name?”
“Blake…Sally Blake.”
Henry’s eyes widened, and his lips went slack.
“Pretty brunette…nearly six feet tall. Had a real friendly way about her. Now that you mention it…you put me in mind of how I remember she looked.”
Maria’s heart skipped a beat. Oh, my God. This is real.
“I didn’t put it together. She always called you Mary. I didn’t know you were really a Maria.” He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “It was a real tragedy what happened to her, but it explains why you don’t remember. Losing your mama like that would be a terrible shock. Good thing you were across the hall at the babysitter’s that night.”
Maria’s belly knotted, thinking of the deception her father and the babysitter had concocted to keep her alive.
“Yes…a good thing.”
Three
H enry offered her a meal, and when he came back with the food he’d promised, Maria took her bowl of beans and chose a seat near a man in a wheelchair and across the table from a woman with no teeth. The smells emanating from their bodies were daunting, but she reminded herself that she was no better—only cleaner. She was the child of a prostitute, and if it hadn’t been for Andrew Slade, this could have become her fate.
Bracing herself, she took a bite of beans and was surprised by the rich, meaty taste of the broth. The beans reminded her of roundup-day food and made her homesick for Montana, at which point she politely asked for someone to please pass the salt.
The salt slid toward her from somewhere upwind. She grabbed it on the fly, shook it over her bowl, then slid it back down without missing a beat.
Her presence was something of an anomaly to the hungry people at John 3:16 Mission, but not enough to sway them from free food. The meal progressed without conversation, and once she’d eaten her beans and corn bread, she got up and took her dirty dishes into the kitchen.
The room was small but orderly. Shelves had been added above a workstation against one wall next to an old four-burner stove. The industrial-size double sink was at the far end of the room next to a large drain board.
Henry was standing at the makeshift counter, serving the meal.
Tyrell, the teenager who’d given her a go-to-hell look, was at the sink, alternately washing, then drying, dishes in an effort to keep up with the need. It appeared to be a losing battle. The John 3:16 Mission was making do with odds and ends of assorted crockery. Spending money on paper plates and bowls obviously wasn’t in the budget.
Maria sighed. She wasn’t leaving until she got a chance to talk to the man Henry had mentioned, and she wasn’t the kind of person to sit around and watch others work. So she slid her purse beneath a table, took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves and moved into place at the sink beside Tyrell.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” she said.
He looked a little startled, then shrugged and handed her the dishrag, got a fresh towel and began drying the stack of bowls he’d just washed.
Henry caught the gesture and thought to himself that someone had raised her right, then turned his attention back to serving the line of hungry people.
Nearly an hour passed before Henry saw Montrose Benton, the man Maria wanted to talk to, step up to the window for food.
“Hello, Montrose. How you been doin’?” Henry asked.
“Can’t complain,” Montrose said. “Heard about any work?”
“Not today,” Henry said.
Even if he had, there wasn’t a business owner in Tulsa who’d hire the old man in his current state. His clothes were filthy, and it was apparent he hadn’t shaved in weeks. Henry didn’t know what had gone wrong in this man’s life and didn’t have the ability to fix it even if he did. What Henry could do was feed Montrose’s belly and hope something he said later might fill the man’s soul.
“Eat up. And I hope you don’t mind, but there’s a lady here who’d like to talk to you,” Henry said as he
“Blake…Sally Blake.”
Henry’s eyes widened, and his lips went slack.
“Pretty brunette…nearly six feet tall. Had a real friendly way about her. Now that you mention it…you put me in mind of how I remember she looked.”
Maria’s heart skipped a beat. Oh, my God. This is real.
“I didn’t put it together. She always called you Mary. I didn’t know you were really a Maria.” He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “It was a real tragedy what happened to her, but it explains why you don’t remember. Losing your mama like that would be a terrible shock. Good thing you were across the hall at the babysitter’s that night.”
Maria’s belly knotted, thinking of the deception her father and the babysitter had concocted to keep her alive.
“Yes…a good thing.”
Three
H enry offered her a meal, and when he came back with the food he’d promised, Maria took her bowl of beans and chose a seat near a man in a wheelchair and across the table from a woman with no teeth. The smells emanating from their bodies were daunting, but she reminded herself that she was no better—only cleaner. She was the child of a prostitute, and if it hadn’t been for Andrew Slade, this could have become her fate.
Bracing herself, she took a bite of beans and was surprised by the rich, meaty taste of the broth. The beans reminded her of roundup-day food and made her homesick for Montana, at which point she politely asked for someone to please pass the salt.
The salt slid toward her from somewhere upwind. She grabbed it on the fly, shook it over her bowl, then slid it back down without missing a beat.
Her presence was something of an anomaly to the hungry people at John 3:16 Mission, but not enough to sway them from free food. The meal progressed without conversation, and once she’d eaten her beans and corn bread, she got up and took her dirty dishes into the kitchen.
The room was small but orderly. Shelves had been added above a workstation against one wall next to an old four-burner stove. The industrial-size double sink was at the far end of the room next to a large drain board.
Henry was standing at the makeshift counter, serving the meal.
Tyrell, the teenager who’d given her a go-to-hell look, was at the sink, alternately washing, then drying, dishes in an effort to keep up with the need. It appeared to be a losing battle. The John 3:16 Mission was making do with odds and ends of assorted crockery. Spending money on paper plates and bowls obviously wasn’t in the budget.
Maria sighed. She wasn’t leaving until she got a chance to talk to the man Henry had mentioned, and she wasn’t the kind of person to sit around and watch others work. So she slid her purse beneath a table, took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves and moved into place at the sink beside Tyrell.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” she said.
He looked a little startled, then shrugged and handed her the dishrag, got a fresh towel and began drying the stack of bowls he’d just washed.
Henry caught the gesture and thought to himself that someone had raised her right, then turned his attention back to serving the line of hungry people.
Nearly an hour passed before Henry saw Montrose Benton, the man Maria wanted to talk to, step up to the window for food.
“Hello, Montrose. How you been doin’?” Henry asked.
“Can’t complain,” Montrose said. “Heard about any work?”
“Not today,” Henry said.
Even if he had, there wasn’t a business owner in Tulsa who’d hire the old man in his current state. His clothes were filthy, and it was apparent he hadn’t shaved in weeks. Henry didn’t know what had gone wrong in this man’s life and didn’t have the ability to fix it even if he did. What Henry could do was feed Montrose’s belly and hope something he said later might fill the man’s soul.
“Eat up. And I hope you don’t mind, but there’s a lady here who’d like to talk to you,” Henry said as he
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