CHAPTER NINE


It never changed.


When a person froze, no matter the quota of Salvation Army blankets, the
person froze alone.


It was the early hours of the morning and I walked past a passed homeless,
with two blankets wrapped around his thin body.


He laid so still and so complete at rest, the only tightness in his body was
shown as his fingers still grasped the bottle of Brandy.


The early-morning tourists walked on, oblivious and clueless.


The native New Yorkers rushed past.


They knew, but they ceased the time.


I glanced up and caught the gazes of two more on the bench. It was their home
and the multitude of garbage bags and three shopping carts made it a bit more
cozy.


They knew. And as they met my gaze, they knew that I knew.


From the looks of how empty the liquor ran, I'd guess that he went to sleep
around three in the morning.


It's unexplainable.


It's a knowledge that a person gets when they've survived alongside those who
chose the tempting fate to forget their life.


The normal liquor store closed at ten. The man had a second
bottle—empty—beside him. He'd just started on the second when the fog of alcohol
took his alertness.


Death had settled into the frozen yellow rigidity of his frame.


The blankets had froze against the bottom on his leg and the tourists still
passed three feet from his decaying feet.


I sighed, stopped along my way to see Munsinger, and swiped a cellphone from
a passing businessman.


He brushed against my shoulder. I made sure to place myself in his path and
as he swept by, without an apology for the slight shove, he turned the corner in
a mad dash to catch his train as I held his life in my hands.


The tool for his life and sadly—so many considered their phone as oxygen.


My contempt was granted and I dialed 911, gave the location of the dead
homeless, and sat on a stoop to wait it out.


The two Benchers sat up straighter and I saw the affirming nod reflected in
their eyes.


They hadn't called and to me, that just meant that they hadn't stood for one
of their own.


No one else would.


It was their job.


It should've been their job.


As the thought passed over my mind, I glanced at the frozen homeless and
curiosity took the best.


I hunched over him and searched his pockets.


His wallet read his name as Herbert Matherson.


He had two pictures of his grandchildren. Ellie was six, Emerson was four,
and Ashley was three. They were blonde angels with the brightest blue eyes and I
had a vision of Herbert proudly displaying his pictures to the Salvation Army
volunteers as they offered their life-saving blankets.


The volunteers' hearts were in the right, but their purpose was sometimes
null and void.


Herbert thought so and he was happier that he'd been in years.


I didn't have to know him to know that.


His fingers had frozen onto the bottle's neck.


With a weary sigh, I looked up, met the Benchers' gazes, and stepped
back.


They saw the surrender of ownership and quickly swooped over his body.


Less than a minute later and Herbert was sans his two blankets, his near-full
body of Brandy, and his shoes.


I held his wallet tightly and the man stopped, watched me, saw the mutiny in
my eyes, and wasn't surprised when my fingers tightened over the wallet.


Herbert would be given a name and his death would find it's way to his
nearest kin. Perhaps to Ellie, Emerson, and Ashley.


It was a decency that so many of the Street didn't ponder with foresight.


Some pondered life's mysteries while other's never ponder at all.


It was either their downfall or their savior, but it was their decision what
path they chose.


Too bad their loved ones never were given the same choice.


When the paramedics arrived, it was a condemned jaded that settled upon both
their shoulders.


They'd worked the nights and their last call was a dead homeless.


It could've been worst and it wasn't the first that call had been made.


Their eyes skimmed over mine and one approached as the other unloaded the bed
with the blanket already to the side, ready to wrap atop the body.


His name was Patrick and his partner lifted Herbert without a second
thought.


One arm wrapped over the chest, the other underneath, and Herbert was
unceremoniously lifted as a piece of rock onto the bed that would welcome the
morgue.


"You make the call?" Patrick's nametag stared back at me and I saw it jerk
slightly underneath my unflinching gaze.


I followed to the north and met Patrick's tired and glazed blue eyes.


He was young, my age, and goodlooking with probably a few aspirations to be
more than a paramedic.


He had the cloak of aspiration upon his shoulders. It was an air of
nervousness, restlessness, and slight irritation that they wore the uniform that
they currently wore.


I read the look on so many others that were unhappy where they stood and
yearned for more.


I had once had that irritation and it had ended at a poker table.


I sighed and murmured, "Yeah."


"Was he like this? When you found him?"


"Yes. I just called."


Patrick nodded and a blonde curl grazed his forehead.


"You don't know the guy?"


"No."


