The Kaleidoscope (4 page)

Harold hardly heard the final words. He was already thinking about what he could do with the money he’d intended for the offering. The city needed more parking spaces; churches were used only once a week. From its cracked walls to the badly repaired stained glass window, he didn’t see how there was any hope, or real need, for the structure on the prime real estate.

He checked his haircut in the mirror and then left the apartment with the coins intended for the collection plate still burrowing deep in his pocket. Attending the service was supposed to prove his humanity, but the very building that was supposed to herald spirituality, that vague, untouchable part of life Harold knew only from late night dorm debates, the God particle discussions his professors loathed to allow, was doomed. The structure was obviously as irrelevant to the community as it had been to Harold.

His coffee shop religion in college had consisted of Sunday morning interfaith dialog laced with the aromas of chai tea, pot drifting in from the alley. Pecking at his keyboard, he’d listened to vigorous debates between students from around the globe. Harold had learned to keep to himself. The few attempts he’d made to try and fit in were met with astonished stares as if he were speaking a different language. His head soon ached, and he’d gathered his papers and electronics, bussed his own table, and retreated to the library, and its quiet confirmation that escape from the madness was possible and encouraged.

When he stepped out of the apartment, the daily ritual had already begun. The hurried rush of his neighbors’ exodus for work and school reminded Harold of those scenes in madcap movies with a hallway of doors opening and closing, people going in and out. He pulled on the knob to check the lock. The unruly dog he could hear late at night exploded into the hallway, dragging his owner who clung to its leash. Harold considered avoiding them, but before he could retreat back inside, the uncontrollable cur tugged her over to Harold.

“Sit!” the woman commanded to no avail.

Harold backed away from a drippy snout aimed at his crotch. He considered buying a muzzle with the money. Probably not the best way to connect with someone, although he would possibly receive gratitude from his other neighbors.

“I’m so sorry. Glenda, stop!” Yanking back on the leash, the owner added, “Mind your manners!” as if Harold had been the one to sniff at the dog. The woman had lived next to him for several months, maybe a year or more. She seemed different somehow, but he couldn’t put his finger on what had changed.

The yellow dog pulled the leash again, and bracelets clacking and toenails clicking, they breezed past. “She’s been cooped up a lot lately, I hope the barking hasn’t bothered you.” The woman’s skirts billowed around her bare legs, and Harold wondered if she was warm enough in the March wind. A billowy peasant blouse the color of pomegranate wrapped her cinnamon skin, colorful bracelets piled on her wrists, and inappropriate sandals slapped in cadence. With a start, Harold realized she was the woman he’d seen in the courtyard.

She tugged down a pink and teal scarf encircling her head. Harold recalled a soft halo of thick, dark hair. At closer inspection, he realized she was bald and she’d penciled in her brows. The right one rode a little higher than the other.

“She needs more exercise than I can give her lately.”

He opened the door to the street for them. “I hardly hear her,” he lied, trying not to stare at her lashless, mocha-brown eyes.

“Chemo had me under the weather a bit.” She veered away to follow the grass verge next to the street, talking to him over her shoulder. “I saw you at lunch the other day. You been okay?”

He nodded vaguely, trying to recall her name, or if he’d ever heard it. It was probably on the cluster mailbox, in crooked stick-on letters next to his own. “I’m late. Have a—have a nice day.” He left her picking up after the dog, berating himself for the insipid comment.

He rattled the change in his pocket, reminding himself of the mission. At the crosswalk, he considered handing it to a teenage girl waiting for the light to change. Dressed in a school uniform, a bit disheveled, her backpack ripping at a seam.
Here, little girl. I know private school can be expensive; take some money.

She caught him staring at her, and he flicked his glance to the light as it turned. He moved along with the beetling pedestrians, swung wide to avoid an exuberant sign spinner, and queued up at Morrie’s wagon. Already a few minutes late, he considered skipping it and gambling on the vending machine inside, but bad coffee was hardly the remedy. Morrie was busy taking and filling orders, so they didn’t chat. Grateful, Harold accepted his regular order from him, and hurried on.

