Catherine sat for a moment in silence, the children's laughter a distant echo from the front of the house. Then she murmured, “âMy God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?'” TJ bowed his head, nodded once, felt suddenly ashamed.
She caressed his cheek. “So many burdens, so many desires. Remember what Jeremy says? It's one thing to give a problem over to the Lord. It's another thing entirely to let Him keep it. That's especially hard when we don't exactly agree with how He decides to answer us.”
“Five years of work,” TJ murmured.
“How would you feel if you pushed that idea through, and then found out it wasn't what the Lord wanted for those children? Wouldn't you feel just terrible? Honey, look at me. You can't tell what the Lord has in store. You're sitting in the middle of the storm, trying to peer through a driving rain and see what lies out there in the distance. You can't. It's impossible. You're just gonna have to trust in the Lord, have faith that He knows what He's doing and it's all gonna work out right.”
“It's hard,” he told her.
“I know it is,” she said softly. “You just gotta keep in mind, honey, the Lord doesn't give anybody a burden they can't carry. And whatever happens, long as you hold fast to your faith, it's gonna work out like it should.” She put her hands on either side of his face and looked deeply into his eyes. “Those aren't just words, Thomas. You know they're truth.”
He nodded and she stood up, pushed on her back with her free hand, said, “These old bones start to settle if I sit down for too long. You got time for a little walk?”
He stood, said, “I suppose so, why?”
“I'd just like you to see what Jeremy's got himself up to. Let me get my coat, I'll be right back.”
The sidewalk crumbled and bucked and swayed like a ship passing through heavy seas; it was a joy for the children to play on and a hazard for the elderly to try to walk on. Most of the foot traffic stayed to the edge of the street which, though pitted, was at least fairly level. The morning's misty rain had stopped, and the wind had picked up to a gusty strength that had the two of them clutching at their coats as they walked downhill. High overhead, billowy white clouds scuttled through a wintry blue sky.
Catherine pointed to the first building they passed, said, “This is the headquarters. There's a housing authority in there, legal services, the medical clinic, administration, and some of the classrooms.” TJ looked, saw an ancient red-brick structure that only differed from its neighbors in that all the windows were intact and no graffiti adorned its ground-floor walls.
She pointed at a narrow alley heading off from across the street, said, “Let's turn down there and get out of this wind.”
High buildings closed in on either side of them, blocking both sun and wind. TJ snuffled a couple of times, steered around a rain-filled pothole, saw scattered garbage everywhere, thought himself a million miles removed from the White House.
“All this was started just five years ago,” Catherine told him, now that she didn't have to shout over the wind. “The reverend who runs it is named Tom Nees. One day he just up and quit his big Capitol Hill church, decided he wasn't doing the Lord's work preaching in some fancy place while right up the street children were going to bed hungry.”
TJ nodded, remembering that Jeremy had told him about the tall white man, aged beyond his years, quiet and modest and the hardest worker Jem had ever met.
Catherine stopped, turned toward her husband, said, “Fine old church, big house, fancy car, lotsa people showing him all kinds of respect. You don't think it was tough on him, coming down here, starting off with nothing but a dream?”
“You make me feel a little ashamed,” TJ said.
“Yessir, you think that man didn't have his doubts? You think he didn't wonder if maybe the Lord wouldn't just as soon he'd stayed where he was, living the nice life, tending after the needs of those rich white folks?”
“I understand,” TJ said, loving her for her good sense.
“I wonder if that man would have believed what all would be accomplished in just five short years,” Catherine said, looking deep into his eyes. Then, more softly, “Lord didn't say it'd be easy, honey. He just said, if I call, heed my words.”
They passed from the alley into another cracked and pitted street lined with low-slung houses in various states of neglect and disrepair. The wind hit them full force, bringing tears to TJ's eyes. Catherine led him up another fifty yards, to a house whose front windows had been sealed with concrete. Signs warning of danger, condemned structure, were planted every ten feet.
