My side

Chapter 17 Do they know its christmastime at all?

   Thanksgiving came on a cool, bright day. It was the 24th of November, early in the season for the holiday.
   Me and my mother never did much, her mother lived in one of the Carolinas, North or South, I can't remember. Her sister lived up in Maine, and never did more than call.
I was in my room, listening to Guns n' Roses on the cheap radio i found in a box in the closet. My mom was making turkey sandwiches.
I heard the phone begin to ring, my mother answering. Murmured conversation in the hallway. I assumed it was just Aunt Helen, calling to remind us that 'oh, I'm so sorry, we can't come again this year, but I'm sure you'll have a lovely Thanksgiving.'
I was quite surprised when my mother appeared in my doorway, the phone pressed against her chest. She looked just as surprised as me. "It's for you, Kay." She said.
I slid off my bed and took the phone from her.
She watched curiously as I placed it against my ear.
"Hello?" I asked. "Hey kid!" A familiar voice called through static on the other side.
"I hope I ain't catchin you at a bad time, but I was wonderin if ya might like ta join me today for Thanksgiving?" Bernie asked in what was probably the most genuine and polite way he could manage.
"Oh. Erm, no, I'm not doing much." My moms eyebrows raise, and she mouthes "who is that?!" I turn to the wall.
"Well, can you meet me at the corner of James and Central in 10 minutes?"
"Er... Yea I suppose."
"Great, I'll see you there!" He hung up.
I handed the phone back to my mom. "Who was that?!" She squealed. I looked at her. She looked more excited that I got a phone call from someone other than the dentist, than worried that an old man called me on thanksgiving.
"No one." I say. "Look, I'm going out. I'll be back before dark. Goodbye." I grab my sweatshirt and leave before she can say anything.
   I walk up Terrace Street, take a left onto Pratter Ave, then a right into James.
   I walk for a ways, not many people are out this time of day on Thanksgiving. The few people I pass are hustling about, most likely hurrying home to spend the holiday with their families.
  By now there's no denying it, it's quite cold out. I finally ditched my *thongs for a pair of old converse.
   The corner of James and Central is across the street from my school. Thanksgiving break started the day before.
   At first I don't see him. Then I catch sight of his Yankees cap. I run up to him. "Hi." I say.
   He grins, revealing a mouth missing a good number of teeth. "You made it. C'mon then, there's much to do."
   I'm a bit puzzled, but I know Bernie well enough that I don't question it. We walk down Central Ave, but we're headed in the opposite direction than I thought we would, away from Angel.
   After walking for a good 10 minutes, we come to the corner where Smith Street connects. The place where 9 people were killed less than a week ago.
   They've scrubbed most of the blood off the sidewalks, there's only a maroon smear here and there, but the area still seems ominous. Bernie doesn't pause, he just turns into Smith Street.
   We continue for another 5 minutes or so. I can feel the cold sidewalk through the thin soles of my converse.
It's not until we're only a block away do I get an idea about where we're going.
   We stop at the Clyde Homeless Shelter. It's an old, crumbling brick building. Patches of plaster peel away in some places. There's a Christmas wreath hung on the door.
    On the sidewalk in front of the building are several crude chalk drawings. They haven't smeared or run at all. At first I'm confused as to why they're so intact. Then I realize that it really hasn't rained since I first met Bernie at the Shop Rite market, almost 2 months ago. The world is a dead, dry place.
We walk up the chipping concrete steps, and Bernie pulls open one of the big doors.
We stand in a small area I can only describe as a lobby. There's no carpet, only the bare concrete floor. A few cardboard boxes are piled against the walls, and there are some newspapers stacked by the door. Another heavy door at the other end of the room is closed and lets in very little light.
My eyes are drawn immediately to the only papers tacked up on the walls.
Newspaper clipping from The New York Times. The dates are from Sunday, to Wednesday. The front pages. I walk closer to read them.
There's the paper Teller had at Stardust's on Sunday morning. The story about the shooting. The rest of the papers develop the story. The Tuesday papers list the names of the victims.
    All the names of the homeless people have been highlighted, including Ashton Spaner and Josephine and Kaitlyn Pajer. Next to their names, photos of the girls have been pinned up.
Josie was pretty, with long dark hair and huge dark eyes. Her smile seems too big for her face.
Katie Pajer was just a little girl, six years old. Her face is small, and round. Her hair is in pigtails. Her brown eyes are bright, her smile wide and joyful, and I can see that she was missing several teeth.
   Sticky notes and index cards and scraps of paper and cardboard have been tacked up next to the girl's photos. 
   'We miss you Josie' one says. 'God bless' says another.
   They go on and on:
'You'll forever live in our hearts'
'Your smile gives me strength every day'
'Come back Katie'
'I love you'
'God loves you'
'Heaven never met two better angels'
    Finally I can't look anymore. I turn and see Bernie watching me. His hand is on the doorknob leading into the building. He nods toward the door.
"Shall we?" He asks. His voice is barely more than a whisper. I nod and he opens the door.
People. People everywhere.
We're in a huge room, brightly lit. It reminds me of a cafeteria. Children run around, some hold pieces of ribbon trailing from their hands like the tails of kites.
