Mr. Tibbs

Mr. Tibbs

"He looks so lonely."  Jenna hunched over, brushing a stray lock of brown hair off her face.  She squinted out through the grimy Mission window at the skinny, unkempt man.  Huddled in a long dirty overcoat, he rummaged deep inside the concrete trashcan on the corner, paying no attention to those passing.  For their part, the passers-by averted their eyes self-consciously, and gave him a wide berth.  "Doesn’t he have any family, somebody to take him in?"

"Larry?  He ain’t got nobody.  Just hisself, and the pigeons, and even they be fightin’ over scraps."  The young boy brushed at his tattered shirt, wiping off a few stray carrot peelings, evidence that he’d been helping his mom and the other volunteers prepare the evening meal.  It took a lot of hands to make food for the two hundred or so local unfortunates who would come calling.  Jesus Mission, as locals called the Mission of the Benevolent Christ, offered a hot meal and a heaping dose of faith to its "guests" before they shuffled back out onto the cold, cruel streets of Philadelphia.  "Ain’t nobody know his full name even, just Larry, and he likely won’t answer if you calls him that, even.  Just keeps to hisself and don’t bother nobody, neither."

"I’m going to try, Rashawn."  Jenna’s years at Germantown Friends and Bryn Mawr might not have taught her many of the skills necessary for Jesus Mission, but they had taught her persistence.  "Somebody has to make him come in and at least get a hot meal."  Jenna had the eager optimism of a college student, certain she could save the world, even if only one homeless man at a time.  Her advisor was dubious about the wisdom of a young white woman spending her nights in such a rough neighborhood, despite the relative safety of the Mission, but Jenna was adamant.  The volunteer position lasted six weeks, and Jenna wanted to make them count.

Rashawn laughed and shook his head, neat cornrows bouncing in rhythm.  "Good luck, lady.  Ain’t nobody make Larry do nuthin’ he don’t want to.  It’s a free country, and Larry just wants to be left free to find his own way."  A sharp voice from the kitchen sent the boy scurrying back to help his mother peel potatoes.  Jenna followed him with her eyes, and hoped he was wrong.

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The stench from the white-grey steam coming up through the grate turned my stomach, but the cold wind whistling down Kensington Avenue was worse.  I huddled as close as I could, coat splayed over the grate to trap some of the heat.  My eyes stung when bursts of steam blew up through the coat, but the gusts outside were bitter and relentless, so I stayed put.  Rich people seem to think that just because you don’t have a fancy Main Line house or a comfortable Center City law office to put your feet up in, you must not notice the smell or the cold, but I gagged and froze all the same.

Tap.  I jumped up, and nearly wet myself.  Nobody touches me, nobody.  I slapped away her hand, all delicate and clean and prissy.  Her mouth kept flapping, but I didn’t need to hear her to know she wanted me to move on, move away from her safe sidewalk and her clean protected life.  She leaned over me with those eyes, faking pity but I knew she wanted me gone.  I scowled and muttered and waved my hands, which sometimes scares away these fancy rich girls, but she just kept coming at me, trying to touch me.

Jumping up, I ran at her.  It was my grate, and she couldn't make me leave.  I hollered and ran at her as she backed away, but I tripped on my coat and fell hard on the sidewalk.  Nothing was stopping this girl, she came at me again, and I figured I better get out before she called her other stuck-up rich friends to come beat me up and steal my stuff. 

My stuff!  I whipped back toward her, and sure enough, she was eying my bags.  Her lips kept moving, wider and wider, and now she was yelling, screaming for others to come help her steal my stuff.  I wasn’t afraid, because I was bigger that she was, but I grabbed my bags and my blanket and took off before she could get others to come and take them away.  I worked hard for my things, and if I had to fight for them I would.  But I didn’t want to fight, I wanted to find a warm place to rest before it got dark.  I ran as fast as I could, though my bags slowed me down and tripped me up.  I knew an alley where they wouldn’t find me, wouldn’t steal my stuff.  I had to get to the alley.  I’d be safe there.

