Chapter 13

Cecelia's mission was on MLK – every city these days has a street named after Martin – just east of Spruce. It was sort of on the edge of street people territory, though in reality you can find them occasionally just about everywhere, but it got a brisk business when the weather was cold, and at meal times in all weather. It was a chilly evening when we pulled up in front, and I was wearing my heavy jean jacket over my usual cowboy clothes. Cecelia, who loves her clothes, had changed into a worn pair of black jeans and a t-shirt which, being the usual three sizes too large, had billowed around her until she put on her black leather trench coat. She was wearing a pair of Lahtkwa style moccasins on her feet, and her short ponytail was tied back with a piece of red ribbon. Usually a rubber band suffices, but I've noticed that whenever she goes to work at the mission, while her clothes are suitable for hard work, she always pretties up her hair. I have a feeling that there are people there who appreciate that.

We were still in the Blazer, though usually she drives her Mazda to the mission – and no one's ever broken into nor stolen it, though it would bring a lot of illegal money after it went into a chop shop. I guess they know the car around there, and keep their hands off. I know from what Cecelia's said that there are some large and intimidating people who act as volunteer security at the mission, and perhaps they've spread the word to lay off.

The building is an old business of some sort – probably a lot of different business had been in there before the mission took it over. The windows were painted black, so that we couldn't see in and of course no one inside could see out. It was a slightly decaying building, as rescue missions so often are – with the government taking so much money out of everyone's pockets in taxes, there isn't a lot of spare cash to put into charity, especially these days when if you've got a job of any sort you thank God for your blessings. Cecelia and I supply a huge amount of the mission's budget, and our church makes up most of the rest – but we don't publicize it, because we want others who desire to contribute to believe that their little bit is useful. And it is – you add up enough donations of five or 10 or 100 dollars, and eventually you've got something you can work with.

I held the door for Cecelia, and she went on into a warm blast of sound. From the kitchen to the rear and the serving area to the right came the clatter of pots and pans and the click of spoons ladling food onto plates. Directly in front of us, and to the left, were the tables where people sat crammed shoulder to shoulder, eating, talking, laughing, and otherwise acting like human beings. Not everyone was talking or laughing, of course – I saw plenty of people who were concentrating only on their food, and there was one guy in the back left corner who was shouting unintelligibly between bites. No one was paying any attention to him – that sort of behavior is not rare among street people.

A shout went up from a table to our right as someone saw Cecelia. "It's Boss Lady – shut up your yaps!" I hadn't ever in my life heard someone use that word, though I'd read it in books.

The spread of relative quiet was amazing. I glanced at Cecelia, amazed again at the impact she has on people. She can be cold, arrogant, even cruel – but she is also, and much more often, loving and warm and wonderful, and even her innate and preferred formality had clearly not prevented her from becoming a known and pleasant presence.

She was smiling as she looked around the room. "Everyone, I will be behind the serving counter in due course. But first I must speak with the mission's director. If you will please excuse me?"

There was a general murmur of agreement, and she led me toward the back, where the kitchen was. We went past that, to a battered wooden door painted black like the windows. It opened in the right hand wall, and as I peered in I surmised that it had once been a storage room – it was about that size. The desk that sat in it literally took up most of the space. Behind the desk a large black woman was pounding on a computer keyboard with her back to us – the computer was ancient, or at least the monitor was. I'm no computer expert, but I recognized the brand as one that hadn't been around for a few years.

Cecelia banged her fist on the door as she stepped in. The woman at the computer swiveled in her chair, and grinned. "How you doin', Boss Lady?" she asked.

"I'm quite well, Tarquitha. Please allow me to introduce my husband, Darvin – Darvin, this is Tarquitha Nash, the woman who keeps this chaos as much under control as is humanly possible."

"I try. So you're the famous Darvin Carpenter." Tarquitha stood – she was indeed large – and reached across her desk to shake my hand. If she'd been much shorter, for she wasn't much over five feet tall, she'd have knocked papers off the desk with her sleeve. "I been hearin' 'bout you for years now. Boss Lady tells me you good people."

"I'm tolerable, I suppose – at least she puts up with me." And I turned to Cecelia. "But there's one thing I gotta clear up – 'Boss Lady?' You had better explain that one."

"Oh, you'll love this!" Tarquitha said, not giving Cecelia a chance to respond – which might be good, since my wife would no doubt understate things. I can't explain how someone can be both capable of aristocratic hauteur and bashful modesty, but I've seen both in Cecelia many times. "The way it was, Cecelia here was behind the counter dishing up – what was it, honey, green beans? – I b'lieve it was green beans. Anyway, this big ol' homeless man, blacker than I'll ever be an' mean, we'd almost banned him 'cause he was so mean, he tol' Cecelia he wanted more. And she looked up at him, and said something like, 'Sir, you will receive what I give you, and cease to trouble me about it. Move on, sit down, and eat.' And it was like the voice o' God to him – he took what she gave him, moved on, sat down, and ate. And ever since then, she been the Boss Lady."