Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

Not so long ago, it was all talk of the Christmas thaw, but then it snowed ] again last week and for the past two days the deep freeze that had gripped the city through most of December had descended once more. The thermometer registered a bitter minus-twenty Celsius yesterday as commuters began their exodus back into the ’burbs. By midnight the mercury had dropped to almost minus-thirty, not taking into account the wind-chill factor. With the biting northern winds factored in, you could subtract at least another twenty degrees tonight.

It was the kind of cold that gave Ellie Jones nightmares. She’d dream she was one of the homeless people they were trying to help with the Angel Outreach program, that she was stumbling for block upon frozen block on numbed feet, looking for a warm grate, an alleyway, anyplace she could get out of the wind, away from the cold. When she finally woke, shivering and chilled, it was only to find that sometime during the night she’d kicked her comforter off the bed. All she had to do was pull it back up under her chin and she’d be warm again.

But it didn’t work that way for the people who had no home.

It was cold in the van, too, as she and Tommy Raven made their rounds. The ancient vehicle’s heater was set on high, but the lukewarm air it pumped barely made a dent against the cold. Of course in the summer you couldn’t get the stupid thing to shut off, but Ellie would gladly trade a sweltering summer’s night for this cold. The metal walls of the van kept out the wind, but she could still see her breath. Frost fogged the edges of the window, crawling across the glass with dogged persistence.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” she said as she scraped her side window, creating a miniature snowfall that fell across her legs and the seat.

Tommy smiled. “I don’t know about you, but I’m only in it to get rich and meet girls.”

She arched an eyebrow and Tommy’s smile widened.

“Or was that when I was thinking of starting up a rock band?” he said, returning his attention to the street ahead.

“I didn’t know you were a musician. What instrument do you play?”

“I’m not. I don’t. That’s why the band never got off the ground and I’m driving this van tonight.”

She punched him in the arm, but she laughed. In this kind of work you’d take the smallest sliver of humor and play it out. You needed it to help balance the way your heart broke a dozen times a night.

Tommy slowed down near the mouth of an alley, tires crunching on the hard snow that edged the pavement. Ellie almost didn’t see the man, huddled up between stacks of newspaper that were waiting to be recycled. By the time Tommy stopped the van, the man had gotten to his feet and shuffled off, deeper into the alley. Ellie pulled her hat down so that the flannel side flaps covered her ears and got out. The blast of cold wind that hit her when she stepped onto the pavement almost made her lose her balance—the streets were like wind tunnels because of the tall office buildings rearing up on either side. She peered down the alley and saw that the man had already disappeared from view. Shrugging, she left a sandwich in a brown bag, a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and a blanket where he’d been sitting.

She knew the man would be back as soon as they drove off. The only reason he’d fled was because he was afraid they’d try to take him to a shelter. It was no use telling some of them that they’d only take them if they wanted to go. At this point they didn’t trust anyone.

The van felt almost toasty when she was back inside.

“What do you think?” Tommy said. “You want to swing back to Bennett Street and see if that kid’s changed her mind?”

Her name was Chrissy. Fifteen, shapeless in the old parka they’d given her a couple of nights ago, not even close to pretty or some pimp would have already turned her out. Ellie had talked to her a half-dozen.times already, trying to get her into one of the programs that Angel administered from her Grasso Street storefront office, but with no luck.

“She won’t have,” Ellie said. “But I’m willing to give it another shot.”

Tommy sighed. “She’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Ellie nodded. If the weather didn’t get her, some predator would. You didn’t have to be pretty to be a victim.

They stopped on Palm Street where a covey of prostitutes, shivering as much from their need for a fix as from the cold, flagged them down for coffee and sandwiches. Then it was on to the Oxford Theater where they’d seen Chrissy panhandling earlier in the evening. When they rolled to a stop in front of the building they saw that the girl was no longer hanging around. That made sense. The theater crowd had gone home by now, taking with them the possibility of their handing out a bit of spare change. Ellie hoped Chrissy had found a place to spend the night, preferably someplace warm and safe, but what were the chances? More likely she was huddled on a hot air grate, too scared to close her eyes and sleep.

“Hang on,” Ellie said as Tommy was about to pull away from the curb. “What’s that?”

At first glance she’d thought it was only garbage, piled up in the snow outside the theater, but now she saw that there was a body lying alongside the green garbage bags. She couldn’t tell the sex or age. All she knew was that it was too still.

“Maybe you better let me check it out,” Tommy said, but she didn’t pay any attention to him.

Before he could stop her, she had her door open and was out on the sidewalk, running to where the body lay. A man. Obviously a street veteran, so it was impossible to judge his age. He could have been anywhere from his early thirties to his late fifties.

She went down on one knee and put a hand to his throat. No pulse. That was when she saw the yellowish liquid dribbling from the side of his mouth. Oh, shit. He’d choked on his own vomit.

“ Call 911!” she cried to Tommy.

Pulling off her gloves, she worked his mouth open and scooped the vomit out with her fingers. Her own stomach gave a lurch. The liquid was thick and slimy and clung to her fingers, but after three or four tries, she got most of it out. He still wasn’t breathing. Wiping her hand clean, she reached in again, finger hooked this time, feeling for whatever was blocking his air passage. She couldn’t find it.

A quick glance to the van told her Tommy was still on the phone.

She returned her attention to the man, opened his coat. Kneeling astride his legs, she placed the heel of one hand just above his navel, the other hand on top of it, and gave a half-dozen quick upward thrusts. This time when she swept his mouth with her finger, she found a wedge of some undefined spongy matter and managed to hook it out. When he still didn’t begin breathing again, she started CPR.

First the chest compressions. After fifteen of them, she ventilated his lungs, gagging on the taste of his vomit. It was all she could do to not throw up herself. After two ventilations she went back to the chest compressions. Four cycles of this and she paused long enough to check for a pulse. Still nothing, so she continued with the CPR.

All she could taste, all she could smell, was his puke.

Don’t even think about it, she told herself. Like it was possible not to. The fourth time she ventilated his lungs, there was a gurgle deep in his throat, a faint rasp of breath. She paused, put two fingers against his carotid artery and checked his pulse again. Her hand was so cold, it was hard to tell. She put her cheek close to his mouth. Held her breath. Tried to ignore the sour taste in her own mouth. She felt a faint warmth on her cheek.

He was breathing.

She got off his legs and then Tommy was there to help her roll him into the recovery position—on his side, one leg pulled up.