Shattered (8 page)

“You know, it would give you hours on your community service.”

Mac knew which buttons to push.

“I could come tonight,” I said. The words had jumped out before I'd thought them through.

“It'll be almost midnight before I'm through,” he warned.

“It's a Friday night. I don't have to be in until later than that.”

“What about your ride?” Mac asked.

“I'll tell them to come and get me later. I'd like to come … you know, it
would
be some more hours. Quicker I do them the sooner I'm done.”

He didn't answer right away. I didn't know if I should be happy or disappointed no matter what answer he gave.

“You make the call, just to make sure, and you can come with me. You know where the phone is.”

“Yeah.” I wandered out of the main part of the kitchen and into the little alcove that Mac had made into his home. It held his bed and a small TV and a few personal items sitting on top of his dresser. Unbelievably, this was his house and it wasn't nearly as big as our pool cabana. What would my parents think if they saw this? There was no worry there. They'd never see it. They'd never know and wouldn't care to know.

I picked up the phone—old, black, with a dial—like an
antique. I dialed the number. It rang and rang and—

“Good evening, Blackburn residence.”

“Hi, Berta, it's me.”

“Hello,
Eon
.”

That's how she always said my name—it wasn't
Ian,
it was
Eon
. I liked the way she said it.

“Can I speak to my mother or father?” I asked. “They are both still out, Eon.”

“Out? My mother knew I was going to be calling about now to get a ride home.”

“She asked me to come and get you when you called. If you can give me directions I can—”

“I don't want a ride yet. It'll be a couple more hours, maybe three. I have more work to do.”

“You can call when you're ready. I'm just here. I'll come for you.”

“Thanks, Berta.” I could always count on
her
.

“You be careful,
carino mio
.”

“I will. Goodbye. I'll call later.” I put the phone down.

Carino mio
… that was Spanish for “my dearest.” That's what she called me all the time when I was little. Now she only said that to me when there was nobody around to hear. It still made me smile.

“It's all set,” I said as I rejoined Mac.

He already had his jacket on and had a red backpack over his shoulder. I grabbed my coat off the peg behind the door.

“Let's get rolling,” Mac said.

We left through the back door. It was chilly, especially after the misty, steamy warmth of the kitchen. The air smelled fresh—well, at least as fresh as air could be in the
back alley in a big city. It was certainly better than the odours inside—that strange mixture of cooking and cleaning, sweat and grime, clothes that had been lived in, slept in and soiled.

Mac put a big padlock on the door and snapped it shut. He started walking but rather than heading up the alley toward the street, he followed the alley in the other direction … away from the street lights.

“Cold tonight,” Mac said and he gave a little shiver. It was chilly.

“It's supposed to go down almost to freezing tonight,” Mac said. “I always need to know what the temperature is going to be. A few degrees can mean the difference between life and death.”

“How?” I asked.

“People who fall asleep outside can freeze to death.” “Do people really freeze to death in this city?” I asked skeptically.

“Every year one or two people. This year six.” “Come on … really?”

“Really.”

“It's just that I've never heard anything about it.” “Homeless people dying don't make the front page of the paper or the lead story on the evening news. It's always buried in the back … the way they lead their lives. You remember saying you didn't believe how many homeless there are in the city?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling defensive.

“You're not seeing'em because you're not looking for'em. You have to spend time in the places you're not supposed to go … places you'd be smart to stay away
from … places like the one we're going to go tonight.” We walked along in silence for a while.

“So tell me,” Mac said, “how do you know Sarge?”

“I met him last night when I came down to do my volunteer hours,” I said. “Met him in one of those places I'm probably not supposed to go. I was cutting across Selby Park and—”

“Selby Park! That wasn't very bright. It's not safe for you to be in there!”

“I didn't know that then. I know it now.”

“Did something happen?” Mac asked.

I was tempted to leave some parts out—the parts that made me look stupid or weak—but if I'd done that there wouldn't have been any story to tell. I told him the whole thing.

“None of what you said surprises me,” Mac said. “Especially the part about Sarge. If you've been around as long as I have, you get a pretty good handle on who can take care of themselves. Besides, he's a pretty big guy.”

“You were going to tell me about him,” I said.

“I'll tell you what I know and some of what I think I know and—Hey, how you doing?” Mac yelled out.

Two men were sitting on a heating grate behind a building. We were almost right on top of them but I hadn't seen them. They were hidden in the shadows and the steam that was rising out of the grate. There was an empty bottle on the ground beside them.

“You two doin' fine tonight?” Mac asked.

One of them mumbled out an answer. The other didn't respond. His eyes were open but I wasn't sure he was even aware of us standing over top of him.

“You two need a place to sleep tonight?” Mac asked. “The shelter still has space.”

“No shelter,” the man said. His words were slurred and thick. He was drunk or stoned or something. “We're okay … leave us alone.”

“Sure, we don't want to bother you, buddy. Here,” Mac said. He handed the man some cigarettes. “Thought you could use these.”

“Sure … thanks … you got a light?”

“'Course I do, buddy.”

Mac pulled out a package of matches and the man, hands shaking, put the cigarette in his mouth. The match flared, throwing a little halo of light. As it came close to the cigarette—close to the man's face—I could make out his features. His eyes were dull and lifeless. His skin looked discoloured, like it was yellow. Maybe that was just the light from the match. He puffed on the cigarette and the end sparked to life.

“You need a meal tomorrow, you come by The Club, okay, buddy?” Mac said.

The man mumbled an answer I couldn't understand.

“See you later.”

We started off down the alley.

“If I find somebody passed out and it's below freezing, I have to try and rouse'em. Can't leave'em there to freeze to death.”

