Whiter than Snow

The gym floor is cold. And wet. The melting snow from Bren’s boots pools under the table. The meatloaf is warm, but not for long. Why can’t they heat this place decently? At his age, he seems to be cold all the time. He asks the young man with a lanyard, standing at the end of the table, but the man just smiles and checks his cell phone before moving on. Typical.

“I hate this weather. Worse than subzero,” Bren says to the guy next to him. “Just a little heat. Is that too much to ask?”

“The slush gets everybody this time of year. And leave Ethan alone,” the guy says. “He’s got a heart of gold.” The guy’s voice is loud and several men nearby turn and look. Then the gym returns to the quiet murmurs of the staff and an occasional cough.

Gold. Bren hasn’t seen gold in so long. What does gold even look like? The sun is gold. Leaves are gold in the fall. He looks at the wedding band on his hand.

Heart of gold. Sounds cold. Hard. Not like something warm and alive. Love lives there in his chest, an idea he picked up on the playground in fourth grade. Almost like yesterday, he can hear the little girl’s voice, “I love you so much, it hurts right here.” The girl slammed her fist tight against her chest as though plunging in a knife. And it stuck—where love lives.

The guy next to him is ripe. Bren hasn’t seen him before, which is strange, because Bren’s not new to the streets. A fine soot covers the guy, as if he were a chimney sweep or something. And Bren’s smelled the worst of the worst, so much so that he prefers his own company for meals. Living on the street doesn’t mean you have to smell. Common humanity starts there. Next to godliness, he’s heard.

“Under your placemat,” the guy says. “Something new this week.”

Bren lifts the corner. A transit pass. He slides it out and into his pocket.

The guy gives Bren a wink. “Some people leave early and never get the goods. But now you can if you want … leave early.” He smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks. You gonna take your card?” Bren asks.

“Nope. Don’t trust ‘em.”

“What’s to trust?”

“Free stuff. Always strings attached.”

Bren reaches under the guy’s placemat but pauses under the man’s stare.

“Go ahead,” the guy says, but Bren pulls his hand away.

“You’re not eating your meatloaf. Something wrong with it?” the guy asks.

“Take your eyes off my plate,” Bren says. Just last week, a man sitting next to him stole his grilled cheese when he looked away. Unbelievable.

The guy rolls his eyes in a comic take. “Just making conversation, Bren. Let me show you something.”

Bren put his finger to his lips. “Silence is golden. Not hearts … and how’d you know my name?”

“I know stuff like that.” The guy grins and taps the side of his head.

Then the guy shows his sooty hand to Bren. He closes it into a fist and passes the other hand over it like a magic trick. When he opens the hand again, a plastic elephant stands in the center of his greasy palm. It’s about an inch high and painted blue and green with a big red smile, like a clown.

The fluorescent light is dim and Bren has to lean in to see it. He grunts. “An elephant.”

“They don’t forget,” the guy says. “The naughty and nice stuff? They remember all of it, forever.”

“So?”

“You want her?”

Bren snorts. “No.”

The guy closes his fist and puts the elephant back in his pocket. “No problem. You can’t afford her anyway.”

Bren shakes his head and looks down. The mashed potatoes are good today. His came with a pad of butter sunk in a little divot on top. It’s melted now and has found a single channel to escape down the side of the scoop. He prefers gravy with his potatoes, but butter is sometimes just as fine.

Two days ago, or was it three, he was here for breakfast. Simple. Coffee and a muffin. And always a gospel preacher. Bren doesn’t hear so well anymore, so the preacher didn’t bother him. And the odorous guy wasn’t there. Today at dinner, it feels like the first time he’s seen him.

“Hey, Houdini. Where you from?” Bren asks.

“Sad Sack comes to life.” The guy chuckles, and a rivulet of soup runs down his chin. He has no teeth. “That spot down by the river.”

“How come I never seen you there?”

“Just moved to town.”

Bren’s eyes narrow. “From where?”