People of all ages form an unordered line at a long table where food is being dished onto their plates. Their faces are worn and tired, I can see the wear and sorrow of the years cast upon them. But on this one day, even after everything that's happened, they're just thankful for what they have. The whole room is just filled with the feeling. Like they're relieved they can be joyful again.
"Smackle!" A little girl cries out, and runs toward us. Bernie scoops her up and swings her around. "How's my princess?" He asks. She giggles and he puts her down.
More people walk up to us. They smell like the city, cigarettes and beer and cheap perfume. Somehow, i don't mind that much.
   "I'm gonna go make me self a plate." Bernie says. He walks toward the end of the assembly line.
   I find a table and sit down. I'm just watching the scene when a little boy walks up to me.
   "Hi." He says. "Hi." I say. He's wearing a baggy t-shirt and corduroy pants that have worn extremely thin at the knees. His hair is red and floppy, and a scattering of freckles covers his nose and cheeks.
   "What's your name?" He asks me. "Kay." I answer. He nods thoughtfully. "My name is Andrew." He tells me. I nod, although I hadn't asked him.
"I live here." Andrew tells me. "This is my home. Where is yours?"
I'm a bit startled my the question. I'm about to say that I live on 23 Terrace Street, but something stops me. He didn't ask for my address, my house. He asked for my home.
"I don't know." I say. He tilts his head to the side. "So you're homeless?" I shrug. "I'm sorry." He tells me, and then he runs off to join his friends.
I watch him. He joins a group of boys and girls his age, and they begin to play a spirited game of tag. They're young, oblivious to all the sorrow of the world. They have no idea what their future holds, but they're content not to know. They feel safe, and joyful, surrounded by people who love them. They feel at home.
But they have no home. Right? The children are homeless, they live here in this drafty old building set up to house people with nowhere else to go. They have few possessions, no money, they live on government property. And yet they are not homeless.
I think back to what Andrew told me. 'I live here. This is my home. Where is yours?' And I think that maybe this thin little boy who badly needs a haircut and hasn't had a good meal in probably at least 5 years or longer. Maybe this little boy has a home, and maybe I'm the one who's really homeless.
    Bernie walks up to me. "You hungry kid?" He asks me. I shake my head. He holds out his hand to me. "This way miss. Let me show you somethin." He says as formally as possible. I smile like only he can make me smile.
    He leads me to a little plastic fold out table in the back corner of the room. There are a bunch of scraps of paper all over it, and a few pencils and sharpies.
"They started a tradition a few days ago. Whenever somebody comes to the shelter, they're asked to write a note for the Pajer girls. They've been pinning the notes up in the lobby."
I remember the little messages tacked up outside. "Why are they doing it?" I ask.
Bernie shakes his head. "It's all they can do. You remember why we're putting up posters, why we sang in the street Sunday. Nobody listens to us. They can't do much here, but we hope that when people come in, they'll see the girl's pictures, and all the notes people have left. And maybe they'll stop and think." He sighs. "I told them bout you bein the one to organize the singin on Sunday."
I nod. "I didn't know those girls though." I say.
"But you knew Les." Bernie tells me. He hands me a pencil. I take it. He bends over the table, writing something on his own piece of paper.
I look down at the scrap of paper in front of me. I didn't know the Pajer girls, or Cocker Spaner or any of the others. But Bernie was right. I did know Les. And so I write the only thing I could think of.
God made the rich to help the poor, the poor to help the weak, and the
weak to give everyone the strength to do what's right.
Bernie looks over my shoulder. His eyes widen when he reads what I've written. "Where did you-" he starts. "A friend of mine told me that." I say. "She's right a lot of the time."
He looks extremely puzzled, but I quickly walk away before he can say anything.
   I leave the cafeteria and hang my paper on the wall by the newspapers. 
    When I walk back inside, I'm greeted by a woman at the door. Her salt and pepper hair has been loosely tied back from her face and is held with an old scrunchie. Her nails are long and painted with cheap polish. Her face is old and tired, there are shadows under her eyes, which are a gray blue, and misty with tears.
    "You must be Kay." She says. Her face breaks into a crinkly smile, and the tears run down her cheeks. I nod.
   "Smackle told us he'd try ta be bringin ya today." She says. I nod again.
   Her chest heaves, and tears slip down her cheeks. "You're such a pretty girl." She whispers.
   "No. Not really." I tell her. She nods weakly, like she didn't here me. "Such a pretty girl. They were such pretty children. Beautiful children."
    Her small breasts heave again as she takes a ragged breath. "I miss them so much. Sometimes I see them, walkin down the street, standin at the corner." She really crying now, the smile still on her face.
   "Beauty never dies, child. Never." She extends a shaky hand. There's a small box in it, wrapped in metallic paper. "There you are, Josie. Merry Christmas."
   I'm not sure what to do, so I take the box. I'm feeling sort of uncomfortable with this woman and her smiling and crying at the same time.
   Her face has a dazed look on it. She turns and walks away.
   I walk across the room to Bernie. I show him the gift and tell him about the woman. "She gave dat ta you?" He asks me.
  "No." I say. "She gave it to Josie Pajer."