"You need to talk with the police? It doesn't look like a homicide, so I
doubt they'll make the time, but…if you'd like—we could give you a ride. The
station's on the way to the morgue."


It was delivered so smoothly and without thought that I blinked as the casual
air Patrick exuded.


"I wonder what his story was." I murmured and handed Herbert's wallet to
Patrick. "If this is his wallet, he had three grandchildren. His name was
Herbert…if this is his wallet."


Patrick pocketed the wallet and said smoothly, "He probably stole it from
someone else." He turned and watched as his partner loaded Herbert's bed inside
and closed the doors with a second tap of his hand.


Patrick looked back at me and grinned, "It's what most of them do. They steal
stuff from someone else who died."


Not this time.


"His wallet wasn't stolen this time." I murmured.


Patrick frowned and tilted his head forward, "Yeah…you grabbed his wallet off
the body."


"I grabbed Herbert's wallet, yes, before they grabbed everything else." I
nodded toward the Benchers.


Patrick nodded in understanding. "You've been around the block a few times,
huh?"


Just a few times.


I didn't answer, but I did muse, "I wonder if he was one of those angry
drunks or a happy drunk."


"We can check the body for bruises. He might have a few on his knuckles if he
was angry when he drank." Patrick offered.


"I bet his wife or his children didn't care what kind of a drunk he was."


"Maybe he left on them. That's what a lot of these kind do. They take off,
not wanting the responsibilities that loved ones tend to hoist on their
shoulders."


"You speak from experience." I murmured.


"Yeah." He shrugged and folded his arms. His paramedic uniform was still
crisp. It had survived a night's list of trips to the hospital and back to the
stationhouse. The emblem was still emblazoned and bright that proclaimed him of
the New York Ambulance Paramedic.


He didn't care that he spoke to a stranger when he murmured, "Figured I'll be
finding my old man one of these days."


His partner called for him and Patrick grinned, "Everytime I don't, it's a
good morning."


And he left.


He knew I wouldn't speak to the police or needed to travel with Herbert any
farther. I didn't have the look of a heartbroken tourist whose dramatic naïve
bubble had been broken.


When the ambulance left, I approached the Benchers and asked, firmly, "What
was he known for?"


Neither spoke to me and neither looked at me.


I wasn't leaving and I crossed my arms to reaffirm the notion.


The man broke the mutiny first and jerked his head, "Herby was just a drunk.
All."


"It's not what I asked." I clipped out, angered beyond his words. "What was
he known for?"
The woman spoke up and remarked, "He used to sing little
diddies when he was off his rocker. He sang the Charmin diddy last night."


"He talk about his family?"


The man jerked again and barked out from the cold, "He'd talk about his
little kiddies, but he'd ramble about them so much—we never knew if they were
real or not. You know the drill."


The last comment had been thrown out before he stopped to ponder it.


I did know the drill and his subconscious knew that I knew the drill.


The man stopped, re-heard his words, and blinked in confusion.


I didn't look like someone who knew the drill, but his conscious didn't pick
up the clues.


"Way he talked," The woman spoke up, "It was as if his grandkiddies were
going to save the world. He said his daughter was a doctor, but," She shrugged,
"I wouldn't be here if my daughter was a doctor."


I delivered smoothly, ready to leave, "You would if she didn't want anything
to do with you."


I turned on my heel and walked briskly down the street.


I'd just left a scenario that was too common for my conscience to clamp down
against.


The way of the streets was a free-for-all.


Too many were eager for the laugh, but scattered in a heartbeat at the first
cry of sadness.


There were no shoulders. No shared moments to deliberate how to help someone
make a phone call.


There was just the lone journey to escape reality.


Herbert sought it from the bottle.


The Benchers sought it in the collection from other's material goods.


The newest blanket would appease them till the next one passed and they could
get their pair of shoes.


Material goods satisfied their thirst for a better life—but only
temporarily.


It was just an illusion that got them to the next day, the next month, and
the next year.


It gave them escape, something to concentrate upon and obsess about.


And in the end—as Herbert wasn't able to contemplate—it was an empty
illusion.


The Ellie, Emerson, and Ashley would never meet their Herbert. The daughter
or son, or husband and wife, would never feel the same loving and comforting
touch that was needed and craved.


Munsinger caught my expression and drew up short as I entered the Poet's
House.


He asked, without a pause of consideration, "What's wrong?"


I shrugged and moved into the backroom.


Munsinger didn't question how I knew about the backroom.