“I was an LA kinda guy, but it’s way too warm out there anymore. And the places for food? They’re all getting crowded. Sometimes they run outta stuff.”

Bren looks him over, head to toe. Black patent leather dress shoes. Where’d he get those? “So, you’re movin’ in on our territory. Not cool.” He glances around the room. “And be careful with those shoes. Guys have been knifed for less.”

“But there’s lots here. Extra of everything. We’ll all can get what we want, right?”

Bren scoffs. “Until a hundred of you California types move in.”

They continue eating in silence for a while. The staff are cleaning up the serving line, and the clang of the warming trays echoes through the gym.

“How’d you get to Toledo from LA?” Bren asks. “It’s a long walk.”

“Hopped a rattler in Barstow and ended up here. Kinda by accident.”

“A freight train?” Bren laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re makin’ that up. So you’re like one of those hobos, like Freddie?”

Ethan is at the table again. “Gentlemen, our speaker starts in ten minutes, so get your dessert now. You won’t want to be walking around once he starts.”

Ethan moves next to Bren. “You okay? You’re leaning a bit.” He takes Bren’s shoulders and straightens him.

“Don’t do that,” Bren says, and Ethan pats his shoulder and moves on.

A few men mutter at the table, and a couple stand and move toward the desserts.

The guy next to him tips his head and narrows his eyes. “They say he killed a man once.”

“You said he has a heart of gold!”

The guy leans in. “Everybody’s got a past, Bren. And I’m no freeloader.”

“Never said you were.” Bren keeps his eyes on his plate now.

“I pay my own way.”

What’s this guy about? He doesn’t even have a hat. How’s he going to make it when the wind comes off the lake in February? “Stop with the nonsense.”

“So, what’s yours?” the guy asks.

“What’s my what?”

“Your past. Everybody’s got one.”

Bren exhales and looks around the room, avoiding the guy’s eyes. “If you’re talking about the bad stuff I done, it’s none of your business.” He’s one of these guys whose nose is in everyone’s stuff.

“I knew it was bad. I could see it in your eyes,” the guy says. “I can sense these things. I see it all.”

Bren keeps his eyes on his plate. “Good, then I don’t have to tell you.”

“By the way, she’ll never forgive you. But you already know that.”

Bren’s breath catches and when he finally looks, the guy is smiling cruelly, the way a boy smiles when he’s put gum in his sister’s hair.

Ethan is back. “Dr. Clement is in the side room if anyone needs a dentist. If she can’t fit you in today, she’ll come back till everyone is seen.”

Not a dentist, Bren thinks. A dentist fixes teeth. Dr. C. is more of a demolition expert. Or so he’s heard.

“You ever see that dentist?” the guy asks. “I got a pain in the back that just won’t quit. Keeps me up.” The guy opens his mouth wide and points to his gums with his spork. The odor makes Bren turn away.

“I haven’t ever seen her. And keep that mouth closed.”

A man is testing a microphone now on the stage at the far end of the gym. “Test … test …We’ll be with you in just a minute.”

“Time for me to go,” Bren says.

The guy puts a hand on Bren’s arm. “Don’t go. Stay. I like you.”

Bren looks at the hand, then at the guy’s face. “Nobody touches me.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s your name?”

“Turner.”

“Turner. You’re new here. You need to keep quiet, say please and thank you, and don’t touch nobody.”

Turner smiles. “You have a heart of gold. Don’t let nobody tell you your bad. If they do, I’ll show you a better meal down the street.”

Bren sits back in his chair. “You’re nuts. There is no gold in me. Maybe some rusty iron. Why’d you even say that?”

“See Ethan? He’s talking to everybody. He’s only here to make you feel good. He doesn’t do nothing.” Turner leans toward Bren’s ear and lowers his voice. “And he never looks you in the eye. Don’t trust him.” His face goes flat and he winks, almost imperceptibly.

“You’re crazy. You said he was nice. Which one of you do I believe?” Bren hates liars more than anything. A pressure in his skull began the moment he walked in, but now it feels like somebody jabbed an ice pick into the back of his head. He reaches back and massages the spot.