“What if you can't wake them or they wake up and tell you to leave them alone?” I asked.

“Either way I do the same. I call the police and ask them to come and pick them up. Better to be in jail than in a coffin.”

“Have you ever found anybody who was … was …” “Dead?”

I nodded.

He nodded back. “More than once. I've seen lots of things …” He shook his head slowly. “Maybe too many things.”

We walked along in silence again. I felt uneasy, uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to know what he'd seen. A bigger part didn't want to hear. I needed to change the subject.

“You were starting to tell me about Sarge.”

“I don't know a lot, but I'll tell you what I know. He's been on the streets—well, at least the streets around here—for about a year and a half. Before that I don't know for sure.”

“But you said he was in the army … that's why they called him Sarge.”

“That's what I heard.”

“But you've never asked him?”

“You don't ever ask anybody anything about his past.

You wait and if somebody talks, you listen.”

“So you don't really know about him.”

“I know it makes sense. The way you described him handling himself in the park, the way he carries himself.”

“I noticed that,” I said, cutting him off. “I just can't imagine how a guy in the army ends up on the street.”

“Lots of people end up on the streets. Truck drivers, factory workers, businessmen, doctors.”

“There are doctors living on the streets?” That couldn't be right.

“There's everybody.”

“But why would a doctor end up on the streets?” “Lots of routes to the same place, though there usually are two things that fuel the trip. Mental illness or substance abuse, usually alcohol. You've seen both already.”

“But Sarge wasn't drunk and he's not crazy.”

“I think they like the term ‘mentally ill' better,” Mac said.

“Okay, he doesn't seem mentally ill and he wasn't drunk.”

“Not the two times you saw him,” Mac said.

“There must be other reasons that people are on the streets.”

Mac shook his head. “Not for the people I deal with. I'm not talking about kids. They hit the streets because of physical or sexual abuse, running away from a bad home situation, drug abuse, or some, a very few, just because of the thrill of being on their own. They think it's some sort of adventure. They find out pretty soon it ain't and most go back home, especially in the bad weather. In the summer the streets are filled with kids. The first good snowfall sends them all back home.”

We came up to another group of men standing around a big garbage dumpster. All four of them greeted Mac enthusiastically.

“Looks a bit like rain tonight,” Mac said, looking skyward. It was overcast.

“Hope not,” one of them replied.

“Well, if it does, you know what you can do, eh?” “Get wet,” another answered and they all laughed. “That or go into a shelter. Heaton House would still have space.”

“They can keep their space.”

As Mac talked to them, they passed a bottle from person to person. It was offered to Mac.

“Thanks but no thanks,” Mac said politely.

“How about you?” the man asked, holding the bottle out to me.

I backed away, holding my hands up, shocked. I couldn't even imagine what diseases I could get sharing anything with this bunch.

“He's too young to drink,” Mac said, answering for me.

“Never too young or too old.”

Mac reached into his backpack and pulled out a package of cigarettes. “You boys want to split these?”

“Thanks, Mac.”

“You're a real buddy.”

We started off again.

“Do you give out cigarettes to everybody?” I asked. “Best way to gain their trust and that's the best way to help them. Nobody accepts help from somebody they don't trust.”

I guess that made sense. Besides, getting cancer wasn't what was going to kill these guys.

“If those men aren't going to a shelter, where will they sleep tonight?” I asked.

“I think they were standing right beside it.”

“The building?”

“The dumpster,” Mac said.

“They're going to sleep in a dumpster?”

“It gets them out of the wind. They can pull down the top for protection to keep dry if it rains. Not a bad place.”

“But a dumpster … how could they sleep with all that garbage?”

“There's garbage and then there's garbage. That dumpster is used by a furniture factory. The stuff they put in there, pieces of wood, bits of leather or plastic and foam, it makes a good place to sleep.”

“But why wouldn't they just go to that place you mentioned … what was it?”

“Heaton House. It's a men's shelter. They can get a bed and a bath there.”

“That doesn't sound bad. Why don't any of these guys want to go to a shelter?” I asked.

“Lots of people do use shelters, but just as many others don't.”

We crossed a busy street and headed off into the dark of another back lane.

“Why wouldn't everybody go sleep in a shelter?” I asked.

“Lots of reasons. It can be crowded and loud and sometimes dangerous. There can be fights, people rippin' off your stuff. Some people can't stand being around people who're mentally ill. And some people just can't go. They're banned.”

“Banned? What would somebody have to do to get banned?”

“Stealing, beating on people, or just being too crazy—” “Don't you mean mentally ill?” I asked, chiding him. “Nope. Crazy. Maybe being up all night screaming and yelling.”

“Still, that has to be better than sleeping in a dumpster.”

“There are some places that are better than both. Sometimes some of the boys get together, pool their money, and get a motel room or even a room that they can share for the winter. Sometimes they cobble together some boards and plastic and plywood and make a little shanty.”

“A shanty?”

“A shack. There's a few of those down by the lake and more than a dozen under the freeway just over from here.” “And the police and the politicians let them do that?” “As long as they stay in places where regular people don't see'em then nobody bothers them. Others sleep under bridges, over top of sewer grates like those two guys we saw earlier, or in clothing drop boxes, doorways, telephone booths or bus shelters or—” He was counting on his fingers as he listed all the places.

“You can't be serious. You can't sleep in a telephone booth or a bus shelter,” I said.

“You can sleep standing up if you're tired enough,” Mac said. “Some have their own tents.”

“Where would you pitch a tent?”

“Shelby Park, where you met Sarge. There's a spot in the middle where there's half a dozen tents. Come on, I'll show you.”