   Someone, I'm not sure who it is, starts to play first. Others join in. A few guitarists, a drummer. Their instruments are old, missing strings and out of tune. But everyone recognizes Band Aid's Do They Know it's Christmas.
It's christmastime.
There's no need to be afraid.
At christmastime,
We let in light, and we banish shade
They sing, the voices of the young and old, the sick and tired. But they all join in, singing.
And in our world,
Of plenty, we can,
Spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world
At christmastime
I sing. I see Bernie singing, laughing. It will be the last time I'll ever sing with him. Maybe I sensed it then, I'll never know. All I know for sure is that we were singing, we all were. Whether you knew the words or not, you were singing. And I felt happy, happier than I've ever felt in my whole life. And I sang.
But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At christmastime
It's hard, but when you're having fun

There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
Is the bitter sting of tears

And the Christmas bells that ring
Are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank god it's them-
Instead of you!
And there won't be snow in Africa
This christmastime
The greatest gift they'll get this year
Is life
Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow
Do they know it's christmastime at
All?
Yes. They did. We all did.

That night, when we left the shelter, it was late I knew.
We started down the street in silence, headed towards my house.
We were at the corner when I remembered.
I reached my hand into my pocket and retrieved the box the woman at the shelter had given to me.
Without thinking, I run back. I stop in front of the shelter.
Carefully, I bend down and place the box on the second step.
I back up slowly. As I'm about to walk away, I glance in the window of the building.
there's a girl looking at me from inside the building. She has dark hair and eyes. I know I recognize her from somewhere.
Then I realize her picture is inside the lobby, next to that of her sister, Katie.
Josie stares at me, and I stare back.
Then again, maybe it's only my reflection.

*flip-flops were called thongs in the   
  80s. I'm serious. Look it up.