The thought pleased him and confused him at the same time. Hell's Kitchen always had that effect on his heart. It unsettled T.S., stirring up visions of his poverty-stricken German immigrant ancestors, whose dreams and hard work had helped him escape these very blocks. He experienced the same restless yearnings whenever he examined the hopeful faces that appeared so often in the old photographs showing scores of people crowded on the decks of ocean liners, their faces upturned to gaze at the Statue of Liberty, their dreams worn so nakedly that people a hundred years later could see plainly the longing there. Their ability to believe made T.S. feel lost; their will to succeed made him feel ashamed. His own life had been so much easier.
How could he have been so unwilling to help out at the soup kitchen? If Auntie Lil could do it, so could he. T.S. shook his head, put the familiar guilt behind him, and walked determinedly toward Forty-Eighth Street. His destination was obvious. A long line of people stretched around a corner and snaked uptown along the east side of Eighth Avenue. As T.S. drew closer, he saw that the queue led to a small basement entrance tucked under the stoop of a sagging, Baroque-style church. City grime stained its sweeping front steps and the main entrance doors were blocked by a massive locked wrought-iron gate. A smaller, collapsible gate prevented anyone from waiting on the steps. Like so many other churches in the city, St. Barnabas could no longer afford to offer sanctuary to the spiritually needy— too many of them also needed an empty pew that they could call home.
The church's side basement entrance was also protected by a locked wrought-iron gate. A large clapboard sign on the sidewalk out front announced:
st. barnabas soup kitchen. 3:oo p.m.
all who are hungry are welcome.
There were, apparently, plenty who were hungry. And they were just as Auntie Lil had described them: people of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. Some were young with ancient faces; they waited in line and looked away when others stared, as if afraid that they could not offer a good enough excuse for their presence. Others were just plain old and stood patiently with the expertise of those who have spent their lives waiting in lines. A number of people were disheveled, dusty and dirty. These mumbled incoherently to themselves and were left unobtrusively alone by the others—who knew better than to make eye contact.
T.S. passed by the line and noticed an oddity. There were a surprising number of elderly ladies: trim, neatly dressed in styles of bygone eras, their hair carefully coiffed in swirls on top of their heads, slightly garish makeup perfectly in place, all of them dignified and quiet. What were they all doing here? One after another, they stood silently in line, staring at the wrought-iron gate that led to the basement soup kitchen. T.S. glanced at his watch: it was only two-fifteen. Over half an hour before any of them would eat.
He hesitated near the locked basement entrance. A plump woman wrestling with a garbage can on the other side of the gate noticed his discomfort. She paused in her efforts and tucked a frizzy lock of gray hair back behind an ear. She was in her mid-fifties, about thirty pounds overweight, and had attempted to disguise the extra baggage with a broad, khaki-colored skirt of such unrelentingly starched sturdiness that it looked like it could easily withstand a charge of elephants without wrinkling. She wore a short-sleeved, plaid shirt and had a vaguely masculine air about her. T.S. had run into her type before: she was from New England, the outfit declared, and was a capable woman who could take care of herself and was sick and tired of picking up after weak men. In short, she terrified T.S. He stepped back reflexively under the power of her stare as she, in turn, surveyed his own attire. Finally, the woman arrived at a reluctant conclusion, rewarded him with a perfunctory glare and produced a set of keys from her skirt's pockets. She was not the kind of woman to wear a skirt without pockets.
"About time you showed up," she growled through the bars. "Where's the other volunteer?"
She was obviously taking charm lessons from Auntie Lil. "I'm not the regular volunteer," T.S. explained faintly. "My Aunt Lil dragged me down here at the last minute to help out."