He repeated his first question, "What's wrong?"


The room was empty and the couch where I'd napped before looked
uninviting.


I didn't stop to ponder, but I knew the store was empty in the first hours of
the day.


I sat down at a table and Munsinger busied himself. He grabbed a cup of
coffee for me and placed it before me before he sat and patted my knee in a
comforting motion.


"Tell me, Maya."


I started to shrug, caught his fallen expression, and stopped.


I finally choked out, "Some drunk died and I called it in."


"Oh, Maya…" Munsinger cooed in sympathy and comfort.


He knew what it was like and he knew how it bothered me. Neither of us
realized to ask how he knew the drunk was from the streets. He just knew.


"I am so sorry, Maya, that you saw that." He patted my knee again, but got up
to retrieve another cup of coffee for himself. As he settled with sugar and
creamer abundant, he stirred it and murmured, "It still bothers you, I see."


"It shouldn't." I bit out.


My coffee would get cold, but I just watched the steam falter with every
second.


He patted my knee again and murmured, "This is how it is. You know that."


"But it shouldn't be." I cried out. Perturbed. Angered. And not caring how
visible I was, but then I sighed and gave up. "Nothing changes."


Munsinger sighed and his entire thin frame seemed to droop as the breathe
left him. He patted my hair and shook his head in agreement, "No, Maya. Nothing
changes."


"I wish, just once, that something would change."


"Something did, honey." He soothed. "You got out."


But I hadn't.


I was still in and I was running again.


"Munsinger…" I straightened away, back to business, and saw his already
waiting gaze.


He knew.


"You know." I stated as he nodded.


"When were you going to tell me?" Munsinger asked. He leaned against the wall
behind him and regarded me with slight amusement.


"Zara ratted on me." I told him. "She wanted the award money and then she
came to give me the head's up. She was followed—she's such a moron."


"I saw them. They were already tailing me when I left work two days ago and
speaking of…where've you been sleeping the past two nights?"


I shrugged, "Somewhere safe."


Munsinger smiled, chuckled, and shook his head. "I lost my keys the other
night and low and behold—I left them at the store. Found them in the ashtray.
That's funny since I stopped smoking fourteen years ago."


He knew where those keys had gone and how they ended up in that ashtray.


"Maya." He murmured, "You're going to get yourself killed one of these days.
Just…don't die, okay?"


"I'll do my best." I laughed. It never ceased to amaze me how some stuff just
rolled off his shoulders like butter, but others—other grudges and hurts would
be taken to his grave, clutched tightly to his chest.


He reached out, patted my shoulders, and held me in front of him. His eyes
were piercing when he asked for a real answer, "So where'd you sleep last
night?"


I hadn't.


I'd rode the subway, got a bus ticket, and returned in the morning after an
early coffee.


"I hope Mallon's guys' overslept this morning." I responded.


He knew better than that. He shouldn't ask where I'd slept.


Munsinger saw the change of subject and heard what I hadn't said. He accepted
it with another nod and followed my topic.


"I didn't see any tail, so I think they did."


"They would've been in here by now if they hadn't."


"Do you owe him money?" Munsinger asked. It was another question that he
wanted an answer.


"No."


It was the truth.


"So why's he following you?"


"Because I know some stuff about him."


And because he wanted me back in his bed.


Marcus and I had a complicated history.


"Can you do me a favor?" I asked and Munsinger's shoulders stiffened
immediately.


I hid a grin and continued, "Can you check in with Cherry and Gray?"


"Why?" It was gutted out of him.


"Because Zara gave you up so it might get back to my nephew. I want to make
sure they're safe."


"What are you going to do about it?" He pressed, frowning.


Munsinger would rather take a bullet than talk with Cherry again. When that
door to his past was opened, everything he'd been hiding from would wash
through. Including how he had fallen in love with my nephew and he'd feel the
same torn rejection that he'd felt before.


There's nothing worse than finding out your son isn't your son.


Maybe there was—finding out who the actual father was might've been
worse.


"If I need to, I'll find Marcus and talk to him." But only if I needed to.
Until then, I'd like to see how far my train would take me.


"Is that going to work? Just to talk to him?" Munsinger scoffed, but he
watched. He heard the ninety-five percent that I wasn't saying. He knew there
was more to the story and that I wasn't acting for a reason, at least not
yet.


"I'll just have to remind Marcus of a few things that he's forgetting."