“That's the one they want to start on next week, though goodness only knows how,” she told TJ, then pointed across the street. “Right now they're trying to finish up the one over here.”
They crossed over, were soon surrounded by the busy noise of hammers and saws and electrical machinery. Catherine stopped at the plywood barrier doing duty as a front door, peered into the gloom, saw someone and said, “Young man, do you know a Mr. Jeremy Hughes?”
TJ's eyes adjusted to the poor light to see the young black man smile hugely. “Shore do.”
“Do you think we might be able to talk with him for a minute, please?”
“No problem,” the youth replied, and walked to the back of the hall. He peered up the stairs, yelled, “Hey, Jeremy! People down here wanta talk to you!”
“What about?” came the muffled reply.
The young man looked them over, still grinning. “Don't look like no heat to me, man. I think you're safe.”
There was a heavy clumping down the stairs, and Jeremy came into view, limping painfully.
“Saints alive, Jeremy.” Catherine was all concern. “What on earth have you gone and done to yourself now?”
“Just testin' the floor, makin' sure it'd hold my weight. It wouldn't.”
“Took four of us to pull him out,” the young man said, his grin even bigger. “Thought for a second we'd hafta drill through the ceilin' underneath and push. That man was
stuck
.”
Jeremy turned to him, said, “You think maybe you could ask Tom to come downstairs for a minute?”
“Shore,” he said, going nowhere. He went on, “Tom tol' him the next time he done a fool thing like that we're gonna stuff him on down âtween the floors and board it up. Didn't have no more time for messin' âround, wastin' the better part of a mornin' just âcause Mr. Hughes couldn't watch where he put his big feet.”
“I thought you had some urgent business upstairs,” Jeremy replied.
“Tom says he don't see how old Mr. Hughes ever survived all those years doin' construction. Hardly a day goes by when he don't bang a head or whack a finger or break a toe or
somethin'
. Tom says the man musta specialized in buildin' houses with rubber walls. Only way he could see how the man stayed alive this long.”
Jeremy searched the pockets to his paint-spattered overalls, said, “Now if I can find me my hammer I do believe I'm gonna nail me a coupla ears to the wall over there.”
“I was just goin',” the young man said, and took the stairs three at a time.
“If he worked half as hard as he talks, we'd be puttin' the finishin' touches on the thirty-first floor by now,” Jeremy told them.
“How
did
you survive, Jem?” TJ did not bother to hide his smile.
“I tell you what, these old houses are a builder's nightmare.” He limped down the hall, opened the first door to his right, said, “Take a look in here.”
What once had been a formal parlor was now partitioned into two small rooms and a minute entranceway. “House was built âround about the turn of the century. Hasn't seen a paint brush or a nail in forty years, far as I can tell. Foundations're solid, but, man, the rest of the house was rottin' away. What we shoulda done was just tear it all out and rebuild the interior from scratch, but there wasn't enough money, so they've just had to make do.” Jeremy leaned a weary shoulder against the doorjamb. “When it's finished this'll house twenty-eight homeless families, each one of 'em with their own little kitchen, bedrooms, bath, and most important, security.”
“It's hard for someone who's lost everything to just start over,” a voice said from behind them. They turned around, saw the gaunt white man with tired eyes and hair turned prematurely gray. “I'm Tom Nees.”
“TJ Case, very nice to meet you. I believe you know my wife, Catherine.”
“Yes, Catherine's been a big help to us.” He eyed TJ with a look that went deep. “So you're the man in the White House.”
“Not for long,” TJ said.
“Yes, establishments seldom approve of someone stepping out of line. I wonder what the church today would do if Jesus Christ came and walked our streets. Crucify Him again, probably.”
Tom Nees turned back to the little apartment, said, “What we're trying to do here is give people a place where they can get back on their feet. One of the difficulties of today's government is that everything has become so specialized and so fragmented that hardly anyone but an expert can tell you where to go to get anything done.”
