Judy Clemens: Embrace the Grim Reaper

After a few hours they’d passed through many small towns. Seen many courthouses and schools and churches. Neighborhoods of turn-of-the-century homes. Queen Annes. Victorians. Some repainted in original colors, some broken into apartments. Some just broken. Railroad tracks, taverns, the never-ending array of fast food.

Sometimes Casey would see a factory on the outskirts of town. New ethanol plants, car manufacturers, food conglomerates. This town, the one they were approaching, had an appliance factory. HomeMaker. Casey recognized the brand. Dishwashers. Refrigerators. Stoves. Anything to make your life more convenient. She hadn’t used any of them in quite some time now.

“We’ll be stopping here,” the trucker said. “Need to walk around a little. Get some coffee.”

“Sure.”

He found an old restaurant, The Burger Palace, with a truck turnaround, and parked out back. “You coming in?”

“In a minute. Think I’ll get out and stretch first.”

“Don’t make me wait.”

“I won’t.”

He left her there and walked across the cracked pavement, up the rise to the restaurant. Casey looked down the street toward what appeared to be the center of town. Glanced at the sky. Still no more rain. And getting on toward late afternoon.

She was tired of sitting.

Climbing back up into the cab—holding her breath in an attempt not to hyperventilate—she pulled her backpack from its crevice, found another crumpled twenty in her pocket, and wedged it into a corner of the CD player. The trucker should find it there.

By the time she’d made it partway down the street, to where she would turn a corner and be out of sight, she looked back to see the truck pulling out of the parking lot, headed her way. She ducked behind a tree to watch him go by.

He didn’t even glance in her direction.

The old Midwestern town—Clymer, Ohio—was like many she’d seen already that day. Clean, quaint, but basically deserted. No mad rush of workers making their way home after a long day, or even neighbors talking in their yards. But she did come across an old-fashioned pharmacy, a bakery, a bank, and what looked like a seller of antiques.

A block past the center of town—a stoplight and Walk/Don’t Walk signs—she stopped and stared at a church, its sign proclaiming, “Strangers Welcome,” and “Feeling the heat? Try Prayer-Conditioning.” Casey let her eyes roam over the thick stone walls and up the front peaked roof to the bell tower. A chill ran through her, and she glanced sideways.

“Beautiful building.” Death stood beside her, hands linked loosely in front. “Do beautiful things happen inside?”

Casey shifted on her feet. “I don’t know. They could.”

“But you’re not going in.”

“It doesn’t look open.”

“Um-hmm.” A smile played on Death’s lips. “I don’t suppose you’ve tried the door.”

“Well…”

“I’m just saying…” The smile widened.

“You’re always ‘just saying.’ It would be a lot easier if you would ‘just do’.” The heat in her own words surprised her, and she swallowed forcefully.

Death’s eyebrows rose. “And here I thought I’d done more than enough.”

“Oh, you’ve done plenty.”

“But not lately. Not for you.”

Casey balled her hands into fists, her arms stiff at her sides.

Death turned to look down the street, at the businesses and homes. “It’s interesting to be in this town. It’s not unfamiliar to me.”

Casey jerked her head around. “What? You mean recently?”

Death shrugged. “Why do you think we chose this town to stop in?”

“We? What do you mean we? I—” A hot breeze hit Casey’s face, and she closed her eyes against the hair that had come loose from her ponytail. When she opened them, only a sense of displacement hovered around her.

She spun in a circle, grasping at the space. “You come back here. You come back!”

But the air, suddenly stilled, remained empty.

Casey rubbed her eyes, hard, and let out a deep sigh. Shaking her head and clenching her jaw, she continued down the street, muttering under her breath. In a few steps she was walking past an old movie theater, the kind with the ticket booth out front under the marquee. And then she smelled it. Something good. Stew, maybe? Or roast beef?

She followed the scent until she came to a place with Home Sweet Home painted on the window. She peered in the glass. Long tables, folding chairs…a soup kitchen? She stepped back and took another look at the empty street. Would a town this size have a homeless population? It was hard to imagine. She turned back to the building and tried to open the door, but the handle remained stiff under her fingers. Locked.

Shading her eyes with her hands, she leaned closer to the glass door and searched for any sign of people. She saw only one. A young man, his skin pale under the fluorescent lights, straightening chairs and picking up the occasional piece of trash.

Casey tapped on the glass, and he looked up. Seeing her, he left the chairs and came to the door, opening it. “Sorry. Supper’s not for…” He looked at his watch. “Another forty-five minutes. Five-o’clock.”

“I’m not here to eat. I was wondering if I might help serve.”

He took in her clothes and backpack, ending at her face. She couldn’t have deteriorated that much since she’d washed at the truck stop. Could she?

“Well, come on in. We can always use another pair of hands.” He held the door open wider, and she scooted past him, noting the fresh fragrance of laundry and something heavier. Cologne. But not a familiar kind. Once inside, the smell of the food was almost overwhelming, and the man’s scent was erased.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Um. Casey Smith.”

He nodded, his hazel eyes dancing. “All right, Ms. Smith. Nice to meet you. I’m Eric. Eric Jones.” He smiled, exposing perfectly straight and white teeth.

Casey couldn’t help but answer with a smile of her own. A small one.

“Actually,” Eric said, “my last name’s VanDiepenbos, but don’t tell anyone. It’s too hard for them to remember. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been called.”

Casey held up two fingers. “I promise.”

“Why don’t you help me straighten up these chairs, first. Here, I’ll take your backpack into the staff room.”

She hesitated.

“It’ll be safe. Really. We keep it locked all the time. There’s even lockers if you want to use one.”

With a mixture of relief and anxiety she unloaded her burden and handed it over to Eric. To this young man, at least a decade younger than she ever remembered being.

While he was gone she studied the room. The tables were laid with brightly colored tablecloths. Blue and pink and yellow. Like a birthday party. Vases of plastic flowers decorated every section. Pretty flowers, clean and cheerful. This was unlike any homeless shelter Casey had ever seen.

Eric returned, and together they picked up trash and straightened chairs.

“It’s supper only,” Eric told her. “We’d like to do more, but it’s hard to find enough food for the meals we do, let alone a supply of volunteers. The Missionary church down the street offers lunches on Wednesdays, but other than that people need to fend for themselves.”

Casey could feel his eyes on her face, as if gauging her reaction.

“Really,” she said. “I’m not here to eat.”

She could tell he didn’t believe her, but there was nothing she could do about that. “I’m curious…”

“About what?”

“You’ve got a small town here. I didn’t see… Do you have that many homeless people? Folks who need meals?”

He squatted to pull a wadded napkin from under a table. “Not homeless, necessarily. But we’ve added a lot of place settings during the past year. And it’s only going to get worse with the plant leaving.”