“You’re right. I am crazy. And if you just want to feel good, that’s fine.” Turner leans in again. “And everybody’s a phony on the inside.”

After a moment, Turner straightens. “You want some dessert? I’ll get you some. I’m going over there. And don’t take anything from anybody while I’m gone. People always trying to give you stuff here.”

Turner begins to leave, and Bren calls after him, “I don’t want you touching my food.”

When Bren looks back at his plate, he feels a hand on his shoulder. “I said do not touch me.” He turns and sees Ethan.

“Oh, sorry,” Bren says. “I thought you were that … that other guy.”

“Which guy? You have a new friend?” Ethan asks.

“He’s not a friend.”

Ethan hasn’t removed his hand. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Well, that guy’s sitting there.” Bren snaps his fingers a few times. “Turner.”

Ethan sits, and Bren sees him as if for the first time. Ethan is about thirty years old. Clean-cut. College-educated. His earnestness is over the top. “What’s bothering you today? Anything hurting you?”

Where should he start? His feet. Arthritis in his knees. Heartburn all the time. Today, a crushing headache.

“My feet hurt.”

“No need to live in pain.” Ethan smiles. “We have a doc coming tomorrow. I know you’ll be here, Bren. It’s free, but you have to do what he says for it to work.”

He gives Bren’s shoulder a pat and stands to glance around. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah,” Bren says. “Keep that new guy away from me.”

“Which one?”

“That Turner guy.”

But Ethan has already moved on and is talking to Chance at the next table.

The preacher has started. “We have all sinned and fallen short … we’re all wretches in God’s sight.”

Bren follows Ethan with his eyes as he goes from person to person. He tries to pick out Ethan’s next landing point. But then something happens and he can’t seem to remember which one is Ethan? Was it the guy with the blue-striped shirt?

“But you can be clean today … washed whiter than snow …”

“Hey, Bren, brought you a dixie cup. Vanilla.” Turner’s back.

“Sit down,” Bren hisses and pushes the cup away, but he notices his hands. He rubs his thumbs across his fingertips and notices the grittiness of something fine. Bren washed them when he came in. He’s sure of it, but now they’re covered with something that looks like soot, black and in some places, in the creases of his palms, greasy. And the right hand tingles, just a bit, like a little shock running through it.

Bren wipes them on his overalls. Now his pants are filthy, but his hands appear unchanged.

Turner holds up his hands. “It’s okay. Mine are that way, too. I like the way it looks. Makes you tough. Eat up before it melts.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t like ice cream,” Bren says more loudly than he intends. Now the preacher is staring at him, so Bren wipes his hands on his overalls again, trying to get the soot off.

Hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Bren?” Ethan is back. Yes, blue stripes and a lanyard.

“Turner gave me ice cream, but … yeah, I don’t want it,” Bren looks, but Turner’s gone again.

“Who?”

“Turner. He must be in the can.”

“Yeah, you said there’s a new guy. Something wrong? You’re holding your head.”

Bren pushes his hand away. “Leave me alone.”

“Never.”

Ethan’s already scanning the room, looking for his next target, and then he moves off.

“Told you, I always pay my own way.” Turner. He holds out his soot-covered hand. Dull metal coins lie there.

Bren looks closer. They have a cartoon head on them, the face of an elephant smiling.

“If its free, it can’t be any good, Bren.” Turner’s staring at the preacher now. All the men are nodding their heads; some are saying, “Amen” and “That’s right.”

Bren shows his hands. “Turner, look what you did!” Bren turns, but he’s not there. The pain in his head is excruciating, and he massages his neck to see if that will help.

“What’s the matter, Bren? We need to get you some help.” The lanyard. Ethan.

“He got me all dirty. See?” Bren holds out his hands, but Ethan’s not looking again. He’s waving to someone over by the door.

Bren leans away from him and starts to fall. Someone catches him and straightens him, then sits in Turner’s seat. Ethan.

“He’s coming back,” Bren says.