Tom went on to explain firsthand to TJ how the homeless poor spend days running from office to office, crossing town by bus, carrying their children along with them. Illiteracy means that weeks and weeks may pass trying to get the proper forms filled out. “And at the end of it they have enough to feed their children well once a day, twice if they're lucky enough to have a stove, which most of them don't,” Tom said. “And perhaps enough left over to rent a room in a ratty little hotel. Not exactly the kind of place you'd want to raise your own children, I imagine, what with the prostitution and the drugs and the shoot-outs in the hallways.”
His voice reminded TJ of doctors he had met in hospitals, the kind who really and truly cared for their patients, but only had so much energy to go around. They were faced with death and pain every day, and so came to accept it all as part of life. Something to struggle with and fight against. From time to time a little battle was won, but the enemy was never conquered. Never. At best, a temporary truce was achieved.
“So we give them an apartment of their own, and our staff help them take care of the paper work and get them on relief. Many of them are all tied up in court cases as wellâyou can't imagine some of the problems these folks are facing. Most people seem to think that a person becomes homeless, poof, just like that. It's never simple and it's always tragic. They're often good at heart but simply incapable of handling the responsibilities that society thrusts upon themâcredit cards, layaway plans, monthly payments, bank loans. Things just keep adding up until one day they find themselves out on the street with no place to go.”
“And it's the children who suffer the most,” Catherine said quietly.
“I have trouble looking at the children some mornings,” Tom Nees said, his voice low. “The pain on their little faces comes pretty close to breaking my heart.”
“How many of these apartments do you have operating now?” TJ wondered.
“About a tenth of what we need,” Tom Nees replied. “A lack of funds pretty much keeps our hands tied. I spend way too much time just hunting for more money.”
“And it's not just the homeless,” Catherine put in.
“If we're going to be really effective,” Tom Nees said, “we need to be offering the same kind of services to all the poverty-stricken, especially those who haven't yet lost it all. We need more and better classes to train them in usable skills. We need more space for the children. We need a better clinic. We need to do more work in cleaning up the really bad slum dwellings, and give these people decent places to live.”
“That's what he was doin' before the homeless situation started getting outta hand,” Jeremy commented.
“Our first project was setting up a co-op for seventy-two families then housed in substandard dwellings,” Tom Nees explained. “I won't describe what substandard meansâno need to make you sick to your stomach. We should be spending our time organizing church groups and local charity agencies into building squads. We know there are people out there willing to help. We're getting more calls every week. Instead, my staff and I have to spend precious time hunting for funds.”
“Have you tried working with the federal government?” TJ asked, knowing it was a leading question.
“We have,” Tom Nees replied. “For five years we've been trying. I had two men working on HUD documentation for almost a year. Three projects, five hundred thousand dollars apiece.” He stopped.
TJ realized the man was saying all this for a purpose, decided that he didn't mind in the slightest. “What happened?”
“We were told that our bid was so low as to be almost unbelievable. It was almost exactly half of the next lowest bid. They said that no one could build housing for what we were proposing to charge.”
Tom Nees's face took on a look of utter weariness. “We invited them down. Showed them how we were using condemned buildings that the city would give us. Showed them how we had already housed more than ninety families, that we had a record we could point to. Showed them our books, showed them how the cost figures we gave were thirty percent higher than the ones done so far because we wanted to do the next ones better.” He paused, finished in a dead tone, “When the first one finally came up, they turned our bid down.”
“Do you know why?”
“Unions,” Jeremy said shortly.
“Unions or big construction interests, we never could figure out which,” Tom Nees replied. “Whoever it was, their power was strong enough to have HUD tell us that they did not wish to consider our bid a valid one. We still haven't heard about the other two. Our bids were submitted almost a year ago, and while those people downtown shilly-shally around, we're looking at people living in doorsteps and raising children in hellholes.”