The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,73

day,” I tell him. “Remember your trip to Haiti? When you came back, we all went to dinner.” I pause long enough for him to nod at the memory. “You were talking about the children. How they had nothing, but still seemed so happy.”

“It’s true,” he says. “I’ll never forget those kids.”

“I met a kid not long ago. Not a child, a young woman. I found her in a place that seemed terrible in my eyes, an unimaginable place. But if she hadn’t been there, I believe she would be dead today. It’s here in Baltimore, this place. It’s called Mission Up, because I think it used to be one.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Eric says. He presses his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Tell me more about the girl.”

Starting from the moment Gregory arrived on my doorstep on the eve of Eli’s birthday, I recount the whole story of our visit to Mission Up. I tell him about Sam and about Mother Zacchaeus, pulling no punches along the way.

“This nun sounds like a real harpy.”

“Eric went to Catholic school,” Holly says. “He harbors some resentment toward the nuns.”

He smiles and raises a finger. “Only Sister Magdalen.”

“The thing is,” I say, “I feel like this place was dropped in my lap. I had no idea it even existed. The first time I saw it, I wished it didn’t. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that Mission Up needs our help. It needs my help. Of course it’s not what it should be. Of course it’s sketchy. That woman is doing the best she can with what she’s got, and she’s all on her own. The good guys evacuated that neighborhood a long time ago. Mission Up is all that’s left. But even as it is, in all its squalor, that place is still a sanctuary.”

“And you want me to find some money for it?”

I nod.

“How much?”

“I have no idea. All I know is she needs some help.”

“Is there a nonprofit? A foundation?”

“There’s a fleabag hotel full of recovering addicts, battered women, ex-prostitutes, and their kids. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing else, nothing official. Does that make a difference?”

“It could.”

“But, honey, not everybody who needs help has nonprofit status. Those kids in Haiti—”

“True, true,” he says, holding up a hand to silence Holly. “Tell you what, Beth. Let me make some calls. Let me see what I can do. I like this thing. It appeals to me. It would make a change to do something like this instead of adding another wing to the church building, right?”

Ouch.

“This is the real deal,” he says. “No, really. I like it. Leave it with me.”

He holds Holly back for a couple of minutes. I spend the time chatting with his secretary, an older Hispanic woman who idolizes her boss and thinks his wife walks on water too. I enjoy her company. To borrow Eric’s line, it makes a change.

Out in the parking lot, Holly tells me I did a great job.

“You hooked him. I can tell.”

“What about the part at the end, about the new wing of the church?”

“I don’t think he was joking. He’d love to tell them the money’s all tied up in inner-city projects, just to see the looks on their faces. He’ll come around, though. He always does.”

“I feel funny. This is the first time I’ve ever asked someone for money.”

“You’re not bad at it, Beth. Maybe you’ve found your purpose in life.”

She’s joking, of course. That doesn’t mean she’s wrong.

Maybe I have found my purpose.

Like Jim Shaw told me, you don’t need a law degree to make a difference.

That night I light some candles on top of the TV set and uncork a $5 bottle of Shiraz, pouring until I hit the halfway mark on my plastic juice glass. We don’t drink thanks to Rick’s employment contract, and even before that I never had much taste for wine. At least, I had no taste for cheap wine, which was the only kind I ever tasted. I’m celebrating, though, so tonight’s an exception. Before taking a sip, I run upstairs and fetch Deedee’s painting, propping St. Rick against the television screen.

“Who’s the saint now?” I ask, raising the juice glass to my lips.

Five-dollar Shiraz tastes like grapes and lighter fluid. I finish what’s in the cup on principle, then pour the rest down the sink.

Still, a good day’s work.

When Eli comes home, I make a point of going up and sniffing him. He takes it in stride