Ethan turns and faces Bren, and Bren looks in Ethan’s eyes for the first time and realizes he doesn’t know him. His eyes are hazel and piercing. And Bren can’t look away.

“You’re new, too,” Bren says.

“No,” Ethan says. “I’ve been here, you just never noticed me.”

Ethan is still holding Bren’s gaze and puts his hand around Bren’s wrist. He has the face of an old friend, concerned, but he’s young, too young.

“She said she didn’t want me around anymore,” Bren says.

Ethan’s hand is on his forehead, warm and firm. “I don’t think Turner’s coming back. But I can help you.”

Bren shakes his head. “He told me, don’t trust anything that’s free.”

The men around Bren are rising. Some are leaving their chairs and walking toward the preacher.

Bren tries to rise, but his legs won’t obey. “Help … me,” he calls out.

Ethan’s still sitting next to him, holding his wrist.

“Turner, help!” Bren shouts. But no one comes.

“Anybody else want the free gift? You might not get this chance again.”

“I do,” Bren calls out, and the preacher walks toward him, his face radiant. When he reaches Bren, he stands over him.

“What’s your name?” the preacher asks.

“Bren.”

“Bren. You got any money to pay?”

Bren pulls out the transit card and offers it.

“Won’t do,” the preacher says. A few of the men echo, “No, it won’t,” and “You got that right.”

“I … we can get some money,” Bren says. “I got a friend.” His own words sound strange now in his ears.

The preacher touches his cheek and his face falls. “Look, you got nothing. And this is expensive.”

“I don’t want free!” Bren shouts. Bren raises his arm to push the preacher’s hand away, but Bren’s arm doesn’t move.

“Who else wants free?” the pastor calls and moves on down the aisle.

“Hold onto me,” Ethan says, his eyes pleading now.

“No! I need … uh … to clean my hands!” Bren tries to stand again, but now there’s a hand on his shoulder, pressing down. He can’t make out the face; his vision’s all soupy.

“You don’t have enough money,” someone says. “Come on, let’s go.”

Bren looks up. It’s Turner standing over him now, grasping his shoulder, but he’s in a suit, like an undertaker, smiling his toothless grin. He reaches into his pocket and holds out his hand, showing the coins. “Try these,” he says. “It’s not free. If you take his stuff, he’s gonna make you pay!”

Bren tries to reach out his hand to take the coins. But it’s frozen in place. It hangs limp at his side. The blackness has now spread up his sleeve, and the gold of his ring is stark against the soot. Bren begins sliding down in his chair until he feels Ethan’s firm hands under his arms steadying him up.

“Turner’s got money,” Bren says. “Turner!”

“I don’t know where he is, but I’m here,” Ethan says. “We’re going to lift you.”

And then there are several of them helping him, and they’re around him now and he’s floating up like he’s a bird. They must be young and strong the way they lift him, and then they lay him down. A pillow under his head, and a soft mattress. The yellowed fluorescent tubes overhead make him squint, and a man is there … but not Turner. A young man in a uniform, but not the police. Maybe a soldier, or a fireman? Turner’s gone.

Someone sets his hand on the cold chrome railing. His ring clicks on the metal and catches the light for a moment, but then his hand slides down to his side. Bren hears voices, Ethan, others, but he can’t understand the words anymore.

Bren begins to shiver and someone covers him in a crinkly foil thing, tucking it in all around, and then something like plastic in his nose.

The straps across him tighten, and then they’re moving, gliding, and other faces come over him, the preacher, the other guys, they appear and disappear as he moves on his back. Finally, stars show themselves in the black night and the air is brittle on his face.

The lanyard. A hand is there again on Bren’s forehead, warm, calming. Nothing has felt like that ever.

There’s red and white flashing, and he wants to close his eyes but he’s afraid, so Ethan takes his hand and Bren tries to squeeze back. “I’m still here.” Their eyes meet again.

And then on Bren’s eyelashes, and another on his cheek, two flakes, then another as the snow begins to fall once more.