Shadows from the sun’s morning climb warned of his tardiness as he avoided the unwashed humanity blanketed under the oak tree, spilling onto the walk. Jolted to a stop behind a woman whose heel caught in a sidewalk crack, Harold reached down to help her. Snores snuffled from a faded green blanket set apart from the others. Aha! Surely one of the street people could use the money.

The woman replaced her shoe, thanked him, and Harold started to go, but Father’s remarks resonated within.

He jingled the change absently, unsure what to do. Knock on the tree bark? And then there was the problem of singling out one person. If he gave one of them the money, the others would demand some as well. That’s why it was always a better idea to leave the business of charity up to the organizations better suited for handling these decisions. Darn you, St. Mark’s. “Don’t just hand over the money and run. Find some way to make a real connection. That’s where the value lies,” Father Tucker had preached.

Harold doubted anyone would want to make a connection with him anyway. Georgia had reminded him more than once, “Your feelings stop at the buttons on your overstarched shirt, Harold. Where did you leave your soul?”

Torn, he checked the coffee cart line, which was now shorter. By the time he walked back, the person talking to Morrie would surely be finished making her purchase. He could make it happen and have the entire business behind him if no one else got in line before he made it back. A test for the universe. Harold turned around and headed for the coffee wagon, almost hoping someone would get in line, giving him the excuse to forget the whole venture. It wasn’t to be, though, so he stepped up, willing Morrie to not ask questions. “One bagel, please.”

Dark eyes peered up at him from underneath a ball cap’s brim. Morrie’s jaw worked underneath grizzled muttonchops, his unruly brows knitted together. When he saw it was Harold, who had never purchased anything but his customary medium-sized, double shot latte, he lifted the cap to scratch thinning hair. “Poppyseed or plain?”

“Just plain.” Harold did the math. “No. One of each.” He eyed his friend, glad he merely grabbed the tongs without quizzing. He had to step off his platform to bag the pastries. Either a dwarf or midget, Harold had never asked, the diminutive man was one of his only friends in Los Angeles. Well, anywhere.

Harold handed over the money, relieved the aggravation was almost behind him. Even better, he congratulated himself, grabbing the paper bag. Now the bum wouldn’t be able to use the cash for booze or drugs. And Harold could prove he was a sensitive humanitarian. Worthy of promotion.

“Cream cheese is included.” Morrie climbed back up and pointed at a basket, but Harold waved him off, intent on completing his mission so he could go about his day.

Unwilling to just set the bag down for the ants, Harold stood over the blanket mound, and coughed lightly. The guy he chose had rolled away from the others, almost blocking the sidewalk. Probably some kind of PTSD case. The mound stirred, then a rheumy eye squinted from underneath a brow thick, gray and unruly. “Can I help you?”

Harold stuck out the bag, arm stiff. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bagel. Two. You can have both. Or share.” He swung an arm at the others, who were now watching them.

With much effort, the guy leaned up on an elbow and took it. “Any cream cheese?” He peered inside. The top of his knitted cap was fraying. Harold had imagined the gesture would be met with more gratitude.

“Wait.” Fresh air flowing into his lungs, Harold sprinted back, grabbed a couple of the aluminum packs, and returned. “En-enjoy.” He brushed his hands together, the task complete. As soon as he heard a proper thanks, he’d be on his way.

Biting to tear the foil, the man’s stained teeth curled Harold’s stomach. Next, knobby fingers squeezed a blob of cream cheese onto the bread. He slapped the halves together, and tore off a mouthful. Eyeballing Harold, the vagrant muttered, “What?”

“I just…” Harold began. “I need to get to work. Have a nice day.”

Fuming to himself while he waited in the line at the security checkpoint in his building, Harold couldn’t believe the nerve of the guy. He’d shown no gratitude at all. What a jerk.

And yet, Harold puffed up a bit. He had proven he could do a nice thing for a stranger without expecting anything in return. Well done, Harold.

Chapter Four

Walter pushed an oily rag up and over the carved balustrade. Lemon-oil scents melded with the charred smoke wafting in from the votive candles in the foyer, and the clouds of prayers in the form of incense released by yesterday’s Mass hovered, caught by the raftered ceiling overhead. The brass thurible hung from its long chain, leashed to the side of the altar, and awaited his cleansing rags, the ashes still to be scraped. One more week of these duties, and Walter would be gone.

