The Shelter
When you grab the yellow plastic tray, everything is out of place – the salad is where the bread should be, the beef stew is swallowing the red apple, and the sugar cookie is hiding under a small carton of milk. Before you can put them where they belong, a classmate with a baby mohawk snatches the tray and hands it to a woman with sunburnt skin. She whispers, “Thank you,” to a line of young volunteers, but no one responds, except you – at least you think you do, but you’re never loud enough.
Mohawk boy elbows you. “Hey, four-eyes, where’s your mommy?”
“Work,” you say.
It’s your first time at the homeless shelter without your mom, coordinator of the 8th-grade after-school program. “This will look good on your resume and college applications,” she would say.
A giant shuffles forward. You see him every week, long crusty hair and talking sneakers. He begins to yell at his shirt pocket, something about a leaky faucet, mold, and an owl. Everyone looks down except people waiting for their dinner. As he walks by, both paws clutching his tray, he starts laughing, a rumble you feel in your chest. You want him to see you smile, but you’re afraid to show him you’re not afraid.
After the last trays are handed out, all the volunteers run out of the kitchen, zipping through a few stragglers, as if they’ve just been dismissed for recess. No one is at the check-out window, so they fling their badges toward the glass, phones inches from their faces. You hear a girl ask, “Did you get a pic of us helping?” as the double door shuts behind them.
The bus doesn’t leave for another fifteen minutes, so you step into the dining lounge. There are thirteen round tables, each with four chairs. It’s towards the end of the month, so it’s quieter than usual. Head down, you grab a wet rag from a bucket and start wiping the empty ones, some of which have bread drowning in spilled apple juice.
One by one, chairs begin to squeak backward. In the corner, alongside the doorless restrooms, a woman shoves a spoonful of stew into a man’s mouth after feeding herself. Pieces drip down his gray beard. You expect her to get mad like your mom does when she feeds grandpa at home, but she just smiles, wiping his chin, his beard, his sweater, as if painting a statue.
The woman with crisscross notches on her arms and belly, the one who gives you coins from her tiny purse, gets up from her table, and says, “I wish I had something for you today kiddo.” You reach into your pocket to hand her the dollar bill you brought for her, but you’re not fast enough. She’s already out the door, trash bag of clothes over her shoulder.
You pass by the dusty wooden piano you’ve wanted to touch since you were eleven. When you asked your mom, she said, “Never touch broken things, you might make it worse,” so you never did, even though you have medals and awards hanging above your desk. Last night, after doing your homework, you tried playing “Für Elise.” She told you it was a child’s song.
They’re getting ready to close. Two older volunteers with letters and numbers on their faces stack chairs. They’re serving their community hours. You glance at them and then at the piano, hoping they don’t see you getting closer. What if they yank you away like your mom did when you froze during your recital?
Hands trembling, you sit on the bench as if it was made of thorns. You stare at the keys, chipped and cracked. Two are missing. Some have yellow, grainy stains. You rub them gently before pressing them. They’re light, their sound like nothing you’ve ever heard.
You wait, but no one comes. You press again, feeling others. No crowd in the distance, in the darkness. You start thinking of all the songs you can play, ones that make people rise from their seats, songs that make your mom cry. You take a deep breath, rest your foot on the pedal, and “Für Elise” floats from your fingers, filling the room.
Sitting alone, the giant stops mumbling for the first time and turns to you with unblinking eyes. The older volunteers waltz, circling their brooms. The painter drops her spoon. The statue comes to life, swaying his head, rocking back and forth to the melody.
You don’t see any of it. You just play.