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Jenna stared after Larry's fast retreating form, too startled by his sudden violent outburst to make another attempt.  The grate at her feet gave off a fetid smell, but also a sudden burst of heat, and she wondered if she had erred in driving the man away from his refuge.  She hoped he had another warm spot to spend the night, but didn’t understand why he wouldn’t at least come in and get something to eat first.  He must be mentally ill, she thought, and kicked at the grate in frustration.  Damn!  Not certain sure whether she was angry with herself or Larry, she stomped back into Jesus Mission, determined not to give up.

Back in the room where she slept, Jenna dropped heavily down on her cot, which responded with a metallic squeal of protest.  Jenna hated the tiny room, which held nothing but the uncomfortable cot and a banged-up wooden chair.  Still, she had it better than the people outside. Jenna shivered at the thought.  For the past several days, she had watched the crazed-looking old man.  Jenna tried to approach him a few times, calling out "Larry?  Larry?", but he didn’t respond or seem to hear her.  If he did look her way, he looked past her as if she weren’t there.  Jenna was getting used to that, in any case.  Even the other volunteers barely spoke to her, aside from the director, Mrs. Reed, and Rashawn.

Jenna had been quite proud of herself, daring to walk right up to Larry.  It had taken all her reserves of courage to interrupt his grumbling and unintelligible mutterings.  What she hadn’t expected was the wild look in his eyes when she touched his shoulder, or his fierce charge.  I drove him away, she thought with anguish.  She couldn’t bear the thought of his going off into the harsh cold because of her.  Where did he go?

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Pages of a long-forgotten Sunday newspaper swirled around the entrance to the narrow, dark alley.  I shuffled through them, feet rustling each sheet like the leaves in the park when I was a child.  I spent hours walking in the park, listening to my friend.  I would play with him in the leaves down by the brook, even when my father told me never to go down there by myself.  But then my friend moved away, left me alone.  I found I couldn't remember his name, but I missed him.

The alley was bitterly cold.  The wind couldn’t get in, no matter how it blustered, but the icy air crept in along the pavement and whispered its way into the folds of my coat.  It lurked in the dark, biding its time, so that each time I moved, it would creep a little closer to my heart.

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"We have to do something.  It’s going down to 20 degrees tonight, according to the TV."  Jenna spoke through tears.  "You said when it went below 25, the police could round up anybody out there and take them to a shelter, like it or not."  She set on the edge of her rickety cot in the overnight volunteer room, rocking back and forth like a small child.

"I said that was the law, honey, but the cops don’t want trouble.  Dragging Larry in where he don’t want to be is sure enough gonna be trouble."  Mrs. Reed, director of Jesus Mission Outreach, was a heavyset woman with a slow drawl left over from her upbringing in Alabama.  Jenna knew her to be a kind woman --- Rashawn called her Aunty --- but in three weeks at the Mission, she’d not seen how firm Mrs. Reed could be.  "You’re worried, girl, and that’s clear, but Larry’s got a right to stay out there if he likes to."

"But he’s alone,"  Jenna wept.  Mrs. Reed stroked her hair with a rough calloused hand and said nothing.  "It’s getting dark, and I scared him away from the heat.  If something happens, it’ll be my fault.  I just can’t stand to think of him out there."

"Hush, girl.  We ain’t none of us alone.  Jesus is there to keep us warm and safe, yes, and even take us home to God when it’s our time.  Quiet, child, and don’t you worry."  She wrapped Jenna in a warm, comforting hug for a long moment, then excused herself to arrange supplies for tomorrow’s breakfast.  Jenna lay still, trying to hold on to the comfort, but finally closed her eyes.

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Deep in the still of night, I woke.  My shoulders and legs hurt fiercely in the cold, so I knew I wasn’t dead.  Peering around in the dark shadows, I was startled to see a huddled mass about twenty feet away from me, just barely visible in the light from the streetlamp which splashed against the far wall of the alley.  I tried to stand to see who might be stealing my place, but my legs wouldn’t function until I rubbed them for several minutes.  All the while, the heap didn’t move.

