Shattered (7 page)

We walked out of the freezer and he closed the door behind us with a loud metallic click.

“It takes a lot of food to feed more than a hundred men a day,” Mac said. “A lot of food and a whole lot of work. Glad to see you here to help. Although I'm a little surprised.”

“Why are you surprised? This is when I'm supposed to be here, right?”

“That's the time we agreed to, but lots of people who show up once don't show up again. Especially people who aren't used to this sort of thing … people who come from privilege.”

“What makes you think that's me?” I asked.

“Well, for starters, the way you were dressed last time in that expensive coat and shoes. You made a better choice this time,” he said.

“I thought I could fit in better this way,” I admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed. “But lots of people own a coat like the one I was wearing. That doesn't mean my family is rich.”

“Maybe not the coat, but certainly the Mercedes that picked you up. That one probably cost more than a hundred grand, right?”

I nodded my head. It was one of the top-of-the-line cars. But how did he know what sort of car picked me up? Had he been spying on me?

“I was watching when you left, peeking out the window, to make sure you got picked up safe,” Mac said, answering my unspoken thoughts.

“Doesn't matter what car picked me up or dropped me off,” I said, feeling a bit defensive. “All that matters is that I have to put in my hours, so I'm here.”

Mac laughed. “Like I said before, that's one of the things I like about you, kid. You aren't going to give me
some crap about helping the poor. You're here to do a job. Honest. I like that. But you know, there are other places where you could have done your hours. You could have weaseled out of being here.”

“That's what my mother wanted me to do.”

“But you didn't do what she wanted. How come?”

I considered giving him a completely honest answer; I hardly ever did what my mother or father wanted unless I had no choice. “I told you I'd be here so I'm here,” I said. That wasn't a complete lie.

“Good. How about if you continue unloading the truck while I finish up making supper. Unless you want to do the cooking and I'll do the unloading?”

“I think I'll do the unloading. Lifting I know how to do. Cooking for a hundred people I don't.”

“Same as cooking for two people. Just multiply all the ingredients by fifty.”

I went out to continue unloading. Each time I came in with a box I caught a glimpse of Mac working at the stove. It wasn't just that I didn't know how to cook for one hundred people. I didn't know how to cook for two. Or even one. I'd never needed to. Berta did all of that.

Berta was my nanny when I was a baby, and then when I didn't need a nanny any more she became our housekeeper and organizer. She had an apartment in our basement and she was always there. My mother said Berta was sort of like the family's
wife
who took care of all the day-to-day business of running our household. I didn't think of her as anybody's wife, but she was family. She'd always been there. She was there when I came home from school. Because of her, the house was never
empty, and because my father and mother were always so busy with business meetings and travel and of course social things, it
would
have been empty without her. Filled with lots of expensive things—but empty. I couldn't even imagine what it would be like without Berta around—thank goodness I'd never known and I'd never have to know.

I guess it also worked out for Berta. She was originally from Guatemala and that's where all her family still lived, so I guess in some ways we were like her family too.

I'd once started to figure out how often I ate with my parents and how often it was just me and Berta for dinner. I looked back for two or three weeks and then stopped. There was no point in quantifying what I already knew. Not that there was anything wrong with eating with Berta. I liked eating with her. I liked being with her.

She had a soft, gentle laugh, and she always seemed to know what questions to ask and, just as important, what questions not to ask. Those were the times I told her the rest of the story anyway. I knew I could trust her. She didn't judge me, although she did offer advice— softly spoken with her lilting accent. I loved her accent. My parents told me that when I was little I spoke English with a Spanish accent. That shouldn't have been a surprise since she'd spent more time with me than my mother did.

“Much more to go?” Mac asked.

“Almost done.”

“Good. When you're finished, you can start bringing out the plates and cups and utensils.”

“Sure. By the way, what's for supper tonight?” I asked.

“Spaghetti with meat sauce.” Mac lifted the lid on the biggest pot I'd ever seen. He grabbed a wooden spoon— a spoon that was about the same size as a canoe paddle— and stirred the bright red sauce that was bubbling away. He needed to use both hands to move the contents.

“I make sure there's lots and lots of vegetables in the sauce,” Mac said. “Best thing to protect'em from getting scurvy.”

“Scurvy? Isn't that what sailors got in the old days … you know … like Christopher Columbus?”

“Yep. Being at sea for a long time without fruits and vegetables does that.”

“And street people get it?” I asked.

“They don't get what you'd call a balanced diet.

Speaking of which, have you eaten?” Mac asked.

I hadn't and it was too early to claim I had. I shook my head.

“Finish up and I'll set out two bowls before we let the crowd in. Okay?”

“You sure there'll be enough for everybody?” I asked. “There will be, but that's mighty nice of you to ask.”

I WAS IN CHARGE
of serving the spaghetti. I was using a big pair of serving tongs. Mac was putting on the sauce. His job was way easier. The noodles were hard to get out of the pot and onto the plate. It almost seemed like they were alive and struggling to stay in the pot so they wouldn't be eaten. And when I did convince the noodles to leave, it was hard to get just the right amount, the right serving size. If I put on too much, I couldn't very well reach out and take it back, and if I didn't put out enough,
I could get somebody mad. It was much simpler serving the stew the other night—two scoops, plop, plop.

An old grizzled man stood in front of me, tray in hand.

I wondered how old he was. I was finding that everybody looked old and worn. He could have been fifty but he could have been one hundred and fifty.

“Is it any good?” he asked.

“It's really good,” I answered. It was good enough for me to have eaten two full servings.

“It don't smell right.”

I thought it smelled pretty good. “It's the garlic in the sauce you're smelling.”