His dry mop glided over the multi-hued geometric dapples that poured onto the wood floor from the glass window above the altar. The sun moving past caused a tapestry of Jesus and his flock to move along the floor, changing positions with the earth’s flight through space. A broken pane had been shoddily repaired, leaving the Lord’s face acned, his head misshapen. Flawed. Instead of depressing Walter, the blemish comforted him.

He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hide their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

Every noise in the building, every creak, was familiar and reassuring. Until now. Walter’s only regret was his failure to properly assemble the final pieces and have time to run the proper tests. Between proving his theories before they fell into the wrong hands, and hiding from justice, he was drained of every drop of stamina.

Despite the sanctuary, despite his efforts to disguise himself and limit his exposure to necessary reconnaissance missions, they had found him. There hadn’t yet been a confrontation or an outright threat, but he had a gut sense, like a blip on his radar alerting him to the danger. People who had never attended Mass before, and who slithered into the back pews with awkward genuflections, searching the alcove, their glances darting past the holy stations were obviously looking for him. For his invention. The night before, a new volunteer at the soup kitchen, whose piercing stare belied his half-hearted smile threatened him over the bubbling cauldron of tomato soup by making pointed eye contact. They were after him and closing in.

Again. No time to waste.

Another douse of oil onto the rag, and Walter paused. The unlocked door onto the street opened and skidded closed. A small woman, an Italian widow by the black dress and hat, slid into a pew at the rear. Mrs. Salvatore.

Walter resumed his methodical chore even though Father had said there was no use, what was the point? Preparing the body for proper Christian burial?

Mrs. Salvatore clunked the kneeler onto the tile, her murmured prayers as solemn as the mourning veil obscuring her wizened face.

Walter recapped the oil and wound up his rag, quietly leaving her. It was time to move on. The sanctuary was no comfort any longer.

****

Harold fumed all day and into the evening, worrying over the vagrant’s ingratitude. Of all the nerve—to take the bagel and demand cream cheese, and not even thank him. Anyone who didn’t have basic manners and couldn’t get along with others ought to be ostracized from polite society. He decided that even a bum should be taught gratitude.

Early Tuesday morning, Harold was back in line at Morrie’s cart, but froze when his friend asked brightly, “Another bagel today?”

“No. No bagel. Never again.” Harold telegraphed a warning.
Don’t ask questions; don’t let’s get into it now.
He was already three minutes past his intended time to get this over with.

Coffee in hand, he strode toward the grungy
plein air
bedroom, willing to sacrifice a few minutes for the common good so he could inform the beggar what society expected. His loafers’ loud report on the concrete sidewalk had apparently already woken the man, who sat up when Harold stood over him.

Before Harold could begin his speech, the man spoke. “Hey, mister, come closer.”

Harold decided he’d listen graciously to the apology and all would be forgiven. He stood as close as the foul aroma would allow. “Yes?” He waited, his toe tapping to indicate this better not take long.

“Here.” Instead of a plea for forgiveness, though, the guy was trying to get him to take the grease-stained and wrinkled brown paper bag from yesterday’s bagel offering. “Take it!”

Stomach churning, Harold couldn’t imagine what vile or illegal substance lurked inside today. He swallowed back a dry heave and rocked back on his heel. “What is it?”

“I need you to keep this for me,” the transient gruffed, eyes flicking back and forth. “Unless you think you’re too good to help out someone like me.”

Harold tried not to let his disgust show. Soften the edges, Clyde had advised.

“Take it.”

Harold couldn’t imagine what was happening.

Gnarled fingers, knuckles thick from hard labor, gripped the sack, its top rolled over several times. “It’s very important that you keep it…safe for me.”

Probably some kind of drug paraphernalia. Harold was not about to let him foist the like on him, and was glad to see a pair of uniformed cops approaching. “Nu-uh.”

“I’ll show you what it is.” An arthritic hand reached in the bag and Harold stiffened until a gold cylinder about the size of a chubby fountain pen appeared. The man started to lift it to a rheumy eye, but a couple of joggers passing seemed to startle him, and he crammed it back in the bag and thrust it toward Harold.