When I was finally able to stand, I limped over, and lifted a corner of the loose rags.  The haggard face beneath was almost hidden by greasy grey hair, and it was hard to be certain it was a woman until she opened her eyes.  When she did, she didn’t move, but just looked out with cold unfocused eyes.  She might have been blind, but I couldn’t tell.  Her mouth didn’t move, but the rags over her chest shook as each breath forced its way up out of her ragged cocoon.  She reminded me of someone, but who I could not say.  Someone from long ago.

Suddenly, her body shook violently as she coughed and coughed, a dark trickle leaking out the side of her mouth.  I looked on, unable to touch her, unable to help.  A tug from some forgotten voice nagged at me, and I sighed hard, knowing what I had to do.

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Jenna sat upright with a start.  Her haunting dream of the homeless man, frozen on a bench, slowly faded, but left an after-image she couldn’t shake.  Rubbing weary eyes, she wandered out of her room into the darkened Mission, looking for someone to take her mind off the horrible dream.  Her bare feet felt icy on the cold linoleum floor of the common room.  She considered going back for socks and shoes, but instead sat on the threadbare couch near the front window.  She curled her feet under her for warmth, and looked out at the streetlights.  A very light snow had begun, and it softened the street somehow, like a Christmas postcard.

Lying on the couch, looking out at the snowflakes dancing in the air, Jenna’s eyes grew heavy.  She yawned, and was close to drifting off when she heard a noise.  It sounded like the radiators in her grandmother’s house, knocking and sputtering in the night.  Odd, she thought, I don’t see any radiators.  She sat still and listened, but all was silent for a minute or two.  Then, a couple of quick staccato knocks echoed and were gone.  Jenna looked across the large common room, out into the entrance way, but the noises weren’t coming from there.  They seemed closer.

Unnerved by the sounds, with visions of some animal trying to get into the building, Jenna hesitated.  She peered into the dark kitchen, usually such a bustling area during the day.  All was quiet, but there was a window over the sink.  The streetlamp outside created a small rectangle of light on the huge industrial ovens.  Suddenly, a shadow passed through the light, and the knocking sound came again.  Jenna jumped back, startled, but returned.  She had clearly seen a hand knocking against the glass.

Edging closer to the sink, heart pounding, Jenna picked up a kitchen knife from the counter.  She felt ludicrous wielding the bulky knife, but couldn’t put it down.  Standing on tiptoes, she looked out the small window.

Pacing back and forth in the dim light, Larry looked as if he were having a heated argument, but there was nobody else in sight, though Jenna craned her head back and forth looking for someone.  Larry’s arms gesticulated, his feet stomped, then he stopped.  He turned back to the window and reach for it.  Jenna was sure he would see her, and ducked, but the rapping came again.  She realized that with the light outside and no light inside, he couldn’t see in.

But why is he knocking on the kitchen window?  Jenna was perplexed.  It seemed more sensible to go to the front door.  The night watchman, Mr. Johnson, was on duty at the front door to let anybody in who showed up after hours.  Realizing that she was out of her depth, Jenna moved quietly away from the window and hurried to the entrance way.  She was sure Mr. Johnson would know what to do.

The large, amiable black man sat at his desk, reading a cheap paperback.  It looked like Stephen King, and Jenna shuddered to think of sitting alone all night reading horror.  Mr. Johnson looked up with a smile as Jenna padded in, barefoot.  "Couldn’t sleep?"  Mr. Johnson had the gift of putting anyone at ease.
"No, I couldn’t.  But, Mr. Johnson, Larry is outside the kitchen.  He keeps knocking on the window."

"Larry?  Well, he won’t come in here.  Mrs. Reed has a soft spot for him, and leaves him food outside sometimes.  Don’t tell her I said so, ‘cuz she don’t know that I know.  It’s against the rules, but there’s something about Larry.  I don’t know why he’d be here at night though.  Only ever comes by in the morning."  The big man found a scrap of paper for a bookmark and stood up.  "I’ll go check on him.  Don’t you worry none; just go back to bed."