“They put somethin' in the sauce?” he asked. “There's lots of things. Garlic, green peppers, onions and—”

“Says who?” the old man demanded.

“Well … me, I guess.”

“And who are you and who do you work for?” the old man snapped.

I didn't know what to say. The old man started to snarl, his teeth—those that he had—yellowed and crooked and grubby, were locked together in a fierce-looking grimace, and he started to make a strange noise. Was he growling?

“What did you put in that sauce?” he yelled. He raised his fist and started shaking it toward me.

I backed a half step away. I felt a rush of adrenaline surge through my body. I realized that everybody had stopped talking or shuffling or eating and all eyes were on us.

“I didn't put anything in the—”

“It's okay,” Mac said, stepping forward and cutting me off.

“How do I know it ain't poisoned?” the old man demanded. “How do I know this ain't another plot to get me and everybody else in here?” He gestured around the room.

“Come on, buddy, you've been coming here a long time. You know I wouldn't poison you or let anybody else poison you,” Mac reasoned. “You
know
me.”

The old man stopped growling and he lowered his fist. Those had to be good signs. He looked at Mac, long and hard, like he was trying to figure out if what he was saying was true. His grimace dissolved into a twisted, broken smile like he'd suddenly realized that it was Mac. I felt myself relax.

That had looked like it was going to end really bad, and Mac had managed to handle it so that—

“How do I know it's you?” the old man demanded. “How do I know they didn't kill the
real
Mac and replace him with you when they poisoned the food? How do I know you're not an alien!” he yelled. He raised his fist and started to growl again. If he wasn't so old and frail and if Mac wasn't here I would have been afraid. Actually, I was afraid. I'd never seen anybody this crazy this close up.

“Would I poison myself?” Mac said, his voice calm and quiet. He reached into the pot and grabbed a noodle, stuffing it in his mouth. Next he took a spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and took a sample.

“See?” Mac said.

Once again the man lowered his fist and the growling was replaced by a throaty, scratchy laugh.

“Mac … it's you … right?”

“Who else would be stupid enough to be here, you old buzzard?”
The old man held out his hand and they shook.

“Go ahead,” Mac said, “serve him.”

The old man held out his tray. Carefully, very carefully, I put on some spaghetti.

“Thank you so much, young man,” he said sweetly. Next Mac poured on sauce—giving him an extra big serving—and the man shuffled off to eat.

“Thanks,” I said to Mac.

“No problem. That's why I'm here. Sometimes you just gotta enter their heads and figure out what they're thinking.”

“I can't believe that. He actually thought you were an alien. An alien who was here to poison him.”

“That's why I had to sample the sauce to prove him wrong,” Mac explained.

“But what I don't understand is if he thought you were an alien, isn't it possible that what poisons humans isn't going to hurt an alien?” I asked.

“Ssshhhhhh!” Mac hissed. “Let's not give anybody else any ideas!”

“That's good advice,” another voice said.

I looked up to the man standing in front of me holding out his tray. It was the man from the park!

“Good to see you!” Mac exclaimed and the two men shook hands over the counter. “Haven't seen you for a while. Good to have you back. How've you been?” Mac asked.

“I'm fine. More important, how is your food today?” “Good as always,” Mac said. “See for yourself. Ian, give the Sarge a big serving'cause he's a big guy.”

“The same as everybody else would be fine,” he said softly.

I pulled out a blob of spaghetti. As it had been getting colder it had become increasingly more difficult to manage. Whether he wanted it or not, he was getting a bigger serving.

“Thank you. I see you have on a different jacket today. I trust that was a choice and not something forced on you.”

“I thought it was smarter to wear this when I'm around the neighbourhood.”

“Wise move.”

“Do you two know each other?” Mac asked.

“We met briefly in the park,” the man said. “He kindly offered me some spare change. He's a nice young man.” “Yeah, I think he's a keeper,” Mac said.

“I'm sure he is.
Merci
to you both.” He nodded his head and then walked off looking for a seat. I watched as he walked. There was no shuffle or stagger in his step. His back was as straight as a rod. He looked more like he was marching than walking.

“You called him Sarge,” I said.

“That's what everybody calls him. It's not his name.

That's just what we call him. He was in the army before is what I heard.”

That would explain the way he walked, the way he held himself—the way he knocked that man down and wielded that iron bar.

“So he was a sergeant?”

“Might have been,” Mac said with a shrug. “He gets called Sarge the way somebody who used to drive a taxi might be called Cabby. Everybody here has a nickname and a story,” Mac said.

“And what's his story?” I asked.

“What I know I'll tell you sometime.” Mac paused.

“That is, if you tell me the rest of the story about you and him meeting. I get the feeling that there's more there.”

I nodded my head. “It's a deal.”

Six

I REMOVED THE STOPPER
from the sink and the water started to swirl away. I pulled off the bright yellow gloves that Mac had made me wear. He'd said that if I was going to be here on a regular basis he didn't want me filing a workman's compensation complaint about having dishpan hands.

“You all finished in here?” Mac yelled out.

“Pretty well. You?” He'd been working out front sweeping and wiping the tables and getting things ready for tomorrow's meal.

“All done. So you got a ride home?” he asked.

“I'll call to arrange it.” I paused. “You were going to tell me about that man … Sarge.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Not enough time.”

“I could tell them to pick me up later.”

“Not your time, mine. I've got to get going.”

“You got a big date?” I asked.

“I should be so lucky. I'm heading out onto the streets to do my rounds.”

“What exactly do you do out there?” I asked.

“Hard to explain, really.” He hesitated. “But I could show
you some time … if you were interested in coming along.”

“Sure, that would be good,” I answered. I was interested, but also more than a little uneasy. Going out there would be a little like riding a roller coaster or watching a scary movie—neither of which I liked doing.