washed at the truck stop. Could she?
“Well, come on in. We can always use another pair of hands.” He held the door open wider, and she scooted past him, noting the fresh fragrance of laundry and something heavier. Cologne. But not a familiar kind. Once inside, the smell of the food was almost overwhelming, and the man’s scent was erased.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Um. Casey Smith.”
He nodded, his hazel eyes dancing. “All right, Ms. Smith. Nice to meet you. I’m Eric. Eric Jones.” He smiled, exposing perfectly straight and white teeth.
Casey couldn’t help but answer with a smile of her own. A small one.
“Actually,” Eric said, “my last name’s VanDiepenbos, but don’t tell anyone. It’s too hard for them to remember. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been called.”
Casey held up two fingers. “I promise.”
“Why don’t you help me straighten up these chairs, first. Here, I’ll take your backpack into the staff room.”
She hesitated.
“It’ll be safe. Really. We keep it locked all the time. There’s even lockers if you want to use one.”
With a mixture of relief and anxiety she unloaded her burden and handed it over to Eric. To this young man, at least a decade younger than she ever remembered being.
While he was gone she studied the room. The tables were laid with brightly colored tablecloths. Blue and pink and yellow. Like a birthday party. Vases of plastic flowers decorated every section. Pretty flowers, clean and cheerful. This was unlike any homeless shelter Casey had ever seen.
Eric returned, and together they picked up trash and straightened chairs.
“It’s supper only,” Eric told her. “We’d like to do more, but it’s hard to find enough food for the meals we do, let alone a supply of volunteers. The Missionary church down the street offers lunches on Wednesdays, but other than that people need to fend for themselves.”
Casey could feel his eyes on her face, as if gauging her reaction.
“Really,” she said. “I’m not here to eat.”
She could tell he didn’t believe her, but there was nothing she could do about that. “I’m curious…”
“About what?”
“You’ve got a small town here. I didn’t see… Do you have that many homeless people? Folks who need meals?”
He squatted to pull a wadded napkin from under a table. “Not homeless, necessarily. But we’ve added a lot of place settings during the past year. And it’s only going to get worse with the plant leaving.”
“What plant?”
He stood up. “You’re not from around here?”
She shook her head.
“I should’ve figured that. Sorry.”
“What plant?” she said again.
“The one on the edge of town. HomeMaker. It’s closing. Moving to Mexico, actually. About a quarter of the employees were laid off last Christmas—nice time for that, huh?—and it’s shutting down completely within three months. This town, it’s just going to— Anyway, we’ve got lots more people coming for supper than we had even six months ago. But not any more supplies. People can’t afford to feed their families, let alone have anything left over to give away.”
“What happened? With the plant?”
He held out a trash bag and she dumped her handful of garbage into it. “The usual. You know. The union wants more money, better wages for the workers. The owners say, ‘screw you,’ and move to Mexico to get the tax breaks and cheap labor. Nothing new.” He tied the top of the trash bag and heaved it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll put you to work with the food.”
Casey followed him through a narrow door into a steaming hot kitchen. A skinny elderly woman stood at a stove in an apron, her hair scraped back into a hairnet as she stirred something in a big pot. Her coffee-colored skin shone in the moist heat, and she wiped at her forehead with her sleeve.
“Loretta, this is Casey. She’s going to help out with serving tonight.”
Loretta glanced up. “Well, thank you Jesus, that’s good of her, um-humm. You just make yourself at home, baby, okay? Praise God!”
Casey met Eric’s eye, and he turned, smiling, to the other person in the room. “Johnny, this is Casey.”
Johnny grabbed Casey’s hand and shook it enthusiastically, his smile almost as wide as his face. His eyes had the slant of Down’s Syndrome, and he stood several inches taller than Eric. He was stockier, too. “Eric always finds nice ladies to help,” Johnny said. “I wrap all the silverware in the napkins. Everyday.” He waited expectantly.
Casey cleared her throat. “I’m sure you do a great job with that, Johnny.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I do. I’m the best at it, want to see?”
“Well. Sure.”
He bounded back to his station and returned, clasping a smooth bundle of silverware encased in a white paper napkin. “You see? You put the knife at the back, then the fork, then the spoon so they fit together right, and then you put them in the middle of the napkin and wrap the napkin around them. I’m the best at it.”
“I can see you’re very experienced.”
“I’m the best.”
“Okay.” Eric clapped Johnny on the shoulder. “Better get back to work, buddy. The folks will be here before too long and we want to be ready for them.”
“Oh, yes, Eric, yes, we do. I’ll get to work. I’ll do them all. I’m—”
“—the best at it. Yes, you are.”
Johnny smiled angelically, gave Eric a bone-crushing hug, and lumbered back to his spot.
Eric grinned. “I love my crew.”
“I can see why.”
“Now.” Eric clapped his hands together. “You and I can set out the bread.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a dozen baskets. “Line these with those linen napkins over there. You can use that counter.”
Casey washed her hands at the large metal sink, then took the baskets and set them in a row, flapping open the white squares of fabric. Eric followed, removing sliced bread from plastic bags and filling the baskets.
“Homemade bread?” Casey asked.
“Day old, from the bakery down the street. Or two days old. Still good. Better than store-bought. Plus, it’s free. You want to cover the bread with the extra napkins?”
She did, and they carried them out to place them on the tables, along with economy-sized tubs of margarine.
Movement at the front caught her eye, and Casey saw faces at the glass of the door. “Guests?”
Eric turned. “Yup. It’s almost five. Why don’t you let them in?”
She went to open the door and stood back as a family of five eased past her, the three young children studying her with an uncomfortable intensity. Casey took another step back. The parents glided by without a glance, their eyes on the floor. Casey peeked out the door, but seeing no one else, shut it and went back to the kitchen, passing the family, who’d seated themselves at the far end of the first table.
Eric stood beside the open refrigerator door in the kitchen. “Here.” He took out a tub of peaches and set them next to some spotted bananas on the counter. “Cut these up and arrange them on these trays.”
“How—”
“Doesn’t matter. Just in slices. You can divide the bananas into quarters, maybe. Leave them in the peels.”
“Where are you going?”
“To greet the folks. They’re used to seeing me. I like to at least say hello.”
“They didn’t say anything to me.”
“No.” He smiled sadly. “They wouldn’t. It’s been…” He stopped.
“What?”
“Oh. Difficult.”