Jenna protested that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but Mr. Johnson insisted.  She was glad to leave the problem to someone else.  Her feet were cold, her eyes ached, and she wasn’t sure she could face any more excitement.  Back in her room, she slid under the covers.  Might as well stay warm while I wait to see what happens.

"Jenna.  Jenna.  Wake up, dear."  Mrs. Reed’s face looked sweaty, as if she had been cooking too long over a hot stove.

"What is it?  Is everything all right?"  Jenna searched the face of the older woman for answers.

"Now, dear, don’t you fret.  Everything’s fine."

"Did Mr. Johnson tell you…"  Jenna’s voice trailed off.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson told me."  Mrs. Reed sat down heavily on the hard wooden chair, which creaked under her weight.  "He went out to see what was up with Larry.  That man ‘most never comes to the Mission, and certainly not at night.  Then, when Mr. Johnson came out to talk with him, he ran away."

"Ran away?"  Jenna slumped.  She thought she’d made a difference.

"Yes, but he didn’t stay away.  Got about half a block and came back.  He wouldn’t stay put, or even say a word.  He just acted all agitated and urgent, like he needed to tell us something and couldn't.  Mr. Johnson got worried and followed Larry out into the cold."

"Where did they go?  I don’t understand."

"I didn't know myself."  Mrs. Reed said, "Larry took Mr. Johnson to an alley back behind Tony’s Steaks.  When Mr. Johnson went in the alley, there was a woman lying there in a heap of rags.  He didn't know her or where she was from, but she was in an awful state.  Mr. Johnson took her to Friend's Hospital, where I imagine they can help her.  I don’t think she would have lasted the night without Larry."

"Where is Larry?  Did he come back with Mr. Johnson?"  Jenna was relieved and excited in a way she couldn’t have explained.

Mrs. Reed’s face creased with concern.  "I’m afraid not, Jenna.  Larry just stayed until the ambulance picked up that woman.  After that, I’m not sure where he went.  Mr. Johnson and I went back to the alley, and we looked all over the streets nearby where Larry usually hangs out, but there was no sign of him."

Jenna looked stricken, but then her face cleared.  "I guess Larry wasn’t as alone as I thought.  If he knew this woman, maybe he has other people out there he knows.  Maybe he has a friend and has gone to stay there."

Mrs. Reed looked doubtful, but smiled at the girl’s innocence.  "Maybe, child, maybe."

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The sagging, weathered bench was made for romantic couples or exhausted parents, not that it had seen either recently. It certainly wasn’t made for sleeping, all narrow and splintered, but it was what I had. I wrapped myself inside the tattered blanket. Cold slipped through and crept down my back, carrying along some stray snow that had perched malevolently on the back of the bench waiting for an unwary victim.

"Hey, move over!"

The thin, raspy voice startled me, coming as it seemed from the drifts behind my bench. I peered out, but despite the cold winter sun, there wasn’t anyone to see.

"Whadya want, a telegram? Make room for an old man."

In spite of myself, I huddled closer, making a spot at the end. The boards creaked and the bench leaned precariously back, threatening to eject us into the snow bank. I hadn’t heard that ragged voice in years, and whoever owned it had never shown himself.  He sounded a lot older now, but there was no mistaking that voice.  Mr. Tibbs!  That's what I called him, Mr. Tibbs, but I didn’t mention him to my parents. Some things you keep to yourself.

"Sorry there isn’t more room." I said, but he just grunted. "Shove down here a bit and you can share."  Mr. Tibbs didn’t say anything, but I felt the bench shake and then the weight of his back against my leg.  I’d hoped for some body heat, but I couldn’t feel any warmth, just dead weight.  I shut my eyes and tried to remember what Mr. Tibbs had said to me as a child when we walked in the park.  I could remember very little.  I just remembered that he was there.

Pressed against the cold boards, I felt a calloused hand brush my forehead gently. Sighing, I shut out the world and drifted off. All night, the glistening white snow piled up on the old bench, covering us with a warmer blanket than we’d known in years.