check on her.

She was snoring gently, still covered by the bedding.

In the kitchen, Brianna lined the boxes of cereal up in a row. “You got some pretty good stuff,” she said.

Chris looked up from sorting the food into stacks by type. “Is Mom okay?”

“Yeah. We might as well let her sleep.”

I pulled the meatloaf sandwich and cake from my pockets. They weren’t too badly squashed, and the meatloaf was still a bit warm. I stirred some of the drink mix into a pitcher of water and poured two cups full.

Fruit and vegetables were in short supply. I filled a bowl with raisins and put it on the table in front of the kids. That would have to do.

Chris wolfed his sandwich down. Brianna tore hers into little pieces, but she ate every bit. They each took a handful of raisins.

“Will you read us some stories?” Brianna asked.

Nodding, I said “We could do that. Or we could play a game, like Candy Land.”

Chris grimaced. “That’s for little kids.”

“Maybe, but it’s fun,” I said.

Brianna stood up. “I have some books in my room. I’ll go get a few,” she said.

“Will you read some Harry Potter?” Chris asked. “I like that, but it’s hard for me to read.”

I got up. “Sure. We’ll take turns. First, let’s go see how the stuff we hung up to dry is doing.”

Not dripping wet was the best I could have hoped for, but the sheet and pajamas hadn’t even reached that point yet. I stared at the mattress pad in the bathtub. I didn’t see any hope of getting that dry any time soon. Maybe I could put some towels under a clean sheet on Brianna’s bed.

At least the kids had dry clothes. I had them each put on another pair of socks and a hoodie over the shirts and sweaters they already wore.

Trooping downstairs again with a stack of books, we settled onto the couch, snuggling together and pulling the blankets around us. Gradually, we went from chilly to comfortable to cozy. Maybe the situation wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t think of much I would have traded for it.

We’d been reading for a while when we heard Kelly’s footsteps in the hallway upstairs. She went into the bathroom, then back to her room. I was just thinking maybe I should go up and check on her again when she came downstairs.

She was wrapped in her bathrobe. I hoped for her sake that she had something warm on underneath that. Her feet were shoved in old slippers.

Brushing her hair back from her face, she glared toward us. “When did you get here?” she asked.

Since she knew the kids were here, I assumed she was talking to me. “A little while ago. The kids were hungry, and there didn’t seem to be much that didn’t have to be cooked in the house, so I went and got some food.”

She looked out the window, where the rain was coming down steadily, although it was nowhere near as heavy as it had been earlier. “The stores are open?” she asked.

“No. Pretty much everything’s shut down. They’ve got the high school set up as some kind of emergency headquarters, with cots and a soup kitchen and a food bank. They let me have some food that didn’t need to be cooked.”

Her nostrils flared. “You’re eating out of a food bank?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s what a food bank’s for. And there’s not much else available.”

“And you’re feeding my kids food bank stuff?”

“It’s food. And they have to eat, too. We got some pretty good stuff. You could fix yourself something.”

“No thanks.” She tossed her head and sat down in a chair. “And what are you doing?”

I’d have thought it was obvious. “We’re reading books,” I said, holding up the one I had been reading. “And keeping warm.”

“You kids should have woken me up,” she said. “I would have gotten up and fixed you something to eat.”

Chris looked down at his hands.

“We tried,” Brianna said in a small voice, “but you said we should go away.”

Kelly wiped her eyes, then lifted her hand to her head. “I need a cup of coffee.”

I shrugged. “There’s no hot water, but there is some instant coffee. I suppose you could try to mix some of that with cold water and drink that. It’d be some caffeine. I did get some powdered milk, and there’s sugar.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose it’s better than nothing.” But she made no move to get up.

“Do you want me to see if I can mix some up for you?” I asked. “And maybe you could have something to eat. Cereal with powdered milk.”

Her face contorted, and she swallowed hard. She was probably pretty hung over.

“Or maybe a few dry crackers,” I amended.

Getting unsteadily to her feet, she said, “What have you given the kids to eat?”

“Meatloaf sandwiches from the soup kitchen. Some raisins. And I made up some fruit drink.”

“And cake,” Brianna piped up. “Jesse had one big piece, so he gave us each part.”

“First food bank, and now soup kitchen?” Kelly said.

It didn’t seem so bad to me. “Yeah.”

Pulling her bathrobe tighter around her, she said, “I don’t need charity to feed my kids.”

“I didn’t see much to fix with the stove not working,” I said. “And I sure as hell didn’t see any place to buy food. If you think it’s ‘charity’ and you don’t want to take it, you could make a donation to the food bank to cover the cost. After this whole mess goes away.”

Money was always tight, but it was going to be tighter as long as we couldn’t work. If Quality Steel was closed for a whole week, Kelly could draw unemployment compensation, but that was nothing like a whole paycheck. I didn’t have enough quarters of work credit to be eligible for it, so I wouldn’t even get that.

She glared at me. “I can take care of my kids myself, thank you.”

“You weren’t exactly doing a great job when I got here earlier.”

Her body stiffened. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“The kids were up and hungry,” I said, “and you were asleep.”

“Where were you last night?” she demanded. “I thought you said you were coming over here.”

“I got caught up in a few things and couldn’t get over here. Besides, I didn’t promise—how could anybody promise anything with what’s going on now?—I said I’d try. And I did try.”

“Not hard enough,” she said, her face flushed. “While you were holed up somewhere, probably warm and dry and well-fed, I was up half the night waiting for you.”

“And drinking,” I couldn’t help pointing out.

Kelly’s voice rose. “What business is it of yours, if you couldn’t even be bothered to get here?”

“You shouldn’t be drinking around the kids.”

Brianna leaned into my side and sobbed. I took a look at Chris. He was sitting still, staring at his hands. They didn’t need to be hearing all this.

“Look,” I said, getting up. “Let’s drop this for now. You’re up, and there’s some food in the kitchen, no matter where it came from. Maybe I can go back out and see if I can find out what’s going on.”

“So now that you’ve finally shown up, you’re walking out on me?” Her voice was shrill.

“I’m not thinking of it like that,” I said. “You’re getting mad. So am I. The kids don’t need to hear this nonsense. Give us a few hours; we might be able to talk without yelling at each other. I’ll go see how my apartment is doing. Maybe I can get some stuff out of there.”

“You gonna come back?”

“If you want me to.” I reached for the jacket and poncho. “But remember, I got no control over what’s going on out there. So if I’m later than you expect, or if I can’t make it at all, don’t get mad.”

She took a deep breath and shoved her hair back again. “You’re right. Okay.”

At the door, I turned to look back at the kids. Brianna had buried her face in the blankets. Her shoulders were heaving. Chris continued to stare at his hands.

How the hell could we be doing this to those poor kids?

I closed the door behind me.