“We’re OK ma’am, how are you?” Taylor answered, suddenly reverting to the manners that were beaten into him in his youth.
“Well, I’m fine today, just fine,” she responded, pausing to collect two care kits from a cardboard box underneath the table before continuing to speak. “We’ve got these here for you today. Some deodorant, some hand lotion and chapstick and some baby wipes. The kids made ’em themselves.” She pointed to each item as she listed them, all of which had been carefully packed in a plastic ziplock bag.
Taylor and Aria paused awkwardly, not knowing if they should take the bowls and care packages from the table themselves or whether they should wait for her to hand them over directly, until Imani broke that pause. “You know I’d been hopin’ to see you here again. I wrote the number down to my office in case you ever wanted some help with anythin’. We’ve got some great programs you might like.” She handed Aria a business card, which advertised the church. On its back, she had handwritten her phone number and her name.
“Thanks,” Aria said, trying to disguise her distrust with openness. She put the card into her pocket.
“You two come back and see me now,” Imani said, carefully handing each of them their chili and care packages.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Taylor said. Aria just smiled and nodded her head to indicate that she had heard her. Imani felt the relief of knowing that her first attempt to establish connection with Aria had successfully landed.
Imani was a social worker on a mission, on several missions in fact. Her sense of purpose in the world had replaced the conscious need for a partner or any other form of support for that matter. She was a member of the church, where she handed out lunch to the homeless on most days of the week. Every morning and also at unexpected times, when crises occurred, Imani had her hands full with her work at a family services center in one of the worst parts of town. In the afternoons, she went home to her two-bedroom apartment, to take care of her family members that were incapable of taking care of themselves, much less each other.
It seemed to Imani that all she did was manage crises, whether it was in her professional life or in her private life. In fact, handing out food to the homeless and attending church were the two most stress-free facets of her life. When the state found Imani’s sister to be unfit to take care of her three kids, their custody was passed to Imani’s mother, the children’s grandmother, who was progressively being rusted through by both diabetes and heart disease. Now, one year later, Imani found herself sleeping on her own pull-out couch and caretaking all of them. Because of this, Imani had no spare time to speak of. She had no other choice than to be strong. Her moral heart had made self-sacrifice its bedrock. The fact was that Imani took care of everyone in her life.
In common with many of her background and culture, Imani was a God-fearing woman. But she wore her faith with more self-effacing grace than others. She believed in every fiber of her being that Jesus cared for all his children and did so in mysterious ways. Her faith was so deep and unshakable that she was not troubled with doubtful questions about the ways in which this “care” happened. When tragedy struck, which it so often did around her, she knew it was not God that was mistaken but she that could not grasp the full picture. In her wallet, she carried a paper, now crinkled from years of use, that said, Faith only occurs in the absence of knowing. It was her favorite quote and she lived her life by it.
Imani had worked out the first time she saw her that Aria was homeless and that she was underage. But she also knew that calling the police was not the solution. “You just gotta love ’em,” she thought in her head. That first time, Aria had been with Luke. Imani had seen him in the line before. She knew him to be a man who could be counted on to take advantage of all the benefits the church could offer. Like nearly everyone else, she could tell that he had chosen to be homeless and because of this, his entitlement drove her crazy. Still, she hoped that because Luke had been the one to lead Aria there, he would bring her back and gradually, she might be able to connect Aria with the necessary resources to get her off of the street.
Imani had no way of knowing whether Aria would do anything with the connection she’d tried to make, or whether she had been too damaged at this point to recognize opportunity when it was handed to her. But Imani could rest in knowing that she had done what she could do for now. She also knew that the best way to get Aria to trust her was to put absolutely no pressure on her at all. These kids who had no home to go to were like stray animals. You had to be patient and not react or trap them, and stay consistent while they tested you again and again. Sometimes Imani felt like they were actually trying to get her to act in such a way that they could prove to themselves that no one loved them. It was like playing a game of chess where what these kids didn’t get was that winning this game meant killing their own best interests.
The slurry of flavors scalded Aria’s nose before she had even tasted it. It was not the best bowl of chili. It probably wasn’t even good. But Aria’s current circumstances elevated her appraisal of it. The way the sharp musk of cumin coated her throat, and its heavy sustenance, made her