There was a reason why I was able to leave, why I had lied, and why Marcus
had left me alone. I was betting that he'd forgotten most of those reasons and
instead, he'd listened to the emptiness of his bed beside him.


"Maya." Munsinger shook his head. "You're not superwoman. He can hurt
you."


I met his eyes and said, truthfully, "Would that be so bad? Maybe I need to
be hurt."


"Maya, Maya, Maya." Tsk, tsk. "The sins that you've committed—you don't
commit them unless you have to. I know that about you and you're a good
person."


I'd told my brother that he had sinned, but so had I.


"Maybe." I said, hollow. "Marcus could hurt me, but so could you. He doesn't
really want to hurt me, though. He just wants me."


"Even so. Marcus Mallon might be a kitten around you, but he's a ferocious
tiger with everyone else. He doesn't feel any boundaries, Maya."


I knew that. In fact, I knew better than anyone how rash and reckless Marcus
could be. The difference between him and a too-cocky teenager—Marcus had the
power, money, and brains to back him up. He also had the bribes, blackmail, and
drugs to cushion any fall he might take.


"I worry about you."


"Well, let me worry about you, Cherry, and Gray then. Call Cherry. Talk to
her. Tell her what's happened."


"She's not going to like it and she's really not going to like that I'm the
one telling her." Munsinger whistled in appreciation. He probably was already
grimacing at that phone call.


"So go and see her."


"And lead Mallon's men to her front door?"


"She moved."


That caught him in surprise.


"Oh."


"She's with…a great guy."


The pain was quickly pushed away in his eyes' depths. He let out a shuddering
breath and attempted a forced smile. "That's good…that's good. Good for
her."


Good.


He added, "So…is it goodbye again? I hear those farewell bells ringing in the
distance."


What'd I say? A poet.


I grinned and shook my head, "I got another favor."


Munsinger groaned in jest, smiled, and waited.


"I need a date for someone's baptism."


"I'm not even surprised at some of the favors you ask. I remember them from
back home."


He'd enjoyed helping me with some of my cons. And a few of the cons had been
outrageous, but mindfully contemplative.


I flashed a blinding smile and pointed out, "You just called Pedlam
'home.'"


Munsinger grimaced, but relented, "Guess that's what I actually think of the
place then. It had been home, but…Viiwa is home now. I'm getting married, Maya.
I'm getting married in three months."


At the far-off sparkle in his eyes, I knew I'd lost my friend's attention.
He'd been in the room with me, concerned for me, but now the time span was done.
He now focused on his future bride and love of his future life.


"We're getting married in a garden in three months. I'd love for you to be
there." Munsinger pressed again and reached to entwine our fingers.


Concerned and hardened street-wiseman had been replaced with the poetic
wishes of a dreamer.


"I'll try."


"Where do I send the invitation?"


I sighed. And then shook my head in sorrowed jest. I had lost his cunning
wits. Munsinger, the realist Munsinger, knew to not ask that question.


I laid where my head rested.


And now, with Marcus behind a mere step behind my shoulder, there'd be no
more permanence in my life, but there really hadn't been in the first place.


I'd lived in a home for eight years, but it never been permanent.


And then I realized—he wasn't expecting an answer.


Munsinger answered his own question, "I'll mark it with your name and address
for where I'd wish you to live, but I'll leave it in a basket. I'll leave it in
Glory's Basket."


That was fine by me.


I pulled his hands towards me and said firmly when his wandering eye sought
me, "I will be there, if the winds blow that way."


Who knew. They might.


The fantasy sobered in him and he clasped me against him in a tight hug.
Against my forehead, he whispered, "I'm always saying goodbye, even though the
worries never leave me."


"Call Cherry. Make sure they're okay. And I need that baptism date."


"Okay."


"You have a number?"


I gave him the stolen cell's number and we both knew that I'd ditch it the
second I was given my information.


Munsinger didn't ask anymore questions because he knew I wouldn't give
them.


As I left the Poet's House, just as I rounded the corner, I saw two of
Marcus' men round the opposite corner. They were across the street and while I
noticed them immediately, they were focused on the empty doorway that housed so
many poetic litanies.


I also saw the exhaustion that rang throughout their slumped shoulders and
the cups of steaming coffee held in their burly knuckled grasps.


An all night stakeout was tiring at times.


People were lethargic the next morning and the alert eyes weren't that
alert.


I sighed, tucked my head, and snuggled into my hooded sweatshirt as I jogged
down the subway's steps, my bag thrown over my shoulder.