Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

“That’ll never happen-”

“Really?” she said. “You can promise me that? You can promise our children that?”

“Lucia, please.”

“Look,” she said. “You wanted to discuss this, so let’s discuss it. I want to know what you’re going to say to the children when they see their mother shot dead because she wanted to open a window for some air. How are you going to explain the holes in my body? The blood on my face? I’m scared to death and you haven’t once comforted me. I lie in bed at night wondering when I’ll be able to leave my home again, but realize I might never be able to because it could mean my death.”

Mario was about to speak when the phone rang. Lucia looked at her husband, saw him turning on the stool.

She knew who was on that phone. She began to cross the room, but Mario was suddenly beside her, intercepting.

“You’re not answering it,” he said. “Forget it.”

He reached for the receiver at the same moment Lucia asked him not to answer it. But Mario did answer it, a brief conversation was held, and he hung up the phone, furious.

“You lied to me,” he said. “That was Leana who called a few minutes ago. She’s in trouble. She said you hung up on her. Why?”

“You know why.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“I’m your wife. I don’t owe you an excuse when another woman calls-especially that woman.”

“Like hell you don’t,” he said. “She’s in trouble.”

He reached for his jacket and put it on while stepping into his shoes. He was angry with her, but he would deal with it later. Leana needed him.

“Where are you going, Mario?”

“I’m meeting her at a shelter on Prince Street.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Lucia-”

“I’ll call your father,” she said. “I’ll tell him where you’re going.”

“You can do whatever you want. My father knows the situation. He knows I’d only be going to help her.”

“Not if I tell him differently.”

Silence hit the room.

Mario looked at his wife and thought of all the years he had wasted with her; all the years that were gone and he could never get back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“It means I’ll tell him you’re sleeping with her,” she said. “It means I’ll tell him I caught you in bed with her. That the children caught you in bed with her.”

Mario took a step toward her.

Lucia stood firm. In her eyes was a defiance that would not be shattered by intimidation. “He trusts me more than he trusts you. He’ll believe it all and he’ll kill her. He told me so himself. He’ll kill her, Mario.”

“You’d actually do that? You’d destroy my relationship with my father. You’d lie to have an innocent person killed?”

There was no hesitation when she said, “You’re fucking right I would.”

Mario knew that whatever love and respect he once felt for her was gone. He was finished with her. “Then I suggest you pick up the phone and start dialing, Lucia, because I’m leaving.”

He stepped past her and moved toward the door. Lucia went to the phone. Hands trembling, her pride and her marriage threatened, she picked up the receiver and started dialing.

“I’d give some thought to that, Lucia,” Mario said from the door. “Because if any harm comes to Leana or myself, I swear on my mother’s grave it will be the biggest mistake of your life.”

When Leana arrived at the shelter on Prince Street, she found it crowded with men, women and children. Volunteers circulated with hot coffee and sandwiches, soup and rolls. Fluorescent lights winked and buzzed, casting a harsh glow on an even harsher reality.

She went to the rear of the shelter, chose a seat at the only empty table and watched the entrance. She wanted to see Mario come in, wanted to watch him walk toward her, wanted to feel the reassurance his presence would bring. Only then would she feel reasonably safe.

As she sat there, her thoughts turned to Michael and she wondered, as she had throughout the day, where he was and why he hadn’t phoned or come by the apartment. Although only a day had passed since they were together, she was surprised by how much she missed him.

A woman carrying a pot of hot coffee and a bag of Styrofoam cups stopped beside her table and sat down. “You’re new,” she said. “My name is Karen. Welcome.”

Leana felt self-conscious. She didn’t belong here. Her father was one of the richest men in the country. This woman’s time should be spent with someone who needed the attention. “Thank you,” she said.

“Would you like some coffee? You look cold in those wet clothes.”

“No, thank you,” Leana said. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Here. Let me pour you a cup.”

“But I didn’t come here for that. I came here to meet someone.”

The woman lifted her head. Leana noticed her noticing the expensive clothes she wore, the diamond and gold watch Harold gave as a Christmas gift and suddenly wished she was somewhere else.

“I see,” the woman said. She poured Leana a cup of coffee anyway and handed it to her. “Look,” she said. “We all have problems. If you feel uncomfortable accepting this-which you shouldn’t-maybe you’d like to give a donation when you leave. But that’s up to you. This coffee will warm you up and, if nothing else, that makes me feel good.”

She stood. “Now, how about a blanket while you’re waiting for your friend?”

Leana was touched by the woman’s kindness. “I’d love a blanket,” she said.

When she was alone, she looked more closely around the shelter. Leana knew that for many of these people, what they were eating here was probably their first meal of the day. In a corner of the room, she saw one of the volunteers bathing a young child while its mother, preoccupied with her other two children, looked on. She wondered where this woman and her children would sleep tonight. Had they found space at a shelter, or was it the street for them after this?

She took a sip of coffee and knew that Mario chose to meet here on purpose. Even now, with a threat against her life, he refused to let her forget how fortunate she was.

When the woman returned with the blanket, Leana wrapped it around her shoulders, thanked her and asked, “Where do these people go at night, once they’re finished eating?”

The woman leaned against the table. “By now all the shelters are full,” she said. “And so they go back to their spots on the streets.”

Leana looked across the room. She could not imagine that woman and her children sleeping alone on the streets. “How do they survive there? How do they live?”

“Many don’t survive there. Many don’t live.”

The woman said it so matter-of-factly, Leana was taken aback. “Those children over there with that woman. Do they go to school?”

“Some do. But even if they don’t, that doesn’t mean they’re not bright. Every child you see in this room-except for the smaller ones-knows how to take care of himself. If they are hungry and there isn’t a food shelter nearby, then they know which restaurants throw out the cleanest trash. If they want a bed for the night, they know to start looking early at the shelters instead of looking late. If they have no money, they either beg, borrow or steal-usually steal.” The woman shrugged. “It’s a way of life for them,” she said. “While some are angry as hell at the system, you’d be surprised by how many have accepted their situation.”

Leana couldn’t imagine accepting any of this. She couldn’t imagine living without a home, or going to bed hungry, or sleeping in a cardboard box. She couldn’t imagine picking through a garbage can for food.